Well Layered Ham Sandwiches

“Welcome to the newest member of the Dull Men’s Facebook group!” The glowing screen reflected off my glasses like the shine on a new trophy.

That was the highlight of my week apart from several well layered ham sandwiches. Toasted bread from the bakery, creamy, salted butter slathered from edge to edge. Butter soaking into the toast was strictly forbidden. It had been the law of the land ever since the new King took over these boundaries. The butter must be thick and creamy. It must be steadfast! IT MUST STAND ON ITS OWN!

Psssst… I’m the new King and I shall enforce this butter law if it’s the last thing I do.

Next came the cheese. I’m a big fan of Colby Jack for a ham sandwich. Marbled perfectly and talented at melting, the combination of flavors is brilliant. I like to imagine myself under a thick blanket of hot cheese, no bare spots apparent, hence the required thickness of the cheese blanket. The cheese can’t be too hot, or one would end up like a Chalupa. Too cold and you’re a slab of something that dropped off a lip and sat on the sidewalk until Jib-Jib the cat came to play.

Cheese and ham have been in a romantic relationship my whole life. Weddings, funerals, graduation parties, charcuterie boards, all attended by delicious ham and cheese. There is always a buttered bun pile too. If you had a really traditional family, several women would have spent the night cutting open and buttering the rolls for the hundreds of people attending whatever event came next. These ladies were also the ones who were stuck doing the dishes and judging the time it took the Pastor to deliver the service because “the meatballs are getting cold”.

Don’t think ham doesn’t deserve its own paragraph. I know what you’re thinking. Pork isn’t Kosher! Pigs are so cute and smart… and then ALL OF A SUDDEN there is a spritz of bacon juice in the air and the next thing you know you’re eating humans that you lure to your house with small cakes and happy smiles! “You need to use the toilet?” BAM! Locked door. Human meat feast. It’s a slippery slope and ham is the gateway meat.

Since cheese hangs out with ham, I figure we’re all playing fairly and continue to go for it despite my hesitation. If you’re a ham and cheese die-hard or someone under the age of 7, you can go without all the veggies that Auntie Barb wants you to pack on. BUT, if you’re ready for a great experience, add some of your favorite mustard, a mix of greens, a fat tomato and a rectangle of parchment paper wrapped around it like you wrap up a newborn baby.

I like to stamp my paper with a homemade stamp. It’s a cat with my name on it, given to me by my late mum. Most people are wildly jealous of this stamp, asking where I got it and fingering the mark on the paper just a little before ripping it in half to get at the sandwich like the Hulk rips off his shirt during his angry transformation. I don’t take it personally. The ham and cheese are attending this event, and they must be consumed.

You may ask who I am? Boring question I’m afraid. I’m a nameless bastard from Kent with lettuce now clinging to my teeth and a collection of hot rocks with no one to warm them. I have two Nintendo 64s that don’t work, a fetching tablecloth from the 1940s that no one ever comes over to see, and 39 channels of premium cable including the American MLB Network. Sure, I’m blessed.

The last girlfriend I had took my dog with her when she decided I was eating too much cabbage. She said she could never conceive of having a baby with someone who smelled like Grandpa’s latest diet. I wasn’t too sad about her leaving as she had a way of making me feel like a walking flaccid penis. But that dog was the best friend I ever had in this world. He was the Robin to my Batman. Or perhaps I was the Alfred to his Batman? He did have an inordinate amount of lady dog friends coming around the house. Once I shined a flashlight under the couch and saw what I think was female dog laying on a McDonald’s wrapper, gazing up into his eyes.

Since the dog left, I’ve been playing with the idea of writing or picking up some kind of sport. I needed a hobby. I needed to get these feelings out somehow. After trying and failing badly at Tennis and running in the park, I saw an ad for a weekly writing competition on the internet and bookmarked it for several days until I had the courage to actually try and write something. “Write what you know,” said my neighbor. Although telling him wasn’t the plan. I get so nervous and awkward whenever I see him. I’ll freeze up and tell him the weirdest things. Last week I described, in depth, the feeling of the bathmat between my toes. “Best thing I’ve ever bought” I had said with what felt like real tears in my eyes.

I decided to follow my neighbor’s advice. I was going to write what I knew. I didn’t have a laptop or a typewriter, so I sat down on my smart phone to order one or the other. I realized after much research, that I couldn’t spring any of these purchases, especially for a hobby that may not satisfy. I texted my brother who I knew collected several antiques, including several old typewriters. He was happy to unload a few things to make room for more of the same.

Typewriter in hand, I headed home from my brother’s house. I was on my own for ribbons and paper, but the working 1920s era typewriter should do exactly what I needed it to do. It even had its own case, real black leather, frayed from wear and tear with a handle for easy transportation. When I arrived home, I set it up on the desk. I opened the case and sat face to face with what looked like a rusty old engine. I was surprised the letter keys were able to move at all. I placed a piece of paper into the slot and used the wheel on the right to turn the paper inside the machine. Then I typed the following test sentence: I’m hungry for a ham sandwich.

I pressed the ENTER key and pulled out my piece of test paper to see what had happened. The sentence was not there. So, I wrote myself a note to get typewriter ribbon at the store or online the next day. I sat back in the same chair and played on my phone for a while, eventually getting hungry and shuffling into the kitchen to find something to eat.

I did a double take upon entering the kitchen and almost tripped on my slippers. On the counter next to the stovetop was the most beautiful plate I’d ever seen. It looked like real Jade from China, highly sought after stuff at one point in time. On the plate perched the most magnificent sandwich. The bun was a freshly made croissant, crafted with layers of butter, filled with all of my favorite things. These were items that looked like they were stolen from a plate for the gods. The lettuce was multi-colored and crispy beyond the way Earth knows lettuce. The tomato was fried in what appeared to be real gold breadcrumbs. The cheese was running down the side of the bun like a waterfall in Hawaii. The ham, pink and nubile, called to me as a lonely virgin in a cornfield.

I looked around and, at first, I was kind of hoping someone might have done this for me out of love. Maybe my ex is here, and she decided she was wrong to leave!? I looked around anxiously for the culprit but didn’t find anyone else in the apartment. I called the concierge and asked him if anyone had access to 9B in the last 24 hours? He giggled a little and said, “Sir, you haven’t had a guest in years.” I hung up the phone, slightly humiliated. Was I hallucinating? What the devil was going on here?

Deciding to enjoy the sandwich, no matter its origin, I brought the plate to the couch and switched on the television. Finally mustering the courage to take a bite of the mystery sandwich, I immediately sat upright like a teacher was about to scold me for falling asleep during class. THIS WAS THE BEST THING I HAVE EVER PUT IN MY MOUTH. But how? From whom? When? I tried to wake myself up from dreaming by digging my teeth into my arm. Nope. Not dreaming. Time for a cocktail, probably.

I poured myself one Tequila and Lemonade after the other. Listening to a tune or two, I turned my gaze to the antique typewriter. I sat down at the desk and typed a new message onto the same piece of paper I had earlier, much farther down the page. As I was feeling quite silly from the Tequila, I wrote “I’d like to meet the Muffin Man”. As soon as I had written it, a knock came at my door. I looked in horror at the entrance but after a few seconds of panic realized this couldn’t be real.

I walked over and opened the door. “It’s cool if you want to munch on me, man,” he said as he swayed in, blueberry muffin head, blueberry muffin torso, blueberry muffin legs and arms, blueberry muffin hands and feet. He didn’t appear to have eyes or a mouth but could talk just like you and me. He sat himself down on the couch and crossed his muffin legs, picking up an outdated copy of Vogue and paging through. I believe I then ran into a low hanging lamp and concussed myself because when I woke up everything was black and I was lying on the floor. No Muffin Man, nor any further memories of interactions with the Muffin Man. And why blueberry?

Rather curious after my haunted dream, I made myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the typewriter once again. My head was swimming with different scenarios. I didn’t want them to be scary or weird. What did I really want more than anything? I typed: Beautiful Janet with her hair of gold, wearing nothing at 127 pounds and 5 foot 3, breasts obnoxiously perky, greets me at my door. Janet wants to make love to me fiercely and not leave until my apartment is clean. After this free service, she’ll leave forever as if she never existed, as if I never loved her and she never loved me.

Unfortunately, nothing happened until several hours later when she found me on the toilet. It was indeed meeting me at a door like I had written but not specified. Janet’s breasts were obnoxiously perky. Her body perfectly supple like a ripe pear. I kept staring at her skin like milk. “Could I have just a taste,” I asked, forgetting where I was. She seemed disgusted by my pooping and left the room, slamming the door. When I came out, she had tidied up the bedroom and lay with one arm up over my pillow, waiting for me to make love to her.

“Don’t wait,” she said in the voice of my Freshman Biology teacher. “I have another appointment at 2:30.” I swooped over and immediately took her, heaving my lonely body into hers until I sobbed and came, flopping like a pile of dirty laundry onto her chest. She patted my head and mumbled a goodbye. After she left the bedroom, I laid there for quite a while, contemplating the events of the last few days. When I emerged from the bedroom, the apartment was spotless, and Janet was nowhere to be seen. She even cleaned that little spot where I’d killed a fly 4 months ago but couldn’t bring myself to look at. I guess I felt guilty about it. Poor little bugger.

The next day I had to work. It was a safe, mundane data entry job, which I could never lose as long as I showed up Monday through Friday and didn’t steal the supplies. Before I left for the day, I thought to have a little fun with the typewriter. I typed: My boss will wear a ballerina costume today and give me a very big raise! The company will also provide all the workers with a free lunch in my honor composed of all you can eat lobster and mac and cheese. The servers will all be from the royal family, dressed formally to showcase the best of England.

Then I may have written a few more small things…

Immediately upon my arrival to work, not only did I receive an enormous raise, but a promotion! My boss was dressed in the outfit worn by the Prima ballerina in Swan Lake. During the celebratory lunch, I was asked to eat at the boss’s desk while he danced around feeding my co-workers noodles one at a time with his fingers.

As only natural, many co-workers were extremely surprised and suspicious of my sudden success. Several of them tried to start fights with me and some even followed me home from work. “What did you do to the boss!?” “I’ve been here for 25 years and they only thing I ever got was a boot up the old arse when I asked for an extra holiday!” “Teresa only got 2 days for maternity leave!” “James and I have been trying to save for Theodore’s University for years! You slip the boss some acid and suddenly you’re the richest man in Kent? Pardon me!?”

I sped home in the cherry red Lamborghini I failed to mention to you early, parked in a rush, and ran inside to the typewriter.

I typed: Please have the people at work forget about today’s events.

The hard knocks that had followed me to the door subsided and everyone drove home, unaware of what they were so upset about. I sat for many hours trying to think of a way to free myself from my situation while still benefiting from the typewriter’s powers. I didn’t want any side-effects, of course. I needed to really think this through.

Unable to sleep that night, possible scenarios and consequences flashed through my head. I could fake my own death, move somewhere else entirely and live a life created by the typewriter. I could get rid of the typewriter completely or only use it for small spontaneous things, like flowers for a girl, free gas for life and never-ending ham sandwiches. I could be very happy with that.

Whatever I decided, it should definitely be a total secret so evil doers don’t get their dirty hands on it! But am I being selfish in not helping others with this power? What if I typed in ‘World peace’?

Being a fairly simple chap, as dull a man as my introduction began, the pressure from the decision left me feeling rather stressed. I threw a shirt over the machine to give myself a few weeks to think.

I continued on with my dull life. Going to work, playing Match-3 games on my mobile phone, and mastering the perfect ham-sandwich on my own. I even went to the shelter to get a new dog. I adopted the only male dog who stared into my eyes as I stroked his soft dopey ears. He was a senior old boy who had a good life until his mate passed away. His name was Rusty. There was something about Rusty that made me want to live a better life. My thoughts immediately went to the rusty typewriter.

When Rusty and I got home, the first thing I did was conjure up a new fancy leather collar and leash for Rusty and a new doggy bed, complete with extra space in case he met a girl dog. After a day or so he had all the finest dog shampoos and pad lotions and treats made with Wagyu beef. A month in Rusty had an Appalachian wool sweater made from the oldest loom in the world and a water dish that never emptied, complete with a self-cleaning fountain.

Instead of buying poorly sliced ham from the deli, I conjure up whole hams from the typewriter, already cooked and glazed with the finest of honeys and jams. Rusty and I snack on the ham while watching sappy Romantic Comedies. His favorite actress is Jennifer Aniston. I’m more of an Annette Bening fan. Rusty doesn’t understand this and often hides his nose under his paw when I try to argue about it.

We are two simple chaps living a dull life with really nothing to hide or too much to explain. When you see us in public, you would never know that I have a magic device or that Rusty will live every moment as long as I will. If you’re a friend, you’ll leave after a visit with a fantastic ham sandwich, wrapped in paper, hand-stamped with the cat stamp from my late mum. Rusty will shake your hand like a gentleman, and you’ll smile politely, being none the wiser that I could change your life in only a second just by typing something on a typewriter.