Sandwich Guy: A Romantic Short Story Page 2

  “Thank you,” he said, she turned to him, he looked different, his energy seemed to have calmed down, his frantic, frenetic movement was gone and he stood, calm, still, smiling. “Thanks for... talking and, putting up with that bit of insanity.” He waved and walked off. Izzy watched him, unsure of what he meant, unsure of what had just happened, but sure of one thing, she was happy and she was, in fact, feeling very, very good.

  ***

  Clavin clenched his jaw, he twisted his napkin up into a ball and then smacked it hard on the table. She watched, as if from a great distance. He looked around the room, making sure no one was watching. Clavin hated to make a scene, hated to be noticed for the wrong reasons in public.

  “Just... will you please be reasonable,” he pushed the words through clenched teeth, “just get your stuff out of my apartment.”

  “No,” Izzy said, sipping her tea, still feeling very good, free, some part of her holding onto the conversation with the funny, odd, captivating man she had met two days ago. She had gotten several calls from Clavin, each one more frantic, more desperate and she finally agreed to meet him at a small cafe that they used to frequent. She informed him that she was not going to take any of her things back. She had her clothes, her papers and her books. As for the rest he could do with it what he pleased. “I don’t want them and I don’t need their... energy any longer,” she informed him, placing her tea cup down on the table, punctuating the moment.

  “Jesus, Izzy, you’re being completely... I don’t know what but, it’s not good, it really isn’t...” He tried to make sense but was obviously confused. “The energy... I don’t... What about your desk, you love the desk.”

  “I also loved you Clavin and that was easily extinguished, I am sure I will move on from the desk...” she resisted saying ‘as you have moved on from me’ because she didn’t feel that was necessary. She no longer cared that he had or hadn’t moved on. She cared about not bringing his energy, the energy of their shared place, into her life ever again. She thought a lot about the frantic man with the sandwich in the days after the meeting on the sidewalk and, it had made sense to her. “I have decided not to be a shelf that holds souvenirs of bad items,” she told him. He shook his head as if he had been punched and was trying to get clear again.

  “What the fuck does that mean,” his voice much louder than he expected, and a few heads turned toward their table. He sucked in a breath, held it, and then placed his palms down on the table to control himself. “You’re making no sense, Izzy, just... Just come and get the stuff.” She shook her head. “Did, what did you already go and buy all new furniture, is that is?” Again, she shook her head. “Then what, Izzy, what is it that you’re playing at?”

  “I’m not playing, at least I’m not playing with you, not anymore. I have not bought new furniture, truth be told, I have nothing. I’m sleeping on three quilts my mother gave me, that I had in storage, on the floor and, for the rest... nothing. I have nothing. And, it feels okay.” This was true.

  After she had the conversation with the sandwich man, Izzy had gone home and stood in her new, clean, bare apartment and it didn’t feel empty to her. She thought about her things, thought about the sandwich, wondered what energy she would be inviting into her life if she brought anything from Clavin’s place into her new place. She made the decision not to take anything back, not to bring any of it into her new place, instead she would buy new furniture. Oddly though, as she wandered through stores, looking at couches and beds, chairs, end tables, she began to wonder what the history of all the pieces was. Were the people who built the furniture happy, angry...? Would she be taking their energy into her place? Would she take that into her life, into her body? She gave her chest a little thump. Less passionate than the sandwich man’s loud, aggressive stomach punches but, still, the same idea. She left the furniture store.

  “This is fucked up, Izzy,” Clavin said, standing, pulling his wallet out and dropping a few bills on the table. “I am going to throw all your stuff out on the streets, is that what you want?”

  “That’s okay, Clavin,” she told him, feeling all her initial anger and hurt over the breakup just melt off her body, “I would prefer it if you donated it to charity or something like that but, if you need to toss it on the streets to heal, then I think that’s the best thing for you to do.” He stood looking down at her for a moment, saying nothing, looking at her, his expression was one of confusion and anger.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said at last, “I really don’t.” He waited for a response, got none, and then walked out.

  “Maybe that was the problem all along,” she said to the space that he once occupied.

  ***

  “Do you want to borrow something?” Abby asked. She and Izzy were standing in Izzy’s new place looking it over, “I mean... I don’t know... A table or...something?” Izzy shook her head. She was still very happy with the sparse nature of her place. She was doing her writing in various coffee shops around the city, feeling more inspired than ever, being in and among people while she wrote.

  “I don’t feel as closed off,” she told Abby, “and I am writing more pages every day than I ever have. I feel inspired by the world. It’s been great.”

  “Well, that’s cool, I guess,” Abby said looking around the empty apartment, “but you have... nothing.”

  “I have you,” Izzy said and hugged Abby, “my best friend.”

  “Are you... okay?” Abby asked, not really buying into the fact that Izzy was happy with bare walls and floors. “Are you, honestly or are you just...you know, compensating for... the break-up?”

  People of late talked to her about “the break-up” like it was a huge, historical milestone. Like the Great War or 9/11. The break-up was often whispered and accompanied by looks of pity or tender touches on her arm. At first, she felt it was sweet, kind, caring, but now, even after only a few weeks, she was tired of it. She was tired of being defined as the woman who was dumped. She felt so far away from that. She was living, being happy, writing, and making sure she didn’t take in too much of the bad energy of the world. Things were truly good.

  “No, Abby, I am not compensating. I am not bottling things up and I am not going to have a great exploding break down, I’m not,” she assured her friend, “I am really doing great. I am really happy and I am really loving my new, sparse space.” Abby looked her over, decided it was true and relaxed.

  “Okay, good, I’m thrilled to hear that because I need a favor,” Abby said and Izzy braced for something horrific. She hoped, with all her heart that Abby wasn’t going to ask her to go on a blind date, or an arranged date, or anything like that. Even though she was feeling good, she was not ready to get involved, even peripherally, with anyone. “I just started seeing this guy, he’s a lighting designer and he has a show opening tonight and he wants me to come. I like him...a lot... But, I don’t know anything about the theater, and I don’t want to go alone, so will you please, please, please go with me?”

  “Of course,” Izzy said, relieved the favor didn’t involve her trying to be polite on a terrible date with a stranger. “A lighting designer, that’s kind of cool.”

  “I know,” Abby said and then was silent for a moment. “Iz, I have no idea what a lighting designer does.” They burst out laughing and it echoed in the empty room. Izzy liked the sound, like multiple voices laughing all at once. She suddenly wondered how often she had laughed while living with Clavin.

  ***

  “Sandwich guy!” she gasped when the lights came up on stage and she saw him, sitting in a chair, holding a wrapped sandwich in his hand. Abby shushed her. Izzy hunched down and whispered an apology. There he was. When he started to speak, he said the same things he had said to her when they both sat on the sidewalk. The exact same thing. She was fascinated. His performance was stunning. He was that hyper, frenetic man she had met that day. He spoke of the taking in of other’s emotions, of not eating the cheeseburger, all of it.

  At first,
she was uneasy, slightly upset that she had been, obviously, played, used as some sort of acting excursus, but, as the show rolled on, she was so mesmerized by his work that the anger floated away and was replaced by awe. When the show ended, the audience rose to its feet at curtain call, the applause and shouts for sandwich man were the loudest, because he truly was stunning.

  When the house lights came up, Izzy grabbed the program which she had barely glanced at before the performance. She flipped to the cast page and found his picture. Gabriel Allverse. She ran a finger over his picture and tried to read his bio, but Abby grabbed her by the hand and dragged her up the aisle into the lobby. There was a gathering there, a bar had been set up, and vested servers circulated trays of snacks, mostly variations of small sandwiches. Abby introduced Izzy to Devon, the lighting designer, and they made small talk for a moment. He seemed very nice, bright, and she could see that Abby was really into him.

  “Okay,” Abby said to him, “I have to confess, I have no real idea what a lighting designer does.” He smiled, took her hand, told her he would be happy to show her, and took her back into the theater for a lesson on lighting design. Izzy bade her good night, told her she would speak to her in the morning. She congratulated Devon on the show and was about to leave when she saw sandwich man, Gabriel, walk into the lobby. He was immediately engulfed by a group of patrons.

  She watched him from a distance. He was polite, but she noticed he seemed uneasy with the attention. The crowd around him began to thin, so Izzy snatched a sandwich from a passing tray and approached him. She waited a few feet away until the last person left his side, then she held out the sandwich to him.

  “Pristine,” she said, he turned politely laughing, expecting another well-wisher, but his eyes lit up when he saw Izzy. He recognized her and she was pleased.

  “Sidewalk girl,” he said.

  “Sandwich guy,” she shot back and they stood, slightly awkward, saying nothing for a moment. “My friend, Abby, she’s sort of dating your lighting designer, she brought me tonight, I’m not stalking you,” she told him, he chuckled and then, silence again. “You know, I was a little upset when the lights came up onstage and I saw you there. I truly thought you were homeless or, I don’t know, mentally disturbed. Now I find you’re just an actor, and you used me.”

  “Ouch,” he said, stuffing his hands deep into his pockets, “just an actor.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that,” she tried to end the unintentional wound. “Obviously you’re a very good actor.” He nodded his appreciation and then looked past her, across the lobby. A gaggle of older women had spotted him and decided that yes, he was who he was, and started to move toward him.

  “Listen, let’s get out of here,” he said, taking her arm and pulling her toward the exit. Izzy allowed herself to be led. Outside, he kept moving at a quick pace until they were about a block away from the theater. He slowed down.

  “Sorry,” he said, then confessed that he didn’t like all the attention post-show, he wasn’t comfortable in crowds, and it was his least favorite part of the job. “Don’t misunderstand me, I love the audience and I appreciate anyone who still supports live theater, I’m just basically an introvert and all the questions and attention makes me a little sick.” They stepped into an Irish pub, “This is my spot,” he told her as they settled into stools at the bar.

  “So, what was the deal that day, the whole on the sidewalk, sandwich thing?” she pressed him. She saw that he suddenly got embarrassed and wished she hadn’t brought it up.

  “Oh... that,” he said, playing with the glass of scotch in front of him.

  “Yes, that,” she said, taking a sip of wine. He thought for a moment, keeping his head down, his eyes on the glass and then, he took a breath and turned to her.

  “Okay, so that whole opening monologue, really almost everything I said to you on the street that day, I was having trouble with it. I couldn’t make sense of it, get the right tone, the pace, nothing was working. We were on a break, and I had just bought the sandwich and walked out of the shop. At that moment, I saw you drop to the sidewalk. No one stopped, no one did a damn thing. My first instinct was to go to you, help you out somehow, and see if you were okay. I took a few steps, noticed that you weren’t injured, not physically anyway, and stopped. I figured if I said anything to you, you would have said you were fine and been, I don’t know, embarrassed, maybe. You were so... You looked like someone had stolen you and returned you in pieces and... You were gloriously lovely and I wanted to... I don’t know, just spend a moment with you. So, before I knew what I was doing or could stop myself, I was sitting on the sidewalk with you and... Speaking the monologue.” He shrugged as way of apologizing and looked even more embarrassed. They were silent for a moment, Izzy playing the words over in her head, savoring the phrase gloriously lovely.

  “I’m sorry, he said after a moment, “it wasn’t my intention to use you or anything... I’m sorry.” She forgave him, thanked him for his kind words and his honesty. “The thing is,” he moved closer to her, his eyes got sharp and intense, “when you took the sandwich and bit it, when you risked taking into yourself all the anger or hate or whatever I had imbued the sandwich with...when you did that, everything suddenly clicked into place. Immediately the piece made total sense. I was going to tell you but then that cop showed up and you walked away and... I don’t know. You saved me, you really did and... I don’t even know your name.” Izzy laughed and stuck out her hand.

  “Isabelle Woods,” she said, “and it’s nice to meet you, Sandwich Guy.” He shook her hand.

  “Gabriel,” he told her and held her hand for a moment, “and the pleasure is mine.”

  “Honestly, you saved me, too,” she confided, and then she told him about Clavin and the break-up, the coldness in his voice, his declaration that he didn’t love her. She told him about shopping for furniture, and not wanting to bring anything into the new apartment that had odd or angry or bad energy. “So, I’m taking my time and really digging into the history of things before I take them home.” He was surprised that his ramblings on the street had made such an impression.

  “So, what have you got so far?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she said and laughed, “I have nothing at all.” They laughed and ordered another round. “I was struck by something you said on the sidewalk, but you didn’t say it in the play.”

  “What was that?”

  “You said your life shouldn’t be a shelf to house souvenirs from bad times,” he nodded, “oh no,” Izzy gasped. “Please tell me you meant that, and it wasn’t just some bullshit, made up in the spot.”

  “No, no,” he said quickly saving her from distress, “that’s actually... I believe that. I based the character on that idea. I really think it’s true. I’m just... I’m surprised it had that kind of effect on you.”

  “It did,” Izzy said, relieved, “walk me home.” He agreed.

  ***

  “You weren’t kidding,” he said, peeking into her apartment but not crossing the threshold, “you really have nothing.”

  “Yup, totally serious.”

  “You have a great view,” he remarked and then stepped back. “I should go, I have two shows tomorrow, need to get some sleep.” He thanked her for seeing the show, for spending time. “I hope I see you again,” he told her as he left. She ran to the windows and looked down to the street, waiting for him to come out of her building.

  “Please look up,” she wished out loud, when he appeared. She watched him walk a few steps, stop and then, look up toward her windows. She knew he couldn’t see her but, that didn’t matter. What mattered was, he looked up.

  ***

  “You’re behaving like some kind of coffee shop slacker, wannabe writer, Izzy,” Clavin said, standing over her table at the cafe. He had appeared beside her seconds before and immediately started to hassle her. “You’re a professional writer, so why don’t you come get your desk and start acting like an adult.” She looked up at him. He
seemed like a memory from years past. She recalled a time before when he had insinuated that she needed to grow up, act like a professional. She had been crushed, unable to write for several days. Now, his words dropped to the floor long before they could reach her heart. She gathered her things calmly, Clavin seething, waiting for a response, a reason to fight.

  “You know, Clavin,” she said softly, “maybe you’re right. Maybe you shouldn’t throw the desk into the street or donate it.”

  “Finally,” he said, “you’re finally making sense. Good. Do you want to come get it or would you like me to bring it to you?” Izzy thought for a moment.

  “Here’s what you should do. You should take the desk, and shove it as far up your ass as you possibly can.” She smiled and headed toward the door. There, she stopped and turned to him, “Of course, to get it really as far up there as you can, you’re going to have to remove that enormous stick that resides there first.” She smiled and left.

  ***

  On a Monday night, about three weeks later, Izzy sat cross-legged on her floor, her computer in her lap, surrounded by candles. There was a knock on the door and when she opened it, Gabriel was standing there.