My “9 Tricks for Organic Dialogue” used a spoof novelization of a scene from Green Eggs & Ham. One thing led to another, and now I’m writing a dramatic novelization of this Seuss classic. This post contains part three and four. You can check out parts: one and two, three and four, and now—for your reading pleasure—parts five and six.
Part Five
Culinary artists learn early on that a great dish can seem mediocre if the plating’s off and even a lackluster main course can be memorable with that little bit of garnish, the drizzle of sauce, and the classy environment to eat it in. For that reason, it felt pretty weird putting one of my best dishes on a paper plate set with a plastic knife and fork. I did what I could to make it all harmonize with a drizzle of pesto, a sprig of parsley, and a lemon.
I ran through my plan in my head, the tentative but warming smile I anticipated from my soon-to-be friend as he tried the dish. Even so, I jumped a bit when I saw him sitting there in the lobby right as I walked in. He didn’t look up. Just turned the page of his newspaper.
I stepped toward him. “Hey there.” I used my friendliest voice.
His eyes flitted momentarily up from his paper, then back down at whatever column he’d just turned to.
“Uh … hi?”
He looked back up at me, eyes narrowing.
“I, um, well.…” The words toppled around. This had all gone so much better in my head! “It’s just that, earlier, with my cat.…” My daydreams as I cooked had told me that the script was perfect, the lines would flow naturally, the barriers would melt like ice in a Hawaiian summer. “I felt, like, you know … we were … umm … we were, er, bothering you.” I winced. Newspaper-man gave me a look that made my stomach feel sour, so I looked up toward the ceiling fan, trying not to pay any attention. “This is for you,” I blurted, extending the plate toward him.
Newspaper-man looked at the plate for barely more than a second. “The hell is that?”
“It’s, uh”—I swallowed—”green eggs and ham.”
“I don’t want it.” He returned to his paper.
“Wait, what?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“But, well, okay—I’m not saying you have to eat it right this second. But I made it for you. To apologize.”
His next sound was what I can only describe as “garumph.”
“Do you even know what this is?”
“It’s ‘green eggs and ham,’” he said, his voice in a whine that sounded like a wilting pansy. I can only assume he was trying to imitate me.
“Well, yeah, but that’s not what—” I had to stop myself from getting angry. “I mean, do you know what’s in it?”
“I know it’s green.”
“Yeah, but, do you like green eggs and ham? I mean, do you even know what’s in this?.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“So try it later.”
“I won’t want it later either.”
“But how would you know that if you haven’t tried it?”
“Don’t be daft, boy. No one in their right mind eats everything they see just because they might like it.”
“Well, not everything—”
“Do you make your dog’s shit into appetizers?”
“No, but—”
“Or make little cat-turd salads?”
“No, but—”
“Because you know you wouldn’t like them. Now—”
“You might like this, though. Just try it. And once you can tell me—”
“I. Don’t. Like. Them.” He’d set down the paper so he could turn the full ire of his gaze toward me, to let me know, I do not like them, Sam-I-am. He spoke to me like I was a retarded three-year-old. “I do not like green eggs and ham.”
“Oh,” I said. Not understanding, but relenting.
“Can I get back to my paper now?”
I gave a long sigh through my nose. “Yeah.” I turned back down the hall, trying not to hate myself for the tears forming in my eyes. “Yeah, sorry.”
Part Six
I was meant to go into work the next morning and had to steel myself to walk down the hallway past newspaper-man’s regular spot. I packaged my green eggs and ham and carried it with me out the door, meaning only to eat it myself for lunch. I’d spent hours on it, and the idea of letting it go to waste really bothered me.
When newspaper-man saw me coming, though, he must have assumed I was trying to convince him again. “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” he said, tucking his newspaper to the side, his mouth gaping in irritation, his eyes telling me he was getting ready to tell me off again. Somehow, his anger made it easier to face the situation, and I stopped telling myself not to get angry back.
“Look,” I said. “I’m just going to work, okay? And—and by the way, my work is as a chef. It’s what I do for a living.”
“Well, good for you.”
“It is, actually.” I wanted to throw my plate of green eggs and ham right at him, but my teeth barred against each other and I reminded myself, he didn’t choose to be feral. I looked down at my green eggs and ham. “If you want to try it, I’d be glad to heat this up for you before I go.”
“No,” he said, as if the word had three syllables. “I already told you—”
“Yeah, you told me you don’t like it. I got that.” I tried to think how I could describe the dish for him to make him realize how good it tasted. “Maybe you should come into the restaurant today. I can set you up with the full experience. A glass of wine. The right lighting. Some better plating.” Pride swelled up through my chest. I was being such a good person. “So … would you like them here or there?” I extended the plate toward him again.
“Neither,” he said.
My stomach dropped. I’d mustered so much confidence in my anger, even managed to whirl it back around to the high road. Part of me wanted to bolt out the door instead of face this repeated rejection. Instead, I just said, “Why?” I wish I could tell you it didn’t sound like a whimper.
“I would not like them here or there.” He stood, and for a moment I was afraid he might hit me. It struck me for the first time just how much than me he was. “I would not like them anywhere.”
I stumbled back.
“I do not like green eggs and ham.” His words, so carefully enunciated, stung deep—even as my rational mind told me how ridiculous it was to let a stranger’s rejection of a food he’d never tried bruise my ego like this.
But it wasn’t just I do not like them, Sam-I-am. It was not liking me, no matter what I tried, and years of insecurities and sensitivities locked behind the floodgate were increasing their pressure. I could hear my father’s voice in the undertones of his, my mother’s disapproval in his stare. I stood there, waiting for him to make a move, waiting for him to hit me—and somehow hoping he would so I could believe he was just a terrible, violent, inhuman old man. But instead he just walked past me, his newspaper under his arm. He checked his watch. “And now I’m going to be late for work,” he grumbled.
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