I was old once, for a minute, but I got over it. I took a look in the mirror and then forgot all about it. I looked at my hands and decided to look somewhere else. I smelled something, something in the air, something from long ago, and then I remembered. Everything. Her hair, her skin, the sound of her voice, and that ham sandwich. That damn ham sandwich. That stupid sandwich that started it all, that ended it all. The ham sandwich of death.
The really sad part is that we could have had it all, whatever we wanted, whenever we wanted. It was all within our reach, and we were going to get it. It was our destiny. Fate, an unavoidable confluence of events. All that, and a ham sandwich. On white bread. I never, not in a million years, thought that such a thing was possible, but there it was, served on a paper plate. No mustard, no pickle, no rye bread. Just ham. Boiled ham, not even Virginia ham or Westphalian ham, or any of the other real hams. Boiled ham. Did she know nothing about me after all those years? Nothing at all?
There really wasn’t much to say after that, and things drifted downhill. Slowly at first, then like an avalanche, a silent avalanche, until there was nothing left to do but put labels on our personal effects, segregate them into separate boxes, and go our separate ways. It’s been nine years now, nine years since I last had a ham sandwich, nine years since I last looked at anything on a piece of white bread. Nine years since I’ve had to confront myself with that one terrible question: What was I thinking? What was I thinking indeed.
I suspect there is a big difference between the things we do and think when we are young and the things we do and think when we are older, but the passage of time dulls our memory, so when we think back, we see things through the eyes of an older person, a wiser person. Would I have even dated her if I knew? Probably not. I have, or I like to think that I have, high standards. And would she have given me a second look if she knew? I don’t think so. For all the things that I now know she is, she was and probably still is a discerning person, a person with good judgment. Flawed taste, indeed, but good judgment.
It may well be that there is no more to life than boiled ham on white bread, but I do not believe this to be so. I believe in the thrill of arugula, the anticipation of a good Bordeaux, the satisfaction of brie. She didn’t. I did go off in search of that someone, special someone, that person who appreciated pumpernickel for what it is, not just what it sounds like; someone who would eat bleu cheese without first picking out the mold. It has been many years since my search began, and I am beginning to think that I may have to do these things by myself, but I do find comfort in the fact that there is a site on the Internet which will let you type in a word and will then list cliches containing that word: Cliche Finder.
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