The Aerie
Addiction is an ugly thing. I'm here to confess.
I have lately succumbed to a fairly common addiction, one that I doubtless share with Rush Limbaugh and other hardened addicts. While you may be inclined to call the police, I assure you that I have seen with my own eyes that some police officers are addicted too, so forget it.
One way that we addicts can recognize each other is through our drug paraphernalia. And just as age defines value in the art world, so to does the passage of time convey to us addicts an enhanced status in the eyes of our peers.
Case in point, a police officer recently caught sight of mine while I was carelessly carrying it about in plain sight (what was I thinking?).
"You've had that for a while," he said, nodding to indicate the item.
Was I about to be busted? Trying to play it cool I replied, "Ah, yes. Yes I have. I think it's about thirteen years old. It's really more of a memento these days..."
His eyebrows rose, and he turned to pick up an item. Ticket sheet? Handcuffs? Was he about to pull a gun?
"Huh," he said, "I thought mine was old. I've had it since I joined the force about ten years ago."
Relief flooded my system. A fellow addict! I was saved!
"Yeah, I remember when I could fill it for under fifty cents."
He nodded, "Yeah, and now it's almost a dollar."
We shook our head at the cruelty of a world where the price of our addictions could climb so quickly.
Then it was my turn.
"Ah, I'll get a square sesame with PBJ," I said, using the vernacular of the streets.
"Sesame soft bagel with peanut butter and jelly," my dealer translated, "and in the mug?"
I held out my ancient plastic cup, its logos worn away by the passage of time. "Half hazelnut, half decaf, please." It's always good to remain on the favorable side of your dealer, otherwise the "java" (as we call it) comes back cold, or the toppings are spread more thinly than truth in the White House.
This time, however, things were about to turn strange. This time I was about to be handed a harsh cure.
The dealer behind the counter seized and hemisected my bagel, top from bottom. Then, grabbing a spatula, he scooped from a tin its entire contents of peanut butter, and spread them vigorously but unevenly on the surface. On one side the stuff was piled half an inch high, ont he other the bread was visible beneath a tan smear.
Excusing himself, he reached past another person, presumably for the jelly. Instead he brought back... more peanut butter.
GLOP. He spread an equal amount of peanut butter on the other side of the bagel. I could hear the little air pockets in the lower half popping like bubblewrap under a steamroller as the fellow reached for the jelly.
Now, I'm accustomed to the Religion of Jam, the counterworkers who live by both meanings of the word "preserves." Usually when making my sandwich they treat the jelly like a holy substance, blessing the bread with the palest pink film, just enough to convey sweet sanctity without squandering the blessed sacrament on a mere customer.
But this fellow must have been an initiate in the temple, with more enthusiasm than training. He didn't merely film the bagel with a sugary whisper of jam, he up-ended the tin and DUMPED about as much jelly as I eat in a year atop the already-thick layer of peanut butter.
Buried beneath toppings, the bagel bottom gave a plaintive whimper and expired. The jelly quivered nervously for balance atop a tower of peanut butter as the upper half of the bagel descended from the heavens.
As stunned as if John Ashcroft had turned up as the Horned King at a Solstice celebration, I stood slack jawed as my dealer struggled to wrap the waxed paper around the girth of this huge sandwich.
I hauled this treasure, along with my ancient mug of hot coffee, back to my office, where I unwrapped the sandwich.
It squatted toad-like upon the desk, challenging me to try to eat it. I attempted to lift a corner, and it belched jam onto my fingers. I took out my pocket knife and tried to slice a chunk out: the wound gushed jelly like blood.
The sandwich disappeared with my dignity. By the time it was gone, I was as messy as a toddler in a pan of frosting.
So now the sandwich squats, toadlike, in my guts. The thought of any food, much less another such sandwich, makes my vision turn green.
I think the guy behind the counter wasn't a priest of Brueggers. I think he was a social worker from one of these anti-addiction organizations. By subjecting me to an overdose of PB&J he may have successfully broken me of my addiction.
We'll see. If I start jonesing for a PBJ sometime tomorrow morning, we'll see if the giant toad gives a croak and reminds me of the damaging side effects of my addiction.
This is your brain. This is your brain on jelly. Any questions?
Posted by Albatross at April 27, 2004 11:27 AM