Timothy Eves The Cave 1
THE CAVE
Timothy Eves
May 13, 1989:
I sat in a cave, one of a multitude of prisoners. For dinner, as for so many other meals, we were served steak. Tendrils of steam rose from our plates like beckoning fingers. The aroma penetrated our nostrils; our mouths watered. We took a bite: the meat was so tender that it practically melted on our tongues. We groaned with pleasure. Where the meat came from we didn’t know—and didn’t care. We simply reveled in the flavor, the texture, the juice dribbling down our chins. We were content in our cave. It didn’t occur to us to attempt escape.
I sat in a spacious banquet hall, one of a multitude of friends and family attending the wedding reception. I no longer recall the meal that was served, except that the entrée was some kind of meat—steak, perhaps. My mind wasn’t on the meal, though. I was more concerned with the toast that I, as the best man, was expected to give after the meal. My younger brother—who was the groom, and a longtime Trekker—had dared me to raise my glass, give the Vulcan salute, and, in front of the onlooking crowd, say, “Live long and prosper!” Part of me was tempted, but I knew I’d chicken out. Actually, I was hoping I could find someone willing to give the toast in my place. I never felt comfortable giving toasts.
My brother had some vegan friends—they were a couple—who were sitting at the same table I was. Special care had been taken to serve them a vegan meal, but the catering service had goofed: their green beans were coated with butter. The two vegans took exception. The rights of animals, they complained, had been violated, and at their expense. They refused to eat not only the green beans but the rest of their meal as well. Some of the dinner guests grumbled. It was inappropriate, they thought, to use my brother’s wedding as a platform for their animal rights agenda. The two vegans seemed to care more about animals than about the happy couple.
As far as I know, however, the episode didn’t bother
Timothy Eves
May 13, 1989:
I sat in a cave, one of a multitude of prisoners. For dinner, as for so many other meals, we were served steak. Tendrils of steam rose from our plates like beckoning fingers. The aroma penetrated our nostrils; our mouths watered. We took a bite: the meat was so tender that it practically melted on our tongues. We groaned with pleasure. Where the meat came from we didn’t know—and didn’t care. We simply reveled in the flavor, the texture, the juice dribbling down our chins. We were content in our cave. It didn’t occur to us to attempt escape.
I sat in a spacious banquet hall, one of a multitude of friends and family attending the wedding reception. I no longer recall the meal that was served, except that the entrée was some kind of meat—steak, perhaps. My mind wasn’t on the meal, though. I was more concerned with the toast that I, as the best man, was expected to give after the meal. My younger brother—who was the groom, and a longtime Trekker—had dared me to raise my glass, give the Vulcan salute, and, in front of the onlooking crowd, say, “Live long and prosper!” Part of me was tempted, but I knew I’d chicken out. Actually, I was hoping I could find someone willing to give the toast in my place. I never felt comfortable giving toasts.
My brother had some vegan friends—they were a couple—who were sitting at the same table I was. Special care had been taken to serve them a vegan meal, but the catering service had goofed: their green beans were coated with butter. The two vegans took exception. The rights of animals, they complained, had been violated, and at their expense. They refused to eat not only the green beans but the rest of their meal as well. Some of the dinner guests grumbled. It was inappropriate, they thought, to use my brother’s wedding as a platform for their animal rights agenda. The two vegans seemed to care more about animals than about the happy couple.
As far as I know, however, the episode didn’t bother