The darkness faded, and I found myself lying on the ground surrounded by six people. My head was spinning about as fast as my stomach, which unfortunately was a tornado. I blinked, trying to focus enough to stand, and the group started clapping. The applause grew as I sat up and attempted to put my feet under me.
My throat clenched, and I threw up a frothy brown liquid onto the freshly mowed grass. Those around me stopped applauding. I stayed bent over with a line of spit reaching desperately for the ground from my lower lip. Without even a shout of Geronimo, the strand of drool snapped and fell to the ground, but my stomach still didn’t feel any better. After waiting a minute for a second round of puking that never came, I stood to look over the crowd surrounding me.
The members of the group started to applaud again. Some cheered, one or two whistled. Half the crowd was wearing masks, all decked out in shiny new superhero costumes. It wasn’t time yet for Halloween. I looked around looking for another solution, we were in the middle of the Sprint Nextel campus, far from Sidekick Hut and Second Raters, so these people can’t be sidekicks.
The vomit came up again, raining down to deepen the disgusting puddle between my shoes. While once again doubled over attempting to regain my composure, I noticed I was dressed as Condiment Man. Who was I fighting? How did I get here?
From the corner of my eye, I noticed the crowd was parting. It became deadly silent. Even nature itself hushed. Entering the circle was The “Waster” decked out in a shiny new suit. He looked older with slightly graying goatee and designer wig. His wide smile flashed some of the whitest teeth I had ever seen.
“Condiment Man, how does your head feel?” He glanced to my feet, seeing the puddle of half digested food, “Ahh, that well? Let me ask you something else, do you remember what happened last week?”
My mind swirled as I tried to remember what happened. I know I went to work, I knew which clients' projects I worked on, I knew the television shows I watched and the work I did around the house. Conversations with Laura and Steve filled my mind, but I couldn’t remember anything I did as Condiment Man.
“No.”
The crowd gasped. One man started to cry, which was obvious despite the small eye holes in his mask.
“What is the last thing you remember I did to waste condiments?”
Again, my mind swirled, “Condíments, you made the Condíments cartoon.”
The crowd cried out. A few people fainted, some collapsed to the ground, and one took a step forward in an attempt to fight my villain, but was held back by the remaining few still standing.
“Excellent,” he smiled and ran his right hand through his wig, “see you later.” He turned and exited through the hole in the crowd he formed during his entrance.
After The “Waster” was a safe distance, a masked man ran to my side, “Condiment Man, the Condíment show hasn’t run for six years.”
My throat clenched again, and I bent over, hacking at the ground. My stomach was tied in knots, and the blood rushed from my face. I was suddenly cold.
The masked man placed his hand on my shoulder. “My Feelings Sense tells me you’re angry.”
Confused, and with my stomach feeling slightly better, I looked up at him. A green mask with glittery gold puff paint faces in dozens of emotions covered his face. His green eyes were wide with empathy, and his lip quivered with fear. He wore a form fitting shirt and spandex pants the same deep green as his mask, though in the center of his chest a glittery gold smiley face with black eyes and mouth stared me down while the hundreds of other faces made me feel uneasy.
He reached to his belt, dipping his hand into a compartment on his right side and pulled it back with a tissue in hand. He put the tissue into my palm, and then held my hand for a moment before pulling away.
“I’m not angry,” spewed in a quiver from my lips. “Who are you people anyway? Sidekick Hut employees?”
The smiley faced hero jumped to attention, “I am eMoticon, Master of Feelings. The heroes surrounding you are members of the hero team I currently chair, the NAEH, or the National Association of Emotive Heroes. We currently have well over three hundred members, inducting about forty new members per year. Sometimes we do consulting work with HR departments, which is why we’re here today, but members of the NAEH tend to be Hero Assistants, or members of superhero teams, since we’re not likely to have a supervillian.”
“Superhero teams?” I asked.
“So you can’t remember anything superhero related from the past few years?”
My mind raced, trying to come up with something that happened since The “Waster” made that evil show, but couldn’t come up with anything. I had no idea when he starting wearing that stupid wig, nor could I remember fighting any condiment wasters or saving a citizen’s meal with a necessary ketchup packet. I had no idea when heroes started forming teams. “No.”
“You must be pretty confused,” said eMoticon, guessing my emotion correctly. “Well, we heroes started forming teams and associations a few years ago when the superhero population exploded and the supervillians started joining together. Pretty much all heroes have joined some sort of team.”
The spinning in my head slowed to a mild headache, though my stomach wasn’t done being upset yet. “So what are you’re powers?”
“To be a member of the NEAH, powers related to feelings are required. Some of us are able to tell how much of a certain emotion fills a person, and some, like myself, are able to tell what others are feeling.”
“Really? That’s not a real power!” I shouted, “eMoticon, you’re angry, he’s shocked, he’s upset, that guy’s sad, and she’s all of these combined.”
The heroes surrounding me nodded, then fixed their eyes on eMoticon, “Do you want to join the NEAH?”
“You’re not heroes; you’re morons in shiny suits.” I stepped over my puke and started toward 119th street in hopes of putting the past few years back together.
“I know you’re just upset, but my Feelings Sense tells me your words hurt our feelings,” whimpered eMoticon.
Ignoring him, I made my way across the Sprint Nextel Campus trying to find my way through the haze clouding my mind. Along one of the many paths through the campus I walked with my gaze fixed on the Best Buy up the road. I was nearly to one of the parking garages that surround the buildings when I was consumed by an all too familiar sensation and the vision of a business casual man with graying hair standing before an open refrigerator with a ham and cheese sandwich stacked neatly on a paper plate. He’s digging through the salad dressing bottles and bagged lunches from who knows how long ago in search of a bottle of Grey Poupon.
“My Condiment Sense!” I cried while performing an Xtreme 180 mid-walk air spin I had learned from Adam while waiting for a bus at KU. “Business casual man is nearby.”
Running back into the heart of the Sprint Nextel campus, I scanned the buildings trying to locate the one in which my Poupon poor citizen was trapped. Instinctively, I headed to the building on the right, and yanked the first door of the breezeway open with my right hand, with one foot in the door my left hand was already on the inside door knob and pulling to no avail.
As the door closed behind me, I grabbed the handle to the inside door with both hands and pulled, hard. Still nothing. Through the glass door was a lush lobby, complete with an unattended guard station and LCD monitors showing the old Sprint logo flying in from the left, the Nextel logo flying in from the right, and slamming in the middle with a massive explosion to form the new Sprint Nextel logo.
“Where’s the guard!” I screamed, then frantically searched my holding area for a call button. Near the door lock was a key card scanner. Without hesitation, I sprinted toward the waterfall area of the campus where I left eMoticon.
As I neared the area I left the NAEH, I rounded the corner of a building, heaved myself into the air, and started to bring a Condiment Kick aimed at eMoticon’s head. It was then I saw six people laying unconscious on the ground in their underwear, scattered around them costumes of the NAEH heroes.
My feet landed a few feet from the nearly naked citizens. Looking around, I saw only a man in a white lab coat putting some distance between himself and these people. With no time to figure out what was going on, I dug into the pockets of eMoticon’s costume, pulled out a Sprint Nextel card, and sprinted back to the building.
The first door of the building was flung open, and the key card was swiped through the reader. There was a loud beep, a click, and the door popped slightly open. Pulling it the rest of the way, I was finally inside the building.
A grey haired man in a black suit stood from behind the guard station and looked me over. “Can I help you?”
Quickly, I glanced around the lobby trying to use my Condiment Sense to let me know which way was correct. With a slight tingle from the door to my right, I turned and started running to the door.
The door refused to open. Another card reader. I swiped the card, the door beeped, and I helped it open.
“Hey! Stop!” yelled the guard.
Behind the door was a corridor with offices lining the right wall. Down the left wall were conference rooms of varying sizes, each with a nice wooden table and generic art hanging on the wall.
Further down, the hallway opened to a large room packed with pods of cubicles. Papers shuffling, staplers clicking, and phones ringing filled the room with the sound of a flurry of activity. Occasionally an employee would pop his head out of a cubicle, look around, then drop down inside.
On the opposite side of the cube room appeared the kitchen I had been searching for. Dashing across the cube room at full speed, I prepared myself for the citizen in need.
Once inside the kitchen, there was no citizen, only the Sprint guy curled up against the wall with his black trench coat wrapped around him. Tears rolled down his cheeks, and when he saw me, he buried his head in his arm. Scattered around him were dozens of clam shell cell phones, all of which open and dialing 816-333-3456.
“What did you do to my citizen?” I demanded, then moved so I was standing directly over him, “What did you do to my citizen!”
He trembled and lifted his head to get a quick look over his arm, then buried his face once again, “My doffno,” he mumbled.
Frantically, I searched the room for any clue as to where the business casual man had gone. The bright red countertops were clear of even crumbs. Paper plates were stacked next to the refrigerator with boxes of plastic forks and spoons nearby. I looked again at the Sprint Guy, but he was gone.
“Hello! And welcome to Movie Phone!” shouted the cell phones in unison.
“He’s over there!” shouted a gruff voice from a distance away.
I spun to try to find the Sprint Guy, but he was nowhere in the room. I looked out into the room full of cubes to find the owner of the voice, and found three overweight men in suits walking toward me. The bearded man in the front I decided owned the voice.
As they neared, I closed my eyes and attempted to focus on the business casual man, trying to find his location. The original vision popped into my mind. Again, I watched him dig through the fridge, pushing bagged lunches and salad dressings aside. He can’t find any Grey Poupon. He wraps the sandwich up in plastic, and places it again into the fridge and leaves the kitchen.
I pulled open the fridge to find his wrapped ham and cheese sitting on the top shelf next to a Pepsi can. Digging into my Condiment Utility Belt, I found a Grey Poupon packet which I placed on top of his sandwich and closed the door.
As the door closed, security entered the kitchen looking none too happy. They stopped, spreading into a line to prevent me from leaving.
The bearded man in front approached with his arms held cautiously in front of him, “What are you doing in here Condiment Man?”
“One of the employees needed some Grey Poupon for his ham and cheese. I got it taken care of, so I’ll be leaving now.” I stepped toward the guard, who jumped back and fisted his hands. The other guards followed suit.
“You know you’re not supposed to be in here. Sprint Nextel handles its own condiment delivery, remember?” said the bearded security officer. As he did, the suited officer on the right held out a packet of Grey Poupon with the Sprint logo on the bottom.
“Yeah,” I blurted, confused at the assistance, “Of course I knew you guys delivered your own condiments, I was just double checking. Can’t be too careful you know.” A nervous laugh, and I looked the guard on my right in the eye. “Oh, I got this one taken care of.” I pulled the fridge door open to show the officers my handiwork.
“Excellent,” replied the bearded guard, “Now we’ll show you the door.”
As the three of them led me to the front, I asked, “So, do you guys punish wasters in here as well?”
“Definitely CM, you gave the head of security a list of things to watch out for a few months ago, remember? Don’t worry about what happens on the Sprint Nextel Campus, we have it all under control.”
We arrived at the front door, the bearded guard held the first door open for my exit. The others stood behind me, stern blank stares which said one thing clearly, leave.
I nodded goodbye to them, then again to the bearded guard before heading out into the campus. When the door clicked behind me, I looked back to see the guards move back into the office building.
Across the campus sat something I hadn’t noticed in my haste leaving the building the first time, the Condiment Mobile. Now a red Civic coupe with a yellow circle and black CM decal stuck to the driver’s side door, and a larger one plastered on the hood. With my destination set, I started my way across the campus to the awaiting car, then back home.
As I made my way across the campus, a man with a look of terror dressed only in his underwear dashed across my path and vanished behind one of the buildings.