15 Minutes, almost a fiction
Nov. 13th, 2008 08:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
penfield"Man only likes to count his troubles, but he does not count his joys."
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Half-naked, Wesley tip-toed into the kitchen, trying not to disturb Vanessa, who was by that point on her third or fourth "snooze" cycle. The tile felt cold against his bare feet and his body stifled another shiver when he opened the refrigerator door.
He gathered in his arms a pouch of sliced deli turkey, a bag with the last remaining strip of Jarlsberg Swiss and a squeezy bottle of spicy brown mustard. He closed the door and from the bowl on top of the fridge he grabbed a whole wheat sub roll in a knotted plastic bag.
Tearing in to the bag and withdrawing the bread, he was pleased to find that it was still spongy and fresh. Having picked it up from the market the previous evening, it was often hard to tell whether the bread remaining in the bin had been there for hours or days. The day before, Wesley had been forced to make do with a poppy seed roll and was still picking the damn things out of his teeth.
With a serrated knife, he slit the bread open and then held it up to his nose, taking a deep whiff -- more out of habit than any sort of sensory or diagnostic exercise. Opening the cap on the mustard, he attempted to squirt an even, consistent line of dressing along the length of the bread. But all that came out was that mustard-scented premature fluid discharge that somehow collects in condiment bottles and drips all over your sandwich.
"Dammit," Wesley whispered to himself, shaking his head.
He closed the bottle, turned it upside down and gave it three deliberate shakes downward. When he opened the bottle and tried again to apply the mustard, there was no more mustard juice, but it did fail to flow properly. Instead of a smooth line, it came out in brief, flatulent spurts, barely splattering Wesley's undershirt with microscopic flecks of French's. With a butter knife, he spread the mustard evenly along both sides of bread.
He unwrapped the turkey with care, trying not to let the meat tear or flake away. Despite the thicker-than-usual slices, the turkey’s structural integrity was beginning to deteriorate. At five days old, its viability was already endangered.
Carefully unfolding the slices, which had inadvertently folded and curled under the hurried supervision watch of the deli technician, Wesley attempted to arrange judiciously the large, round sheets of turkey onto a oblong stretch of bread. Never having been much of a geometry student, and in any case unable to apply the cosine function to luncheon meat, he resorted to tearing the slices into more manageable pieces.
After using up his usual three slices, there was still a single large slice remaining in the bag, a slice that would no doubt go to waste even if it did somehow last another day without sweating penicillin. "Waste not, want not," Wesley said to himself, reflecting, murmuring briefly on the inherent nonsense of the phrase -- if you don't want something, you don't waste it? Or if you don’t waste something, you don't want it? Huh?
Swiftly returning to his task, he reached for the last slice of swiss cheese, folding and tearing it to create two half-sandwich-sized strips -- but not before keeping one small strip for himself to taste. The piquant, nutty taste narrowly clashed with the Frosted Mini Wheats he had just finished for breakfast.
Atop this already mountainous mound of cold cuts, Wesley layered the remaining extra slice of turkey and folded the bread to build a truly Dagwood-class submarine sandwich. He placed the beast into an oversized Ziploc bag, the one that had until recently held the Jarlsberg cheese, and then placed that bag into his satchel. He returned the mustard to the fridge, placed the butter knife to the kitchen sink and threw everything else into the trash.
Having completed his work in the kitchen, Wesley moved to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth, moving the toothbrush perhaps too quickly and dismissively to do anything but jar loose only the largest of undissolved food chunks, which might go toward explaining those lingering poppy seeds. He rinsed with cold water and took another swig with his daily multivitamin.
He then crept on the balls of his feet to the bedroom where Vanessa was still curled into a warm ball of morning avoidance. Cloistering himself in their small walk-in closet, he dressed in his finest business-casuals, trying not to rattle any clothes hangars or belt buckles.
Grabbing his wallet, watch, metro card and cell phone from his dresser, and placing them each into the appropriate pants pocket, he sidled up to the bed and gently peeled back the blanket to find Vanessa's warm cheek and a half-opened eye. He kissed her softly and whispered, "Have a good day."
The muffled noise that returned sounded like "You too."
- Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Half-naked, Wesley tip-toed into the kitchen, trying not to disturb Vanessa, who was by that point on her third or fourth "snooze" cycle. The tile felt cold against his bare feet and his body stifled another shiver when he opened the refrigerator door.
He gathered in his arms a pouch of sliced deli turkey, a bag with the last remaining strip of Jarlsberg Swiss and a squeezy bottle of spicy brown mustard. He closed the door and from the bowl on top of the fridge he grabbed a whole wheat sub roll in a knotted plastic bag.
Tearing in to the bag and withdrawing the bread, he was pleased to find that it was still spongy and fresh. Having picked it up from the market the previous evening, it was often hard to tell whether the bread remaining in the bin had been there for hours or days. The day before, Wesley had been forced to make do with a poppy seed roll and was still picking the damn things out of his teeth.
With a serrated knife, he slit the bread open and then held it up to his nose, taking a deep whiff -- more out of habit than any sort of sensory or diagnostic exercise. Opening the cap on the mustard, he attempted to squirt an even, consistent line of dressing along the length of the bread. But all that came out was that mustard-scented premature fluid discharge that somehow collects in condiment bottles and drips all over your sandwich.
"Dammit," Wesley whispered to himself, shaking his head.
He closed the bottle, turned it upside down and gave it three deliberate shakes downward. When he opened the bottle and tried again to apply the mustard, there was no more mustard juice, but it did fail to flow properly. Instead of a smooth line, it came out in brief, flatulent spurts, barely splattering Wesley's undershirt with microscopic flecks of French's. With a butter knife, he spread the mustard evenly along both sides of bread.
He unwrapped the turkey with care, trying not to let the meat tear or flake away. Despite the thicker-than-usual slices, the turkey’s structural integrity was beginning to deteriorate. At five days old, its viability was already endangered.
Carefully unfolding the slices, which had inadvertently folded and curled under the hurried supervision watch of the deli technician, Wesley attempted to arrange judiciously the large, round sheets of turkey onto a oblong stretch of bread. Never having been much of a geometry student, and in any case unable to apply the cosine function to luncheon meat, he resorted to tearing the slices into more manageable pieces.
After using up his usual three slices, there was still a single large slice remaining in the bag, a slice that would no doubt go to waste even if it did somehow last another day without sweating penicillin. "Waste not, want not," Wesley said to himself, reflecting, murmuring briefly on the inherent nonsense of the phrase -- if you don't want something, you don't waste it? Or if you don’t waste something, you don't want it? Huh?
Swiftly returning to his task, he reached for the last slice of swiss cheese, folding and tearing it to create two half-sandwich-sized strips -- but not before keeping one small strip for himself to taste. The piquant, nutty taste narrowly clashed with the Frosted Mini Wheats he had just finished for breakfast.
Atop this already mountainous mound of cold cuts, Wesley layered the remaining extra slice of turkey and folded the bread to build a truly Dagwood-class submarine sandwich. He placed the beast into an oversized Ziploc bag, the one that had until recently held the Jarlsberg cheese, and then placed that bag into his satchel. He returned the mustard to the fridge, placed the butter knife to the kitchen sink and threw everything else into the trash.
Having completed his work in the kitchen, Wesley moved to the bathroom where he brushed his teeth, moving the toothbrush perhaps too quickly and dismissively to do anything but jar loose only the largest of undissolved food chunks, which might go toward explaining those lingering poppy seeds. He rinsed with cold water and took another swig with his daily multivitamin.
He then crept on the balls of his feet to the bedroom where Vanessa was still curled into a warm ball of morning avoidance. Cloistering himself in their small walk-in closet, he dressed in his finest business-casuals, trying not to rattle any clothes hangars or belt buckles.
Grabbing his wallet, watch, metro card and cell phone from his dresser, and placing them each into the appropriate pants pocket, he sidled up to the bed and gently peeled back the blanket to find Vanessa's warm cheek and a half-opened eye. He kissed her softly and whispered, "Have a good day."
The muffled noise that returned sounded like "You too."
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Date: 2008-11-14 07:30 pm (UTC)Edna: We need names!
Homer: Well, let's just call them, uh, Mr. X and Mrs. Y. So anyway, Mr. X would say, "Marge, if this doesn't get your motor running, my name isn't Homer J. Simpson."