The Wreck | [Guest Post]
The following is a guest post written by Marie Casciari. She lives in Chicago and between reading big fat law books she plays Skip Bo. If you’re in a band in Chicago send her music and free tickets to your shows, or something.
Salami, Roast Beef, Turkey, Ham, Swiss, Mayo, Mustard, Lettuce, Onion, Tomato, Etc., Etc.
I stopped to eat dinner tonight at a sandwich shop in the mall – one of my least favorite places, probably in the world, and especially as a place to eat dinner alone. I still have no idea what inspired me to do this. Regardless, I was quietly reading, when the only other person in the restaurant (a female) started loudly shouting obscenities into her cellular telephone. “I am so fucking sick of this shit…I really am, I am not kidding this time…” At one point she even threatened to throw her phone on the ground. I found this to be a particularly odd threat, and one only disadvantageous to herself, not to the person on the other end. I thought of suggesting to her that simply hanging up would have the same effect and would keep her phone in tact, but thought it better not to interrupt. I also desperately tried not to listen to, or show my interest in, her conversation, but it was too hard not to – I was eating by myself, in the mall, and her conversation was far more interesting than what I was reading.
I could not help but wonder what was making her so mad…and then all my questions were answered. “I swear this makes me so fucking angry…you don’t even understand…I asked the waitress last night how many calories were in my meal and she said 600…I am not fucking lying…and she said Amy’s pasta, which Amy ordered as her meal for dinner, had 500, but mine had less carbs in it.” She continued, as her voice grew increasingly louder, and shouted, “And you don’t even fucking understand…yesterday Sarah asked me if I wanted a peanut butter cup, and I took it, and I threw it on the ground, and stepped on it…I’m telling the fucking truth…and what is that, like, 40 calories, 43 calories…and Vicky had a peanut butter cup, and Samantha had a peanut butter cup, and Michelle had a peanut butter cup and a half, and Laura had two peanut butter cups…” Her list of who ate one, two, or god forbid, even three, peanut butter cups continued for some time, interrupted only by “I am not fucking lying,” and (of course) “I am so fucking sick of this shit.” I was utterly amazed. I wanted to know desperately who she was talking to, why she knew and remembered exactly how many peanut butter cups eighteen different females had consumed yesterday, why this was making her so angry, and why the person on the end of the line cared…at all. What perplexed me the most was why she took the offered peanut butter cup in the first place – why didn’t she just say “no thank you,” or “no fucking thank you” for that matter, instead of throwing it on the ground and stomping on it. I had no idea what she achieved by doing that, and why she was retelling that story later.
Even more interesting, in light of everything, was the sandwich she was eating while she had this conversation. She ordered her sandwich immediately after me (which occurred prior to this conversation of course), and ordered what the sandwich shop calls “The Wreck.” This is a salami, roast beef, turkey, ham, and swiss cheese sandwich, and to which she added mayonnaise, oil, and hot peppers. I know a peanut butter cup has a whole 43 calories (at least I do now after overhearing this enlightening conversation), and I am fairly certain “The Wreck” has way more than 43 calories. I waited with excitement throughout my entire dinner, hoping she would throw “The Wreck” on the floor of the mall and stomp on it, multiple times (as it is also considerably larger than a peanut butter cup), but it never happened. Instead she ate all of it, while shouting at the person on the other end of the telephone, and continuing to list everything everyone she knew ate over the past twenty-four hours…while cursing. I left the mall and ate three peanut butter cups, but unfortunately had no one to tell, let alone yell at about it.
(Photo: kevincrumbs)
