Bad Sandwich
Sometimes I have dreams that I'm back in high school, about to get onstage in "Inherit the Wind," and I've forgotten all my lines as Henry Drummond. I approach the edge of the stage and my father cries, knowing his son is a failure, when I open my mouth and a fully-formed sandwich comes gurgling out.
It falls into my hands. It's a turkey sandwich with 1 slice of ham for good measure, and ripe cherry tomatoes sliced in half. The lettuce is still wet from being washed, as crisp as the toasted ciabatta bun. The audience is nonplussed, arms folded. They know I don't know my lines. This is not what they paid for.
A cough from the back, signifying nothing. Sometimes it's my mother coughing, other times it's a full-grown bear.
I bring the sandwich to my mouth and begin to take a bite, completely at a loss of what else to do. The crowd erupts in groans of "Oh come ON" and "Of course he'd eat the fucking sandwich" and "GET OFF THE STAGE." Boos threaten to usurp the student union. And I'm just crying there, mulling the turkey and ciabatta in my mouth. It tastes pretty good.
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