The Portrait Of A Sandwich Artist As A Young Man

It all started when I was much younger than I am now. And now I am at the end of my prepubescent years. So it was at the pre-prepubescent part of my life. That was when I was much younger than I am now.

My father, a man of great prestige, a man of great honor, and a man full of great sandwiches had work to attend to on a daily basis. My father was once a sandwich artist himself, but has long since retired due to a lost passion toward this unforgiving artistic medium. Father took the road that straight and narrow- not the one that took place on sliced rye. Father felt that the sandwicherie field was too difficult to break into. Father did not know he was raising a true sandwich prodigy. Yet, my father knew he was raising me. And I was that sandwich prodigy.

I was/am the Picasso of the pepperoncini, I was/am the Monet of mayonnaise, and I was/am the Da Vinci of deli mustard.

Like I said, my father was a working man. The whole 9 to 5 lifestyle. Dad needed someone to make him sandwiches for his lunch. Like I said, he had lost his passion. Like I haven't said yet, I was recruited to take on this rigorous and demanding task of making his lunch. These delicacies had to be flawless. Or the former sandwich artiste (pops) would throw a conniption fit. I slaved over his precious sourdough loaves, I practiced the proper brushstrokes of mustard for hours, I studied until I perfected immaculate placement of oven roasted turkey, I also analyzed the proper placement of the tomato slices.

"GODDAMMIT!" Father would yell, when a slice of tomato was too thick for his mature taste. Father would throw the sandwich on the ground and stomp on it. I would sob uncontrollably. Father did not appreciate my genius. My craft.

I moved out.

I was eight and three quarters years old and I had dropped out of school. I was emancipated from my father. I did all of this in order to pursue the great American dream of sandwich art.

For a short while, I attempted selling my sandwich art with a little cart on the streets of downtown Rochester to customers who were obviously undeserving of my talents. I applied for positions at Blimpies, Quiznos and a local sandwich shop called Syracuse Submarines to showcase my abilities. No one would hire a kid who was eight and three quarters years old. Not even one who was a certified eight and three quarter year old sandwich artist. Devastated, I continued wandering the streets of downtown Rochester peddling my homemade sandwiches to undeserving, unappreciative folk. I did not have a food handler's card, my methods were not sanitary, and I didn't even merit sympathy based on my age. I was a true starving artist in every sense of that ugly title. Except the starving part. I had bags full of sandwiches.

Every last dime I received from making my delectable foodstuffs went into making more sandwiches. People pitied me, the sandwich artist. They spat on me. They told me to get a real job. I wouldn't listen, I was an artist- and I had already suffered from enough criticism form my father. I continued making sandwiches, inventing new ones- some with double meatballs, some with half cheese, and so on. Experimentation is the work of a true artist.

One day my dad walked past on his way back from work. At that time, I was living on my own, in a small one room studio. I was eleven, and I was receiving praise from all the local sandwich art critics. I was making customer's requests as well as my own daring inventions. The world was hailing me as the next; well, there was never a famous sandwich artist before me.

Back to my father. I guess if I was to be the next anyone, it would be my father. He walked past my cart one day. He was famished. He had had a really rough day at the office. His shoulders drooped, and his face was exhausted and emotionless. He approached and without making any attempt at eye contact barked, "Roast beef on sourdough. Easy on the mayo, bub."

Chills ran throughout my veins. Hairs stood on end. Anxiety ran throughout my thoughts as memories of being brutally beaten by this man who demanded perfection between two slices of rye on clearance. I grabbed my easy bake toaster and mumbled, "That will be three dollars and ninety-five cents, sir. Heh."

Father reached into his pocket for his wallet and I began making the sandwich on my sourdough canvas in a mechanical, almost robot-esque fashion. This was the real critic. This was the Superbowl of sandwicherie.

I
Sliced
Each
Piece
Of
Roast
Beef
And
Cheese
With
Undeniable
Precision
And
They
All
Floated

onto the paper just like that weird formation that I crafted above. A zig zag formation, if you will. Traffic stopped. Gawkers gawked. This elven year old wunderkind was defying convention. Art lived for that brief moment, and everyone knew what art meant.

I caught each piece of roast beef on the sourdough after flipping them while zapping mustard on them midair. Father was still looking at his feet, reminiscing over what had happended at work that day. Father was completely oblivious to the genius that was happening right before him. This was my Mona Lisa. Just as I finished wrapping the sandwich up, my father looked up. My little cart was gathering heat.

Father wiped the sweat off of his brow. I wiped the wheat off of mine. He does not recognize me. "Thanks man," he said. "I haven't eaten a good sandwich in a long time."

At this point, Subway managers and Quiznos bosses were running toward me to sign this amazing novelty act, that was me. The publicity stunt, that I was. Lucrative contracts with signing bonuses were to be issued.

The gawkers who gawked happened to tell these authority figures about me in a matter of seconds, which was a bit shocking.

Dear old dad bit into the sandwich. I held my breath. The whole world stopped.

Dad spit it out. "This is shit," he cried.


Moral of the story that made no sense
Art is subjective?