The Aura of the Dare

I know I tell a lot of restaurant stories, but you like them, right?

The thing is, I love to watch people interact (thank you for this, Dad). I'm a fool for it, in fact. I can't seem to get enough. And the more ridiculous the interaction is, the more I am drawn to it. Me, moth. Crazy people, flame. And restaurants? They are the best of venues for um, observing. (Yes, this is totally different than eavesdropping. One day, when you're older, I will explain why.) Ah, and when you're alone at a restaurant, it's even better, because there's no talking at your table that can cover up all the juicy bits of conversation wafting toward you, just begging to be snatched up and analyzed. 

The restaurant story for today features five college boys and some sushi. For college guys, they were relatively civilized, but still, they possessed that unmistakable collegiate goofiness, that they're-adorable-because-they-think-they're-so-cool-and-sophisticated-but-they're-not-at-all-because-they're awkward kind of appeal. (Ask my mom about this. She geniusly created an entire, brilliant theory about teenage boys.) 

They were all on spring break, I presumed, since the entire city is always crawling with cute, aloof college kids in March and April. I had the pleasure of being seated next to them. I was close. It smelled like lots and lots of horrible cologne. Their napkins were nowhere near their laps. They were treating their chopsticks like swords. It was perfect. 

They all ordered their sushi in a reasonable sort of fashion, but the real antics came when the food arrived. Because sushi, you know, is automatically served with every adventurist's favorite challenging explosion of excitement. Wasabi.

Let's think here for a second. It's hot. The power of it dies on your palate quickly, but it burns so viciously for a few short moments. In its traditional usage, it is dabbed onto pieces of sushi or maki and enjoyed in small amounts. In 19 year-old boy usage, it becomes entertainment. And what could be more entertaining than, you know, consuming the whole wad at once? In front of your friends, no less, who are daring you to do it. In front of me, other customers, and the staff, who all clearly support this kind of activity. Ah, the joy of the dare!

So. Four boys dare one boy to eat his entire amount of wasabi in one go. They egg him on for a bit, (I wasn't staring, I swear) encouraging, yet heckling, him into it. It takes a long time to convince him it's a good idea, and I may or may not have looked up from my book to say, Do it. My voice ended up sounding quite menacing and more threatening than I'd imagined it could have, so I tried to sound more like a girl when I followed it with, You won't die or anything. Do it.

Yes, I even shocked myself. I was turning into one of them! And it kind of felt oddly...good. For a second, I understood their entire mentality, the sheer rush of excitement you feel when you're on the edge of the absurd, the way your body kicks in to that animal-like competition mode. I starting thinking back. Have I ever dared anyone to do anything? Like, a real dare -- not just when I tell Matthew (jokingly, folks, jokingly) that I think he's too weak to finish my sandwich in addition to the two sandwiches he just ate. Have I ever really chanted, DO IT! DO IT! DO IT! and meant it? And, if not, have I been missing out on the excitement of the dare for years?

But back to the wasabi. Mere seconds after my second lashing of DO IT, he does it. Just like magic! Wasabi bomb goes down the hatch. Not in any kind of traditional wasabi-bomb way (yes, there's a traditional way, and it involves actually feeling the pain on your tongue), but swallowed whole, with water, like a pill. He claimed he didn't taste it at all, and it took a few moments for a reaction to set in, but then it was suddenly sitting cozily in his organs, burning a little hole right on through, and he was sweating, and feeling uncomfortable, and the friends could not stop laughing. 

There's something so horrible, yet so charming, about the laughter that occurs after the dare. I mean, the person did it. They are still alive (see, that's what I said would happen!). They are perhaps a little uncomfortable, but they feel accomplished, though perhaps a bit resentful. And then the darers laugh, and the dared-person kind of laughs, and it's odd, like when the sun comes out while it's raining. It's so wrong, but so right. And my favorite part of the whole thing is that my over-analysis never occurred to any of those boys at the table next to mine. They were just basking in that alluring green glow of the wasabi, loving every second of the deep, pouncing aura of that dare.