Eat It

Dear Diary,

Help me. I spit in every third sandwich I make at Subway….

One Saturday, my ex-fiancé came into my work. R said, “Hey, G.”

I said, “R, fancy meeting you here.”

He tapped his fingers along the counter. “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Sure.” I dropped the mayonnaise knife I was holding and picked it back up.

“Can you make me a number four?”

“Ohhhh.”

“With a Sprite.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And are you going to use a new knife?”

I laughed. To my ear, I don’t think it sounded pretty. “Is that all you wanted to ask me?”

“Yeah. Did you want to ask me anything?”

“The world goes on without us.”

“Good. I hope we can be friends.”

I went to the back and put the knife in the sink. Then, I grabbed two pieces of bread from the bin and spat on the bread. 

…and, diary, I do it to cancel out all the hope I have. I needed something that would make R hate me. The act has power even if he doesn’t know about it. Spit itself isn’t hateful because we’ve had sex…. 

I turned the bread up and let it fall out of

my hands, face down on the tile, in the employee bathroom. 

…because, diary, as long as R never knows, he would like me. If he knew, he would hate me. The gap between liking and hate, knowing and mystery, creates enough upheaval that the power will come to me. With power comes respect and love….

After R ate his sandwich, he approached the counter. “I know you don’t have anything to do with it. The salami is crunchy. Maybe the manager can try a different brand.”

“Crunchy how?” I said, trying to warp my face into something that I hoped looked

like concern.

“Almost like little giblets are in it.”

“Gritty?”

“Yeah, something like that. It might just be me.”

“I’ll make a note of it. Thanks.”

He waved and left. 

…kill me, diary, I estimate I’ve spat in 300,000 sandwiches. My location makes about 250 subs a day. That’s about 130,000 a year! i work part-time, but it’s been over 3 years since that day I saw R in the store…

My co-worker A said, “Saw R. He comes here a lot. I’ll bet he’s trying to rub his girlfriend in your face.”

I said, “What’s she like?”

“Brunette. Lots of tattoos.” 

“Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make you a sandwich.”

…I can’t, diary, go on like this. Every day, I go to the back, and I prepare 25 sandwich starters. That is about fifty pieces of white bread, wheat bread, Italian bread, pumpernickel, rye. I count past two pairs of slices. I take the third one and drop it on the floor, right by my feet. I put it back on the butcher block, continuing down the line. I take a butter knife, lick it, rub it on every third pair. You have to repeat a pattern in order to recapture the power that you transferred during the initial upheaval of power. It works because R comes into Subway…

My manager came to the back. She said, “Are you going to throw that slice of bread away?”

I said, “Can’t win a James Beard Award with dirty bread.”

“Don’t forget our high standards for submarine sandwiches. Are you okay?”

“Just tired. Up and at em early to get here on time.”

“Hang in there. Hang in there.”

 …I am evil, diary. I spit in my manager’s coffee every time she brings it from home in a thermos. 

I fear I’ll never have kids.

Yours,

G