By: G.T.T.
Fournier lived to create sandwiches. He had molded his whole life around the crafting of beautiful sandwiches from single ingredients which by themselves were not extraordinary. A true craftsman, he had an Olympian disdain for the mores and conventions that his industry perpetuated. Hairnets, for example. Fournier would no sooner wear a hairnet than allow himself to be slapped in the face. The other workers, in awe of Fournier, retold among themselves the story of the feckless young manager who had started work at The Deli.
On the manager’s first day, he had casually asked Fournier to mop the floor right as Fournier was preparing to leave for the night. Fournier paused, stunned, then turned and walked briskly away.
The next day, Fournier arrived at the deli on time and took his position behind his counter. He stood there, motionless, for the entire day. When a customer ordered, he stared solemnly, not acknowledging the speaker’s existence. Day after day, this continued. Fournier’s loyal regulars finally realized what the insulted craftsman was up to, and they began to fight alongside him. Now his customers would form a line in front of his counter as if to order, but they would not say a word. They would stand silently as long as their schedules allowed.
Finally, the owner begged Fournier to end his strike. Fournier was implacable until, weeping on his hands and knees, the owner agreed to fire the offending young manager. For days afterward, the sandwiches that Fournier had created were breathtaking to behold.
Fournier’s only passions were the sandwiches that he created, but they were passions with which he struggled and fought. His Art followed him home from the deli; twisting its way through the city streets into his brain to torment his dreams. The sandwiches were his passion; they were not his joy.
There was only one being in the world who could bring Fournier close to a state of joy. Her name was Joy, and she worked in the Cinnabon that was upstairs in the food court of the mall.
The day that they met came in an afternoon that was another in a series of rough afternoons for Fournier. He had been feeling stifled artistically for a long time; he was beginning to feel that all of his patrons were philistines. Then she approached the sandwich counter.
She was a meek and mild little thing; she seemed to have less substance than a photograph of a reflection. When she stood before the counter, Joy seemed embarrassed to be visible.
“Excuse me,” she said, “I…I would like a sandwich, please.”
Fournier grabbed his knife haughtily (he could make any movement seem haughty), and drawled, “And what would you like on it?” Joy quickly stammered, “Oh, I would never presume to tell an artist what to do.”
Fournier paused and took a closer look at this delicate porcelain figure that stood before him. There was nothing striking about her; her clothes seemed to be made out of apologies.
“Yes,” he said quietly, “Yes, that’s absolutely right.”
Soon these two found themselves caught up in a sort of romance. Fournier devoted an entire series of sandwiches to her, and read love poems to her in a pet cemetery. They would spend their afternoons in coffee shops, discussing Life and Art, and other nouns with capital letters.
“For what is a ‘Deli’, anyway?” Fournier would ask. “Is it a ‘place’ where one ‘goes’ to buy ‘meat and related products?’ Give me a break.” Joy would sip her mochaccino and listen attentively.
“These fools, these so-called ‘clients’! They think they know what Art is! Who would know better than I, the Artist? Once a woman ordered a sandwich and I simply spread mayonnaise on a plate and handed it to her. And do you believe, she had the nerve to question my artistic decision? I even debased myself to explain the significance of the piece to her! I explained how what she was buying was the idea of a sandwich, and the material form was irrelevant. But, no! She demanded a conventional sandwich. So I dashed off something quickly in Late Baroque. I tell you, I have never been so sickened in all my life.” Joy sipped her beverage.
“What’s the matter with you? You’ve been unusually quiet all afternoon.”
She lowered her eyes and prepared to speak.
“They’ve…they’ve found my father’s will.” Joy’s father’s will had been lost for many years, presumed destroyed in a series of mysterious fires a decade ago.
“And?” Fournier queried.
“And…and…oh, Fournier! There’s a clause that forbids me to marry workers in the deli industry. If I do, I lose all of my inheritance.”
Fournier rose from the table and staggered backwards. He stumbled out the door of the café.
As he stormed home, he thought over the discussions that they had frequently had. He had expounded, time and again, upon the evil of money. He had said that to be a poor man who works for a living is the best kind of man that there is. But the tone in her voice told him everything. He knew her choice. Had he not explained his Ideas properly? She could have at least given him some indication once in a while. But she just sat, sipping her damn mochaccino!
The next day, Fournier awoke in the deli’s walk-in refrigerator. He had spent another night there, after having cried himself to sleep in the potato salad. With a small, choking sob, he wiped the mayonnaise from his meager beard.
Joy came down to the deli on her lunch hour. Fournier had known that she would. The only indication Fournier gave that this was not an average customer was a sharp intake of breath as she approached. He watched her move closer, consciously attempting to keep his face devoid of emotion.
“Hello,” she ventured.
“Good afternoon, Miss,” he said, somewhat louder than necessary.
She ordered her sandwich quickly. When he handed the box to her, she took it without looking at him. She went to a small table, took out her sandwich, and gasped.
Fournier had turned away from the counter after she left. He had heard somebody say once that love is making exceptions. He could not bring himself to forgive her act of materialistic transgression, but she had come as close to tempting him as anyone ever would. For when Joy beheld her sandwich, she knew instantly that it was the most beautiful one that Fournier had ever made. She did not know that it was also to be the most beautiful sandwich that he would ever make.
