Lean on Me

If a plane crash stranded us, I have absolutely no doubt that two of my friends would eat me to stay alive. Maybe they would wait for a sign that I wouldn’t make it anyway—a twisted ankle perhaps—but probably not. The only argument surrounding my demise would be a hypothetical one: would I have tasted better with a chipotle mayonnaise or a wasabi paste? If a firepit is available perhaps just plain BBQ sauce would win out in the end.

If I had to choose between death and eating my friend, I’m sure that I too would scrunch my eyes and open my mouth. We all would choose life. The difference is that I would limit such a meal to the mountain top. I’m not sure whose approach is better. I only worry that my friends won’t care whether we’re surrounded by plane wreckage on a tundra or beautiful women at a club in the meatpacking district. I fear their self-interest will always come first.

I pray they’ll never settle on a sauce.