The first thing he noticed was the floor. It was hard and unforgiving, a utilitarian element in a concrete edifice. It spoke volumes about the purpose of the building. It was not meant to be comfortable, only to keep him in. The walls, too, were harsh planes of stainless steel and plexiglass, serving not as a surface to lean against, to admire, or to see as anything in, other than a feeling of entrapment.
He sat on the uncomfortable cot, its hard mattress, lying on even harder steel, as uncomfortable after three hours as it was after three minutes. The sounds of the television of an inmate across the hall caught his ear.
Today the city faced an unprecedented traffic crisis downtown. An enormous amount of Shredded Wheat blocked traffic for twelve hours on Third Street from Main to Broadway, causing thousands to become hopelessly mired in the gridlock. The police commissioner has issued a statement concerning the incident.
The voice of the police commissioner began to read a statement that greatly bothered Mr. Bok Choy.
The perpetrator of this horrific act of traffic terrorism will be investigated to the fullest possible extent of the law. We already have a suspect in custody. However, this is not enough. Our newly-formed Shredded Wheat Task Force will soon begin clean-up operations, and will also continue to search for answers as we literally pick up the pieces after this incredible attack on the commuting public.
“Since when have I been a traffic terrorist?” thought Mr. Choy. “I receive a call early one morning that I won a contest I know nothing about, and suddenly I’m fleeing a pulpthirsty rutabaga and engulfed in a lifetime supply of Shredded Wheat. Why couldn’t this entire day be a dream?”
Meanwhile, the television anchor continued in the back of his mind.
The governor has also declared the block of Third Street a disaster area, and has dispatched the National Guard to begin clean-up operations. The Red Cross is dispatching bowls, spoons, and milk to the effected area.
“Disaster?” thought Mr. Choy. “The disaster occurred the day I decided to move in with those two idiots! They get me fired, and then, not two hours later, cover me in Shredded Wheat and get me thrown in jail! Why do I have to put up with judgment-free housemates? When I get out of here I’ll…”
“Mr. Bok Choy, visitor for you,” announced an officer, startling Mr. Choy from his thoughts. The door opened, and a carrot, wearing what looked to be an expensive suit.
“Mr. Choy, I have an offer I’m prepared to make you,” began the carrot, sitting on the cot across from Mr. Choy.
“And that would be?” asked Mr. Choy.
“Mr. Choy, your release of such a large quantity of cereal has come to the attention of my employer. We will obtain bail and work over details of the contract at our offices,” said the carrot, opening his briefcase and extracting a pen and some multicolored papers covered in print that looked to be more appropriate for placement a newspaper for microbes rather than in the briefcase of a carrot.
“Who do you work for, and why can’t we discuss the contract here?” asked Mr. Choy. “What kind of job is it?”
“All I can tell you is that I work for a large cereal company. We are working on cereal-based crowd control with a security company. We need your experience in cereal dispersion techniques to help us. Will you take the offer?” asked the carrot, extending the pen and paper.
At this point, Mr. Choy weighed his options. “On the one hand, I’m fairly safe and sure of my future in this cell, while taking this strange carrot’s offer would cast me into an uncertain contract with a mysterious company. On the other hand, the sure future in this cell is a conviction and a heavy fine or jail time. My pockets being empty, I’ll just end up with two or three years in jail, while the contract could expire before then. However, what if it doesn’t? What if I’m signing my way into oblivion?”
The carrot seemed to sense the apprehensiveness on Mr. Choy’s face. “Listen,” he whispered, leaning in closer to Mr. Choy, “I’m not supposed to make offers like this, but for you I’ll make an exception. I’ll post bail now, and when we get back to my office we can work out the details of the contract. If you don’t like it, you don’t have to sign it and you can come back here.”
Mr. Choy reached out his hand, and the carrot shook it. “It’s a deal,” he said, standing up. “It’s not like I’m going to get much done here anyway.”
To be continued…
