For Benny, Chris, and Nolan

He was skeptical, and rightly so, of the pimple-faced teen standing behind the counter. The would-be “Sandwich Artisan” was fumbling with a tray of fresh bread seemingly unable to balance the airy baked goods. A couple shuffling their trays hastily and loudly at the trashcan distracted him from the menu that consisted of silly monikers for the otherwise typical sandwiches offered by the uniform chain eatery. Instead, he turned his attention to the prep bar in front of him, displaying all the meats, vegetables, various colored cheeses, and assorted condiments offering more choices than he was comfortable making. Despite the sterility of the stainless steel counter, the vibrant, blinding white of the cutting board and the ever-present smell of lemony scented bleach, nothing behind the sneeze guard looked all that appetizing. The beef products seemed to have a gray sheen to them. The ham was pinkish, but unnaturally so, as if radiation had been added to make the flesh an impossible day-glow pink. All the vegetables offered were limp and wilted, as if they needed to be fed antidepressants instead of whatever pesticides glazed them. The cheese was more like slices of wax, far too hard and firm-looking to be edible. Our man, resigned and just recently out of breath, sighed heavily and took a step toward the counter after the customer before him waddled to the right, instructing the spunky young girl to drown her sandwich in ranch, ketchup, mustard and horseradish.

The young man standing behind the glass offered no greeting, no prepared corporate sales pitch detailing any specials, nor hardly showed any signs of what could reasonably be considered life. His fat, oval head seemed to be sliding down off his neck, and he breathed through his mouth, blankly staring at his newest customer. Pimples on his face surrounded his lips, which had a silver hoop piercing protruding from an angry wound. In between the pustules was a smattering of tiny facial hairs. The skin of his cheeks was also bright red. “A rash?” the man wondered as he contemplated just leaving, turning around and going to the fast-food taco shop across the street even though it would likely give him the squirts midway through the two o’clock meeting. He couldn’t believe even a corporate chain as bland as this one would allow this slovenly child with fading dyed pink hair and spiked bracelets to serve food, let alone pay him a salary to do so. The kid snorted and wiped his nose with his forearm, just barely missing the plastic glove that seemed to stick to his hand with moist, dirty sweat.

The restaurant was filled with more noise than necessary. Over the loudspeakers, a commercial for said shop, read by an enthusiastic, feminine-sounding voice blared throughout, detailing the most recent creation the corporate designers had concocted. A small round woman with brown complexion, stuffed into the uncomfortable and coarse purple polo shirt and khaki pants smacked her large broom on the floor every few seconds, knocking loose collections of crumbs, food bits, and used napkins absentmindedly tossed at the closed trash can. At one point he looked over at her, wondering if she was trying to crack open the tile. Then he looked down at his feet, noting the splotches of dirt, dried mustard, and footprints. “Nothing will get this floor clean,” he thought.

He began his order, repeating the silly name of the sandwich that he had chosen, not so much because it contained the ingredients he wanted but because it was the least embarrassing to repeat out loud. He wished he had the courage to join the rest of the office in giving the office manager money to order from the Peruvian Chicken place that was popular among the other employees. But they were all young and adventurous and would gather in the lunchroom, talk loud and fast about their weekend, who got drunk and kissed who, who had a crush on who, who slighted who, and, inevitably, who regrettably slept with who. They were all fervently devoted to these interpersonal relationships that would not last past their employment. Nothing was more interesting to them than the  salacious sex they would soon rather forget and yet one day long to have the stamina and nerve for. No, he could not partake in that any longer, it made him only more sad and miserable. Being their supervisor was hard enough. He didn’t want to try to be their friend. They were exhausting. And so, our lunch time mercenary met face to face with this, his threshold guardian, that stood between him and fifteen minutes of struggled, masticating pleasure.

Despite speaking very slowly and distinctly to the young hoagie master, none of his instructions about how he wanted his sandwich crafted seemed to penetrate. It was as though the boy did not understand the basic vocabulary of the sandwich-making in which he was responsible for. The frustrated customer had to yell, “no cheese, no cheese” at a volume he was not comfortable with in an attempt to get the kid’s attention, barely preventing the application of curdled dairy atop the languid meat. He would suffer many foul details, an errant couple of onions, sloppily placed meats. But he would not allow his lactose intolerance to ruin his lunch. This was the only time our corporate crusader had to himself, the only part of his life that he didn’t necessarily enjoy so much as not suffer through. The burdens of adulthood, the bills, the house and vehicle maintenance, the rush hour, the conflicting ballet recitals and soccer games both simultaneous and too early on Saturday mornings, the hosing down of the plastic patio furniture once a week to clean off the pollen even though no one ever sat on them, the remembering of birthdays and anniversaries as well as the calendar holidays, the dishes after dinner, taking the trash out before dessert, the ingrown toenail, the orthodontist appointments, the nagging pinched nerve in his neck, the increase in hair loss, the decrease in sleep, the lonely masturbation next to his wife in the morning as she slept through the alarm, the phone calls from the principal, the mandatory overtime he wasn’t compensated for, the cruel jokes Diane made at the expense of her non-white co-workers, the sneering lips of his boss, the coffee stains on his shirt, the plaque build up, the way all his joints popped and ached every time he stood up, all of this had worn him down. He would not sacrifice his lunch hour. This was his only freedom.

He ordered a cookie and a diet coke with no ice. The total for the meal was $12.87, preposterous for a six-inch sandwich, small drink and a side, but he swiped his worn-out credit card through the machine and signed the receipt anyway. Despite the lack of quality and care, the restaurant was busy with customers, chomping, chatting, and spitting microscopic particles of food on each other as their mouths flapped nonstop. He saw an open seat next to the bay window that looked out onto the parking lot. He scurried over, claiming his territory so he could keep an eye on his car, a 2011 Honda Accord with fading gold paint whose hue was now more reminiscent of unhealthy piss than the gallant gilded color it was when he first purchased it.

Despite eating in the establishment, each food item was individually wrapped, stickered and bagged to ensure the spongy texture didn’t dry up before the patron had a chance to expose it to any more open air and ruin it. He pulled the sandwich out of the plastic parcel, tore past the sticker and unwrapped his sandwich that did not nearly look as appealing as the one advertised just overhead. In that picture, the food was bright and full of life. The bread puffed out and proud, the meat sultry looking and inviting, the vegetables vibrant with color that seemed almost otherworldly. The sandwich on the marque was neat and well prepared, inviting, asking to be consumed with a ravenous joy. His sandwich looked like it had been stepped on, and for a moment he wondered if that was perhaps the case. Maybe the pimple-faced troll had dropped it on the ground and given it a hefty stand when our customer wasn’t looking, in the short, resigned moment when he closed his eyes, unable to bear what he was soon to consume. He sighed again, exasperated that this was where he chose to spend his time, money and effort. Before taking a bite he decided to carefully inspect his prepared meal.

Barely visible, sticking out between the slice of roast beef and the slice of baloney he caught it, ever so slightly, in the glinting light from outside. For a second he blinked and it was gone, but as he regained his focus he spotted it once more. A long, lonely, greasy strand of hair hanging over the edge of a slice of turkey.

The lunch item sat undisturbed except for the dismayed stares of it’s should be consumer. Right before his eyes, the bread seemed to slowly collapse and lose what was left of its artificial fluff, shrinking down into a thinner and thinner plank. The oils from the condiments had also quickly congealed, preventing them from running down the sides and onto the paper wrapping. The warm mayonnaise looked like expunged semen, sadly petrified by its inevitable death. He considered, for a moment, taking a sip from the soda, but assumed correctly that it was already flat and would just taste like warm water and aspartame.

With only the tip of his finger, he lifted the top piece of bread off and over to the side. He then took the complementary napkin provided and using his thumb and forefinger, carefully pulled a ghastly, decaying piece of roast beef upward. He dropped the mean slice on to the bread where it made an audible sploshing sound, splattering some mustard on his forearm. There it was, in almost a too perfect line, a follicle, mostly pink, but brown at the root, matching the rest of the hairs atop the slovenly food prep employee.

Petrified to move. Incapable of speech. All he could do was stare. He couldn’t well eat, but hunger pains creeped. He felt foolish to complain. The bread finally hardened, the cookie was stale when it was served to him. Even the soda was dry, despite being advertised as a refreshing, bubbly, liquid. The bottom of the wax cup was already disintegrating, the chemicals used to replace the sugar were toxic and chewing their way through the weak molecular structure. Three men, all dressed in blue long-sleeve button-up shirts, khaki slacks and brown loafers, got up from the table next to him. As they passed they looked on, wondering why he was just sitting there, breathing a little too audibly, staring down at the sandwich he had deconstructed. They couldn’t relate, they were unable to know what he knew, unable to see what he saw.

After slowly dragging the loose hair off the baloney and onto the tray, he flopped the top slice of bread back over, reuniting the parts once more. More mustard sprayed onto the wrapping. Water beaded off the cup that contained his drink. Condensation had collected in a wide ring on the table. He absentmindedly dragged his shirt sleeve through the puddle, not noticing the wetness on his arm. He slowly picked up the disheveled whole of what he could only begrudgingly call lunch and closed his eyes. This was, after all, the only joy he had in his life.