Indigestion

Before I even stepped in line for food, the sandwich man’s glossy black eyes climbed all over me. I pretended I didn’t see him, but I could still feel his gaze clinging to me, like a cloud of thirsty mosquitoes.

“Dude, I’m so sick of him,” I whispered to my roommate Paulie.

“Huh? Sick of who?” he asked.

“Sandwich Man!” I said in his ear. “He’s fuckin’ creepy. Don’t you think he’s a little creepy?”

“Sorta. I guess,” said Paulie. “You should just leave the poor guy alone.”

“Hey, fuck you. He’s the one checking me out every night.”

“Of course he is. Everyone wants to jump in your pants.” Paulie shook his head and walked to the soda machine. “Hey, save my spot, ok?

“Yeah,” I said, but I didn’t plan on it. Two weeks earlier, when I told my roommate that the employee who operated the sandwich bar had been staring at me for a couple weeks, he called me a “homophobic conspiracy theorist.” But it didn’t matter. Sandwich Man, as I had so aptly dubbed him, was a predator posing as a friendly sub artist in my college cafeteria.

I could tell from the mayonnaise and mustard stains on his black apron that he was a dirty person. And his plastic gloves were always covered in fresh ketchup, making him look like a sadistic surgeon/scientist who experimented with scalpels on duct-taped victims. The most obvious expressions of his deviance, however, were his eyes. Black and bulbous, they were gentle like an infant’s, but nervous like an abused animal’s. And he licked his lips when he made the boys’ sandwiches. Licked them with his pale tongue.

As my turn for food came, I tightened my jaw muscles to make my face look hard.

“Hello! What can I put on your sandwich today?” asked the Sandwich Man, his eyes twinkling like dead stars.

“Uh, give me some roast beef, salami, ham and—”

“Hold on, hold on! I can only go so fast!” He laughed.

“Ok.” I took a deep breath. He was stalling, prolonging my visit to the sandwich bar.

“Roast beef and what else, buddy?” he asked slowly.

“Salami and ham.” As he was putting the meats on the scale, I noticed that my portion seemed extra large.

“Ok. Well, I got all the meat. Now what else did you want?” He had definitely given me twice as much meat as I normally got.

“I think you gave me too much meat.”

Showing a pair of sharp incisors, he smiled, leaned across the glass counter and said quietly, “There’s no such thing.” Then he winked. I don’t know what he was expecting in response. Maybe he thought I’d give a return wink, a smile of complicity, a giggle or two, a pat on the back? Instead, he got two millimeters of pure ice when my eyes narrowed to slits.

“You know what,” I said, “just keep the damn sandwich.”

Just then, Paulie came back sipping on his Dr. Pepper. “So, did you save my spot?” he asked. When he saw the glaciers in my eyes, he knew something was wrong. “What’s the matter, dude?”

“Nothing. You can have my sandwich. I’ll see you back at the dorm.”

I walked fast, but the smell of extra roast beef, salami, and ham followed me all the way back to my room.