Friday, November 14, 2008

The Great Pickle Bribe of Ought Eight

My life has been an absolute mess since she left. You get used to the little nuances of a relationship, the tender ballet one weaves with those we have come to love and trust, and then when it's gone...POW! A big hole. She knew me and I trusted her. She always gave me a smile and that one extra pickle to show that she cared.

I miss you, Sandwich Girl.

Yesterday was the last straw. I'm waiting in line, watching the newly appointed miscreant behind the sneeze-guard roll up some other unlucky shlub's Vegetable Medley wrap, and wondering why on earth I keep coming back.

She's gone, Man!
Moved on to greener food service pastures!

I feel the tears starting to well up as I see him forget the frilly toothpicks and watch in horror as the Veggie Wrap vomits grilled peppers everywhere like a drunken Las Vegas showgirl on a Chili-tini bender. 

Why, Sandwich Girl?!? Why?

Now it's my turn. He has to ask me what I want on my garlic wrap. Sigh. SHE never asked. SHE remembered. I go through the list. Light Mayo, Brown mustard, shredded lettuce, Pepper Jack, and Roast Beef. He looks at me dully, like I'm his eighth grade English teacher who just got done reprimanding him for using "ain't". He starts to compile the ingredients and luckily I've been watching him with the focus of a laser beam as he tries to slip tomatoes into the mix. I laugh like it's no big deal. 

Ha.Ha.Ha. Fucker.

She would have known better.
She never tried to use tomatoes.

He slathers the edge of the wrap with enough condiments to lubricate the hull of several Pennsylvania Class battleships. (Why would the Navy choose to grease their battleships with mayo? I don't know. Who am I? Sun Tzu?)  And then he begins the rolling process. It's a nightmare. I have to avert my eyes for fear I will turn to stone at the sight of such horrid sandwich-craft. It's like a train wreck where the train is filled with clowns, and pythons, and fireworks. I can't look away. Thick rivers of mustard and mayonnaise squeeze out of the sides like a toothpaste tube opened by a wolverine and applied by an elephant. It's everywhere. Under the wrap. In his hair. Spattered like a bloodstain on the wall. I half-expect to see a CSI team waiting in the wings with one of those blue lamps they say is for bodily fluids, but we all know they mean semen. 

It's awful.

He has the audacity to ask if I want pickles.

"NO! I want a sandwich that doesn't look like the aftermath of a zombie apocalypse!" I want to scream at him.

Oh darling Sandwich Girl!
Why hath thou forsaken me!!

"Yes, Please. Dill." I say instead.

He looks at the mess he's handing me, and in a gesture of apology throws FOUR pickles on my plate. That's crazy generous. We make eye contact and then I let my gaze drift down to the sandwich and his four sad offerings of dill. Then back to him. He looks away...ashamed.

YOU CANNOT BUY MY SILENCE WITH PICKLES!!!

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