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Fathers, Sons, and Sandwiches

By Chris Sullivan

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The Sandwich God exhaled a deep, throaty sigh, and set the letter down on the table beside the couch. He cracked his knuckles and stretched his hands up over his head. A slight breeze coming through an open window ruffled his golden hair and threatened to push the letter to the floor. The letter read:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Sandwich God,

Be advised that the principal’s office has seen fit to suspend your son, David, for three days following his most recent disciplinary infraction. As you have already been informed in a previous letter, for the third time this year David tried to smite one of his classmates. When this district agreed to accept David, in light of his “special” abilities, several rules were instated to ensure both his safety and that of his classmates. Given the escalation of smiting attempts in recent weeks, we have no choice but to discipline David in this manner. Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Sincerely,

Harold Perelnutter
Vice-Principal, Millard Fillmore Technical High School

Before joining the mortal world, Sandwich God had resided on Mount Olympus. But Sandwich God made the mistake of falling in love with a mortal woman. She had originally loved the prestige of her new address, not to mention the view, but she came to obsess over the fact that she was the only mortal for miles. Technically, there were other mortals on the Mount, but only if you included the swans, goats and other assorted zoo animals that Zeus had knocked up and brought home over the years. So, rather than spend the next several decades listening to his increasingly harpy-ish wife complain, Sandwich God agreed to move with her and their teenage son, David, to her hometown of Cleveland, Ohio.

At that point, David’s abilities had yet to truly manifest themselves. He had always had the ability to smite bugs, small animals and birds, but no one could have guessed the full blown smiting ability he would develop once he turned fifteen. His powers were even more surprising given the fact that his mother’s sole power was the very mortal ability to nag and his father had only been blessed with the ability to make sandwiches appear out of the ether.

Roast beef, ham, turkey; any cold cuts were well within his ability. Rye, white, whole wheat, pumpernickel; any bread could be summoned by a simple wave of his hand. Toppings were also no problem; lettuce, tomato, onion, and even the less traditional avocado slices or olive spread were not outside the realm of possibility. He could even create a decent panini if he really concentrated. But that was where his powers ended. Sandwich God’s father had been the fastest runner since Mercury. His mother had been blessed with the ability to spin strands of gold from her fingertips. But Sandwich God brought them endless shame and was the subject of much Godly gossip. His parents had tried to shelter him, but Sandwich God knew that the other gods made fun of him. God school was no fun. If you think mortal children can be cruel, they are no match for the merciless taunting that can stream forth from the supernatural. Picture your fourth grade bully times ten, and immortal.

Sandwich God picked up the letter again. For the third time this year David tried to smite one of his classmates… He would have to hide this from his wife. She knew about one of the other attempted smitings, but Sandwich God had decided to protect his son from her wrath when news of the most recent incidents had been sent home. Whenever David used his powers in a way that his mother didn’t approve, such as to eliminate a potential tackler on the football field or open a path to the front of an ATM line, she would lose it. And nothing productive ever came out of any such confrontations for David, especially since Mrs. Sandwich God would always turn it around so it would be Sandwich God’s fault due to his otherworldly lineage and the no-good history that comes from growing up on the wrong side of the mortal/supernatural train tracks. Lately, she had even been dropping the words “separation” and “divorce” in conversation. Sandwich God might have pursued that avenue if it hadn’t been for their son. He didn’t want to put David through a divorce while he was simultaneously navigating the hazardous waters of high school. Maybe after he’d left for college, but not now.

Sandwich God put the letter back down and rubbed his temples. He heard David coming up the porch steps and stood up to meet him.

“Hi, Dad,” said a wary David when he saw his father.

“Have a seat, son,” said Sandwich God. “We need to talk.”

“Sure, pop. What is it?”

“You know what it is,” answered Sandwich God. “You’ve been suspended for smiting.”

“Dad I…”

“‘Dad I’ what?” said Sandwich God, his voice rising. “Dad I didn’t mean to smite him? Dad it was an accident? Which excuse is it going to be this time?”

Sandwich God hated being so hard on his son, but he knew it would be far worse if they didn’t get everything squared away before Mrs. Sandwich God came home. Luckily, her job as a secretary was with a busy law firm, and she often worked late. Sandwich God had no such problem. Managing a Subway presented few challenges, even when his employees were too stoned to complete their assigned shifts.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” said David. “I screwed up. I was trying to impress Becky and I smote her ex-boyfriend Greg.”

“Did he die?”

“No, it was just a partial smiting,” whimpered David. “I’ve never smote anyone to death. Come on, Dad. You know that!”

“I do. I know you would never intentionally smite someone the way your school thinks,” said Sandwich God. “But nevertheless son, as gods we are held to a much higher standard. And I don’t need to tell you what kind of strings we had to pull to get you into a regular high school in the first place.”

It was true. Sandwich God had had to join the local Republican Party in order to get the necessary recommendations to get David into M.F. Tech.

“Whatever,” said David.

“Whatever? You think this is a whatever situation?” asked Sandwich God. “You’ve been suspended, David. Your mother is going to hit the roof! And you can forget using your powers again anytime soon!”

“At least my powers can do something,” hissed David under his breath.

A visibly shocked Sandwich God could barely say, “Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” answered David, already sorry.

“My powers,” started Sandwich God, sitting down as far from his son as the couch would allow, “My powers may not be the greatest in the universe, but I have learned to control… to control… oh, who am I kidding? My powers are ridiculous and I know it! I’ve always known it. My parents always knew it. And you know it too. I’m sorry that you had to have such a lousy God for a father.”

Sandwich God looked like a defeated god, like he was on the verge of tears.

“Come on, Dad. Please don’t look so down,” said David, feeling awful. “Remember when we were living on Mount Olympus?”

“Yes,” answered Sandwich God quietly.

“Remember all the great parties we used to go to?” asked David.

“Yes,” replied Sandwich God.

“Who catered those parties, Dad?” said David. “You did.”

“I did.”

“You did,” said David, pointing at his father for emphasis. “So don’t sit there and tell me you’ve got lousy powers. I didn’t mean what I said. Your powers are really special, and without your special powers I would never have developed the power to smite people. My powers are all thanks to those wonderful sandwiches you can whip out of thin air.”

“I guess you’re right,” said Sandwich God.

“You guess?” asked David in a jokingly angry tone.

“No, I know. You’re right,” answered Sandwich God.

And with that Sandwich God and David stood and embraced in the middle of the living room, just as Mrs. Sandwich God’s car rumbled into the driveway.

“Oh, no,” they both said.

“Let me handle her,” said Sandwich God. “Just promise me you won’t smite anyone else this year.”

“You’ve got it,” answered David.

The muffler on Mrs. Sandwich God’s car had obviously come loose again, meaning Sandwich God’s latest attempt at auto mechanics had failed. Both father and son knew that she would be in a foul mood. Sandwich God told David to hide in his room and took a seat on the couch. Picturing David in college, Sandwich God had a brief vision of himself, alone, pricing apartments on Mount Olympus. The front door flew open, and the letter fluttered to the floor.

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Chris Sullivan is a writer and humorist currently living in New York. His work has appeared in Haypenny, Really Small Talk, 10003 and, inexplicably, The Chicken Soup series of books. He can be contacted at chris@chrissullivan.us or via his website: www.chrissullivan.us.

© 2004 Me Three