Yester-year, my beloved roommate (for three more days), Christina, and I found ourselves in the musty hell pit that is Botanica. Botanica is a watering hole in Nolita, that is a dive among dives. This particular evening knocked the bar down even one more notch.
Christina and I were sitting at the bar, likely discussing politics or global climate change, when I noticed something. Just beneath the bar, sat a plastic bag tied shut. What could be in it? I was nearly certain that it was filled with something valuable: upcakes, or dirty money, or the Heart of the Ocean (from Titanic). I would gladly accept any of these things as a prize for my inquisitiveness, but I’d thought we ought to wait. What if the bag’s owner was still there? It would be embarrassing for a thug to walk over and find me laughing and rolling in his loot. I would be killed, without a doubt.
Some time passed, and we were both sure that the bag’s owner was long gone. I picked it up, and untied it. I felt a fear unlike any I’d ever felt, when I found its contents: A pile of eaten corn cobs. My mind was racing with questions:
- Who ate that many corn cobs? There were about 5—8 cobs in the bag, which suggests that there was either a gang of people enjoying corn together or that one individual has an unhealthy desire for c.
- Who eats corn at a bar? I mean, if you gave me corn at a bar, I’d eat it, but I wouldn’t bring corn to a bar, especially not cob style. That’s the least attractive form of corn (although not the least delicious…can you say ‘polenta?’), as it gets stuck in your teeth, and gets butter and its own moisture all over your hands.
- Who is uncouth enough to dispose of said cobs in a plastic bag, tie up, and leave under the bar? There are trashcans everywhere. That is not very neighborly behavior, and it will not be tolerated.
I don’t remember what happened after the cob sighting. It was all too much for me to handle, and I probably just went home and cried myself to sleep.
Listen, I love corn as much as the next guy, possibly even more. You’ve got popcorn, Cornflakes, cornbread, corn from a can, corn on the cob, etc. and so on, and so forth, as it continues into the future. But I’m not going to cross the line like that, and I don’t think anyone should. I hope the culprit woke up the next morning on his bed, surrounded by eaten corn cobs, and I hope he cried, “What have I done?!” But that is highly unlikely, and extremely confusing. In any case, I hope he feels some sort of remorse for his sick deeds, and I hope that no one ever has to suffer the way that Christina and I did on that night.