The Forbidden Sandwich

I leaned forward, hands upon the counter, and stared at the implements I had obtained in my fugue state.

A bag of Nature’s Own honey wheat bread.

A jar of crunchy peanut butter.

A container of Moose Tracks ice cream.

A knife and a spoon.

What shocked me most was the crunchy peanut butter.

I do not particularly enjoy crunchy peanut butter, much preferring the ease of spreading the smooth, and yet here I was, confronted with some failure in judgment in purchasing crunchy.

Had probably been on sale.

I have no true answers as to why these items lay before me, but after three nights without meaningful sleep, explanation had become a fragile thing.

It was two in the morning when this particular transgression occurred. Not that the insomnia was new, but the borderline state of insanity was something I’ve only felt a few times. My brain and body were buzzing like the bees that had, for some reason, collectively decided to trap themselves between the window and the screen in one of the rooms of my apartment.

They had entered through a rip in the screen made by some projectile launched by the lawn crew. I remember the loud bang of whatever had struck the window that day, but since the window wasn’t broken, I didn’t think about it again. I never really went into that room often, so imagine my surprise when I eventually pulled up the blinds and saw a mass of bee corpses piled on top of each other between the mesh and glass.

This apartment also flooded from the laundry closet that contained the washer, dryer, and water heater. A good three feet by eight feet or so section of carpet was absolutely drenched to no fault of my own. And so, one of those large blue centrifugal floor blowers became my roommate for who knows how long. While I didn’t mind the companionship, Big Blue talked incessantly the entire time, which wasn’t helping my already fragile sleep.

And lo, that fateful night arrived, and I rose from the couch, or wherever I had tried to find some meager morsel of sleep, turned on all the lights in the apartment, and began to walk in circles like a madman.

Each time I passed the kitchen, the thought of “eat” slid into my mind like a planchet sliding onto “goodbye” on a spirit board.

I stopped my circling, stepped from carpet to linoleum, and stood brain-addled in the kitchen.

A cabinet door opened, then slammed shut.

A drawer slid open with jingling and jangling dancing within, then shut.

A cold blast from the open freezer door, then dissipating just as quickly.

And there they sat before me.

The honey wheat bread.

The crunchy peanut butter.

The Moose Tracks.

The knife.

The spoon.

Sacred objects in a forbidden ritual.

Soon, driven by the same compulsion that had led me to grab these cursed items, I unspun the bread bag and removed two slices of the soft sandwich loaf made with wheat and a touch of golden honey.

I removed the hateful cap from the chunky brown paste, plunged the knife within, twisting the blade, then spread the contents on both slices of bread.

Digging my fingers into the underside of the lid, I peeled the ice cream container’s covering up and off, and tossed it unceremoniously onto the counter.

The spoon pierced the surface of the frozen sugary milk like a graverobber’s shovel into the soft earth of a fresh grave, coming up with a fudgy mound within its silvery bowl. I plopped it onto one of the slices while the other was placed on top like the closing of a casket.

I raised the concoction to my mouth and bit into it.

It tasted…

God help me.

It tasted good.

I consumed the entirety of this peculiar creation and it, for reasons I will never be able to explain, quieted the buzzing in my brain.

While I cannot say my sleep was good the rest of the night, it was sleep, and for that, I am grateful. The sandwich had excised, for that moment, whatever was preventing my rest that night.

I have not made this forbidden thing since, nor shall I ever again in the future. It shall forever be contained to that one night of madness and relief as such things should be.