I sat up in bed and yawned, stretching my tired arms. I slowly edged out the creaks that ran down my spine, trying to mitigate the always-growing back pain that plagued those of us past our prime. I had slept soundly without the horrible shrill chirps of my alarm for the first time in weeks. It was finally my day off - the world truly was my oyster. Wearily, I pulled myself out of bed and followed my grumbling stomach towards the kitchen. Since the dawn of man, hunger has pulled us towards our primal priorities, and today, that priority seemed to be a hearty bowl of Froot Loops. I rummaged through my fridge, desperately searching for what was left of my store-brand, well-aged milk, and remembered that I hadn’t actually gone grocery shopping this week like I had meant to. I sighed and trudged back to the pantry, accepting the lowly fact that I would once again be indulging myself with dry Froot Loops (that was, unless I wanted to be brave and check my bread for mold).
CLANK
I stiffened, hairs on edge. I lived alone, and yet there was a noise coming from my back door. In a strange combination of fear and confusion, I ran back towards my bedroom, scanning the house for a suitable weapon along the way. I stopped at the bathroom, and upon spying the plunger resting against the wall, readied myself for a fight with the robber my mind had readily imagined. I crept back around the corner, staying low and silent. Stealth was key in situations like this one. Slowly now, one foot in front of the oth --
“Oof!” I exhaled, falling to the floor. The plunger clattered to the floor, sliding away uselessly. So much for the element of surprise. I sat there, dazed at what had taken me down. Dozens of thoughts shot through my half-asleep brain. Who is he? This robber sure was fast… I looked around for any clues as to why I was on the ground, mystified at the sight of a thick black cable gracing the floor. Was the intruder a contractor? Did my cable break again? Maybe the apartment manager had sent someone over to fix something… I followed to the bulky cord back into the kitchen/living area/dining room (I can only afford a slim margin of square footage) and came face to face with a massive silver camera. It was pointed directly at my surprise-stricken face, an expressionless cameraman directing it towards me. He donned a shiny pair of curved sunglasses, the kind bikers wear, and his spiky brown hair was topped with a cameraman staple - the backwards hat (Big Bass Fishing in this occasion).
“Ah, here he is. Right on time.” The voice was profoundly British, and very rough around the edges.
“Who.. who are you?” The question was ill-prepared, I knew who he was. I wasn’t sure why, but I was certain that Gordon Ramsay was in my kitchen. “I’m sorry, is this some kind of prank?” My brain had yet to process the situation; these poor questions could only be attributed to short circuits in my central nervous system.
“Jared, do you know that your spinach is rotting?” Gordon asked me, raising one eyebrow. His jaw was set sternly as he tapped his fingers on the counter, awaiting an answer.
“Uh… no?” I said tentatively. I hadn’t known that. I hadn’t even opened my vegetable crisper for a few weeks now. I had only bought the spinach for a girl I had been seeing, when I’d tried to make her dinner. Let’s just say I hadn’t needed to cook for anyone lately.
“This is disgusting, yeah?” Gordon said, picking up a bag of gooey, black liquid from the counter. I looked at the label and nearly heaved - it was the spinach. Or it had been, once. I nodded quickly, covering my mouth with one hand.
“I’ve spoken with Jared now, and he agrees his storage area is absolutely filthy.” Gordon said, facing the camera. “Let’s see if he’ll agree that he needs to do something about it.”
Gordon turned back to me. “Jared, do you understand that this is a health hazard? You could be putting lives at risk. Anyone who enters your establishment could be facing horrific food poisoning.”
“My… establishment?”
“And further,” Gordon went on, interrupting me. “By leaving a contaminant in your storage facility, you could potentially be contaminating all of your other ingredients. Nothing is safe at this point -- this is no way to run a business.”
“I, uh- I’m not-” I sputtered, confused.
“What were you planning on serving for today’s breakfast service, then?” He clapped his hands furiously. “Quickly now, you’ll be expecting guests any minute, I’m sure.”
“Um, breakfast… service? I was probably just going to have some Froot Loops, bit stale now though.”
Gordon stared at me. I stared back for a moment before looking at the floor, ashamed for some reason I couldn’t quite pin down.
“This truly is a Kitchen Nightmare.” Gordon was back to facing his dull cameraman. “Stay tuned to see if I can work a miracle and get this place up and running like it ought to be.”
“Cut, scene!” The cameraman finally showed a sign of life. Gordon ran his hands through his hair and observed the rest of my kitchen.
“Dear god,” he sighed, “Where do I even begin?”