Maybe You Think I’m Gross Too Sandwich Review

We’ve already covered the fact that I have a problem with leftovers. I think I also have a sweet and salty problem. I like em both. At the same time.

I know one friend of mine shares this problem, so I’m not alone. But when my wife rolls her eyes at some of my ideas, sometimes I do feel alone.

It all goes back to Vero Beach, Florida. I was living in the Vero Beach Motel for a little while — my parents were in Germany and I was staying with Jesse and Jan, the Polish couple that ran my parents motel along Route one. Every Saturday, Jan and I would make our sandwiches: toasted bread, swiss cheese, and grape jelly. We’d take those sandwiches into the living room, turn on WWE, and watch ourselves some fake fighting while enjoying a sweet and savory standard in our lives.

[One time while we were doing this, the whole building shuddered. It was like someone hit us with a dud missile. We ran outside, and a car had hit the corner of the house — the most solid part of any house — and had done so at a high speed. Wrapped around the corner was a jalopy of some sort. I was already hopped up from the wrestling, so I took in every detail. 

The driver had hit the windshield and the steering wheel and had broken an arm and was passed out with blood on his forehead. The passenger had flown through the windshield and onto the front of the car. His legs were still in the windshield sorta. He was also pretty bloody.

Amazingly, he woke up, heard the approaching sirens, and picked himself out of the broken glass. He ran away in surprisingly good shape for a man that had just gone through a windshield. I was astounded.

Then the driver woke up.

He pried the door open, and then I could see his leg was broken too. Somehow he found a way to limp away from the scene, slowly, broken limbs following him like afterthoughts. Someone finally remembered I was 12 years old and put their hand over my eyes. I shrugged off their hand and watched him shuffle.

He didn’t get away. The police arrived and were slamming him on the ground when Jan finally pushed me back inside and gruffly said I should close the door after me. Then tow trucks came, then the crime scene people. We never heard any more about them.]

… Anyway, Jan turned me on to jelly and swiss, a fascination I’ve had to this day.

Does this look gross to you? Cause I kinda like it.

About enosarris

I write. About baseball, mostly, but also about the anthropology of sports, travel, cooking and sometimes music. But yeah, baseball mostly.
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