You might think, "what’s the big deal about making someone a stupid ham sandwich?" But really, it’s much more complicated than that, because everyone wants their ham sandwich a certain way. And typically (Sign Reads: Watch Out for Falling Sexist Statements Ahead) it’s the man who is making the request. "Honey, could you please put extra mustard on it instead of mayonnaise, and would you cut the crust off of it too while you are at it? Thank you, I love you soooo much!" If you ever hear the preceding request and find yourself rushing to Farm Fresh to pick up an extra bottle of mustard, then just stop by the mini-van dealership on the way because your ovaries are already swelling with those 2.5 children you are going to have.
You probably think that I am over-reacting, but it’s true. I have seen countless women around me succumb to the ham sandwich cycle already. Making ham sandwiches is like a modern day mating ritual. Making one ham sandwich for your boyfriend or girlfriend now shows that you are ready for a lifetime commitment of making ham sandwiches. Just ask my mom who spent most of her adult life making ham sandwiches for my dad, me, and for my grandpa who lives with us. My grandpa is so use to having ham sandwiches made for him that he even tries to order them when we go out to Italian and Mexican restaurants. Recently, a high school friend of mine who was always immafor the kids, cutting out celery sticks to pack in their lunchboxes, and going to Wal-Mart to buy them the new N’Sync CD. And just a week ago, my cousin Krissy got married in a fancy-schmancy garden ceremony. There was a gazebo, heart-shaped balloons, and even an apple cider fountain. But what did they serve up for the reception? Ham sandwiches cut into fours. I thought it was brilliantly symbolic of what was to come. The ham sandwich plague is taking over the campus as well. All around me I see juniors and seniors with small diamond rings shimmering from their blank hands. I can’t help but stare and picture little ham sandwiches clutching their ring fingers instead. It’s not that I have something against marriage, or even ham sandwiches in general. The thought of them just frightens me. I see guys and girls all around me charging into lifelong commitments,and the thought of that makes me dizzy.I’m going to be 21 next month and I still get excited when I hear the ice cream man coming. How can I commit myself to ham sandwich making when I still feel so young?You might think I’m immature, but think to yourself first what is so bad about living in sin? Sure people might tell you that it’s immoral or that you’re giving the milk away for free. And maybe you are giving the milk away by the pintfuls, but hey, at least you’re not making a ham sandwich, right? As for me, my boyfriend is a vegetarian, so I’ll just stick to my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, thank you.
And she could talk. She could talk while she straightened the cold laminated menus and while sliding the salt shakers into formation along the shiny metal counter. Man she could talk. She’d even read a few books. One called something and another, one called something else. Even one called the Bible. She told me all about it. And the backdrop in there mumbled and whispered and made company as I sat slumped back in my swivel stool, staring at an old piece of pecan pie wrapped in a tin foil holder inside a case that sat on top of the counter to my left. Right across from the napkin holder and the sugar dispenser. Sugar was everywhere, ’cause I’m not too terribly clean all of the time. Really. She kept talking.
Some guy, I think he was named Roy, had his name pin on. It said that he was a grille attendant, or something like that. Roy said that everyone dies whether they like it or not. Good call! Where did that come from, man? So she talked more and told me how she puts her kids and her family first all of the time, ahead of other people. Sometimes she needs to put herself first, so she says. But everything you do for people comes back around in one way or another, so she says.
And the time passed on. She continued to talk as she cleaned out the huge barrel that holds the tea.
"Not many people like to clean this thing," she said, "but if I’m getting paid to do a job, you better believe that I’m going to bust my butt."
Apparently, she liked tea. And there was another one of them. Her name was Molly. Molly was waiting on some fellows that strolled in off the boulevard some time ago. One guy was smoking a cigarette and the other was eating a burger. From the look of things, Molly was enjoying their company. Molly didn’t speak to me. The clock on the far wall was indicating my bedtime, so I reached for my credit card. Should have asked before I ordered the coffee, I guess. It’s only coffee, she said. And Roy turned to me, nodding his head in affirmation. So I obliged and left the building. Good night. Not to worry, though. I went to the Exxon across the street and picked up some smokes with my credit card and returned to the metal counter at The House. I just handed them to Roy and asked him to deliver them for me. Roy obliged. She came running outside with questioning eyebrows and a smile from lobe to lobe. “Why?” she said. “Everything comes back around, remember?