Eidolic Sando

The same inert sandwich sat uneaten on a paper plate on the dining room table. How many hours had it been there? None of us ever actually dine in dining room, so it’s almost unnerving to see food in that space.

So, we left it. It wasn’t without company on that table—there were two reams of unopened computer paper, an imposing stack of junk mail that may have included an overdue bill or two, pens and pencils, an empty pill bottle, an empty Pocky box, mismatched shoelaces, and an orphaned pewter white knight from a chess set that had long ago been donated to a Salvation Army.

Another anomaly: the sandwich was made with pre-sliced bread ends. At the time of its discovery, the house loaf still sported its heels. The bread itself was common enough, appearing to be white. The contents were typical for our household: turkey, lettuce, tomato, swiss cheese, mustard, and the aforementioned pickles. This was a locally-made sandwich, no doubt. Yet no one claimed it and we all refused to eat it.

A few days went by. A week. Two. Then a month. The bread did not appear to grow stale and showed no signs of mold. The lettuce did not wilt. The smell remained unoffensive and even mildly appealing. We agreed to wait and see what would happen next.

Next came and went without any discernible change. Baby Cham took his first steps then said his first words. For a time, we forgot about the sandwich. In a way, I believe we suppressed our awareness of it. The mountain of junk mail spilled over, the table ceased to be anything more than a dumping grounds for household ephemera. The sandwich was buried and, for a time, forgotten.

Cham, no longer a baby, discovered it one day and reality crashed down on us all.

“Whose sandwich is this?” he asked.

We were in the living room watching television. All of us were gathered together and collectively felt the air go still and strange. Without looking, we all knew…it was like a manifest nightmare, the power of ignored truth festering with time, steeped in eldritch horror, grown potent beyond our meager abilities to christen or cope.

Cham stood on the precipice between dining and living rooms, the paper plate in an outstretched hand, upon which the sandwich—ever the sandwich; untouched by time, freshly-made, garnished with paradox—remained, mundanely mocking us all. We were rendered speechless, frozen as we beheld that which had become our only taboo; a ghost we had agreed in unspoken terms to reject and deny, yet one that nevertheless had haunted each and every one of us. 

Except for Cham. 

He regarded us with innocence and blissful ignorance, not sensing our paralysis or the blossoming burden of our shared dread. Cham, a child of nearly five years, sweet and without guile. He looked at me and smiled, then cocked his head in query.

“Can I have it?”

And with this question, it was as though a spell was broken. I could feel the cold sweat on my brow as I turned to the others, our eyes finding one another, wide and afraid and full of a burgeoning shame. Without words we answered his question amongst ourselves, a sick hope bubbling up through our panic. 

“Please?” Cham said. 

Warm fat tears burst from my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. The others lowered their heads, unable to respond. I forced myself to look at Cham, only now the faintest awareness of something amiss beginning to form at the corners of his mouth. Our window of opportunity was closing. I bared my teeth in what I hoped passed for a smile and spoke.

“Sure Cham, it’s all yours.”

I stifled the scream that threatened to shatter the moment and destroy us all. I watched Cham’s small shoulders relax and then shrug an awkward acknowledgement. Thankfully he returned to the dining room so none of us would have to behold the downing of that uncanny meal.

We never spoke of it. Indeed, it is only now, at the end of my days, that I feel the strength to commit these words to form. Whether there was any change in Cham after that day, I cannot say. I can only speak to the change in the rest of us and how we treated him. He was, to our eternal disgrace, shunned. We treated him much like the sandwich during its years of subconscious banishment. There were no kind nor cruel words, only an efficient minimum. He passed through our lives like an untold secret. That he survived is perhaps a miracle. I have no clear idea of what became of him later in life. He grew up and I believe he found purpose, something I gleaned as though via peripheral vision. When he moved away, none of us made any attempt to keep in contact with him. The house was sold and no forwarding address was left behind. The lot of us went our separate ways. 

Cham. I am sorry. You deserved better. It’s impossible to explain or understand, but you saved us. Wherever you are, I hope you are well. I hope you can forgive us. And I hope...I hope it was a really good sandwich.

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About Jerry White Jr. 

Jerry is a filmmaker, musician, writer. He began making films as a teenager through home movies and public access television in Metro Detroit, later studied at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, and has continued to move across film, writing, music, and collaborative creative communities.

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About TANGENTS

TANGENTS is a new recurring literary section for flash fiction, short prose, and fragments that move outside fixed categories, published by STRATUM. It is a dedicated space for compressed narratives, strange turns, and writing that sits ambiguously between fiction, memory, humor, unease, and dream logic.

Edited By Yuyang Hu