The Seattle Sandwitch Hunt

On a weightless Friday afternoon Michelle, a girl whom does not call Seattle home, and I, Seattle’s own Dr. Gary Mustard, joined the masses waiting in front of Paseos. As we approached I first smelled it. An odd bitter smell permeated the air and the people in line glowed with a strange tension. The line was long and moved slowly, and as we inched forward more people funneled in behind us. Finally, with a snap, it all came together. That smell, the sheen, the grinding of the teeth, the drool, the moans and the whimpers; it was all connected. Ravaging hunger was rampant amongst the gathering crowd. Our conversation dissipated quickly; Michelle had the fear and my nerves were beginning to waver. Nervously I checked the time on my phone, 12:47 glared back at me. Time passed as we inched forward like wet paint on a hot wall but finally we made it.

The cash register smiled back at us, ready to receive our offering. Hastily I ordered. One Paseo Press and one Caribbean Roast my good sir. With money exchanged and tickets in hand we stepped to the side, joining the eager pool of ticket holding fanatics. Michelle took this time to use the bathroom while I squirmed in anticipation like a little kid with a full bladder. One by one the man behind the counter bellowed out numbers, connecting beautiful sandwiches with their rightful owners, and with each number we took a step closer to the golden moment when we would have sandwich in hand and finally the moment arrived.

My heart and stomach both nearly burst with excitement as I clutched the sandwich filled bag in my hand. Out of the throngs of people I found Michelle emerging from bathroom, I took her by hand, which I hope was well washed, and led her towards the exit. I could feel the burn of jealous eyes as we made our departure. We were a yard or two from the door when the fateful words entered the air. From behind the counter the cashier bellowed all out of bread – and before the words could settle, the first iPhone flew through the tense air, slamming against the wall. Somewhere a bell rang. It was on and everybody was ready to rumble.  Fists flew and punches landed. Purses, canes, chairs and tables quickly became weapons. A man at the front of the store hurled handfuls of silverware with reckless abandon. Paseo’s had become the jungle and basic instincts ruled supreme.

In a flash, I had reached my decision. I never was one for fighting. I turned and ran, dragging a severely shocked Michelle behind me. Like a pissed off pinball I bashed through brawling masses. We made it to fresh air and freedom but we hadn’t made it to safety. Our departure, and our sandwiches, had been noticed. A group of three, a middle-aged couple and a small Asian girl, had caught our scent. They madly dashed after us as we zipped through the streets of Fremont. We were not more than three blocks from the restaurant yet my lungs were beginning to burn. As I peeked backwards I was happily reassured to find out that I was not the only one. The middle-aged couple lay in a defeated heap in the middle of the road. The Asian teenager on the other hand showed no signs of fatigue.

My lungs were screaming and the will to run was dissipating. Fight quickly became inevitable. As we rushed down the street, I took one final peek back. She was really gaining on us, now just a couple strides behind. We turned the corner and I turned to face our pursuer. As she came skidding around the corner I swung my arm, connecting squarely with her torso. Her feet carried on, still hungry for the chase, and as if controlled by an unseen magician her nearly horizontal body levitated momentarily. Then, angered by her temporary defiance, gravity enacted swift revenge. Her body plummeted, crashing hard against the rough pavement. In an instant she was out cold and in a flash we were off. Running on reserve adrenaline we made it a few more blocks before collapsing on a soft patch of grass. With nervous glances, we checked our surroundings. We were alone, we were alive and we were thanking our lucky stars. Once our breathing stabilized we pulled out our sandwiches and pealed back the wrapper. Our tired faces found big smiles as the sandwiches grinned up at us. Slowly, and with great care and enjoyment, we devoured the sandwiches that nearly cost us our lives.  And, although I can’t speak for Michelle, I feel I can safely say that the first savory bite fully made up for each and every terror we had endured.