The Italian

I was going to tell the world a story about the greatest sandwich I have ever had, but I wasn't sure how to tell it. I sat around for three hours staring at a blank screen, thinking about how this story could possibly solve all of the world's problems. I knew it could not, but I also knew that this sandwich helped me find myself, just a little bit, and all the Quizno's and Subway Sandwich shops in the world would never fill that void. They can add all the toasters, bargains, and specialty sandwiches they want, and it will never have the same effect. In the spring of 2003 I was fortunate enough to dine on the greatest sandwich the world has ever known, but it was only me who really knew.

When I walked into the shop, the silence hit me like a right hook. Sitting behind the counter with his legs crossed, sat a skinny Italian gentleman, wearing a giant silver cross around his neck. He was nonchalantly smoking a cigarette, blowing small smoke circles into the air. He gazed at me for a moment, gently extinguished his cigarette, and nodded as if to imply that he knew I was soon to be a believer in the power of sandwich art.

"You want the Italian?" He asked.

"No, thanks," I replied. "I'll have the turkey."

"You'll have the Italian!" He exclaimed in a soft whisper. I wasn't exactly sure how to reply to this, so I said nothing. He removed himself from the stool and began to clear off his work space. As he intricately placed the knives and sandwich ingredients on the counter in front of him, it felt like the lights in the room began to dim. When he began to make the sandwich, classical music swelled inside of my head; every detail was exquisitely precise and skillfully mastered, almost hypnotic. From the way he sliced vegetables, to the intricate amounts of spices and oils he used, this man was an artist. I couldn't tell you what the exact ingredients were, but I do remember the heart and soul he put into the construction of this edible miracle, and to this day I carry that memory around like some sort of steel-toed reminder to use when I feel like the world has once again cornered me.

When he finished, he easily sliced the sandwich in two, placed it gently into a basket, and laid it on top of the counter.

"Five bucks," he commanded. Without thinking, I pulled five wrinkled ones out of my wallet and handed them over. He placed the money in the register, looked at me directly in the eyes, and nodded as if to say that this was the end of the line for him. The rest I had to do on my own. He returned to his corner, lifted the still lit cigarette from the ashtray, and took up where he left off. The first bite I took was almost too shocking to process; it hit my taste buds like an eighteen wheeler on a quiet dirt road. I knew at that moment that this would be the greatest sandwich I had ever eaten, and steps had to be taken to savor every moment of this process. I put the sandwich down, stared at it for what seemed like hours, and finally picked it up and began to eat. I ate slowly, pausing often, to devour a chip and take a few sips from my water glass. As much as I tried to fight it, the sandwich slowly went, and as expected, in the end, I was inevitably left with one small corner piece. I couldn't help but get slightly misty eyed as I stared down at the minute remains that were left from this once grand sandwich empire. I knew that I should have expected how quickly the moment would pass, but I tried not to think about it, only live for the moment, now, inside this empty shop in the middle of suburban Texas. I reluctantly ate the last bite. The sandwich was gone.

The next time I went to the shop, it had changed ownership. I ordered the Italian sub, but it wasn't the same. The heart that this mystery man had put into the first sandwich was not there; in fact, I could only eat half of the sandwich I was given. I stared deeply into this pile of half eaten bread, meat and vegetables that lay in front of me, and a calm feeling slowly grew inside. I quietly watched as each person in this now crowded sandwich shop savagely devoured their poorly made sandwiches. I finally discarded what was left of my sandwich into the waste basket by the door and went to Wendy's for a burger.

Minimum Wage Love

I guess if you had no heart it would be hard to work in fast food for thirty years. I think about them every time I drive through for Taquitos at two in the morning. They always seem so rehearsed in everything they say, and I usually don't make too much small talk with them. I normally assume that if I annoy them that they will defecate on my food or kill me. I never ask them how they are doing, because I'm pretty sure things are pretty shitty, and that they might mistake a genuine inquiry for sarcasm. I feel bad, because I want to make their day better, but I don't really want to hang out with them. They smell fairly rank, and I'm fairly confident that we wouldn't have a whole lot in common.

One Christmas, I gave Judy, the lady who works at the Taco shop by my house, a copy of The Power of Positive Thinking by Norman Vincent Peale.

"Merry Christmas," I said. Judy stood motionless behind the register, staring at the book. I knew that the kindness I had shown was probably a little overwhelming for her, so I backed off a few steps, giving her a few minutes to take it all in. She finally looked up, directly locking eyes with me. I expected to see tears welling up slowly, but there were none.

"What do you want to eat," she said in an emotionless tone.

"a short stack," I replied.

"We don't have pancakes here," she exclaimed. "This is a Taco shop, you ask for pancakes every time you come in here and I always tell you we don't have them."

"Then I'll have two soft chicken tacos."

I couldn't figure out if she enjoyed the gift or not. I figured she did, but maybe the situation was a little awkward because she probably wasn't used to getting such nice things. I watched her standing behind the register from across the room. Her skin was leathery, and several of her teeth were black, but that only meant that she was someone who had lived hard, and truly sucked the marrow out of life. This was it, I thought. I was inspired, I was moved, and for the first time I found myself in love. I would become a working class hero like Judy, and together as husband and wife, we would take on the world. We would come together in holy matrimony, and show "the man" that he may be able to take away our health insurance, but he could never take away our love. As I approached the counter, I felt as if I was walking in slow motion; Bon Jovi songs played in my head and I felt like a white trash Romeo, who had finally found his Juliet. To Hell with my middle class upbringing! Enough was enough! I was working class now. Time to put the past behind, and step into the coveralls of the new me. I felt as if a brick had been lifted off of my chest, as if angels had flown into my soul and were having a picnic, as if I was free of all the material possessions that had only held me back for so many years. The world was mine. I had found my true love, and now we were going to walk the world together, with nothing but a dimly burning cigarette to light our way.

My palms were sweating like crazy, as I approached the counter. This was it, moment of truth. Just be honest and sincere and everything will turn out okay. I eased up to the register and placed my palms on the counter, I slowly leaned in as Judy eyeballed me a confused expression.

"I love you," I said.

"What?" She replied.

"You complete me," I said. I felt somewhat unoriginal, considering I had stolen that line from the movie Jerry Maguire, but it felt like a safe steal, because I had heard one time that poor people didn't like Tom Cruise movies.

"You're an idiot," she replied. "Fred, I'm taking my smoke break." She quickly pulled a cigarette out of a pack she had from behind the counter, and walked outside.