by Shawn Bailey

Created on: September 13, 2010

My family and I sit in the car.  My wife hands out the bread, unsliced, and that’s fine because half the fun is tearing it carefully apart by hand.  There are no plates.  We will all drink from a cold 2 liter from Papa John’s.

We are parked close to the front and watch all kinds of people move in and out of the sliding doors to the grocery store.  I look the other way, down the open path in the parking lot and see a small car heading this way from the other side.  As it moves toward us, a Cadillac SUV speeds in from the side and cuts it off, hurrying down the lane like a madman.

My wife hands out the mustard packs we got from the deli, then the mayo.  We search for an empty bag in the car to place our used packs.  I reach down with my foot and press the brake.  I see the Cadillac, full of young alpha males, almost screech to a halt behind us.  As I carefully apply my mustard in a signature double helix pattern known only to fathers who are culinarily and artistically anal, I watch the group of laughing testosterone put their car in reverse and back up a car length.  The person they’ve cut off has parked further back.

“OMG, did you see what that 12 or 13 year old girl was wearing.  Hoochie mama alert.”

This actually not from the prude oldies in the front seat, but from my daughter in the back.  When your own age group says you’re a hoochie mama, it’s time to reevaluate your wardrobe.  My wife distributes the ham.  I apply the ham in a tri-fold known only to a small group of head chefs in New York.  Important for sandwich depth.

The guys behind me are throwing their hands up.  I smile and tap my brakes again.  They wait all the way through the secret diagonal application of triangular Havarti.

My son realizes what I’m doing, then the rest catch on.  We all laugh.  We turn and wave as they speed by with impatient faces. 

Our sandwiches are delicious.

Learn more about this author, Shawn Bailey.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.