Hold the Mayo
There was the ham sandwich again. It
had been following me for days. Shit. It lay on my open book,
covering most of the last page of the story by HB Clonekraft entitled
“Salami over Hismouth.” There was too much mayonnaise and it was
staining the book. I sure hoped the librarians didn't riffle through
the pages when I returned it. I picked up the book and gingerly
tilted it so the sandwich slid into the trashcan. I hate mayonnaise
on a ham sandwich. I hate the French, because they invented
mayonnaise. I hate eggs because, well, I don't hate eggs, but if I
did, you know why it would be. I should have put the book away last
night when I quit reading, but I'd been so tired. I looked at the
clock, slammed the book shut, and left it on the table as I ran out
the door. I was late, as usual.
A bus was just pulling away from the
stop. A light drizzle fell. The billboard on the corner advertised
the new ham and mayonnaise combo at Moe's Deli. I have always hated
Moe, but never more than I did right then. That was when I noticed
the drizzle wasn't water. The drops were white. I touched one that
had fallen on the newspaper box and sucked my finger. Mayonnaise. I
looked up, saw a lightly toasted rectangle 60 feet across floating in
air. Shaved ham was visible around the edges and mayonnaise was
oozing from several holes in the toast.
I stepped into a doorway to get out of
the mayorain. The sandwich didn't move, but the mayo was falling
harder. I got a few white splashes on my shoes and jeans. Disgusting!
Finally the bus pulled up. I was about to make a run for it, but just
then the toast ripped in half. A glob of mayo as big as a Smart Car
nailed the front of the bus. I turned away just in time; I could feel
splatters machinegunning my back. The barrage subsided and I turned
around. The bus seemed intact. I had just reached the curb when the
ham let go, and that's the last thing I remember.
--
The doctor was a young man, pink
cheeked ... I zeroed in on his name tag: "Dr. Prosciutto."
"You have a severe concussion,"
he said. "You may find yourself hallucinating." Behind him,
packets of mustard clustered menacingly in the doorway.
Publ. Daily Cabal, 2010
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