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Visiting MediocrityBy Shannon Dunlap They were sent from the gates of the city with a visitor’s brochure in hand. It read: Welcome to the town of Mediocrity-
“They must have an odd sense of humor here,” said the father to his little boy. “But the town seems nice. Perhaps this would be a good place to settle down.” Together, they headed toward the center of town where a local at the gate had told them an open-air market would be. The little boy skipped over the cracks in the sidewalk while his father observed the surrounding neighborhood. Rows of uniform trees with iron fences around them lined the sides of the street. White houses with two stories, a front porch, and polite flowerbeds stretched as far as the eye could see. “Dad, why do the trees have jails around them? And why do all the houses look alike?” “I don’t know,” the father said with a patient sigh. “Maybe the same person built them all.” They casually strolled through the city until they finally reached the market. Stalls were spread out over the large town square and a crowd was busy milling around. A local band played innocuous elevator music in the middle of the chaos. Sweet perfume, hot bread, pungent leather and other smells assailed their senses as they strolled from one booth to another. “You folks aren’t from around here, are you?” asked a vendor. “No,” the father said, “My son and I have just left our hometown. It was getting pretty run down.” “You couldn’t have picked a better place than Mediocrity,” the vendor told him. “Everything can be bought for a reasonable price here. Can I interest you in something today? I have a tale that’s been told, a song that’s been sung, some art that’s half-done.” The man proudly held up a painting of a young woman fearfully holding off some evil with her bare hands. What the monster was supposed to be was left to the viewer’s imagination since the artist had never finished his masterpiece. “Why isn’t it finished?” the father questioned the salesman. “Oh, the artist got tired of this subject and moved on to something else. I have dozens of works like this one. You can get them at a 50 percent discount since you’re only paying for half a painting.” “Thank you, but I’m not in the market for any half-paintings today,” the father replied with a disdainful look. “Maybe some other time.” Moving on to the next stall, they saw an assortment of candies and drinks for sale. A woman who looked like she’d sampled too many of her own products welcomed them. “Do you have any fresh squeezed lemonade?” asked the boy in a loud voice. “We have a wonderful mix that we make our drinks from, boy. It’s just as good.” “Does it have a slice of lemon at the top? And the little pulp things floating in it?” said the son. “No, but no one can tell the difference in the taste,” replied the vendor with a polished smile. “How could you not notice? Can it make your eyes water, like when you bite in the lemon? Is it that fake-looking yellow color?” The boy asked all of these questions while dancing from one foot to the other and observing all the wares on the peddler’s table. “My, your son is … exuberant,” remarked the woman, giving a harried look to the father. “He’s just a normal little boy, full of excitement and a zest for life.” “And questions,” the vendor retorted. “Would you mind asking him to use his ‘inside voice’ please?” “But we’re outside, Dad,” the boy replied. “Good point, son,” the father said with a smile. “You don’t understand,” the woman broke in. “We don’t draw attention to ourselves in Mediocrity. Everyone is the same. You may be outside in proximity, but you’re inside the city’s jurisdiction. Try to fit in.” “Dad, can we eat now?” said the son with a yank at his father’s shirtsleeve. “Where can we buy the best meal in town?” the man asked the vendor. “The café across the street is good,” she replied with a relieved smile. “If it’s good, why bother to look for the best?” The son had already skipped halfway across the street and the father quickly followed and led him into the restaurant. There was no telling what kind of food would be offered. There was no specific décor to signal a certain type of menu. The tables were all a nondescript veneer, and the pictures on the wall were various prints in cheap plastic frames. The hostess showed them to their seats and handed them two gravy stained menus. “Do you have crayons?” the boy asked her hopefully. “Nope,” she said and left. The waitress who came to take their order was even less helpful. She stood at the table and stared at them through half-comatose eyes until the father took the initiative and ordered the hamburger platters. She left without saying a word and returned with the food in a short time. “Could we get some silverware, please?” the father asked. The waitress drew two forks from the pocket of her apron, plunked them on the table and turned to leave. “And some ketchup?” the boy called to her retreating back. With the look of a martyr, she returned with the bottle. Her eyes dared them to make any more requests and the father and son wisely chose to eat their food without any napkins. “Why aren’t you eating?” the father asked his son as he watched him pick at the soggy french fries. “Do you like this stuff, Dad?” the little boy asked with a grimace. “It doesn’t have much taste, I know, but it isn’t horrible. It looks like there isn’t anything extraordinary in Mediocrity.” They paid the bill and left a bigger tip than the waitress deserved before heading to the outskirts of town. The day was drawing to a close as the father and son reached the gate of the city. The same local they had met before looked surprised to see them. “Are you leaving us so soon?” he asked. “Yes,” replied the father. “Could you tell us how to get to the next town listed on my map here?” “Oh, that place. Few have ever tried,” he replied. “You must first pass through the Valley of Decision, so most choose to remain in Mediocrity rather than take that route.” “Is it dangerous?” “Not really dangerous,” the local told him. “Just uncomfortable.” “Well, thanks. I think we’ll take our chances,” said the father. He and his son passed through the gate and walked in the direction of the setting sun. “I didn’t like that place, Dad,” said the little boy. “Neither did I, son. The brochure didn’t lie, though. No one plays the fool in Mediocrity. They all have it down to a science.” The father took his son by the hand and they began their journey through the Valley of Decision to the next city that the map simply called Quality.
ninetyandnine.com © 2002, Shannon Dunlap --------- Shannon Dunlap graduated from Gateway College of Evangelism in St. Louis. She is currently working on her Master’s Degree in Journalism at Regent University in Virginia Beach, Va. She enjoys anything to do with Jane Austen or Krispy Kreme.
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