Monday, April 19, 2010

jimmy john's sandwiches changed my life.

more specifically, my affinity for the #6 (dijon'd, and none of that "dijonnaise" crap either. this isn't the suburbs.) delivered straight to my mouth 1-3 times a week has finally paid off, you guys!

today's minor sandwich emergency potentially* became my life's major game changer.

now i'm not exactly proud to admit that i know all the jimmy john's sandwich delivery bros. but i do. i know them all and they know me, probably as "#6 with dijon and the constant state of dread in the office 'neath the stairs."

hence my shock - yes my SHOCK! - when after finally sorting out today's lil mishap and patiently awaiting my sandwich, i receive a phone call from a young man who cannot seem to find the office 'neath the stairs.

"the hell?!" think i, who is so accustomed to the tall one bursting through the door in a stuttering flurry, or the asian one with the hardcore winter riding gear in fuckoff neon yellow, or the other one who's always offering to bring me tacos instead (racist); they know where i am! they probably judge me! so who on earth is this feller stumbling 'round the building with a wayward sandwich that longs for my stomach-shaped home?!

he is:

  • 19, maybe 20 years old.
  • full of the cocksure swagger of a 19, maybe 20 year old. 
  • unabashedly sporting a single diamond stud in the right ear. a cannibis leaf shaped stud. 
  • unaware of how rote the sandwich/receipt transaction has become after a year of few sandwichless weeks. i know where to sign, kid! now gimme my lunch and let me get back to collating! 
i ought maybe to have known this morning, having woken up hours - literally, hours - late and still finding a fucking sweet parking spot right outside my office that it was to be a monday of magic. not "fuckin' magnets" magic, but the quieter kind, the kind that feels how you suspect a promise might and sets your loins on fire with the certainty that fortune may in fact touch you in your touch places and make  it feel good.

ol' diamond bud, signed receipt crumpled in hand, takes one last look around, and i start to busy myself about the unwrapping of sandwiches. at the door, he unexpectedly and fortuitously turns around, positively brimming with aforementioned cocksureness and smarm, and says to me, he says:
"you should take your glasses off. let your hair down. you'd look cuter." 
batter my heart, three-person'd kitchen, i've seen the goddamn light. so simple! so true!  i could have it all: boats, friends, marriage proposals, freddie prinze jr. inexplicably hackey sacking his way into my heart, dogs that won't ever die ever, cable television, art shows, and real wisdom (but only after a brief flirtation with vapidity and self-indulgent hissy fits that mercifully, albeit melodramatically, culminate in my unattractive but true blue childhood pal reminding me where i come from) if i just take my glasses off. and let my hair down. and maybe vaseline myself into a pair of pleather tights. 

this could be huge.

we're talking going from this:

i just want someone to love me for who i am on the inside. and my art.
to this:

i was just eating this salad, thinking of you. 

queue up the frilly pop soundtrack, friends. fucking epic monday.

*pending makeover montage


Anonymous said...

you link to a LOT of relevant web pages.

klooky said...

i make points and references for breakfast.