Mr. Sandwich

So I made a new friend the other day. A new friend of sorts, anyway. This is not someone I would play pinochle with, or invite over to my house to use my toilet. It's just one of those acquaintances you meet along life's road who is momentarily interesting.

I don't even know this guy's name, but here is the deal. There is a new hoagie/submarine/grinder/combination wedge/insert-your-local-usage-here shop in a plaza next to the shitty supermarket I'm stupid enough to shop in. I do not want to get into a piss-up with this sandwich shop chain, so I will refer to it as S--way.

Anyway, I bought a salad there a few days ago and this guy waited on me. He couldn't wait to get this salad together for me, and even threw in an extra shitty hothouse tomato or two, and then when I went to pay he went to great lengths to explain the value of the S--way card, and how it would be swiped every time I bought something at S--way, and how after I spent in excess of $40,000 on subs and other miscellaneous crap I will be entitled to a free sandwich, on the House! What a fucking deal!

Anyway, this guy liked me for some reason, and I found him eerily interesting. For one thing, while making my salad he managed to get engaged into a full-pitched battle with some skanky looking woman who was breaking up with him or he was breaking up with, or something like that, and who decided that the denouement of their sad relationship would best be played out in front of 10 people in line who were waiting for their lunch and didn't give a fucking shit who dropped their drawers for someone else on the sly while the other person was working at the sandwich shop. I am sorry, but I am not interested in sordid events unless I am personally involved in them.

I should explain something else about this guy. He is interesting to look at in that he has hair down to his ass and a long beard, and his perpetually bloodshot eyes look as if he'd accidentally downloaded about two grams of cocaine. In other words, he looks like everyone I hung around with until I got married.

The other weird thing is that he is even hairier than I am, which is a good thing, because when you have an affliction like being hairy you like to see people who are worse off than you are. And being hairy would seem a bit of a drawback when you are making someone's food right in front of them. Most people do not like to see tufts of hair protruding from every possible gap in a man's shirt and from every square centimeter of a man's exposed skin when he is preparing their sandwich. That's just how it is.

Anyway, the next time I was in the store he recognized me and we shot the shit a little. Shooting the shit is pretty much a good way to describe it, because at least 50 percent of what he said was totally unbelievable, even though it was enjoyable to talk to him. Do you know what I mean? It's the old "grain of salt" thing. If you can look past the fact that someone is probably bullshitting and take all of what they say with that grain of salt (whatever the fuck that means), oftentimes people like that are fun to be around. You just don't take it seriously, and I am a firm believer that only a chump takes anything seriously. God, doing things like that will fucking kill you, so if you take stuff seriously, cut it out now.

So Mr. Sandwich told me all these tales, and one thing came evident to me right from the get-go. As likeable as Mr. Sandwich is, he embodies a lot of what the fuck is wrong with America.

First off, Mr. S informed me that he is "retired from the Army," and in the next breath mentioned that he is 37 years old. Well, conceivable, but not likely. I entered the Army Reserve at age 17, and I guess I could have retired at 37 if I hadn't been kicked out for malfeasance and general fuckupedness at age 18.

Then he mentioned that he had four grandkids at this tender age. I was an early grandpa at 49, so this seemed really odd to me, but I guess anything is possible when people have private parts that can be aligned at the right moment. But when I asked their ages he rattled off FIVE ages, and then gave the same number when I asked him to repeat what he said. Four kids with five ages. Imagine that.

But he is a nice guy, so I listened and smiled. He then told me he is working 90 to 100 hours a week, and that he is an assistant manager. Assistant managers have the worst fucking lot of anyone in life. They are like second lieutenants in the Army. It was legendary during Vietnam that a second lieutenant generally had about 25 minutes to live once he landed in country. I know this from tales I heard as a Reservist who during Vietnam saw heavy action in bars near Fort Dix, N.J., which during Vietnam was the gonorrhea capital of the East Coast.

So I asked Mr. S if he was salaried, and he guffawed at the suggestion that he could be such a chump. No sir, he gets an hourly wage, and he gets it for every hour he is there, all 90 to 100 of the fucking hours he is there, and he gets it all at straight time; no time and a half for him. All this gave me some insight as to why it didn't work out with him and the woman with whom he had the public shouting match while I was waiting for my dismal fucking salad.

However, though, think not that Mr. S is being abused. Not in the least. He leaned over the counter and whispered to me that he has a great deal going. At the end of every night he is permitted to take home four (4) submarine sandwiches that he makes with his own hands. I am not certain whether he is allowed to put an extra slice of cheap bologna on there for his trouble, but the fact remains that as an all-star member of the Mr. S--way heavy hitters club he is able to take four (4) subs home with him at the end of the night. Great, huh? Doesn't it sound wonderful to be elbow-deep in the fucking things all day, to make 60,000 subs in the course of the week, and then be allowed to take a few home with you? If I were this poor fuck I would vomit at the sight of a sub sandwich.

So this is Mr. Sandwich, and welcome to his world. Endless hours, no OT, paid in sub sandwiches, girlfriend loudly breaking up with him, indeterminate number of grandkids, barking orders at people who have an even worse lot in life than he has, getting up at 6:30 a.m. to go to work and coming home just in time to watch Letterman.

So this is America, buddy, and Mr. Sandwich is just another lucky American who is pursuing the American Dream of a Rent-A-Center 1,700-inch TV and an apartment with a cockroach population under that of the number of flaming assholes in Manhattan. I'm glad to have him as a pal, if only because it makes my fucking life seem like that of King Farouk by comparison.