Lunch

I had just removed myself from an incident involving the police and an umbrella salesman when an old and familiar sensation wracked my body. I was hungry. And none of that “Hey, let’s eat because you’re bored” nonsense. Ho, ho, no sir bubba. This was a true, raw, animalistic feeling.

I need a sandwich.

Repressed, instinctive actions kick in and I’m on the prowl. One minute you’re a civilized member of society and the next you’re some crazed animal drooling at the mouth, nose pressed to the ground, hunting for any scrap of nourishment. This is what life in the big city looks like.

As I comb the cobbled streets I encounter an obstacle in my path. What could this be? Ye gads! It makes noise. It moves. It seems familiar, yet I know it not. It’s another animal, a human. My eyes peer upon him, distrustfully, as he makes a multitude of gestures and throaty noises. Suddenly he latches on to me. He’s dragging me to his lair. Every fiber of my being wants to snap at him and run.

Wait. What’s that smell?

Food. And it’s getting stronger. This crazed mustachioed person is pulling me toward food. My animalism lessens suddenly. I am pushed down into a chair. Another man wearing an apron that might as well be a dress, begins arranging a multitude of things on the table before me. Suddenly a hateful looking female drops a generous load of pane in front of me. I eye her cautiously as I stealthily slip a piece of warm, fluffy goodness from its berth. This woman could be trouble later. Fine now, but a threat nonetheless.

Shut up, you fool! Eat.

A book, filled with what might as well be hieroglyphs, is put in my hands. The man with the mustache waits with his beady eyes staring at me, for what I do not know. Wait. I’m supposed to say what I want from this volume of things which I cannot read. Uh. Uh. Uhhhhh.

Suddenly the moustache wiggles and says, “Vuoi un panino con prosciutto e pomodoro?”

Well when you say it like that, sure. I’ll have one of them things with them pompadours or whatever.

“Si, e una bottiglia d’acqua, per favore.”

“Frizzante o naturale?”

“Naturale.”

As he leaves, I begin to contemplate what place sparkling mineral water holds in this world. Surely its somewhere between that ring of white stuff boiling water leaves in a pot and the last bit of soap that won’t drain out of the shower. Perhaps I should bottle well water from out of the ground in Sulphur, Oklahoma and slap a label on the bottles heralding its foul taste as “Mineral Water – Fresh from the source.” Then I can pump CO₂ into it and the world will finally know what static tastes like.

I’m disturbed from my musings by a series of clunks in front of me. The man in the apron-dress has returned, this time with food. His dress is of no concern now. There’s eating to be done.

A thought crosses my mind in between sounds of my teeth breaking the crusty bread and squishing tomato slices. This is a darn good sandwich. Not five minutes ago I was contemplating eating my own hand and now I’m devouring a fantastic sandwich, prepared by strangers in a foreign land. And to think, I nearly missed the opportunity. My, my, this gets better with each bite. Aaaannnd, it’s gone. Well nothing left to do here but leave.

“Scusa. Il conto, per favore.”

A small sliver of paper is brought to me. What does it say? €8,50 for a sandwich! €2,00 for water! What’s this? €1,50 for bread. This is an outrage. This is highway robbery. This aggression won’t stand.

Perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten lunch so close to a major monument.

I leave the funny coins and monopoly money on the table and make for the door. The sun strikes at my eyes before I can slide the borrowed aviators onto the bridge of my nose. I’m nourished, refreshed and peeved. It’s time to wade through the teeming masses of humanity. It’s time to cause trouble.