Today I woke from hours of unconsciousness. A fatigue from hours worked before the dawn. Body confused, I found my way home across dusty Southern California. Drought has atomized the earth, and it swirls and breaks against our cars as they move westward across warm, pale asphalt.
A slight detour to pick up my son from college. He gets into our car, that much closer to home, and speaks briefly of his week. We move ever westward, like pioneers, towards the cooler climes near the Pacific.
We stop at a Subways near our house. a small Hispanic woman is there to serve me. I hate Subways, too much interaction. I want the default sandwich. There is none. I have to go through the Subway way. Do I want cheese? What kind of vegetables? Do I want the set, which include potato chips and a large fountain drink that I fill myself. The grandma, in all grandmotherly earnestness follows me as the assembly line sandwich grows and grows. To our left, a tall, younger Hispanic woman with two small steel pins in her full lower lip, helps my son.
Our sandwiches done, my son and I return to the black, dirty car and make our way the short distance home. I grab a can of coke and drink it with half of the turkey sandwich. My son disappears.
I fall asleep from the days work without even knowing I was gone. It is dreamless and black . I wake later and make my way way to the kitchen so I can put the second half of my sandwich in the chaotic refrigerator.
Where I left the sandwich there is only bits of lettuce and onions on half a Subway wrapper. I walk into my son’s room and tell him about my missing friend — a six-inch carved turkey sandwich. He knows nothing about it.
I remember in my younger days eating my father’s unguarded food found in the family refrigerator. I remember how he eventually resigned himself to these events. Maybe he knew then that the best revenge was generational.