Singing for my Lunch

The empty shelves of the prepared food case mock me. This is what you get for waiting until the last minute to find something to eat.

Once again, I’ve tumbled head first into the procrastinator’s rabbit hole, sending e-mail, checking Facebook, scrolling through Instagram, investigating Twitter. Has anyone inquired about the antique typewriter I was selling on OfferUp?

There is always plenty of time to see whose birthday it is but never enough to make a sandwich. Or dress myself properly. As usual, the time evaporates, and I am now losing the game I play with myself – can I do what I want and still make it to work on time?

Clothes fly around the room as I search for something that looks like it belongs together. Teeth brushed, shoes on, I fly down the steps and out onto the street. Make-up will wait for stoplights and traffic. Now where did I park the car?

I like the adrenalin that pumps through me from these challenges, but I am dangerously close to being too far behind the eight ball. I can’t go five hours without eating something or the monster inside me that requires food to stave off the hangries will take over and it won’t be pretty. I have to find something.

The Wendy’s drive through is jammed. But Giant Eagle, the local grocery store, always has an array of delicious salads and noshes in their prepared food section. I pray for a parking space and head over.

I speed past the bakery like a mall walker only to find the shelves behind the glass case of the prepared foods are bare. No tuna salad. No tri-color pasta. No artichoke and spinach dip.

“Sorry,” says the woman with the hair net. “We had a rush.”

Panic creeps in. I haven’t eaten breakfast and will be gone until almost six. The lone protein bar in my bag isn’t going to cut it.

I race around the produce area. Can I survive on carrots and apples? What about a banana and a pear? I stumble over to the sushi case – everything has avocado. Yuck. Frantic, I head to the kosher counter. Surely, they’ll have something.

“I’m sorry,” says the yarmalked man behind the glass. “We have no tuna. Or egg salad.” The idea of a cold knish does not appeal.

Back to the prepared foods, but this time, I go to the hot side. Chicken parm. Roast potatoes.  Fettuccini Alfredo. I’ll be in a carb coma before I even get to work.

Then I notice a sandwich deli. I check the time and know I am really pushing it, but this appears to be the best bet. I glance at the four signs hanging on the wall with lists of breads, cheeses, meats, and extras. I am overwhelmed. I’ll settle for bologna and mustard at this point.

I try to decide if the two guys standing next to me have already been served when I see a man with an apron behind the counter wrestling with a ten-pound chunk of roast beef.

“Excuse me,” I call.

He looks up from the meat and smiles. “You have a very nice voice. Are you a singer?”

What?

“I’ve sung before,” I stammer. “So, I guess I’m a singer.”

“Len!” he yells to the guy slicing cheese. “Come hear her voice. She sounds like a singer!”

Len ambles over and stares at me.

“Go ahead,” says the meat man. “Say something.”

“Nice to meet you,” I offer in my smoothest alto.

“Ain’t that nice?” responds the fromager.

“I’ll tell you what,” offers the meat man. “You sing me something and I’ll give you your sandwich for free.”

“What would you like me to sing? I ask.

“You pick, ain’t that right Len?”

“Sure,” Len smiles. “You pick.”

I clear my throat, giving myself time to run through the song selections swimming in my head. When my mouth opens, I belt out my best rendition of Jingle Bells.

Dashing through the snow

In a one-horse open sleigh

O’er the fields we go

Laughing all the way

“Ain’t she good, Len?”

“It’s July, Jerome.”

“Who cares?”

By now several others have stopped to hear my solo. I turn around and play to the crowd, inviting them to join in.  We wrap it up with a rousing chorus:

Jingle bells, jingle bells,

Jingle all the way!

Oh what fun it is to ride in a

One… horse… oh…pe-han… sleigh!

“I’ll take a roast beef and swiss on rye with a little Djon,” I tell Jerome when the applause dies down. 

I rush through the checkout, put the car in gear and blow through several yellow lights while balancing the sandwich so I don’t get mustard on my shirt. My mother’s parking angels have saved me a space right in front of the building and I toss the white paper in the trash can while I wait for the elevator.

I look at the clock. Two minutes to spare.

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