Making a sandwich is one of the most stupid things in the world.
You have your meat and your bread, right there in front of you. And then you waste like two minutes putting them together with a thousand little fiddly bits just so it can taste a tiny bit better. It’d be a waste of time if you had all the time in the world. And you can trust me when I say that this is stupid; I’ve assembled a hundred every day since I started working here. And every time I hate it a little bit more. Could be worse though. Could be Dave. Good ol’ Dave, with not a brain cell left to feel bad with and the meth mouth of the gods. We warned him off going too heavy on it, me and Tim, but he wouldn’t listen and now he’s missed out, stuck walking around grinning gummily all the time while we live the high lives of a Subway register monkey and an unemployed shotgun wedding target.
No wonder Dave didn’t listen to us. Not that there was much of a chance anymore; none of us had seen the others for months and months. That’s what I was thinking on Monday when the doorbell ding-lings at me (the worst noise ever) and in comes Tim. Bags under his eyes, a stumble in his walk, a weak and watery smile.
“Hey!” I said. “Where you been?”
The smile tried to widen, and failed. “Parenting. Baby’s teething.”
“Oh,” I said. I was pretty sure that was bad. “Damn, you look like shit.”
He rubbed at his face and almost missed. “Tell me about it. Noisy little bastard, takes after his mother. Her mother too.” He shook his head. “Listen, I’m not here for that. I need something from you.”
“What’ll it be?”
“Fourteen beef sandwiches. Hold everything but the beef.”
I gave him a look.
“I know it’s a little weird,” said Tim, “but she’s got some leftover cravings. Only thing that’ll do it. Hoping if we nip this in the bud hard and fast enough she’ll be regular before thanksgiving.”
“That’s Friday. These aren’t small sandwiches, Tim.” And the beef’s a little off too, but I wasn’t going to go advertising that. Not like I hadn’t told Tim before of this place’s health record; for all I knew he was hoping to bump off the old lady with a little innocent food poisoning.
“She has a big appetite, it’ll be fine.”
I sighed. “Fine, fine. All-beef sandwiches. Fourteen of them. Weird girl, Tim.”
The smile shrunk a little, withered up like a bug in the sun. “You always said that.”
“Was always right, wasn’t I?”
He shrugged, limply. “Maybe. Thanks.”
Took the food, left the money, register goes ding-clang-crunch. I had to spend fifteen minutes fixing it while my manager yelled at me, and I couldn’t even punch him or tell him to blow me. Damnit I missed being a teenager.
Surprise surprise, morning came on Tuesday and with it came Tim.
“Early, aren’t you?” I said.
“Ran out,” said Tim. He wasn’t smiling this time, and I could see why – there were little cuts all over his arms, zigzagging up to his shoulders. Some were scabbed, some were still damp, some had bandaids slapped over them higgledy-piggledy.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine, I’m fine, I’m fine… it’s just that her mother’s showed up early. Wanted to see the baby, she tried one of the sandwiches, and well, she liked it. I need another twenty-seven of them.”
“Big eater, is she?”
His eyes were sunken pits. “You don’t have the faintest damned idea, Josh.”
I sold him his sandwiches and he walked out the door, almost tripping on the stoop. It took him a good three minutes to fumble his way back into his car, and he left driving like an old lady.
That worried me, I’ll admit. But I’m a busy guy, I had other things to worry about too. So I mopped, and swept, and wore a polite, totally-fake grin when I talked to people I hated, and then just after the sweet spot of Wednesday’s hit – it’s five o’clock! People don’t want lunch anymore, not even the slow ones! – in comes Tim again, for the third time in the week and the third time I’ve seen him all year.
“Back again?” I asked. Look, stand at a register for seven hours, see how smart you sound.
“Yes,” he said. His hands were practically coated in bandages. “Her aunts are here. Dad’s due tomorrow with the others. Can’t get enough of the stuff.”
“They keep sending you out for it? Christ, look at you – when was the last time you got some sleep?”
He blinked. That was all.
“What happened to you, you tried to fix your mower while it was running?”
Tim looked at his hands. “No. It’s fine. Nothing too deep. Forty sandwiches, the all-beef kind. Please.”
I wanted to ask him more, but that was a hell of a lot of sandwiches and I needed to get on it. Tried to fit in some small talk, but he wouldn’t listen; just stared up at the wall. He left even slower than before, weighed down with all that meat, and he wouldn’t wave goodbye.
He didn’t smile once that day. Jesus. Thanksgiving can’t end fast enough for that poor bastard.
I thought that’d be the last of it, but then came Thursday. I’d just finished a grumpy old bastard’s sandwich (lettuce, THEN ham, THEN tomato, THEN salt BUT NOT TOO MUCH, plus spittle free of charge) when I heard the bell ring and saw him shuffle up to the counter.
I stared. He was wearing a heavy winter coat, long pants, and a hat with big fluffy earflaps. In August.
“Tim?” I said.
“Seventy-eight sandwiches please, same as before,” he mumbled.
“You okay, man?”
He wouldn’t look up, was already counting out the bills. His hands were covered by big black gloves, the sort of thing you’d wear to go skiing.
“Tim? Look at me. Are you okay?”
Tim looked up and met my eyes, managed to hold them for a half second before looking down. He’d cut his face between yesterday and now; there were at least ten little cuts and a big slash from his chin to his lip that was still dribbling, running his stubble red.
“Yes,” he said. And he took his forty-eight sandwiches and left, leaving me with just over a hundred dollars and the worst lie I’d ever heard, and I remembered the stories we told the teachers back in tenth grade.
Friday, Friday, thanksgiving day. And me at work, how wonderful. No, really. My family can go suck a donkey’s asshole for all I care, and I’d rather eat one of those sandwiches Tim’d been shovelling to his wife than touch my mother’s cooking ever again.
A nice slow day, a day when everybody’s eating at home. Nothing to do but kick back, relax, and answer the phone.
Ring ring ring.
“Albert’s subs, how can-“
“It’s me.” It’s Tim.
“What’s going on?”
“I need… I think… how much meat do you have?”
“Dunno. A lot?”
“How many sandwiches could you make?”
I tried to remember. “Full-sized subs? I think we have three hundred rolls-“
“Forget the buns. Just bring the beef in. Charge what it’s worth per pound plus whatever, it doesn’t matter. Just bring the meat. Bring it fast.”
“Time, what’s-“
“Please.”
“No seriously man, are you-“
“PLEASE.”
I sighed. “Fine. I’ll shut the building down for an hour or so and get you your stuff.”
He made some sort of noise into the phone that sounded almost like a giggle. “Thank you. Just put it outside. I’ll leave the money. Don’t come in. Please. Thank you. Please.”
Click.
I looked at the phone and thought to myself. Tim was a mess. A messed-up asshole. A messed-up asshole who’d probably gotten himself into a worse way than was usual – even for him – and was too stupid and afraid to say anything about it.
Screw it, that’s what friends are for.
So I packed up all the beef in the building. It smelled even worse than I remembered, almost as bad as the truck – but not quite; the reek of burned muffler pipe still covered the aroma of spoiled meat. It wasn’t the first time that I’d wondered how things’d play out if the health inspectors ever came around to Albert’s Subs. I guess I’d be an accessory, but if I squealed hard enough on the manager, I’d probably get off light, if they didn’t feel like pressing my record.
But that wasn’t important right now, Tim was. I figured I’d pull up, ring the bell, grab ahold of Tim with some fast talk and bring him out for a coffee, and then grill the fucker until he cracked. He always did. Then we could see about getting him somewhere to stay for the night until he could skip town or something, because whatever the hell was going on here, it wasn’t good for him.
Tim’s house was a brick-and-mortar pisspatch in the backwaters of what had been a chunk of suburbia before the city’s tide ebbed again. Now it was a mess that wasn’t sure what it was. Even the doorbell was fucked – sounded like grunk-unk-unk-unk, a long creaky groan rattling away in the front hall’s throat.
Footsteps, then a pause at the door. “Hello?”
“Heya Tim. Got your meat here?”
“The money’s on the mat, leave it and take it.”
“Aw c’mon, can’t you spare a second? I’ve got it right here,” I lied, “least you can do is help me carry it in for you. It’s heavy stuff, two’s better than one for that.”
“No-“
I shoved the door open and jammed my boot in the crack before it shut. “C’mon Tim, quit being a wuss. I’m coming in.”
“No! No you won’t!”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“It’s not safe!” There was a hysterical twinge in his voice now, that funny bouncing note that showed when Tim knew he’d screwed up bad. You kept pushing, and that meant he’d fold in on himself and give you whatever you wanted to leave him alone.
“Bull.” I shoved the door lightly, and to my surprise it fell inwards with almost no resistance, just a thud. Tim had fallen flat on the horrible red carpet.
“Jesus. Are you okay?” I yanked him upright and almost dropped him in shock: he weighed practically nothing at all, skin and bones. I could feel the scabs of a thousand cuts through his t-shirt, white dyed with rusty splotches.
“Get out!” he choked out through the wheezes of a ninety-year-old man’s throat. He waved a crutch at me – when did he get a crutch? “Go away!”
“What the fuck’s wrong with you?!” I shouted.
He shrunk down like my voice had punched him in the face. “Run!”
I was set to let go, but I figured he’d just fall over again. I looked around for somewhere to put him, and realized there was no furniture. Everything had been smashed into splinters – the hall was a ruin; the living room was dominated by the piled wreckage of three cabinets and a big table; the kitchen was something between a wreck and a slaughterhouse, draped high with shredded meat fragments. The smell was unbelievable, and my feet were sticking to the carpet.
“Fuck it, you’re coming with me if I’m running. Wouldn’t keep a dog in this place. What the fuck’s going on?”
A wail filled the air from upstairs. It was the baby, I guess – but I’d never heard a baby that sounded like that. It had gargling in it. It had snarls in it. It practically had a fox howl in it.
“Can’t leave,” whispered Tim in the very loud silence. He was totally limp now, not even trying to struggle anymore, barely enough energy to move his lips. “They’ll smell me. Too late now.”
“What?”
There was a nasty noise from farther inside the building past the kitchen, a sort of slithering, skidding sound. It made me think of rats.
Tim looked at me with the emptiest, saddest face I’d seen since the day his dog died when he was twelve. What was that thing’s name again? Was it Rusty? The carpet here looked rusty. Damnit, my brain was trying to think about anything that wasn’t what made that noise.
“The family is hungry. I’m sorry.”
That wasn’t rust on the carpet. And didn’t Tim have two legs yesterday?
The trash heap in the living room was heaving now, tipping aside as something big woke up, shouldered aside its blanket, opened up its eyes to see me and Tim standing in front of it.
“Mother,” whispered Tim, as she scurried into the hall.
My hand was on the doorknob at the end, for all the difference it made. I couldn’t have moved if I’d had all the time in the world.