Contributor: Taylor Saulsbury
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I walk into the sandwich shop with a one-track mind: turkey on wheat, no cheese. Some lettuce to add crunch. Maybe a little chipotle mayo to spice things up. No. Light mayonnaise. I need to watch my figure. I’ve been craving this damn sandwich all day and without a lunch break, I’m a bit peckish. One may even describe me as slightly irritable. My mood is not the point.
The line finally dies down and it’s my turn to order. A pretty, young blonde stands at the register, ready to take my order. Without a second of hesitation, I begin to rattle it off.
“I’ll have a turkey sandwich on wheat bread. Multi-grain, if you have it…No actually, wheat is good. I’d like some romaine lettuce and a light sprinkle of salt, pepper, and oregano.”
I haven’t even made it to the light mayo before the girl walks away from the register without a single word. A simple ‘excuse me for a moment’ certainly would not have hurt.
I’ve practically lost my voice before I hear a toilet flush and a skeleton, or rather; an old woman lurks over to the register to take my order. I can’t help but notice the sores on the side of her face. They should probably be bandaged. I rattle it off for the second time, slightly perturbed. Skeletor stands; pencil in hand, mouth quivering. She gawks at me, her sunken in, crows footed eyes showing not an ounce of comprehension. I glance down to see if she’s even written my order down. Blank paper. Her bony hand shakes and the thin, sagging skin jiggles a little with each vibration of her shaking hand. She better wear gloves.
Skeletor hasn’t made a single bit of progress in the production of my sandwich, so I assume she didn’t hear me. What with being an ancient relic and all, I’d imagine her hearing isn’t quite up to par. I repeat my order, raising my voice to a volume that could be heard from her tomb. Grandma Death just continues to stare. She must have noticed the steam coming from my ears because she slides the pencil and note pad over to me with a shaking, paper-thin hand. I grab the pencil, cringing as her liver spotted, bony little finger grazes my own. I write my order on the paper in large font and slide it back to her. She holds it about three inches from her face, hands shaking violently. She puts it down, nods, and shuffles to the counter to begin making my sandwich.
I watch her like a hawk. The sandwich seems to come together nicely and she rings my order up on the register. I thank her and leave the shop, finally satisfied. After a thirty minute transit ride to my apartment, a broken elevator, a thirteen story climb up a stairwell, and a sticky door, I sit at my dining room table, finally ready to gorge. I unwrap the sandwich, slowly. I smile menacingly at the sandwich, before taking a sizable bite. I chew it slowly, savoring the flavor. I gulp.
That’s when I notice something foreign, slithering down my throat. I reach into my mouth, feeling around for the intruder. I grab the strand and yank. I can feel the sting as it slides up from the back of my throat, scraping against my tonsils. At this, I am red-faced and dry heaving. I’ve gotten the hair almost entirely out of my mouth. With one final pull I stare at it, wide-eyed. The snow-white, hair of a corpse stares back at me, coated in saliva and chewed turkey.
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Taylor is a comedy writer, with a primary focus in sketch comedy. She is working on her BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Originally from a small town on the Chesapeake Bay, she now resides in Orlando, Florida.
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I walk into the sandwich shop with a one-track mind: turkey on wheat, no cheese. Some lettuce to add crunch. Maybe a little chipotle mayo to spice things up. No. Light mayonnaise. I need to watch my figure. I’ve been craving this damn sandwich all day and without a lunch break, I’m a bit peckish. One may even describe me as slightly irritable. My mood is not the point.
The line finally dies down and it’s my turn to order. A pretty, young blonde stands at the register, ready to take my order. Without a second of hesitation, I begin to rattle it off.
“I’ll have a turkey sandwich on wheat bread. Multi-grain, if you have it…No actually, wheat is good. I’d like some romaine lettuce and a light sprinkle of salt, pepper, and oregano.”
I haven’t even made it to the light mayo before the girl walks away from the register without a single word. A simple ‘excuse me for a moment’ certainly would not have hurt.
I’ve practically lost my voice before I hear a toilet flush and a skeleton, or rather; an old woman lurks over to the register to take my order. I can’t help but notice the sores on the side of her face. They should probably be bandaged. I rattle it off for the second time, slightly perturbed. Skeletor stands; pencil in hand, mouth quivering. She gawks at me, her sunken in, crows footed eyes showing not an ounce of comprehension. I glance down to see if she’s even written my order down. Blank paper. Her bony hand shakes and the thin, sagging skin jiggles a little with each vibration of her shaking hand. She better wear gloves.
Skeletor hasn’t made a single bit of progress in the production of my sandwich, so I assume she didn’t hear me. What with being an ancient relic and all, I’d imagine her hearing isn’t quite up to par. I repeat my order, raising my voice to a volume that could be heard from her tomb. Grandma Death just continues to stare. She must have noticed the steam coming from my ears because she slides the pencil and note pad over to me with a shaking, paper-thin hand. I grab the pencil, cringing as her liver spotted, bony little finger grazes my own. I write my order on the paper in large font and slide it back to her. She holds it about three inches from her face, hands shaking violently. She puts it down, nods, and shuffles to the counter to begin making my sandwich.
I watch her like a hawk. The sandwich seems to come together nicely and she rings my order up on the register. I thank her and leave the shop, finally satisfied. After a thirty minute transit ride to my apartment, a broken elevator, a thirteen story climb up a stairwell, and a sticky door, I sit at my dining room table, finally ready to gorge. I unwrap the sandwich, slowly. I smile menacingly at the sandwich, before taking a sizable bite. I chew it slowly, savoring the flavor. I gulp.
That’s when I notice something foreign, slithering down my throat. I reach into my mouth, feeling around for the intruder. I grab the strand and yank. I can feel the sting as it slides up from the back of my throat, scraping against my tonsils. At this, I am red-faced and dry heaving. I’ve gotten the hair almost entirely out of my mouth. With one final pull I stare at it, wide-eyed. The snow-white, hair of a corpse stares back at me, coated in saliva and chewed turkey.
- - -
Taylor is a comedy writer, with a primary focus in sketch comedy. She is working on her BFA in Creative Writing for Entertainment. Originally from a small town on the Chesapeake Bay, she now resides in Orlando, Florida.
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Author:
Taylor Saulsbury
