Dave was not at all popular with the cafeteria ladies.
It started one day junior year when Dave asked for a burger at lunchtime and one of the ladies misunderstood where he was pointing and gave him a plateful of some kind of tomato sauce-covered pasta glop instead.
“What’s this?”
While the question was reasonable, and it was only two words, it was the manner in which Dave said it that made all the cafeteria ladies behind the counter stop and stare.
“It’s lasagna,” said the woman who served him, Olga or Hilda or something like that, in her thick accent and in a sharp tone that mimicked his. “Did you want something else?”
Dave hesitated, his frown deep as he stared at the now identified dish. “Nah. I can probably choke it down.” He put the plate on his tray.
The cafeteria ladies continued to stare.
Olga’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going to choke you in about a minute.”
Now you would think being intimidated by one of the cafeteria ladies wouldn’t mean much, but Olga was a big, burly woman, nearly as big as Dave, with a hint of a beard of her own. Dave froze briefly, his jaw slack, probably at the thought of Olga’s beefy, calloused hands squeezing the life out of him. After that, the cafeteria ladies gave Dave the evil eye whenever they saw him in line, and Dave always made it perfectly clear what he wanted to avoid any further misunderstandings, not to mention any more death threats from Olga.
We always sat in the far corner of the cafe, the farthest away from the serving area. Because of its distance from where the food was, “our” table was usually available during lunch hour. We didn’t care if the table was dirty or clean, or if the chairs were shoved aside or even missing as long as our table was there. On those rare occasions we found it somewhere else, we would drag it back where it belonged, the tabletop chattering madly as it bounced across the terrazzo, making an awful racket that turned heads and drew curses and complaints.
Our table was more than just a place to eat—it was part lectern where we debated, part confessional where we poured our hearts out, and part home base where we could just kick back and relax. Once, Dave even did a little jig on it to celebrate a B he got on a Biology test he thought for sure he had flunked.
Like most of the stuff throughout the school, the square cafeteria tables were pretty much bomb-proof—fake dark wood laminate on heavy pressboard with a steel center post and legs. Despite its prison-like heft, someone had managed to take a chunk out of the laminate on one of the edges of our table, the edge Dave always laid claim to as if assuming full responsibility for the ancient vandalism, the damage worn smooth from years of curious fingers and palms. That damage helped us identify it among all the others in the cafe. We became true creatures of habit at that table—Dave at his damaged edge, Onion to his right, and me on the left.
There had been rumors for years that the cafe was going to get updated someday, “refreshed,” as they say, but we hardly ever gave it any thought. That is, until Onion noticed a bunch of guys bringing large boxes through the entrance closest to the cafe one morning when we arrived just as homeroom ended, too late for our morning breakfast or coffee.
“Something’s happening in the cafe,” she announced.
The sound of struggling electric drills echoed through the halls.
It didn’t seem important enough to go investigate, so we just shrugged it off. But the truth became known at lunchtime.
Surprisingly, we didn’t notice at first. We joined up in the hall and made our way to the not-too-long serving line, where we bought the usual junk food we lived on. It was only as we marched single file through the crowded dining area, trying to keep our trays level as we weaved our way to our usual corner, that we finally noticed.
Leading the way, Dave noticed first and came to a halt. I nearly crashed right into his back, averting disaster at the last possible second.
Onion came to a halt right behind me in similar fashion.
“Look!” Dave said, quite loudly.
I blinked and turned my head in either direction, unsure what it was I was supposed to be looking at.
“The tables and chairs!” Onion said, just as loudly.
Only then did I notice. We were surrounded by a sea of bright new cafeteria tables with light, cheery fake wooden tops rather than dark, depressing fake wooden tops.
And new brown vinyl-padded chairs, too, instead of the molded fiberglass bucket-style ones that made your butt fall asleep after a while.
Dave moaned. “Our table. It’s gone.”
We warily approached the new table where our old one had been. None of us put our trays down on it just yet, as if unsure we wanted to accept the impostor.
Dave grimaced. “Well, it’ll have to do, I guess.” He set his tray down first.
Onion and I tentatively followed suit then we all stepped back.
Dave’s arms flew up in the air. “So what? It’s just another table. Nobody cares.” He sat down and started to eat.
Both Onion and I sat down stiffly.
“We didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Onion lamented.
“I wish they had told us,” I said. “We could have had a going away party for our table this morning.”
“Maybe we could have offered to buy it!” Onion exclaimed.
We looked at each other, intrigued by the thought.
“Just eat,” Dave commanded.
We ate in silence. I noticed that Onion was being careful not to touch the new table, like me.
Dave dropped his burrito. “For crying out—”
Onion put her fork down. “Well, it’s just not the same, is it?”
Dave wiped his mouth, wagged a finger at us. “Wait. I’ll make it the same.”
And with that vague promise, he got up and went to one of the vending machines on the far wall and came back carrying one of those fancy iced teas in a heavy glass bottle. I had never seen him drink iced tea before and wondered what he was up to.
“Stand up. Take everything off the table. Off.”
We complied, setting all on the empty table next to our impostor.
“Now get out of the way.”
“What for?”
“Just do it. You’ll see.” He raised the bottle over his head.
Onion and I scrambled back. My new chair fell over on its side.
Dave stared at the table with a phony bright expression. “I hereby christen thee ‘Table Two.’ May you serve us well in our final year here in The Big Brown Box.”
And with that, he swung the bottle down full force to the edge.
There was a loud bang. Tea and shards of glass flew everywhere.
“David! What are you doing?” Onion said. She shook her hands free of tea splatter.
A few nearby people glanced our way.
“Hey!” Dave positively beamed now, staring down at the table’s edge. “I took a chunk out of it!”
I wiped my tea-wet neck with my sleeve and moved forward to look.
Sure enough, there was a semicircle of missing laminate where thick glass bottle had met fake wooden top.
Dave pointed proudly. “There! Doesn’t that look like the ding in our old table?”
“It does!” Onion said, marveling at the sight.
I righted my fallen chair and moved in for a closer look.
Except for being rough rather than worn smooth, the semicircle Dave created was nearly the exact same size and shape.
“Now we know what might have happened to the old table,” I said.
Onion nodded. “And now we’ll always know which table is ours, just like before.”
Dave grabbed a fistful of paper napkins and wiped the tabletop dry, then pulled up his chair and sat behind it, still beaming. “Watch out for chunks of glass on the floor,” he warned. “Sorry about that. I’ll clean it up when we’re done.”
We returned our trays and backpacks and sat down to finish eating.
Strange to say, but after Dave’s impromptu christening, I felt a lot better about the new table. Even Onion started eating again with her usual gusto.
Such is the power of ceremony, I thought, understanding then why ships were christened, and people, too, and why mayors and governors and presidents were sworn into office.
And we never questioned the legitimacy of our new table again.