The First Sandwich

The early morning sun streaked in through the greasy saloon windows. The men around the table were slowly dwindling. The most responsible of them had called it a night at 10:00pm, then the next crowd left around 1:00am, another crowd of particularly troublesome men left at 4:00am. Finally, there were only a handful of men left at 6:45am, who completely and utterly lacked any devotion to anything but the table. Even in this group, the men were separated from boys, and soon, two of the three men looked at the rising sun, rubbed their sore eyes, groaned at their splitting headaches, and decided there were better things to do with the day.

Soon only I remained.

“Come on, where are you going!? There’s nothing to do today. It’s what, Friday?”

“It’s Monday, John!” One grumbled as he pushed in his chair. “We’ve got work to do.”

“Come on, it’s early, one more round—”

I was cut off as they pushed out the bat-wing doors. I was left in the dank, dusty bar, alone except for the barkeep who was methodically shining the counter.

I’ll show them. Oh yes. Just wait. The cards are hot today, I can feel it.

So I got myself up and walked outside to the blazing Texas sun, which was already hot against my back at…I didn’t know what time it was because I had lost my watch last night at the tables after my cash ran out.

I walked across the bare earth and splashed my face with water from the spigot by the edge of the fence.

I looked around. Here’s a problem, I thought. How can I get any more money to gamble with?

I had already lost my watch and all of my cash.

Wait a minute.

I reached down into my left boot and felt alongside my sweaty ankle. Crammed against it was an almost unfeelable bump in the inside of my boot. I broke the seams and found my secret stash. $5.00. Not too bad at all. This, plus my belt buckle, the boots themselves, and maybe my hat—no, never my hat—but anyways… with all that, I should be well set to win myself a fortune. Now, just to wait.

Walking back into the saloon, my eye caught the spittoon in the corner. It was so shiny it hurt my eyes when the sun shone against it. I could see myself in its reflection. I didn’t stop to think on it much. I was a tall, lanky fellow; coarse blond hair that stuck to the side of my face; and some peach fuzz that took a week to grow in.

I had been in this town for 2 years now, ever since I got chased out of the last one on gambling debts. I tried to never stay in one place for too long since my line of work—bad gambling—didn’t tend to accumulate many friends. Of my past, no one could tell you much and I wasn’t one for talking except about cash and cards.

Some days, I seemed decent at the game. You’d think I was one of those card sharks with a perfect photographic memory that could memorize the order of a deck card for card. Other days, you’d think I learned the game yesterday. And worse, my betting was as sporadic as my skill. One day betting pennies, the next it seemed like I was trying to lose as much as I could.

Over ten towns and 15 years of being an addict to the tables, I had won and lost thousands, maybe tens of thousands of dollars. But I kept coming back, seeming to have no passion, motive, or desire in the world other than gambling, and always, always, thinking that today would be the day I won big.

I sat at one of the tables in the middle of the saloon, my back to the wall. A perfect position developed over the years. Anyone who came in would see me, but should they prove hostile, there were enough tables between us to get away before the six-shooters came out.

The barkeep was grumbling to himself about how he could never get this guy to leave and never get his cheap butt to buy anything either.

I waited anxiously for the first opponent to come in. I sometimes would forget that not everyone had as much spare time to gamble as I did.

Finally the doors swung open and a figure walked in. I held my breath, before letting out an angry sigh.

Father Isiah.

Father Isiah was the town’s sole minister. He came in a little after I did, making him the only one less known than myself.

I sighed. Father never gambled and often his visits came with long talks that scared away other gamblers.

My stomach growled. I hadn’t eaten in quite some time. In fact…I thought for a minute and found I couldn’t remember when I had eaten last. I looked at my ribs poking out from my skin and grimaced. Oh well, all trials of the game.

“Hello Father,” I grumbled without looking at him.

“Johnny…” Here it comes: ‘2000 year ago our savior—’

“Johnny, when was the last time you ate?”

“Huh?” I wasn’t expecting that.

“When was the last time you ate?”

“I don’t know? Maybe…”

I thought back: I had picked from a pig pile about a week ago, bought a bottle of whiskey with my winnings on Tuesday, the barkeep gave me some crusty bread on Wednesday, or was that the week before?

“I dunno.”

Father Isiah sighed.

“Why don’t you take some money,” He handed me one dollar. “And go buy yourself some real food.”

My eyes lit up at the money; that’d make six dollars total, more than enough to win a fortune.

Isaiah must have seen the devious glint in my eyes because he had second thoughts and retracted his offer.

“How about we go together and buy ourselves a nice brunch?”

I sighed.

“Sorry Father, no can do. You see, I’m working.”

The barkeep grunted a laugh which I glared at, but then ignored.

Isaiah sighed and got up.

“Fine, if you refuse to leave, then I will find you some food, because one of these days you will starve yourself to death sitting right here at your beloved table.”

I crossed his arms, “Don’t worry Father, one more night and I’ll hit it big, really big this time, and I’m off to a high lifestyle like never before.”

Isiah sighed and walked out the doors.

Finally, the first gambler of the day came in.

His dark eyes glittered with greed and intelligence, but this didn’t stop my confidence. For my eyes also glittered with…something. I wasn’t sure what exactly, but I was sure it was something. Today was the day. One more day at the tables and I could leave forever.

The game started and I bet slowly, savoring my $5.00.

After a few rounds, I was feeling good and threw caution to the wind.

I bet $4.00 on that next round, but soon found myself in a pickle.

“I’ll take 3.” I said to the barkeep, who was now serving as the dealer.

I looked at my new cards and grimaced.

Oh boy, this was not good.

A king of spades, queen of hearts, 9 of diamonds, 3 of diamonds, and 8 of diamonds. Not a straight, pair, not even an ace high.

I was sweating now. I had bet four dollars on this game confidently. Maybe tonight is not going to be the night and maybe I’ll have to find another town. That's too bad, I kind of liked it here.

Just then, Father Isiah walked in with a plate. On it was something I couldn’t make out.

Ignoring the game, Isiah sat down next to me and presented the plate.

“Alright, you don’t want to leave the table, so I brought lunch to you, something you can easily eat with one hand or two and with no need of a plate, fork, or even napkins. Enjoy.”

Whatever he had made drew my attention from the cards. What was it? A slice of thick bread, a layer of butter, tomatoes, lettuce, red onions. Crispy bacon hot off the griddle, followed by a layer of some meat, maybe turkey or ham. And was that thinly sliced smoked sausages?

I looked at it confused. Who would put all that into one dish? What even was it? Was it a meal, a snack? Is it healthy? Filling? A side dish or main course? A starch? A vegetable? A condiment? A meat? Or all of them?

I sniffed—horseradish. Suddenly I was back in New York with Ma and Pop. Ma would always go to the vegetable man on 45th street and buy the best horseradishes there. I could suddenly vividly remember their knobby, gnarled roots twisting and turning around each other. Their strong pungent smell would stay in the house almost constantly and was a staple of my childhood.

I heard an impatient grunt from my fellow card player.

“Are you folding?”

I didn’t even seem to hear him, captivated by this new invention.

I reached out and my mouth began to water. I grabbed it and was about to bite in.

“Eh hem.” Father Isiah cleared his throat.

“Oh, uh, thank you Father.”

“And…”

“Oh, uh, bless us oh lord and these gifts which we are about to receive…”

Finally, I bit in.

This was better than the thrill of the table, better than the adrenaline of playing soccer as a youth, better than winning an argument, better than the first burning sip of whiskey and so much better than moldy tomatoes and dry bread given as food for the hogs.

I finished it slowly, but it didn’t seem to last long enough. My opponent had walked away, but I didn’t even notice.

I patted my stomach afterwards, thoroughly content and happy for the first time in a long time.

Father Isiah smiled.

“Well?”

“Heavenly.”

He grinned again and a thought came into my head.

“What was it?”

“I don’t quite know, it sort of just came to me, but I think I know what we should call it.”

“What’s that?”

“We should name it after you.”

“What the ‘Johnny’?”

“No, after your family name.”

“Oh.”

Well, Sandwich did have a nice ring to it.