CGI Wednesdays
Try your hardest to believe that this suit is green and that this image is not from Shutterstock.
Imagine you’re scrolling through TV on a Saturday night, and you come across a commercial you’ve never seen before. It starts honestly and typically enough; a family of four with a daughter who resembles the father and a son who resembles the mother. All are sitting around a scarcely empty table; no place mats even!
“Mom, Dad… I’m starving!!” the girl says.
“Me too!” her brother chimes in.
“I’m kinda hungry too,” you say as your brain is being washed.
Dad gets up and pries the fridge open to reveal nothing but an old, cobweb-dressed jar of pickles. The whole family gasps!
“Oh honey! What will we do?” Dad asks, while curling up to his wife. Mom sits there, concerned and thoughtful. But just before she can say anything and before you can change the channel, a scrawny and buck-toothed schmoozer, with a name tag reading Chet, crashes through the kitchen window. His bright purple polo is verging on untucked and his black slacks look like the bottom half of a Don Corleone Halloween costume. His thin, red hair is sticking up from his scalp like stoked flames.
“Well why don’t you come on down to CGI Wednesdays!” he screams.
“CGI Wednesdays?” the family ponders collectively.
“Oh don’t just stand there! Follow me!”
The camera cuts to a living room-sized area covered in green: the ceiling, the walls, the floor, even the door is wallpapered with what you think is green screen. You were just about to stand up, maybe grab a drink, but this is so strange that you can’t pull yourself away.
“Here at CGI Wednesday’s, we don’t limit our guests with a menu. We can give you your favorite foods without risking your waistline!” Chet the employee begins again.
“Hey, wait a second,” Dad chimes in, “this isn’t vegan, is it?”
With that, the whole family gasps a second time.
“Oh, Dad.” Chet snorts. “It doesn’t have meat, OR vegetables in it!”
“No vegetables? All right!” the kids ring simultaneously while slapping five.
“Well, how are the kids going to get the nutrients they need?” Mom asks.
“Oh, Mom. They won’t!” Chet chortles.
“What the hell is this guy talking about?” you say to yourself while trying to pry yourself from the couch. But for some reason, you’re glued to the couch. What is it about this fellow? Chet?
“C’mon, it’ll be easier if I just show you!” he yelps. “Put these on!” The family puts on green morph suits and sits crisscross applesauce on the floor. Then, as if it were a ghastly apparition, green cylinders appear in each of their hands.
Chet looks into the camera and raises his eyebrows suggestively, twice. You gasp silently, realizing exactly who he is
“How did I not immediately recognize him?” You whisper to yourself, since your parents are sleeping. You would have shouted otherwise.
“Now just pretend you’re eating your favorite food!” Chet says while observing from behind the one-way mirror. Sheepishly, but with growing enthusiasm, the family uses the tiny green cylinders as forks and knives. Meanwhile, Chet is frantically pressing buttons and switching levers. The family then changes out of their green morph suits and joins Chet in the control room.
“Check this out!” he says. Your television is now filled with a rendering of the family eating dinner with President Kennedy and Vin Diesel. Robert Kardashian, backgrounded and dressed as their waiter, speaks up: “C’mon down to CGI Wednesdays, where my daughter Kim and her super genius husband, Kanye West, love to eat at. I love you.”
The family jubilantly celebrates.
The television screen then goes black and in floats a neon green insignia shaped like a guitar pick. In bright orange font, “CGI Wednesdays” materializes in front of the pick and a smaller subtext below the pick reads “OPEN THURSDAY THRU TUESDAY. 7AM-7PM. NO WALK-INS. APPOINTMENT ONLY”. A phone number appears on the screen. You copy down on your hand with a sharpie, then shut the TV off, trying to gather your thoughts. Your racing mind prevents you from getting even a wink of sleep! Chet. Images of him play over in your head as if there were a thin film with his face on it stretched across your frontal lobe. You toss and turn all night.
Suddenly, dawn shows it’s crack, and it’s morning. You stumble out of your room and look at the clock, “7:15 AM”. You see your old yearbook where you left it the night before on the kitchen table. You flip through again to find your old spot and then mosey to your parent’s landline. You plug in the number written on your hand. The phone rings.
An amphibious grouch croaks from the other end of the line.
“CGI Wednesdays”.
“Um… Yes, I’d like to schedule an appointment for my son and I.”
“Do you mean a dine in?” the toad on the other end asks.
“I guess so.” you say,
“Hold, please,” they ribbit. The receiver clicks and you are entranced by the 30 to 45 seconds of Jon Bon Jovi’s Living On a Prayer. The receiver clicks again.
“When were ya looking to come in?”
“I suppose as soon as possible.”
“How does 8:30 sound?” they ask you.
“That’ll work.” You say, looking over to your son in his high chair, with his thin, red hair sticking up from his scalp like stoked flames.
“Who might I be speaking to?”
“Oh, right. Lindsay.”
“Liiiiiiinnnddssssaaaay,” they say slowly writing your name down, “Well Ms. Lindsay, we’ll see you for the early bird special at 8:30, sharp.” The receiver clicks. You dress yourself and your son, and are ready to leave by 8:15.
CGI Wednesdays is a miserable hole in the wall, located between a Subway and a Domino’s. The iconic CGI Wednesdays guitar pick logo is clearly plastered over the sign of an old Tae Kwon Do studio. You walk in and a bell rings as the door swings in. The person sitting at the front desk is most likely the amphibian you spoke to on the phone; squat, greasy, boiled. They are shielded by bulletproof glass.
“Hi, I have a ‘dine in’ at 8:30 for my son and I. Lindsay.”
They say nothing to you, but press a button on their desk. A large buzz goes off and a green light appears above the door to their right. You and your son walk through, his hand in yours. Like Oompa Loompas, several servile employees are on the two of you immediately, they show you where the green morph suits are, instruct you how to put them on, and lead you into a room named “Studio 1”.
“I’m sorry, but… I was wondering if…” you begin to say before you walk in. The technician’s flat, unsympathetic face opens up to interrupt you.
“I’ll be creating your meal today, ma’am. No sweat. I’ll do a real good job for you and the little man.” He chirps, “Hey, he sorta looks like…” You interrupt him this time.
“But, in the commercial I…” you start,
“He’s too busy to do every single one. It’s just luck of the draw. You’ll survive.” He says, now aggravated that he thinks you’re unsure of his work.
The lime green walls, floor, and ceiling make you nauseous, but you and your little guy sit down anyways, staring into your own reflection. You remember it’s a one-way mirror.
“All right. What are we hungry for?” an amplified voice rings out from behind the mirror. You and your son sit holding the lime green cylinders that stand in for cutlery.
“Oh, gee. I don’t know. How about an albatross?” You say.
“Eh, a dead albatross is generally a sign for poor luck. How about I just stick in in the background of the photo.”
“Sure, that’s fine. Are you sure that-”
“What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know, pasta? Listen, is Chet back there, I need to see-”
“Anything else you want in the background? And move the cylinders around more. Pretend you’re eating” the voice asks, but with a different cadence and sound. You do as it asks.
“I don’t know. Isn’t the damn bird enough? Put who ever.” You mutter, giving up.
You lead your son out of the room and a technician leads you to the control room. He brings up a screen and shows you the dining experience you’ve been waiting for. Over a massive plate of spaghetti, it’s you, your son, the albatross, and Chet. He has his arms wrapped around you and your son. Everyone, except Chet, is eating the spaghetti. Chet looks into the your eyes and says.
“Who knew one night on the town all those years ago could lead to this. He’s beautiful Lindsay, but I care too much about my career to give it all up. I’m not fit to be a parent.”
“Did you put Chet in there?” you ask, exasperated.
“I was in the bathroom so Chet filled in for me. He must have done it.” He shrugs.
You run out of the control room, still wearing your green morph suit, and look down the hallway. You catch small ember of the flames on Chet’s scalp, as he walks out the backdoor.
