This week: The 25th Hour

Filthy says: "Better than its flaws."

Yesterday I was driving up Kipling. There's a sandwich shop somewhere around there and, rain or shine, some unlucky bastard has to stand on the street corner in a big foam sandwich costume, doing a jig and waving to passing cars. I'm no marketing wizard, but I guess the thought of some sweaty guy in tights and a giant loaf of bread makes people start getting hungry. Every now and then a kid will wave back at Mr. Sandwich and I think, what the fuck are our schools teaching the Youth of America? That giant sandwiches are our friends? Kids, never, ever give a giant sandwich your name, and don't get into their wienermobiles, no matter how many free cold cuts they promise. In the summer, Mr. Sandwich staggers with fatigue before lunchtime and that cheap sticky foam becomes an oven. You can smell burning flesh, the foam lettuce poking out of his sides wilts, and sweat drips down his arms and pools on the concrete. Late in the day, Mr. Sandwich parks his whole-wheat ass on the curb, tucks his sandwich head between his knees and tosses his Famous Amoses. I feel bad for the guy in the costume, you know, because he's got to get out there and make an ass of himself for minimum wage. In the winter, Mr. Sandwich taps like Scatman Crothers on crank. The young man is dancing for his life. The sidewalk is like a block of ice so he can't curl up and conserve his warmth. I realize it's a privilege I have, and not a right, to be able to make an ass out of myself for free. No boss is going to demean me by telling when to dress like a foot-long BMT, or how to dance. It's like a wise man in Slacker said, "Hey, I may not live well, but at least I don't have to work to do it." But Mr. Sandwich isn't so lucky. He does have to work to live poorly. Anyway, now you know as much about Mr. Sandwich as I did before yesterday when, as I pulled up the intersection, two teenagers jumped out of a brand new Mustang in front of me, cut across oncoming traffic and jumped Mr. Sandwich. Mr. Sandwich was waving his "Two For One" sign in the opposite direction when the two punks jumped his back, tore off his soft crust and started beating the shit out of him. Bits of fake tomato and baloney flew through the air. Mr. Sandwich hit the ground and the bigger of the two kids punched him in the face. The smaller kid kicked him in the ribs. Mr. Sandwich pulled up his skinny mustard legs, covered his ears with his novelty oversized white gloves and tried to stem the rush of blood from his head. I pulled the Galaxie up onto the curb and jumped out. The light had just changed and I ran across the street. The two kids had Mr. Sandwich in a headlock when I got there. I pulled the first kid away. He spat a truly amateurish string of curse words. "Fucker this!" and "Fucker that!" said the teenager, but he was smaller than me. Besides, his hands stung from the cold and the punches he had thrown. I locked eyes with the second kid, who was pressing Mr. Sandwich's teeth against the concrete. Before I even got to him, he had backed off. Before I could even he two kids took off running, yelling "Asshole!" over their shoulders. I'm not telling this story because I think I'm some hot shit hero of the working man. I'm not even a hero to me. Seriously, I'm glad those punks ran away because my fucking heart was in my throat. I was pretty scared and my mind was flipping through the photo album in my head, looking at all the after pictures from ass-whoopings I've gotten over the years. I'm a shitty fighter, the kind of guy who puts his thumbs inside his fists and has a high center of gravity. I bleed easy, and I cry even easier. But, Mr. Sandwich needed me, and I was like one of those grannies that, when necessary, are able to lift buses off of babies. I felt so bad for Mr. Sandwich. What could a guy who makes his living impersonating a sandwich do to deserve a beating? It turns out, a lot. Holy shit was that guy an asshole. After I pulled him off the sidewalk and helped him collect the torn bits of salad, the prick didn't even say thanks. Instead, he called me a pussy and said he fucked my wife. That was before he hit me up for 200 bucks and said he might sue me if I didn't give it to him. He claims I twisted his ankle helping him up. Mr. Sandwich is a world-class asshole.