Sandwich Land, 3

"There is no I in America! There is no ME in America! And there sure as hell ain't no ERIC in America either!"


THE REST OF IT GOES HERE
Eric's jaws opened to their fullest extent in a long, languid yawn. He didn't bother to cover his mouth. With red eyes watering, he gazed with fascination at a place slightly above Todd's slick-backed head. With sleepy voice Eric spoke: “I work good, Todd. I'm real friendly. The customers tell me so every day. You da man. You should know.” Todd kept a stern gaze. “I'm a good workhorse for you and your little business.” Eric smiled.
“Is that marijuana I smell on your breath son?”
“Apple raspberry gum, boss.”
“ I noticed you took your break at 4:20. You don't think I know what 4:20 means? Take it from an old gridiron warrior: I know bullshit when I smell it. And whose business you callin' 'little?' I own three stores. You'd do well to follow my example.” Todd rapped his knuckles on the table, his upper lip glazed with sweat and twitching. “The business of America is business.”
“Yeah, man, I hear ya,” Eric sniffled, wiping at his nasal drainage with an index finger. “But the business of Eric is good-naturedness, and that's gotta be good for business which's gotta be good for the Todd. See, man? I think good, and by the way, I only smoke plain ol’ tobacco at work. I roll my own, but it’s legal. Eric loves freedom. Yes sir!”
Gilbert remained within ear-shod, handing sandwiches over to Sam in assembly-line fashion after placing cheese and meat on them. Sam assumed the role of vegetable architect, but paused intermittently to wipe at his eyes with mustard-stained gloved hands. He realized he was falling behind and flailed desperately at the lettuce and tomato bins, slopping on the produce as quick as he could. Sarah squirted condiments and attended to the wrapping and bagging. She kept hissing at Sam, 'C'mon!', 'Hurry up!' Andy stood nonchalantly by the cash register, bouncing a basketball, occasionally yawning or staring at his underlings with a mixture of disgust and pity.
Todd continued. “Eric loves 'freedom,' huh? Well you know what freedom means to me, Eric?”
Eric shrugged, his chin still cupped in his hand.
“Freedom means work harder. Work harder and the American Dream is within reach. You do believe in the American Dream, don't you, Eric?” Todd huffed, inflating his hard chest, sculpted by years of weight lifting. His gaze, orange-tanned. His smile, smug. Beady brown eyes reflected harsh white interior light as he scrawled carefully and slowly on a piece of official 'Sandwich Land' stationary. Todd set the fountain pen down and gazed proudly at the singular word he had written: AMERICA. He peered questioningly into Eric's eyes, awaiting comment.
“You should be awfully proud of yerself, boss. You got vision, yes sir. But I think it was my grandma who used to say, work smarter not harder. That's what I live by. I think we’re here to be smart human beings who think and have fun, don't you, boss?” Eric raised his right hand expecting a high five. Didn’t get it.
“You know what I think, Eric? I think what we do here at good ol' Goose Hollow Sandwich Land is more important than just providing quality food in a speedy manner. I think what we do is a little bigger than that. These are war times, ya know, and what we do in a small way aids and abets a greater cause.” Todd pawed at his hair's slickness, straightened his posture in his seat and continued. “We all gotta be at are best, ya know? We gotta be all we can be for America's sake. That includes lawyers and police officers and judges and news reporters and homeland security agents, as well as small business owners and sandwich artisans. We all serve our part for the greater whole, Eric, and all I ask from you is that you do your part for America in her time of need.”
“I'm a good American, boss. I try. I’m a good guy, a good worker, a good friend, and if ya ask, Latoya, my little cherry pop-tart, she'll tell ya: I’m a good lover. Yes sir, Mr. Todd. That‘s what she says.”
“Well, what I'm hearin' here, Eric is a bunch of 'I‘m this and I‘m that‘, when the 'I's should be subordinate to 'America.' Now c'mon son, I know from football the benefit of yielding before a greater good, a greater goal, a goal infinitely larger than petty self interest. We are part of team 'America' and now at the conclusion of my address, I put it to you, Eric.” Todd pressed an index finger to his pursed lips, pausing in contemplation.
“What, boss?” Eric had taken Todd's pen in hand, and taken the stationary with 'America' written on it, and proceeded to draw artful roses with voluptuous naked women dancing in the midst. Along the edges he wrote in beautiful, looping cursive script the words, 'free love free amerika free love free amerika . . .' till the entire page was framed with it. He set the pen down, yawned, and smiled at the ceiling. “Like my drawin', boss?”
“Let's get back to business, Eric. You must realize, that in these times of trouble, self sacrifice is required for the good of the country. You must realize that you are a cog in the greatest machine in history. That as a cog you must function at your best. That there is no reward, no gold, no blond-haired nymphs spread out on the bed at the end of the rainbow, no 'I' to rake in the glory. You must realize, Eric, that there is no 'I' in 'America.' There is no 'me' in 'America.' And there sure as Hell ain't no 'Eric' in 'America.' Do you understand?”
Eric bent over in his seat, clutching his stomach with both hands, belching in guffawed laughter which resounded musically in echoes off the walls of the sandwich shop. Gilbert was in the middle of asking a squirrelly business man what kind of bread he wanted, tried to contain himself, but couldn't. The sobering pent-up pressures of the day yielded to high-pitched squeals. Sam likewise lost it. Sarah didn't get it. Andy dribbled the basketball while grinning at his watch.
“What?! What?!” Todd yelled out to everyone. “You guys think that's funny?”