Sandwich #1
On our lunch break, my wife and I go to Katz’s Deli in the food court and order two pastrami sandwiches on rye. The big guy behind the counter nods at us, cuts our slices of rye onto a pair of ceramic plates, and begins piling sheets of juicy pink pastrami atop the square slabs of thick and crusty bread. As the stack of pastrami passes the height of six inches, my mouth begins to water. My stomach begins to groan. My mind fills with swirling fantasies of that first glorious bite of meat and mustard and pickle and dough. But the man does not stop. He continues stacking the meat far past a height I could ever hope to chew. So I glance at my wife with worry and then back at the man behind the counter. I raise my hand to get the man’s attention. I clear my throat to break his concentration. I tap my knuckles on the counter and say, thanks so much for your generosity, but that’s more pastrami than both of us can eat on a good day, heh, heh. Still, the man ignores me.
Now he retrieves a full-size ladder from the stockroom at the rear of the deli. Taking off his grease-streaked latex gloves, he carefully sets up the ladder beside the prep-counter, washes his hands in the sink next to the walk-in, snaps on a new pair of latex gloves, and climbs to the top of the creaking ladder. From here he thrusts an eight-foot wooden spike through the heart of my sandwich and continues adding pastrami, this time spearing each piece with the tip of the spike and sliding it down to the top of the stack of meat, which now stands more than six feet tall. Holy Christ, my wife whispers, looking up at the gigantic and terrifying sandwich standing on the counter before us. Yeah, I say, interlocking my fingers with hers and backing away from the deli very slowly.
Sandwiches #2 - 4
My wife and I buy two pounds of pastrami from the deli counter at the supermarket. We bring the meat back home and make a trio of sandwiches on rye with coleslaw and Russian dressing. We place the sandwiches on the kitchen table and pour five large glasses of whole milk chilled with clinking ice cubes. The phone rings. The caller on the other end is nobody I know. They speak in a fried grumble. They say they are running late but will be joining us any minute. I hang up the phone with extreme care. I sit down at the head of the kitchen table. I fold my trembling hands in my lap. My wife takes a bite of her sandwich and asks me who was calling. The front door of the house swings open. I drink my milk with quivering fingers. A droplet of condensation kisses my left thumb. I pick up my beautiful sandwich and begin gnashing my jaws in mortal terror.
