Sandwich Land, Part 1

The farce continues


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Chapter 16: Sandwich Land


Determined to quit, Gilbert walked to work enthused yet contemplative. His thoughts cut to the marrow of a silly career of desires wasted. As pigeons purred in the sunlight he summed it up so as to shore his decision against fear. Hours exchanged for food. Murdered hours. Hours not spent being free. Hours of being less, being worse, being stressed, being wasted, for what? Food and water, and a locked door to sleep behind. He passed Eleventh Avenue. Seven blocks to the cell block. And what is my job there? My duty? Making sandwiches for other prisoners who spend time in other cell blocks, decorated and furnished differently perhaps, but cell blocks nonetheless. Gilbert sucked from the smoke hard. And I, like everyone else, walk willingly to my cell, conscious of the time. Can't be late! Gotta keep my appointment with slavery! Gotta make my slave- master happy. I have services to do. Services he doesn't want to do. So he gives me a fuckin' rice bowl, and I? I do his bidding. I don't complain. I sweat for another. I'm not a bum. I'm worse. I'm a drone. A worker.
Gilbert's cigarette was spent. He pinched the remaining tobacco onto the sidewalk and mashed it with his toe. I wonder what liberation will feel like. Cutting the ropes. Cutting the strings from the puppeteer. He won't control my dancing anymore. I've never known what that would feel like. I've only known shackles. I've only known control. Mind control. Gilbert passed Twelfth Avenue. The freeway overpass loomed. He lit another smoke. I need to make some hard decisions. I need to trust my gut and my heart. Right choices should come easily when we know, really know who we are. I will work out of the center of my being tonight. I will make my final sandwiches with compassion. I will not yield to frustration or anger. I will be myself and not compromise my values, and I will not be afraid. Gilbert bit his lower lip, felt the little surge of pain, straightened his gait and looked to the dusk-low sun. I will not be afraid. I promised Peggy. Fuck fear. I do have support. The universe gives us support and I will keep my promise, so help me God I will.
Gilbert passed Thirteenth Avenue contemplating dusk. The sun is setting on my old life. I have to trust that my experiences since birth have prepared me for the changes to come. The Mayor’s gone, but not gone. I feel you in my head and heart still, old friend. He chuckled as he passed Fourteenth. Old kooky friend. Debate those lizards into the dust, into their serpent holes beneath the dusk. You're fuckin' with the wrong genius, cowards! His diatribes will come sluggin' out of left field. You don't stand a chance. He sighed as the sun seemed to redden before his eyes. Not a goddamn chance. Passing Fifteenth Avenue, Gilbert saw the Newschannel Eight building. He thought of the reporters he'd made sandwiches for. That sports guy seems pretty cool. He writes songs. I hope he's not privy to the deployment of tear gas by his station. He thought of the others. The reporter, Kris, with whom he'd always flirted. Will I detect a difference in your smiling eyes now? Will you detect my ambivalence and suspect? Can I suspend my paranoia and see you as an innocent? No. You work for monsters. He thought of all those Sunday mornings. What did I ever tell you about myself? The writing, yes. Primitivism, fuck! I did go off on a tangent once. You said you also longed for simpler times. Please, Kris. Please keep quiet about that. I should have never bared my soul to a member of the corporate media.
He thought of Samantha and KBOO. You're a reporter I could trust. No one pulls your strings. Of course, that's why you were taken. You had the audacity to report the truth about carnage and injustice while it was happening right in front of your face. Fuck it! I can't let you be forgotten. I'll tell Kris. I'll take that chance. Maybe she'll be sympathetic. Yes Peggy! If I'm to say 'yes' to life I must say 'no' to fear. Fuck fear! Gilbert passed Sixteenth Avenue, reflexively turning his head left to look into the window of The Leaky Roof restaurant. You in there, Schneeb? Ah, there you are, jiggling the grease from the french fry basket. Turn your head, man. Look at me. Gilbert waved his cigarette in front of the window. Schneeb wheeled around, the Detroit Red Wings hockey logo prominently visible on his cap. He looked up at Gilbert, and with a slight frown lifted two fingers into the air and made a slow slashing motion across his neck, left to right; then raised the two fingers to his lips and blew: sh! Gilbert smiled. There you go again with your Illuminati death threats. Not so funny today though, buddy. I'll tell you all about it later. Gilbert returned the gesture, waved and walked on. Schneeb's a hard guy to read, he thought. Nice guy to play pool with and he's turned me on to some far out authors, but he's secretive. Aloof. He writes but he's nonverbal. And he watches a hell of a lot of television. Maybe I shouldn't tell him about the rally.
Ah, hell! It'll be all over the news I'm sure. Gilbert came to Seventeenth Avenue and paused to grind his cigarette out. Well, here I am, literally standing on the corner of the prison block. Fourth door down. State Farm Insurance, Starbucks, Go-Foods, and Sandwich Land. By my reckoning I've got five minutes. Gilbert walked into Go-Foods and greeted a waifish Vietnamese woman. “How ah you?” she intoned with a thick accent. Ok, Gilbert replied. She's a fuckin' angel, he thought. A beautiful little porcelain doll. There may be hope in this world yet. Gilbert purchased a pack of Pall Mall Reds, his flesh tingling as she touched his cupped hand while giving him change. “Thankyou,” she said. Gilbert waved and smiled. Upon exiting the store, Gilbert turned to walk into Sandwich Land. Three teenage boys rocked back and forth on their designer tennis shoes, giggling. They were shining laser light pens through the window.
“Hey! What are you guys doing?!” Gilbert shouted. A morbidly obese, short, long-haired androgynous-looking man pushed open the door, tottering in his grubby work shoes through which enormous white-socked toes protruded. His green Sandwich Land shirt was soiled with tomato seeds, broccoli soup, mustard and grease. He clutched his eyes with a furrowed hand. “Sam! What's up!?”
“These fuckers! These fuckers blinded me!” Sam shouted while waving his free hand. He swung a fist blindly at the air. “Get the fuck outta here, assholes!” Sam continued to cover his eyes and flail wildly at his assailants.
“Fuck you! Fat fuck!” the teenage boys shouted amidst giggles and juvenile pointing. They ran off still bantering: “Fat fuck! Fat fuck! Nobody’s gonna wanna fuck, fat fuck!? Nobody!”