I’m waiting in the soup line heading to Chicago on business. It’s the first time I’ve ever traveled this way, but it beats planes, which I hate. 

Am I nervous? Sure. I’m not the kind of person who needs to know how everything works before they try it or who is generally fearful, but traveling this way, well, it’s so new that I worry they haven’t gotten all the bugs out, although there have been no accidents or spills reported to date. I’m also interested in finding out what flavor I’ll be. Will I be savory or slightly sweet? Simple or complex? Thick or thin? Chunky or clear? 

Finally, after twenty minutes, I’m in the condensing chamber. 

“Please count backward from one hundred,” says the transport engineer. I wake up almost instantaneously after saying “seventy-seven” in the reconstituting chamber in Chicago.

“What was I?” I ask.

“I’m sorry, sir,” says the engineer. “But I’m not allowed to give out that information. It will be on your arrival papers.” After I’m done, I rush to Arrivals.  

“Here you are, Mr. DiSilva,” says the agent, handing me a white envelope. “And thank you for traveling with Campbell’s.”

Walking away, I rip open the envelope. I’m crestfallen.

“Soup Variety: Beef Stock.”

How incredibly boring. I had been hoping for something interesting, like New Orleans Gumbo, Snapper Soup, or Maryland Corn Chowder. To think I had my body turned into condensed soup, pumped through 1,100 miles of pipeline to Chicago, only to find out I’m plain old boring Beef Stock.

I’d always thought there was more going on inside of me. Even a simple Chicken Noodle would have been an improvement over Beef Stock. 

“You’re not the soup you are when you travel.”

I’d read that in an article about the system, the loss of self-esteem that can come from your flavor not meeting your expectations.

A big believer in affirmations, I rush into the bathroom and begin to tell myself in the mirror, “You are not Beef Stock. You are not Beef Stock. You are not Beef Stock,” when suddenly I hear the door open.

In walks a man I recognize from the soup line back in Trenton. 

“You’re Beef Stock are you?” he asks affably enough.

“Me?” I ask. “No. No. I’m an actor and was reciting lines from a play. I’m Bouillabaisse.”

A little white lie never hurt anyone, although the man is cocking his head and squinting as if he’s onto me.

“You look like a Bouillabaisse. I’m just Cream of Tomato.”

That might have been the single greatest compliment I’ve ever received in my life.