The Sandwich Maker
Sausage is my favorite, with scads of butter and HP sauce.
I’ve gone dead, completely flat, my writing is shit.
Wait, that’s rubbish. I don’t know why I said that. Sorry.
Thanks for coming by. Your eyes alone are worth more than Medium money, more than caffeine, and nearly as much as a Macallan, but let's not get ahead of ourselves.
I’ve probably written 100,000 words in the last couple of months, breaking every rule in English grammar, not deliberately, I simply don’t know the rules.
Anyway, you’re here. I’m thankful. I could have missed you today, as I had a silly accident on my way here to a cafe where I’m meeting Steve for breakfast. No, honestly, I’m fine, thanks for caring. No, it was dumb, I rode my bicycle into a lamppost while riding on the sidewalk. The lamppost was outside this restaurant. It was coming up to eight in the morning, so the breakfast eaters in the window tables must have thought I was the breakfast entertainment.
But the truth is, I’m thirty minutes early. That’s so I can grab a sausage sandwich and a cup of tea before he arrives, then he’ll buy me a second.
Crap, my pants are torn, my elbow is a tad bit swollen, and knuckles on both hands are skinned. Fucking lampposts are everywhere.
When I look over last night’s writing efforts it is clear to me, I got into some trouble, though I cannot be certain as to the accuracy of such words.
“Oh, yes, a sausage sandwich and a cup of tea, please. Thank you. Sorry? Sure, I’ll have the brown sauce, thanks.”
Yes, accuracy. I write, not for relief, but to keep a daily pattern to my life, and to be loved. Honestly, how many times have you heard me say this? I’m not love starved, but I cannot have enough of it.
Anyway, let me keep on track.
This flatness in my work will pass, and soon I hope. How long will you people show me your kindness if the writing is flat, mundane, boring, oh hell, that word alone, boring. That’s my nightmare. My writing is boring.
Holy fuck, please no.
“Thank you, that looks delicious. By the way, excuse me. Look, I’m being met by a friend in about twenty to thirty minutes, so when you see I’ve finished, will you clear everything away. My friend is buying breakfast. He would tell on me if I ordered two sausage sandwiches.”
See, that’s interesting. You can’t see this so let me just explain. There’s a woman sitting alone three tables away, under the window, she hasn’t once stared in my direction, no good morning smile, no stare of amusement or interest.
Fuck, I’m boring.
No, no, I am not. I’ll write whatever this is I’m writing, to pass half an hour.
Looking at my notes from last night, there’s nothing that would seem overly exciting to write about — or is there? I mean, seriously, would you continue reading if I were to tell you about my visit to one of those roadside quick food wagons?
Seriously? You’re just being kind.
This particular wagon was a smaller type, where a flap lifts on one side, and there’s only room for one person to stand inside. Yep, you got it. That type.
I was in St. Louis getting new bathroom fittings, which is a story on its own, but that one will bore you, so let’s continue with this one.
I suppose I was fortunate there wasn’t a line for food, and as I approached, she finished wiping the serving shelf, and turned on the stove. I waited while her heavy arms cleared a few utensils away into a small sink.
“Your menu says you can do a grilled sandwich,” I said.
“If the menu says it, I can do it,” she remarked, rather unkindly I thought.
“Thank you, I’ll take one of those, please.”
“Do you want all the toppings?” She asked.
“Sure, whatever it comes with. Thank you.”
“Tea, coffee?”
“Tea sounds good. Thanks.”
She turned away and grabbed a partial loaf of bread, and with less than clean hands cut two thick slices. I was curious as to why the edges had been cut off the bread previous to making the sandwich but didn’t ask.
The owner was a stout woman, she could have been a man were it not for her huge drooping breasts. She wore a net to cover her stringy blond hair but unsuccessfully contained it all, and greasy layers of hair fell onto her shoulders. As I watched, she grabbed a plastic mustard bottle, which she spread liberally across both slices. Then paused to take the kettle off the stove and poured the hot water into a mug with the St. Louis Arch printed on it, threw in a tea bag and put it on the shelf.
Surprisingly, it tasted okay.
Then she grabbed half a jar of sliced dill pickles, a square of cheddar cheese from a packet, and then, scaring the shit out of me, yelled at someone, “get out of the fucking way, Jonah,” and made a movement like she kicked out at something.
Jonah, it turned out, is an old cat, the sorriest looking cat I ever laid eyes on. It leapt onto the shelf and down to the ground. Well, I felt duty bound, for my health’s sake, to ask a question.
“Do you keep a cat in there?” I asked, politely, not intending rudeness.
“Jonah’s a pain in the ass, the other two are fine, they just sleep on the floor.”
“The floor where your feet are?” I asked.
“Is there another?” She sparked back, holding the breadknife at ninety-degrees. “They clear up the scraps I drop, saves me a whole lot of time.”
While she spoke a ding sounded, it was the microwave. She pulled out two pieces of warmed up grilled chicken breasts and slid them off the plate onto the slices of bread.
I was so absorbed by what I was seeing, a half-dozen bums and unemployed homeless had lined up behind me. That got me even more inquisitive, and I stared around. I checked back to the menu. Ten cents for coffee or tea, a dollar for a sandwich.
“Here’s your sandwich,” it was lying flat on a paper plate.
“Thank you, what do I owe you?”
“A dollar, ten, says it right there,” she told me, pointing one heavy arm behind her. I dropped a ten-dollar bill on the shelf and walked off, handing the sandwich to the person last in the line.
I’m in agony. To think of lining up for an hour. Waiting for what? Tea in a dirty mug, a sandwich that is made from partly moldy bread, with the moldy crusts cut away, and prepared by a woman with dirty hands and keeps cats in the cabin.
“All done, sir?” The server asked.
“Yes, thanks. I’ll get the tab, please.”
The tab is for twenty-two dollars. Six dollars for a cup of tea in a tea pot, and a sausage sandwich to die for.
“Here, take this tip, will you.” I handed her a twenty dollar bill, she was so tidy, neat, and polite. “This guy who is coming to meet me is the worst tipper in the world, I don’t want you to think bad of me.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Okay, our secret,” and I put my forefinger to my lips.
I turned back to my notes. I wondered about other writers, all of you, my friends, doesn’t it seem we live in this artistic world where it is necessary to drain all one’s strength in fighting blandness, clawing our way through a wilderness of absurdity in order to arrive at a very simple and obvious fact, writing is fun.
“Wow, you’re already here. What got into you this morning?” Steve asked.
“It’s a long story, Steve. Do me a favor, will you, order me a sausage sandwich to go. I have to go and buy a new bicycle.”
Steve looked at me, weirdly. “That bike, the one leaning against the lamppost, that’s yours?”
“Alas, the bloody lamppost jumped right out in front of me.”
The server arrives promptly. “Good morning, sirs, what can I get you both?”
Steve looked at the young woman, “My friend here wants a sausage sandwich to go, I’ll have the same, thank you, oh, and a cup of tea.”
The young lady walked away, I knew she had a smirk on her face a mile wide.
“Steve, last time I was here, I forgot to tip the lass. Be sure to make it right for me, okay.”
“Where are you going? You ordered a sandwich.”
“Bring it up to the house when you’ve had yours. I’ve got a silly story to finish.”
“Another one?”
“And take my bicycle to the dump, please.”
Adrienne Beaumont | Autistic Widower (“AJ”) | Brett Jenae Tomlin | The Sturg | Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles | Trisha Faye | Karen Schwartz | NancyO | Katie Michaelson | Bernie Pullen | Michelle Jimerson Morris | Amy Frances | Julia A. Keirns | Pamela Oglesby | | Tina | Pat Romito LaPointe | Ruby Noir | K. Joseph | Brandon Ellrich | Misty Rae | Karen Hoffman | Deb Palmer | Susie Winfield | Vincent Pisano | Paari | Marlene Samuels | Ray Day | Randy Pulley | Michael Rhodes | Lu Skerdoo | Pluto Wolnosci | Paula Shablo | Bruce Coulter | Ellen Baker | Kelley Murphy | Leigh-Anne Dennison | Jennifer Marla Pike | Carmen Ballesteros | Marlana, MSW| Patricia Timmermans | Keeley Schroder |Jan Sebastian | James Michael Wilkinson | Whye Waite | John Hansen | Trudy Van Buskirk | Joanie Adams |
(If you dislike being tagged for various reasons, no offense will be taken, please let me know, I’ll be sure it doesn’t happen on my posts again. If, on the other hand, you’d grace me by allowing a tag, I’d be thrilled to add you.)
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