As in:
Before he reclaimed what was left of his reuben sandwich and the half-container of coleslaw he’d picked up at the deli in West Palm, Garrett decided he should call Carla.
She did not pick up and he–feeling dislocated and slightly depressed–did not have the energy to leave a voice message. She must be with a customer, he figured.
He took a bite of the sandwich and, as he chewed, was heartened to hear an inner voice expressing the satisfaction that in a world that was otherwise hopelessly fucked up, you could still get a very tasty reuben in West Palm.
He texted Carla.
“Made it to WP.”
“did u try calling?” she responded. “u ok? love, me”
Well, of course he’d tried calling. And of course he was not okay. If he was okay, he would still have his job in Ashboro and he wouldn’t need to drink before noon.
“did u take ur meds?” she asked, again in a text.
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“no, but I have SI swimsuit issue & a reuben,” he replied, knowing this was a mistake even before he pushed the little button to send it.
Deeper into the warmth of Florida, the coleslaw tasted a little too tangy, now, and he suspected it was beginning to ferment. Maybe this would be his introduction to kimchi, he mused.
As the time bled toward four in the afternoon, he listed the dispositive indicators that, on account of his age and bad attitude, no one would ever hire him again. Then, just for something else to do, he restated them as reasons and rearranged them in alphabetical order. At the top of the page he scrawled, “Curriculum Vitae.”
Because the delicious but suspicious coleslaw left an aftertaste, he next rinsed his mouth out with vodka and took a last bite of the sandwich.
“Pls take ur meds,” Carla now texted.
“Im soldier of fortune in war on drugs,” he texted back, mostly hoping Carla would find solace in the appearance that he’d not forsaken his sense of humor.
