The Cow And I

The Taste of Fear

Fear is palpable.

Some people feel the raising of hackles when turning dark corners at night. Dread locks one's knees and vocal cords at the very time when they are needed most. Spiders running across one's arm invariably make the skin crawl.

Fear even has a distinctive taste. You've heard it before: fear tastes coppery. A metallic tang toward the middle of one's palate. Like sucking on an old penny. Of course, as far as my opponent is concerned, this is completely false.

Guy's fear tastes like beef.

This fear began to twist its way into his psyche in January. I didn't recognize the signs at first. Early on, he expressed worry about my physical health. I was touched. How could I not be? That this beloved friend of mine would express such profound concern simply pulled at my heartstrings.

And yet, behind his words lie a deeper, creeping anxiety. Worms of self-doubt, gnawing at his guts from the inside out, gradually forced him to come to terms with the inevitable: I would last the duration. It became apparent to him by February that, as I hadn't yet fallen, BeefStakes would not be an idle fancy but a blood-soaked, relentless battle of wills spread out over another eleven months. Meat, day in, day out. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I would never stop. As Guy contemplated this fate, beef suddenly didn't taste so good anymore.

In fact, my colleague soon began to imagine that beef was intent on destroying him. Images of steaks followed him at every step, mooing from every alley, motel room, and restaurant lavatory. When asked why he appeared startled, he would often reply that the cows were coming through the walls to get him. In situations like that, it's best to simply agree and back away slowly.

After a while, he wouldn't even look at beef anymore. And why not? If you can't see it, it can't see you, right?

When March finally arrived, I was not only still in the game; I was catching up. Far from bowing my head in defeat, I had unbuckled the top button of my jeans, settled down at the table, and never gotten up again. I was here to stay.

All the cattle in Australia, at least all that Guy could consume without rupturing, would not help hold off this carnivorous juggernaut. My momentum keeps building. I haven't even hit my stride yet. I'll let you know when I get there.

But all that remains for Guy is fear. It's in his nostrils. It clouds his vision. Fear fills his mouth like a choking, wet leather sock.

And it tastes like beef.

Posted by eric at March 22, 2004 07:51 PM