The Director vs. Mr. Noodles

IN THE past week it had grown distinctly colder. Stepping out of a DC
MetroCab a block from his apartment, he realized he'd have to take the
box down out of the closet, the one with the gloves and wool scarves;
not Winter, but nearly. At the same time with a slight grimace he
realized he hadn't gone to the supermarket that afternoon. He tipped the
cabbie -- just enough to make him forgettable, a bland sort of action
like all the other habits he'd made to keep him invisible. As the car
moved away he lit a Morley and sighed out a cloud of smoke. Well, it's
too late for the market, he thought; there's probably *something*
upstairs. Has to be.

        Since returning to Washington, he didn't care to go back to 900 West
Georgia. It wasn't just the shooting -- though he did feel a bit like an
accident victim, as though his old apartment were a car that had nearly
helped to kill him; he wasn't anxious to get back in it. Part of him
considered that it was healthier to change, trade a well-known routine
in for one others didn't know so well, and he found a small townhouse
apartment on 17th NW at M Street, near the Post Office.
 
        An early 60's design, pale brick and steel, blonde wood doors and
industrial carpeting, it was full of Federal bureaucrats -- four  from
the Department of Energy, one from the CDC, and three from the
Pentagon.  Their jobs were tedious and engrossing, and none of them were
above a GS-9. They were, in other words, as routine and drab, as anon-
ymous, as he appeared to be. None of them, however, would have had the
ability to look into his life as he did with theirs before becoming the
building's tenth tennant. 

        Opening the front door, he felt a touch of warmth -- some intuition had
made him turn the heat on in the apartment before he'd left in the
morning. Shuffling out of his blue overcoat and suit coat, (but pulling
his pack of Morleys and lighter from a side pocket first) he draped them
over a leather recliner. Taking his pistol out of its holster and
setting it on a table by the chair, he walked into the kitchen and went
directly to the refrigerator. Opening its door, he crouched down with a
hand on one knee and peered at the near-empty shelves. "Well, *there's*
a lot of nothing," he said out loud.

        His stomach rumbled, audibly. Inside the refrigerator were two bottles
of Budweiser, a partially crumpled one-sixth stick of marger- ine, and a
takeout container from a Vietnamese restaurant in George- town. He was
reasonably sure the container had been there before July; but, things
had been busy then, hadn't they? Busy as bees, he thought, and made a
brief, sardonic smile at the phrase.
 
        The crispers, he didn't look into. He'd used the last three eggs for
breakfast that morning. "Eat; eat; I'm a lot hungrier than I'd thought.
Maybe I will have to walk down to the -- no; no, it's closed by now," he
considered, "And I'm tired. *Damn* it."

        Suddenly, he remembered: there was -- well, probably -- a single tube
of Ritz crackers in it's box on the second shelf of the cupboard, next
to the refrigerator. Shutting the door to the 'fridge, he stood up and
leaned towards the cabinet door. The memory of every Ritz cracker he had
ever eaten was, suddenly, almost the only thought in his mind; he could
taste one, and the anticipation surprised him. He pulled open the
cupboard door in one quick motion.

        No Ritz. In fact, nothing. 

        For an instant, he was dumbstruck. "Where the -- oh, oh; right,
*right*." He'd eaten them ten days to two weeks ago, watching 'Twelve
O'Clock High' on TNT, with the last of a package of Mozarella. He looked
at the two shelves where, usually, there would be cereal, cans of soup,
oatmeal and Cling Peaches in heavy syrup, tins of Kippers and salmon,
Graham Crackers. Apples, oranges. Condensed milk, which he occasionally
added to his coffee, reminding him of his time in Vietnam. Even Baking
Soda, for crying out loud, he thought; and there isn't a damn thing *in*
here, now. Except --

        What was that, in the very back of the lower shelf? A bit desperately,
he reached in and grabbed it, pulling it out into the light. Looking at
it, he grunted, half in surprise and half in confusion.

        "'Mr. Noodles'," he said. 

        What was *this*? It took him a moment to remember buying two packages
of them, on impulse -- thinking he might, some night, want some vaugely
Oriential light meal without having to travel to a Japanese restaurant
for *Udon*. Only, there turned out to be nothing remotely Udonish about
Mr. Noodles. You added hot water, and eventually, there was a clot of
spaghetti, swimming in a fluid which looked suspiciously like the sort
of culture medium used to produce bioweapons. If the *idea* of toilet
paper had a taste, Mr. Noodles was it. He'd poured the first package
into the garbage disposal. This was the last one left.

        He wanted to toss the package of Mr. Noodles back into the cupboard,
but instead set it down, pulled his Morleys out of a pants pocket and,
leaning back against the tile counter, lit one. All right, he thought; I
ended one Presidency in six seconds and another with a phone call. I
humped the bush for six days after the C-rations gave out; I could pick
up the phone and place the entire Strategic Air Command on Defcon Three.
I've even come back from the dead. I'll be damned if I'm going to go to
bed hungry because of something called 'Mr. Noodles.'

        Putting his Morley in an ashtray, he went back to the refrig- erator.
In the crisper, which he hadn't looked in before, was half a head of
Brocolli and one carrot limp enough to tie knots in. Good enough, he
grimaced to himself, and in five minutes had put a kettle of water to
boil on the stove and washed and sliced the vegetables.  In the door of
the refrigerator was a half-empty jar of pearl cocktail onions; he took
four out. He was in the middle of looking for spices when he realized he
hadn't looked in the freezer. There were the remains of a bag of frozen
peas -- also a New York cut steak, which would take too long to defrost
and cook. The peas went into a small pot of hot water on the stove
besidee the kettle.

        Opening one of the two Budweisers from the refrigerator, he lit another
Morley and leaned against the counter by the stove with a small ammount
of satisfaction. Well, we won't starve, he thought; life is good. In the
living room, the telephone rang.

        He picked it up, holding the beer and cigarette in his free hand.
"Yes...What, now?...No, that isn't possible. Tell them to take another
look at it." He took a pull of his beer and a drag from his cigarette,
listening. "Well, it's certainly kind of them to ask, but I already have
plans...A late dinner...All right; we'll go over it at the next meeting,
but tell them not to voice any concern, at least not publicly. Thank
you."  He hung up.

        Back in the kitchen, he mixed the hot water with the package of Mr.
Noodles, draining the vegetables and adding them as well; spices went in
last. It was a medium-sized bowl; not very much, but it was hot, and he
was starved. He had just turned down giving a private briefing (with a
meal brought in if he asked for it) to members of the Joint Chiefs of
Staff on the possibility that Iraq was about to release Anthrax in the
Middle East.  A phone call would solve that issue, too, although the
Joints Chiefs didn't need to know that. 

Sitting down with his bowl of recesutated Brocolli and carrots, wrinkled
peas and spaghetti, he opened his second beer; on the table beside him
were an ashtray, his lighter and pack of Morleys, and his pistol. TNT
was showing a late broadcast of "The Legend of the Lost" with Sophia
Loren, Roziano Brazzi, and The Duke.

        Sometimes, he thought, stirring the Mr. Noodles while the film's
opening credits rolled, life doesn't give you a box of chocolates -- it
hands you Mr. Noodles instead, and you have to make the best of it...


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R. Bloodworth