Talking Trash

It's nine thirty-six on a chilly September evening. Were you to look at the scene from a distance, you'd see Mr. Z's Sandwich Emporium with its bountiful fluorescent lighting to keep the darkness at bay or, perhaps, to contain it. You'd note three people within its red-brick walls, and three beyond. Inside, a haggard quadragenarian wraps and removes perishables from the line as a portly teenaged girl diligently counts money beside the cash register, while a second, nondescript girl mops the floor at a furious pace. Outside, you'd see a rugged, run-of-the-mill picnic table, and at one end of that table sits a strikingly underweight man thoroughly enjoying his food. Another, equally-conspicuous man leans against the brick exterior, next to the door, absolutely destroying a gargantuan sandwich. The third, a woman, sits atop the opposite end of the picnic table; hunched over, one leg dangling, the other arched, she smokes her sixth cigarette of the evening. There's nothing profound about the situation, but that's what you'd see.

"Nice sandwiches," Chad adamantly declares. He's just swallowed the last bit of his Chipotle Chicken Club. Todd hands him a bag of Funyuns for dessert, which is precisely what Chad's been craving for the past four seconds.

"Told you." Megan has yet to begin her meal, but food can wait, smoking can't. She's correct about the quality of Mr. Z's menu, perchance, though the woman has a way of describing food that's extremely underwhelming. A tender, meat-falls-from-the-bone rack of hickory-smoked baby back ribs brushed with spicy garlic barbecue sauce served with baked beans and cornbread muffins is labeled good shit, yet so is a corn dog nuked in a microwave subsequently lathered with honey mustard. Similarly, stale pretzels, applesauce, and warm Coke alike suck balls. Crass, perhaps, but refinement is a disastrously overrated quality when Mountain Dew and cigarettes comprise one's daily breakfast.

Todd's uses his Funyuns to give his sandwich the proper crunch factor by aligning four unblemished rings atop the jalapeno peppers with exemplary precision. He loathes real onions immensely, but Funyuns exonerate the vegetable of any culinary crime, however egregious, and validate their very existence.

"And?" Chad inquires just before pouring the bag of salty treats into his gaping mouth. To this, Megan exhales a noxious cloud of dilapidated death.

"And I said you'd like it, and you do. And?"

"And you say a lot of stupid things," Chad says, face sullen. Todd licks some wayward mustard from his lips as he listens intently, hoping that the situation will escalate shortly.

"You're still mad about the Elephant Man reference, huh. Don't hold back the tears, my friend."

"No. Falcor the Fuck Dragon was too much."

"Seriously?" Smoke crawls out from her nostrils and begins its futile ascent toward the heavens. "That's the one that's bothering you? Sure, I figured you'd be all mopey about something, but that? C'mon... Besides, you started it. Asking about how I looked during high school and all."

"One small thing," Chad counters succinctly.

"Your tirade did carry on, and on, and on," Todd adds just before ingesting the remnants of his sub.

Megan flicks the remainder of her cigarette onto the cracked pavement just beneath her dangling foot. "Yeah, yeah. Just take half my sandwich and we'll call it even, alright?" Chad folds his arms, mulls things over, and then greedily accepts the peace offering because that's what he'd been angling for all along.

"Well played, sir, " Todd commends his best pal, while Megan tears the bag of Cheetos open, still neglecting the second half of her sandwich. Crunching away, she sluggishly drops off the picnic table and begins pacing both aimlessly and erratically, utterly preoccupied with the cheesy snacks. The taped-up fingers of her right hand become a mishmash homage to the coming holiday as splotches of powdery orange pepper shiny strands of ebony. Chad, meanwhile, is busy making a mess of himself. Chunks of tuna lubricated by a deluge of vinegar effortlessly pass through the oven-roated hindquarters of a once-delectable submarine sandwich onto a pair of dilapidated Converse All-Stars. His face, for all its irreparable flaws, now sports a quaint goatee made up of cheese, tuna, oregano, chips, and other unidentifiable bits of food, with a smattering of mayonnaise acting as the glue.

"I know where dear Choad stands, and I know where I stand," Megan purrs, "but what about you, Toddy Bear?"

"'Tis a first-rate delicatessen," he responds, "but that's irrelevant, if one considers its inevitable demise. Shall I declare the Velociraptor a first-rate hunter, or the Dodo a first-rate bird?"

"Do you like the sandwiches? Yes, or no?" Her voice lowers this time; focused, playfully demanding yet above all, coy. Throughout the past three months, Todd has learned quite a bit regarding one Megan Erickson, most of which has been extrapolated from her selected behaviors. For all that could be said about her resilience, she is, first and foremost, serpentine by design, reptilian by inclination. She'll twist, slither, and glide through the grass, darting to and fro, but her seemingly nonsensical motions are deceptive, and though he may not grasp the precise goal of this slippery snake, Todd knows that the grass itself is merely for show, to both assuage and reaffirm the rodents' fear of impending doom. Todd understands this, but the question of which rodent awaits digestion perplexes him, a situation compounded by the woman's elusive demeanor. Much like before, in the store, the answer itself is of no importance, or is it? Then again, had the girl's answer, however ingratiating, been of any consequence? Too much grass.

Todd rolls his eyes. "Yes. The sandwich was exquisite, as I'm sure my compatriot would agree."

"Then we're all in agreement!" she cheers, dropping the bag of Cheetos to slap her palms together with a pride the likes of which is rarely seen outside of high school gymnasiums.

"Of what?" Todd quips impatiently.

"That Mr. Z's Sandwich Emporium should stay in business, of course."

Chad wipes his chin (relatively speaking) and takes a gulp from his cup, all in the name of contemplation. He had expected something more, though the woman's answer is placating him nicely, as is the terrific food. Doing nothing is about as easy as it gets, and he likes that.

Todd's less than satisfied with Megan's decree. He's been hauling her junk within his denim backpack for the last three hours, and for what purpose? To consume honey ham on white? "What about this?" he spits out as he unstraps the pack and tosses it upon the table in frustration.

Megan stops pacing. "Oh, that." Again, she examines her fingers. Those on the right hand have been caked with orangish residue. "I'm a righty, you know," she states just before wiping said hand on Todd's oily hair.

"Cut it out, bitch."

"But it's such an improvement for the both of us! Well, then again, maybe not, but good enough," she concedes upon viewing the lackluster results. She unzips the backpack and gently caresses the shadowy object contained within its folds. Its hairy near the top; rather coarse, not too lengthy, and a bit prickly. Further down, the hair gives way to a rubbery substance of some kind, at times rough, yet at others quite smooth, with various ridges and indentations to accentuate its uniqueness. Further still, the gristly matter grows tougher, with points that jut out profusely, yet intentionally. It feels like a revolution, don't you know?

"This doesn't belong here," she informs her friends, her voice a pensive moan between estranged lovers caught up in a foolish relapse.

Todd shakes his head. "You put it there," he laments.

"I did, but it doesn't belong here," she repeats, and it makes perfect sense. The three of them finish their drinks and trash the remainder of their feast except for the latter half of Megan's tuna melt, which is stashed within Todd's backpack. From inside the store, the trio of employees eyes them warily, and it's evident that one group must depart before the other is willing to do the same.

At ten sixteen, the lights are out and everyone's gone, with three employees resting safely at home.