Lunchtime

I catch the bus at the same time every day at 7:15 am. Well not every day, some days it’s slower due to traffic or passengers being inefficient. These delays add up and it’s closer to 7:20. One time the bus was early at 7:13 and that was a very exciting day. Today, the bus is on time save for the last red light down the street.

I plant my feet firmly on the sidewalk. I’ve clipped my tie to the button down flap in the center. My sneakers have a sporty but professional feel and have a smooth polish after cleaning them the night before. I stand apart from the small crowd at the Liberty Street stop. There’s a small overhead with a bench underneath. I stand in the light drizzle and let an older woman I recognize take her seat. She’s grateful and I nod downwards. The bus is down the street now tantalizingly close. It’s been stopped a block away for what seems like forever. I check my watch, 7:16 right on time for being late. Finally, the red light gives way and the bus rolls to a stop directly in front of the older woman.

Those of us waiting congregate into not quite a mob, but not quite a line. I wait at the outskirts until its my turn. I’ve paid with the app, so there’s no need to converse. I get on and find my usual seat, a window facing into the city away from the direct sunlight. I look out and let go of the breath I held when the bus was late.

The ride is 30 to 35 minutes depending on traffic and passengers boarding and disembarking. I roll my eyes when people board without change and they finger through their purses and bags. Today, the nameless passengers move faster than I expected. We roll into my stop at 7:46 and I am impressed we remained on time. I get up and efficiently leave the bus. I smirk to myself at the the other customers who blankly stare ahead with no control over their lives. 

After the bus ride, I walk two blocks before turning and come to my office. The receptionist greets me and I nod. My key card enters the terminal and I pass through at 7:51. Finally I reach my elevator which takes me 4 stories opening into our office. I walk through the rows of cubicles and make sure to wave to as few colleagues as necessary. I arrive at my cubicle at 7:58. I’m early. I could’ve strolled after the bus ride and still have time. I’ve purposely left my Monday morning vacant from staff calls and other distractions.

At 12:00 noon, my watch reminds me its lunchtime. I stand up and begin my lunch hour. I swiftly stride to the elevator and give up a small measure of autonomy for convenience. I walk further down the street and arrive at the same usual coffee shop. Everything is in its place. Plants line the walls in a show of green despite the City outside the windows. There’s a few professionals typing away at their own tables. I could never in this chaotic environment. The line is just the right amount of busy to allow me time on my phone before I order the usual, a turkey panini everything on it with an iced tea. My stomach rumbles per usual and I get up to place my order.

The barista is new. He’s a tall pale man with blonde hair that’s almost white. He smiles at me and I take it as a threat. Where is the usual woman? He takes my order and repeats it out loud. Except, he’s wrong. It’s no longer turkey; it’s chicken. I try to correct him but my hand is moving on impulse. I press my card against the reader and the familiar beep approves my card He thanks me. I mumble a response and fiddle my card back into my wallet. I feel naked. I tip him anyway.

I wait for my number and accept the ill gotten sandwich and iced tea placed in front of me. I sip my iced tea first and taste consistency, but the sandwich sits on my plate laughing at me. After weighing the option of demanding a refund, I decide to not waste food. It’s not like I hate chicken; it’s just not my order. I look around before hesitantly picking it up. I take my first bite.

Flavor fills my mouth for the first time in decades. It doesn’t taste like chicken. The temperature is perfectly situated between hot, but not scalding. There’s a pinch of salt highlighting the texture and cheese. The sauce pours out and its like diving into Wonka’s chocolate river. I take another bite and try to savory the texture and flavor, but already I take a third. Before I’m done chewing, I’m going back for another and another. Within seconds the sandwich is gone. My fingers are coated in the flakes of bread and a light grease. I lick them clean like a mother cat cleaning her litter. I do not care what the lady behind me thinks. I feel so very full for the first time. I take a finger to the plate and run it across the small puddle before sucking the juices off and creating a very loud pop sound as it leaves my mouth. I suddenly become aware of others and stop. I finish my iced tea and take the tray to the garbage.

Before I leave, I approach the cashier.

“Excuse me?” He looks up at me. “That was an amazing sandwich.” He’s taken aback. Usually when someone approaches him they do it to complain.

“Well, glad ya liked it! Come back tomorrow we got the best cooks in town.”

I leave and make my way back to the office. I walk a little slower today, basking in the aftertaste. I return to my office at 1:03 a full ten minutes later than usual. No one says anything but I know they’re silently judging my time theft. The afternoon is a slow crawl through no mans land. My call at 2:30 is painful. I stumble through a half answer when it’s my turn. My mind is elsewhere. When my watch shows 5:05 p.m. and I permit myself to leave.

The bus stop is two blocks east, but I turn west and head back to the shop. I know it’s still open to 6:00 p.m., but who orders a sandwich one hour to closing? Apparently, me. I try to look apologetic as I ask the cashier, a short woman with black hair, for my order. This time I order chicken. The wait is torture, but she calls my number and I graciously and over-exaggerate my apologies before sprinting out the door. I’ve missed my usual bus, but there’s one at 5:50. I make it at 5:48 and see the bus lunge to a stop.

The bus is empty save for the driver, me, and my sandwich. I find a seat in the back and slide down out of view. As we start to move, I cannot wait. I tear open the to-go bag and unwrap the wax paper. I bite into the sandwich. The sauce drips down and stains my shirt. The taste is wrong. The chicken is dry, but confusingly the bread is soggy and about to fall apart. I take a second bite and the sandwich is now too salty. Another one reveals no sauce. Some parts are burnt and others are undercooked. Despite my disappointment, I keep thinking the next bite will be good. I finish the sandwich and its grease and sauce has drenched my button down and tie. The bus finds my stop. I avoid eye contact with the driver as I exit. I feel like a pervert caught in the act. I’ll have to do laundry earlier than expected.

My usual Monday night routine is dampened by a gnawing hunger. Since, I’ve eaten dinner a full hour ahead of schedule, I permit myself to watch tv. I quickly open my phone and scroll as a show I used to care about plays in the background. I am not reading. I am thinking of the perfect bite. I am thinking of tomorrow.

I follow my morning routine to perfection. I arrive with my backpack, a clean shirt and tie at 7:15 a.m. The bus frustrates me by being 2 minutes late. As I find my seat, my stomach rumbles so loud the person across the aisle smirks to himself. I try to satiate myself by chugging a water bottle, but it does nothing to fill myself. The bus arrives at 7:52 a.m. and I hurry to make it in time. I am seated at my desk by 8:02. Mark, my supervisor noticed me today. Although he won’t say anything until it affects my work. The morning is a slow crawl and I barely remember what I was supposed to work on or finish. My stomach is the only thing I can focus on. My watch beeps and turns to 12:00 and I stand up promptly catching the attention of a few heads. I excuse myself.

I arrive at the shop at 12:10. This time, the shop is packed. A long line of customers wait for help, while more wait for their food. No doubt they know about my sandwich. I seethe with anger as I watch person after person fumble through their orders. Today’s barista is the usual young woman. No sign of the lanky blonde man. Learning from last night’s failure, I approach the cashier and order my usual turkey panini hoping they screw up the order. She repeats it flawlessly. Fuck.

I wait 10 minutes my food is delivered to my table and I take my first bite before the server even leaves. It tastes pathetic. I feel like a grown up eating their childhood lunchables. There is no going back for me. I finish the sandwich but my stomach doesn’t get the memo.

This afternoon is the same as the morning: unproductive. I barely work as I count the hours. Maybe the cook is off today? Maybe he will be back tomorrow? Yes, that’s it! Tomorrow, I’ll try again. My watch shows 5:00 p.m. and I slowly pack my things to not draw attention. As I begin to walk, I feel faint. I am starving. Today’s sandwich did little to comfort me. I practically stagger to the bus and slump into a seat. The night is uneventful save for the emptiness.

Wednesday arrives and then the bus arrives and my key card hits the terminal and then the elevator takes me up and at 8:11 a.m. I am in my seat ready to start the day. Except I can’t start. My stomach resents me. I feel like a boy at the nurses office with a tummy ache. At 10:00 a.m. I leave my desk to go to the break room. I never go here. I watch as Mark pours himself a cup of coffee. I grab a mug.

He turns to me, still holding the pot. “Rough night? I never see you drink coffee.”

“Yeah, I just need a pick me up,” I reply.

He diligently pours me a cup and doesn’t ask any follow up questions. The coffee helps get me through the morning and by lunch time I am back at the restaurant this time I order roast beef maybe they’ll screw up this order. The usual woman is here. I order, but she repeats the order perfectly. Maybe they’ll confuse it in the kitchen.

I wait a long ten minutes. The coffee I drank this morning has me shaking my legs at the table. A couple looks over annoyed she can feel the vibrations. I jump as the waiter places the food before me. The sandwich is roast beef; I hate roast beef. I eat it just in case. I cannot believe this place has managed to serve only one good sandwich in my entire life. My stomach hates me. As it’s about time to leave, I stop at the cashier.

“Excuse me” I say a little too forcefully, but I need to know. “There was a guy here taking our orders on Monday. Is he new?”

“Oh, he’s from another location he was filling in for me.”

Suddenly, I feel hope and my stomach stills. “And where’s the other location?” I ask.

She jots down an address and I thank her. It’s a half hour away from my work. I’d have to run at lunch time and even then I’d have to come right back.

I get back to my desk it’s 1:22 p.m. I could’ve sworn I ate the sandwich quickly. I have a call at 1:30 which I didn’t prepare for. I stumble through my half assed answer while I think about what to do next. Before the end of the day, I have my plan. I leave a few minutes early.

The next day the bus and I are both late. I hurry through the drizzle. I forgot my raincoat as I see the bus pull into my stop. I walk into my office and find my desk a full fifteen minutes late. My shoes squeak with each step alerting Mark to my misdemeanor. I feel frazzled as I try and reclaim my standard productivity.

I have a new routine mid morning coffee at 10:00 a.m. except I cave before 10 and I make the pot for Mark. I silently fill him up a cup. He tries to say something, but I quickly excuse myself to go back to my cubicle. I stare at my monitor flicking my wrist to move the mouse for two hours. At lunchtime, I run for the elevator.

I’m downstairs at 12:04 I run out the office and across the street. I’ve ordered ahead of time for 12:30 so hopefully it’s ready by then. I run into the shop the bell rings gently and everyone stares at the sweaty mad man. I clear my throat and walk up to the cashier.

It’s him. The lanky blond devil that sold me the worlds most perfect sandwich. My eyes water up and for the first time since Monday, I feel hope. Thankfully he doesn’t recognize me and I pay for my order. They bring it out and I sit down to quickly eat it.

But it’s wrong. It’s all wrong. The bread is mushy and the meat is dry. The sauce is watery. I want to scream. I want to scream at that bastard, but my alarm goes off and I have to get back.  I choke back tears and quickly get up from the table. I sprint back to the office. This time I’ve arrived only a few minutes late, but my clothes are drenched with sweat and rain. My shirt has sauce stains. A couple heads have turned to look at me. I do not care. I am so hungry. 

I do not check the time when I leave. The way back is slow. I arrive early at the bus stop, but I feel faint. After getting on, I collapse into a seat in the back. Every jostle hurts my stomach. The urge to puke is quickly rising and I hold my breath to keep it in. As I exit the bus, I can no longer hold it. I run to a trash can and let loose. Despite eating today, all that comes up is water and bile. Tears fall down into the sludge. I limp back home defeated. I lay down on my bed and intend to take a nap.

I wake up. What time is it? The sun is rising and i’ve slept in my clothes. My bed sheets have absorbed the rain and sweat. The clothes are wrinkled. I go to my closet to find my spare suit; it’s covered in grease and sauce from Monday. I begin to cry for the third time in 24 hours. My watch shows 7:11. I’ll never make it.

I hurry out the door. The day is overcast, but thankfully dry. I need that sandwich today. It has to be today. I arrive later than I’ve ever been. Heads nearly snap off their necks as I approach my desk. Mark gets up to intercept me. He takes me to the break room.

“Whatever’s going on, just take the day and come back fresh on Monday. OK?” he doesn’t know what he’s just done. I nod and thank him.

It’s 9:30 by the time I arrive at the sandwich shop. The early morning rush is over and lunch hasn’t started yet. I have my target. I approach.

“Excuse me.” I start meekly. “Monday, you were working the other location and I had the most delicious sandwich.”

“Oh, thanks man! I’ll let the cooks know.” His dopey eyes enrage me.

“Except it wasn’t what I ordered. I ordered Turkey, but you replied Chicken, but what I had was not chicken. So I wonder what was it? Was it something new?”

This new information puzzles the dumbass. I can hear his brain start up like Windows 7.

“No.” He says with too much confidence for someone so dumb. “I’ve never messed up an order that badly. I would remember.”

My world shakes and I brace against the counter. I feel like I could crack the wood. I exhale.

“Okay, then I’ll take one over everything.” He eyes glaze over and he looks for a supervisor who isn’t there. He dutifully totals my order and tells me it’ll take awhile.

I watch in satisfaction as he brings out the first two. He sets them down and tells me they’re working on the rest. I take a bite of one. Turkey. Wrong sandwich. I wolf it down just in case. No  epiphany. No flavor behind the meat. I finish the sandwich and start the next. Grilled chicken. Plain, wrong sandwich. By the time I’m done, he’s brought out more.

Our dance continues. Every bite tastes worse and my stomach revolts at the lack of sustenance. I’ve eaten ten by the time other customers arrive. They avert their eyes as they order. He brings out another one. It’s still wrong. I take the next bite and the next one and the next one. My stomach is doing flips the more I eat the less full I feel. I slam my fist at the table. 

“Goddammit!” I roar. The cashier from hell comes over. 

“Excuse me, sir. You have to leave this has gone on long enough.” I see white; my knuckles curl; and I pound another fist against the table.

“None of these were it! What’s the last sandwich? Tell me!”

“There’s nothing left on the menu. I am calling the cops.”

I pounce out my seat turning the table over. The plates fly against the floor and a few shards of ceramic slide across the room. I leap over the obstacle and grab him by the collars, tackling him to the floor. His head slams agains the tiles as he screams. The other customers have their phones out. One is calling the police. The other is recording me. I do not care. His pale skin looks like turkey. Blood pools on the floor underneath his head. He cries out for help. His eyes can’t focus.

I bring my head low and dig my teeth into an artery. I pull back and rip something out. His screams end. The blood overflows from my mouth, but I taste it. The meat is cooked through perfectly, no sign of pink. There’s a familiar salty and iron taste, but it’s never over powering. The meat is firm, but not chewy. The thick sauce tastes like barbecue, but has a hint of mustard. I swallow and breathe in. I feel full again. I take another bite. He stops moving. I take another bite. Customers are screaming. I take another bite. The door to the kitchen opens and I hear more gasps. Sirens approach from outside. I take another bite.

My watch goes off. It’s lunchtime.