Late one night I had a bizarre craving that I could not suppress. I awoke with a mysterious desire for string cheese. I had learned long ago not to question urges I couldn’t explain too thoroughly, so I simply got up, put on some clothes and ventured out to begin the search for an open store with the appropriate inventory.
I started at my local convenience store, but all they had was processed american cheese food and microwave sliders. I began to spiral further and further away from my house looking for that glorious column of dairy confection, going from store to store as the hour trudged on toward morning. I had been hoping to accomplish my mission before regular businesses hours, but was starting to work on a contingency plan because my chances looked slimmer as the dawn drew nearer.
After three 24 hour delis and 4 supermarkets that I knew would be closed before I pulled into their parking lots I saw a deli I had never seen before. It emanated an eerie golden glow and the name on the sign rang in my head as a chorus of angelic voices. I knew that I would try this last place before giving up the ghost. My hopes having been dashed at all previous attempts I was prepared for failure, but the choir between my ears beckoned me towards hopefulness.
Through the door I found no cause for optimism. The shelves looked bare except for some bags of candy I had thought were discontinued long ago. The refrigerated beverage case would have been cobwebbed if it hadn’t been so cold, at least it looked that empty at first glance. But closer inspection showed me one solitary item on a shelf just below my eye line. When I reached for it to afford myself a better look my heart leapt at what my fingers felt, a string cheese. I brought it to the register and reached into my pocket for my cash, but the cashier signalled my hand down. He said nothing with words, but with a series of eloquent motions he told me that it was mine for the taking. I thanked him and set out to return home and enjoy the fruits of my travels.
At the dining room table I peeled the wrapper apart and put my fingers on the white rod of fermented milk. I pressed with my fingertips and pulled thread after thread from the dairy column and lowered them into my open mouth. My tongue moved the stringy morsels between my teeth which mashed them up and helped them down my throat.
I repeated the steps over and over again for what seemed like hours, easily long enough to have eaten 4 or 5 of the string cheeses of my youth. A look at the clock showed my estimate of time to be accurate, but the cheese in my hand was just as substantial as when I took it from the wrapper. What madness could this be? Having no answer I kept at it. When the hour grew late I called my job and told them I would not be in that day.
That was so long ago I lost count of the days, weeks, months and eventually years.
And that brings us to today, with me telling you this tale as I pick at this piece of cheese, which remains unchanged, and put the pieces into my face, which also remains unchanged. I have found eternal youth as a side effect of the munchies, but I was only looking for a snack.
