The Sandwich Murders

Have you ever watched someone do something that should be completely routine, but they somehow manage to defy all basic and accepted processes as if the fundamental, everyday task was some bizarre thing they’d never witnessed, as if they’d been asked to turn themselves inside out, as if they’d been asked to hammer a nail with a glob of gelatin?

A few days ago, I watched someone try to make me a sandwich at a deli. They were as barbaric and clumsy as a 1000-pound grizzly bear whose hands had fallen asleep. I watched them pulverize meat, veggies, and bread into an abomination of mangled ingredients resembling something that had accidentally fallen into a garbage disposal. It was almost as difficult to watch as it was to try to look away. When I was finally able to turn my head from the criminal disaster, my eyes met with the other sandwich hopefuls waiting for their lunch to be abused in front of them, their eyes wrought with horror and confusion.

I can’t stop thinking about it—this culinary desecration. How does any person, let alone one whose particular job is to do so, fuck up making a simple sandwich. I thought about how this might affect the rest of their life. I felt terrible for their partner’s genitalia. I hoped they’d never need to get something out of their eye with those mauling, clearly knuckle-less hammer-paws. Could it have been on purpose? Had I angered this sandwich-murdering stranger? What manner of damage must they self-inflict while wiping their ass? Imagine the rectal bruising! I may need to speak to a psychiatrist. It has deeply affected me.

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