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felt free to look andact with complete unself-consciousness as they were passing down the food line. Almost the only thing she was ever called upon to say was “Lift your tray, please, the plates are hot.” Almost the only thing anyone ever said to her was “I’ll take some of the pork,” or whatever. Almost everyone was slow, as if contemplating the food put them into a dream, and a lot of people had to be prompted to choose. A few had the irritating habit of throwing their trays onto the top of the steam table and saying, “I don’t care, just put something on it,” thereby leaving the choice to her. People started eating while they were waiting in line.
    But of course food behavior wasn’t the end of it. Boys walked through the line pushing trays with one hand and feeling their girlfriends’ rear ends with the other. Couples kissed passionately every time the line paused. Fingers went to noses, hands to rears. Once in a while someone absentmindedly stuck a fork handle or a pencil in his ear and twirled it. Tears streamed, and not only down the faces of women and girls. There were bursts of laughter at nothing. People sang and muttered. People pushed trays, their own and those around them, off the tray rails. Food was spilled, plates were broken, tempers were lost, apologies were made (or sometimes not). People fell down, even though the busboys were careful to clean up and to set out the “Slippery Floor” sign. People read books and had arguments in line. On more than one occasion, food had been thrown as soon as she served it.
    Once, fifteen years ago or so, a man had stuck his fork right into the back of the man ahead of him, as far as it would go. Everyone in line had started saying, “Oh my God oh my God oh my God.” Blood might have spurted out, except that it was winter, and the victim’s tweed sport jacket had soaked up most of it. The commons supervisor had come out and taken charge, calling an ambulance and the police. She had walked the victim over to a table, and he had sat there, very straight, wincing but not talking. The supervisor wouldn’t let anyone pull out the fork. Marly never understood why. Another time, late on the dinner line when there weren’t many people in the food area, three fraternity pledges had exposed themselves to her. She had just lifted the plates onto their trays when they stepped back and there were their penises, dangling like little purses in front of their jeans. “Thelma!” she had called out, and when the supervisor appeared and the boys were hurriedly zipping up, she had said, “These boys have something to show you.” Then she had looked them, especially thebiggest, who was first in line, right in the eye, and said, “Do it again, NOW!” and they had done it, and Thelma had turned them in to campus police and they had been expelled from school.
    There were all physical types, from the blackest Africans to the palest northern Europeans (probably Nils Harstad, the dean of extension, who was a member of her church, defined this end of the spectrum), from the tallest—maybe seven feet—to the shortest, maybe three. They rolled through in wheelchairs, hobbled through on crutches, lifted their trays with hooks (farm accidents, most of those), carried white canes, followed guide dogs, watched her lips, wore hearing aids. They twitched and hunched and limped, or they seemed to dance. Breathtaking beauties of both sexes passed through the line. People who were quite the opposite of that did, too. There were girls who had shaved their heads and boys who had hair to their waists, and vice versa. A few had tattoos on their faces, more had them on their arms. People in thousand-dollar suits stood next to people in torn sweats and T-shirts, but everyone had on shoes and shirts. That was a health rule and the only sort of uniformity. Most of them spoke English, but probably she had heard, or even been addressed in, every major language in the world. She just kept