I am a spoon,
freshly shipped from the factory and ready to be unboxed. I am one lucky spoon. Why am I a lucky spoon? Because, the factory worker said so. When I was first made and handled by that factory worker, he said to his colleague, “look here! A lucky spoon!” But, don’t ask me what make me lucky or what the difference between me and the other spoon, because I don’t know. And don’t ask me whether lucky spoon means spoon that brings luck or spoon that is lucky. Because, I don’t know about that either. What I know is that we, spoons, are all identical (except for the defect, of course.)
I am indeed lucky so far. Some other spoons would spend days or even months or even years in some stores, boxed somewhere in a warehouse or displayed without even being used, and are waiting to be bought and put in some kitchen. As for me, I don’t have to wait so long to be sent to a kitchen. Maybe ‘lucky spoon’ really means the spoon that is lucky. Hopefully it is a decent kitchen. Luck better sticks with me on that.
I am squished together with my sisters, all 12 of us in pack-of-dozen. Spoons are all girls because the world said so. The forks are boys and the knives are also girls. We were never really told about knives, you know, so I don’t really know about them. I just heard that we wouldn’t really hang out with them (But, I am actually super-curious about knives!). Even the world said that spoons are girls, I sometimes consider myself as a boy, too. It just depends on how I feel. Well, I am a spoon, I am supposedly sexless. I could be a boy, a girl, neither or even both. Spoons don’t really do sex, you know.
In just about a few minutes, we will all be in some kitchen cabinet that we will call home. Welcome home.
I am the youngest of the bunch (we were born within 1 second interval), so that I am put at the end-most part of the box, near the opening. I will be the first to see our new home when we will be unboxed. How do I feel? I am excited! I mean, I like the factory, it was a very nice crowded place there. But it was just a factory; kitchens are utensil’s real home.
My sisters are not as excited as I am, though (even after that we are lucky enough not to be placed in some store somewhere, pfft!). They say about hearing something that our new home will be a school kitchen. Spoons and other utensil would prefer to be at a 5-star hotel restaurant, where people will treat their utensil carefully and use it with much delicacy, or at least home kitchen (preferably with grown-ups), where there will be less mouth to travel in between. We, spoons, hate children. Children are the most disrespectful utensil users and they tend to be harmful. They could throw us around or stomp us against the table. I can’t imagine how horrible it must be.
But, anyway, our unboxing moment is about to come. I can see the light starts to peek into our dark pack-of-dozen box, then not long after that, bright light in a spacious kitchen appear before me. All white. So bright, I need to adjust my sight. Busy workers are grabbing us and putting us in cabinets. And… Wow! There are LOTS of utensils here (how many people do they serve here every day?). The neatly placed spoons are smiling at us. I could feel at home here. The forks; There are new forks, too. And oh, the knives! Gosh, they are gorgeous. Just look at those pointy silvery heads that reflects the light. They are just the most gorgeous utensil I’ve ever known. They are put rather far away from the spoons. I guess that is why spoons and knives don’t really hang out a lot.
My first day!
I am so excited! But there are mixed feeling from the new bunch, some are excited as me, some are rather terrified, and some are indifferent. It turns out that, me and my sisters, aren’t the only new dozen-of-spoons in this kitchen. There are at least 10 packs-of-dozen new spoons, that makes us 120 in total. I guess the kitchens are starting to replace utensils. My heart sinks watching those lovely and nice old spoons, with the thought that they are going to be replaced soon. Well, that’s life. My time will come next; maybe sooner than I expected. But I am supposed to be the lucky one, right?
We are going to be put out for breakfast. There will be hundreds of middle school students (we are in an all-girls boarding school) who just woke up and are hungry. I hope they don’t have such horrible temper. Because, I heard that people tend to be very cranky in the morning.
On the tray, we are squished together, but now I am separated from my sisters. Somehow we were mixed after our initial wash. I don’t feel sad, though, I don’t have any particular interest with them, anyway. It just feels different and new.
The dining hall is even bigger than the kitchen. Rows and rows of tables are aligned and the students are sparsely seated, I guess because the other students still on their way to the dining hall. They look okay, not particularly in a bad mood but not in a best mood either. No running children, which is a good sign that they are mature enough to know how to eat properly. But then I see a student on one side of the table, who sits quietly. She sparks my interest. Well, she is quite lovely; long red-haired with a blue ribbon, pinkish freckled cheeks, green eyes, and plump lips. She seems so well behaved. I want to be on her table. I really do. I think she would have the finest dining manner among the bunch.
While the kitchen lady starts to distribute us, I can’t keep my eyes off of her. I truly genuinely wish that I will be on her table, and if I had fingers I would have crossed them devotedly. Then, I guess I start to hallucinate, I imagine the kitchen lady hears me and brings me towards her table, that I am getting closer and closer to her table. The closer I get, the more overwhelming the desire is. It is just my first day! Oh, the suspense drives me crazy. If I could not be on her table, at least, please, let me be on the same table, God or Kitchen Lady, Whoever.
Suddenly, the kitchen lady puts me down. This is it, then, the moment of truth. The girl who is going to use me is: her! My girl! Oh I am ecstatic. I almost could not help moving in front of human (if you don’t know, we are not allowed to move in front human). Thank Goodness, I still keep my cool. I am one super cool spoon in the whole school. Yes! I hope the other utensil don’t see me blush. I even forget that I lay side by side with a knife. A knife! One type of utensil I have adored from afar since I was made.
I am a soup spoon. Today is a pumpkin soup morning. She handles me delicately with her delicate fingers that tickle me. I am dunk into the smooth voluptuous liquid and slowly stirred. I feel like swimming in a cloud. Is that how pumpkin soup usually feels like?
She then put me and a blob of soup that I carry, inside her mouth. It is as how I imagined it feels like. Her tongue is so soft and pillow-y, cradling me comfortably that I feel sleepy. I could sleep here all day, you know, here is way better than the kitchen cabinet; way softer, plus I will not be squished among my sisters, only between her tongue and palate. I think I am smiling right now. I slide out and touch the tip of her plump lower lip, equally soft as the tongue but less slimy. I like it when she keeps me a bit longer in her mouth and sucks a little blob of soup left on my concave head. It tickles, yet it feels like a lullaby. Maybe it’s too soon to tell, but I think I am in love with her.
Suddenly I hear a scream. It is not a human scream, it is a spoon scream. The human are indifferent towards the commotion because they don’t hear it. But to us, utensils, it is so loud. I reckon that it must happen near me, on this table. All the utensils on my table look at the source of the sound which came from a new spoon across me.
What a horror I see. The student, who uses her, chews and bites her. This horrible student seems like her teeth are itchy and she tried to scratch it with a spoon. I mean, the menu is soup, it is basically liquid. And you don’t chew liquid right? Oh poor thing. I can see her tears among the trace of soup and saliva on her. But, but, what can I do? Oh, you hang in there, Sister from another box.
Not long after that, the horrible girl screams and throws the poor spoon away. Now, the human react to the fuss, because now they are aware of this human noise. It turns out that a knife has slide on her thumb and cut a tiny bit of skin from it. The tiny red trace of blood on her thumb is nothing compared to what she has done the poor spoon, which is now lying helplessly abandoned on the floor.
I see a teacher coming to attend the ‘wounded’ girl. “What happened here, Susan?” asked the teacher. The horrible girl name is Susan.
“The knife cut my thumb, Mrs. Bennington.” Explains Susan.
“It is barely a scratch.” Examines Mrs. Bennington. She sounds desperate somehow, but I guess I understand why.
“But, but, the knife… I know the knife cut me…”
“Susan, listen. How many times do I have to tell you to eat properly? If you were not messy, the knife wouldn’t accidentally fell on you.”
The other students look a bit disappointed that the drama that they had hoped for do not take place. Susan just barely got a scratch, but she screamed like she broke her ribs. “Oh Susan is always such a drama queen.” I heard those lines from some other students while they disassemble to their previous seat. My attention, then, go back to my girl, whose name I haven’t figured out. But my girl is missing. I look around and find her handing the poor spoon to the kitchen lady. My heart blossoms to see that she is actually kind-hearted.
When human are off, the kitchen is chaos as expected. Every utensil is talking about the incident. My sisters are talking to the heroic knife that saved the poor spoon. In my eyes, knives are getting more and more admirable (but less desirable since I met my girl). “You are very brave to cut the horrible human thumb like that.” “In front of humans!” “No it is fine, we, knives, are made pointy for some reasons.” That is how the conversation goes; more or less. I am just sitting at some corner away from the crowd. I am contemplating about today, about how my first day and the poor spoon’s first day could be so different. I had the best and she got the worst. Life is indeed weird.
“Hey, you were with Leslie, right?” an old spoon shakes my shoulder, looking for my attention.
“Sorry, What?” I ask, not sure what she’s talking about.
“You were Leslie’s spoon, right? This morning on breakfast.”
“Hmm. I don’t know the name of the student who used me, though. She has this long red hair with blue ribbon.”
“Yes, that’s Leslie. We, old utensils, really like that girl, she’s very nice.” Say the old spoon. I blush when I know her name. Leslie. What a pretty name. It suits her very well.
“Yeah, I heard that she picked the poor spoon and gave it to the kitchen lady.” Adds another spoon.
“Oh now I want to be her soup spoon.” Add other new spoon. “Me, too!” then, “me, too! I hope someday I land on her table.”
Oh no! The new spoons are starting to like Leslie. I can’t help but feeling that she’s mine alone. No.
“How was it with Leslie? She must be a gentle girl, right?” some new spoon asks me.
“Hmm. It was okay.” I have to sound cool. I have to sound like Leslie is not as great as they think. They can’t like her. You might think that, since we are spoons we can’t do much about it. But we do have some trick under our sleeves for that.
“Really? You seemed to enjoy yourself back then.” That comes from a new spoon which was on my table this morning.
“Well- she was nice. But- yeah, she’s kinda okay.” Still trying to keep my cool. The others seem doubtful. I know that I wasn’t too convincing, though. But just please, can’t they get my message? ‘Stay away from my girl!’
Losing interest in me, they let me be, at last. I feel relieved.
The next day,
The poor spoon is not with us. I don’t know where the human took her to, but since that accident, we have never heard of her again. To me, this morning, the tray is starting to look like battlefield. It’s not actually looking like a battlefield, but my insecurity is starting to make me believe it is. The anxiety starts when I heard the other spoons is talking about wanting to be on Leslie’s table. Damn.
But in my defense, my prediction is not entirely wrong. Because, when we get to Leslie’s table, the spoon who ‘interviewed’ me last night pushes me and lift herself up near the kitchen lady’s palm (when she’s not looking, obviously) so that she lands exactly on Leslie’s table. I was furious! It was supposed to be my turn. I was actually smiled when I realized that my luck is working on me, until… Oh that vile spoon! Can’t you imagine how crushed I was, knowing that my luck is defeated to such cunning? How could she be so disgustingly sly? Did she smirk at me? Did she? Or maybe I just imagined it, I don’t know. But, I know I hate her! Moreover she’s not one of my sisters, so I don’t feel bad hating her. Next time, I will make sure that she will not be so lucky.
The kitchen lady, put me on the same table as Leslie’s, at the opposite side. I could see her, only see her, and I could see the sneaky little spoon in front of me. God help me control my boiling rage and please help me stay cool until the breakfast is over.
After I calmed myself down and admitted my defeat (that spoon bitch should never know that I feel defeated. I am a cool spoon, this kind of thing doesn’t matter to me), I, then, am able to pay attention to the girl on my table. This time, I lay on the table of a somewhat peculiar girl. She is quiet, but she somehow looks uneasy. She keeps on fidgeting and avoiding the light. Sometimes she looks at the utensils with a look of- I don’t know- boredom? Wait, no, she looks uncomfortable.
The girl is so pale and her deep brunette hair makes her look even paler. Her eyes are the shape of almond. The warm brown iris makes her look nice, but somehow, when she looks at me I feel frightened. Her gaze is so sharp it pierces through me, even though she is not looking directly at me. I steal a glance at the fork beside me. He looks terrified, too. He shakes his head. Is she going to eat me if I slip inside her mouth? My thought wanders to The poor spoon that hasn’t been seen since yesterday. That better not happen. Then, the girl starts to tap her fingers vigorously on the table. Near me! I bounce microseismic-ly. My heart pounded out of fear.
And then she speaks. Her voice cracks, “Leslie.” She is talking to Leslie, “can we switch side? The lighting in here makes me uncomfortable.”
No words could describe how happy and satisfied I am when Leslie agrees to switch with her. I really want to show that bitch spoon my victorious smile, but instead I play cool and pretend that didn’t matter. Suck it, Bitch. I am the lucky spoon, here. Yes!
Today is my seventh streak of my luck. For seven times in a row I always ended up on Leslie’s table. The man in the factory was totally right, I am indeed the lucky spoon. I know the other utensils are talking about me; about how I always end up on Leslie’s table. They think it is odd given the possibilities, I also think that all these coincidences are odds (But I was never violent like that bitch spoon). I just rely on my luck.
The thing is; I want more. I want to be hers. I know I am sounded greedy. But I can’t help it. I realize, eventually my luck will run out. I can’t bear the awful thought of not being her spoon anymore. I have to make plans. Tomorrow at breakfast, I will silently drop myself on her pocket and would ‘accidentally’ be carried by her. It is a wild idea, but I think it will work out. I am confident in myself… and in my luck.
While I‘m mentally planning my escape, a rather older knife comes to me. This knife obviously looks a little worn out but she still keeps her pointy majestic figure right. After a few seconds, I recognize her. She was in the same table as me a few times. Maybe 3 three times. She might be almost as lucky as me. I feel a little suspicious when she looks at me. She looks kind of worried.
No need for aimless conversation, I can tell right away that she will be talking about Leslie. I want to say something to break this awkward silence or maybe explain things about Leslie, but when I am about to open my mouth she speaks, “You know that only heart break that you can get from this, right?”
Like I have a heart. I said to myself. I can’t help but act unknowing. I say, “what?”
“You know what I am talking about. We were on a same table a few times.” She explains. She doesn’t sound judging so I am not annoyed. I take it as a maturely advise from more mature fellow utensil.
This knife looks trustworthy. So I tell her, “Yeah, I know that. But please don’t tell the others about this.”
“Just so you know, you are not the first spoon to experience this. From my years in this kitchen, no good end came to them.” She smiles and leaves. Would you think that I would be afraid of that? Maybe a little, because now I am thinking about The poor spoon that we haven’t heard of again since the very accident. The poor spoon becomes the disappearing spoon (and I feel bad for her, I do). But, that doesn’t make me change my mind of escaping with Leslie. I will not be like the other spoons that the knife told me about. I will be the first spoon to escape and unite with my love. Because the difference between me and the other spoon is that, I am the lucky spoon, they are not.
The next morning at breakfast, I am shocked by Leslie’s absent. I could not see her anywhere. I land on a random schoolgirl table. She doesn’t look that bad, but she is not Leslie. Until everything is served I still could not see Leslie anywhere in the dining room. Maybe she is sick, maybe she takes a day off, maybe she is late, I don’t know, but I hope tomorrow she will be back.
The other next morning, she is absent again. And I land on another random girl with sweaty palms. Yuck!
The other morning and a few mornings after, she is still out of sight. It has been eight days! I lose my will to live. The other utensil can’t figure out what happen with me, except for the trustworthy knife, but even she couldn’t do anything about it. They assume that I became so down because I got the pointy teeth girl this morning. It wasn’t because of that! The pointy teeth gave me quite a hard time, but I couldn’t care less. I don’t care whether I got the pointy teeth girl, the sweaty palm girl, or even the horrible Susan. My sadness makes me numb.
The next day, as expected, she is absent, yet again. I land on the uncomfortable girl from the other day before. I hear she and her friends talk about Leslie.
“Where is Leslie? I haven’t seen her in a while. A week?”
“Oh Leslie? She transferred to Paris. Her diplomat father was assigned to France, so she and her family moved there.”
“How great….” Actually the conversation goes on and on for quite some times. But I couldn’t bear to hear them. My Leslie has gone forever. If only I executed my plan sooner, I would have been in Paris with her by now. I feel like drowning myself in the soup. Forever. I wish this bowl of soup would turn into a lake and I would lay at the silent and dark bottom forever. Oh God.
Lifelessly I carried on. Tonight is different. While I am contemplating my dumb luck by the corner, the other utensils are in a festive mood, because the poor spoon is miraculously back. She is not the disappearing spoon anymore. The utensils are laughing cheerily. They are so merry and in awe. I am happy for her but I couldn’t manage to stand up and congratulate her comeback. I am too weak to hold my body.
I cry. My eyes are teary, it blurs my sight. Gradually I totally lost sight of this merry kitchen. And gradually the noises disappeared replaced by my sobs. When I can hear myself cry clearly, I realize that something has happened. I am all alone. The kitchen is empty. Where do the utensils go? I am alone now in this indescribable emptiness. Is it the same kitchen? Is it even a kitchen at all? Where are the utensils disappear to? Or am I the disappearing spoon now?
I guess I am not so lucky after all.