Communion on Rye

Cheston stubbed his toe as he entered the rest stop, which definitely was not a sign. He sucked air through his teeth, careful to make sure it didn't whistle. An old habit from when he lived with Axel. The thought of his friend made his toe throb worse, but he blinked it off and willed himself further into the musty building. The walls were brick, and the space was filled mostly with tables and the plastic chairs that you always hope to have left behind in middle school. One corner housed a bathroom with shower stalls, and another had a small food stand. That was good. Cheston could not leave until he bought himself a sandwich.

It was a packed crowd for two in the morning: three men sat around a table, laughing so hard that their arms shook. They were obviously truckers, with the roughened skin and hairy hands that always made Cheston shove his own hands deep in his pockets. Back in his college years, he would spend his money on an array of creams that were supposed to make him absolutely sprout body hair. But either they were shams, or Cheston in particular was completely and utterly immune to the formula. Once, he had bought so many that he couldn't make rent and Axel had to bail him out. He stopped trying after that.

The only employee he could spot was a woman in her early thirties or so, probably about his own age. Her hair seemed to have been bright pink at one point, probably the same shade emo kids or whatever liked, but it had faded to just red of blonde. She sat at the food counter, idly flipping through an excessively thin book. Cheston approached. He tried to act casual, like he hadn't accidentally kicked a door frame a second ago. The woman looked up at him with pure boredom. That was acceptable. Boredom meant that she would make his sandwich without any small talk, and he could leave as soon as possible.

"Hello," Cheston said. "One sandwich, please."

The pink woman closed her book and set it aside. "What kind?" she asked. Her mouth moved excessively for the small phrase, and Cheston found himself staring. She continued, "We have ham, roast beef, and vegetarian."

"I don't care," Cheston said. He was still staring at her lips. He was pretty sure that he didn't move his own mouth that much. Maybe talking about sandwiches made you automatically move your jaw more, as if you were already preparing to chew.

"You have to pick something. We only have three options." Her teeth were a little big. Axel had always claimed that his own horse teeth were the reason why he chewed with his mouth open. But now there were two people with large teeth, so maybe Cheston was actually the odd one out here.

"I really don't care." He wasn’t supposed to be the one to pick. He felt self-conscious now, and barely moved his mouth in an effort to compensate. He kept his sentences short. "I just need a sandwich. Any kind. Please."

"Alright. That'll be $7.25."

Cheston handed over his debit card and waited the agonizing five seconds for it to approve. The pink woman smeared an uneven layer of hummus on two slices of bread, threw on some broccoli and cauliflower, placed it on the wrapper, and said “Have a good day.”

He took the sandwich and swiftly walked to safety across the room. If he chose a seat facing away from the woman and the truckers, then no one could see his mouth or his hands as he ate. That plan lasted for less than a minute—he just had time to sit down and contemplate the sandwich. He had evidently been handed the vegetarian option. He had expected something a little more…edible. Not in the bare minimum this-is-technically-safe-food kind of way. Usually, they had cheese. Or at least enough filling to cover all the bread. Was this how the pink woman always made them? Maybe his staring had put her off. He only had a moment to consider before he heard a shout behind him.

“Hey! You over there!”

Cheston turned around to see the three burly men staring at him. One of them, presumably the first one who’d shouted, said “What, are you just going to eat alone? We can always fit another guy, pull up a chair!”

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Every time he had done this, he'd eaten alone. Go to a rest stop late at night, get a random sandwich, wish Axel a happy birthday, and leave. Deviating from that could wreck the whole process. If it didn’t feel right, Cheston would have to order another sandwich and do it all over again, which would just attract further attention. He was taking too long to decide. The men were still looking at him.

He scrambled out of his chair and dragged it over. It scraped against the floor, so he picked it up and carried it the last two feet. He gingerly set the sandwich on the table and sank back into the chair.

“There we go,” the main trucker said. “What’s your name, man?”

“I’m Cheston.” He considered sitting on his hands, but that would look too childish. Instead, he folded them under the table.

The tall one who'd spoken was Rich, the shorter one with the sunglasses was Daryl, and the bald one with a ginger beard was Harlan. They resumed jawing away, finishing a story that had something to do with Daryl and a very large squirrel. Cheston realized that if he wanted to go home anytime soon, he had no choice but to start eating in front of them. He lifted up his sandwich, trying to laugh at appropriate times, and hoped that they didn't pay him much mind otherwise.

As the story wrapped, Harlan turned to him. "So, you on a road trip or something? Not a lot of reasons to be out so late at a place like this."

"Hmm? No, just..." His tongue felt heavy in his mouth. "Just something I used to do with a friend."

"Friend, huh? Was he a bull hauler like us?"

Cheston shook his head. "It's something we started doing a little out of college, I think? We'd planned on going bar-hopping for his birthday, but everything that can go wrong did. We ended up in a half-abandoned area that we didn't recognize, starving, and all we could find was a stop like this."

He still remembered how Axel had looked when they walked inside. His face lit up as if the dingy stop contained manna from the heavens. Cheston had been occupied staring out the window, trying to breathe in a way that didn't hurt, and wondering how they ended up here. Axel gave a clap on the shoulder and ordered them both meatball subs that came on soggy bread with too much sauce. It was to this day the best meal that Cheston had ever eaten. It became a tradition most years to go find a new truck stop every year and see if anything lived up. After Axel died, Cheston had continued it solo.

He continued, "We've already been to most of the stops in the area, so I have to branch pretty far out. I drove six hours to get here."

The men raised their eyebrows and nodded. "That's a long way for someone that don't have to," Daryl said. "That important to you?"

“Yeah. It is.”

Axel had once said that he thought of keeping Cheston sane as a badge of honor. Now, Cheston was doing everything he could to return the favor. If he could keep it going, it he could just keep running—then maybe, Axel would never truly die. Tonight, he had set up the ritual so perfectly, and it all fell apart. He should be feeling upset right now. But sitting at the crowded table, it was hard to deny that this, too, was a type of communion.

They went back to telling stories, and Cheston finished his sandwich. A yawn pricked through his throat and eyes. It was time to go.

Rich stood up and extended his hand. “Hey, thanks for stopping by. Bet your pal was lucky to have you.”

Cheston grasped his hand. “That means a lot.” Daryl and Harlan got up as well, and Cheston shook each of their hands in turn. He grabbed his sandwich wrapper, threw it away, and walked out the door.

“Happy birthday, Axel.”