Originially posted 2/17/09
It was my day off from work, there was beautiful weather, and I was strolling down Colfax Ave to meet my gorgeous co-worker, Jan, for lunch. Never been better. My bubble was pricked by the the sound of loud voices, which I curiously followed to a nearby alley. As I turned the corner, I saw two policemen with their backs to me, beating a Hispanic man who was curled up on the concrete. I overheard one of the cops,
“This is making me hungry for Mexican food,” and his partner replied,
“Yeah, after this, let’s go get Flingchiste Sandwiches.” Then, out of the blue, the Hispanic fellow interjects,
“Flingchiste’s not Mexican, boss.” The cops stopped and looked at each other for a moment before they resumed beating him with a renewed vigor, while one of them screamed,
“YOU! HAVE THE RIGHT! TO REMAIN! SILENT!!” Suddenly, against my own will, I blurted out,
“Is it true?” The policemen started and looked around at me. One of them frowned and said,
“Nothin’ to see here, son,” while the other one asserted,
“Everything’s under control.” I found myself walking towards them, until I was only feet away. Everything was frozen as I looked at the Hispanic man and asked again,
“Is it true?” No one breathed. The police crouched next to him and slowly turned their heads, awaiting his response as if it were the score of the Super Superbowl. The poor man took his time, propping himself up on his elbows so that he could look into my eyes. The seconds were hours of peculiar anticipation. Finally he said,
“It’s not Mexican food. That’s the truth.” For a moment, I stood there in shock. However, I was ripped back to my senses when one of the policemen jerked towards me and shouted,
“Get him!” Instinctually, I turned and darted back out onto Colfax. I could hear the policeman radio me in, while the other one was shouting at the people I passed,
“Stop that guy! Somebody stop him!” I ran all the way back to my apartment and collapsed at the kitchen table, grateful that I had escaped the law. However, as I caught my breath, I began to feel a weird sensation. Slowly, I was enveloped by the bonds of a strange and different prison…
This shocking event had left me with some serious questions and concerns. If the Flingchiste Sandwich is not Mexican food, then what is it? If I can’t ethnically categorize something, then how do I know whether it’s safe or not, or how will I know if I feel like having that kind of food tonight?
The germ of uncertainty bored into my soul. In the weeks that followed, I was plagued by the sandwich. Everywhere I went, Flingchistes flitted in the corner of my eye. Their distant shadows haunted my dreams, floating through the void amidst listless, yellow question marks. Every night, I jerked awake, panting in a cold sweat as I made my way to the mirror and stared deep into the empty eyes of a man who no longer knew his world.
My performance at work began to slip. My concentration was broken by stray Flingchistes around the office. One day, Jan approached my desk and burst,
“John, I can’t hold back any more. I've been meaning to talk to you.”
“Okay, Jan. What? Go.” I gave a nervous laugh as I glimpsed a Flingchiste peaking out at me from under her long skirt.
“John…” I took a deep breath and looked up into her sad, concerned face, framed in her loose scarlet locks, “You have to let this one go. It was just some guy in an alley. Who knows what kind of drugs he was on?”
“He was telling the truth, Jan!” I replied defensively, “And I’m gonna get to the bottom of this.” I glanced at an elusive sandwich in the corner of the ceiling, then banged my fist against the desk and added,
“You can’t hide forever!”
“Look at you, John! Look at what you’ve become!" She paused, "We won't make budget this quarter... Management is considering cutting someone..." I grunted as I scanned the office ceiling. "John, two weeks ago you were up for a promotion, but now? I just… we don’t want to lose you.” Suddenly she burst in to tears, “It’s just a stupid sandwich!” she cried, burying her face in her hands and a mess of red curls. I sighed in misery as she quietly sobbed. After a moment, I touched her shoulder and said,
“I’m sorry, Jan.” She looked up at me gladly through her runny mascara, “I’m sorry,” I repeated. I placed my name tag on the desk and left the office behind.
It was a hard decision to make, and I got sick in the elevator. But when I got up and wiped off, I walked across the parking lot with new found conviction. A purpose. There is no turning back now, I thought. I will not waver, I will not rest, and I will not fail, nor will I stop, surrender, or die, or negotiate! ...until I know what kind of ethnic food the Flingchiste Sandwich is. to be continued...
Taken from a later post:
Spoiler for the critically ignored novella, Sandwich: The term "Flingchiste" is actually a mispronunciation of "Felicia Stick", the name of Philliam Penn's perennially slim mistress. Designing the sandwich to fatten her up, Philliam penned his creation for his skin and bones lover. In time, however, people would come to call the sandwich after him instead; hence, the common misidentification, Philly Cheesteak. By the end of their adventure to recover this information, having unraveled the vast Quaker conspiracy to obscure the origins of the sandwich, John and Jan had fallen in love. Today, they are considered the world's most prominent researchers in the field of sandwich origination, and are currently studying the sandwich development potential of higher primates worldwide (while staying one step ahead of the mercenary Jesuit assassins).
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment