I don't even know why I bothered making the roll: it was raw
garlic with buckets of butter on a plasticky white roll.
There was no way I'd eat it, however hungry I got. I would
be more likely to shave my buttock hair, dissolve it in hot
water, then let it cool and allow some sort of nutritious
but vile tasting jelly to form, which could be slurped
instead of eating buttery garlic on a skank roll. If there's
one thing that my mother taught me it's how to read, but I
seem to remember that she also said once "Don't waste food"
because there were starving children in Africa who'd never
seen fussili, macaroni, or one of the other ones, stuck them
on to a piece of paper, sprayed them silver and stuck a tiny
little calendar on the bottom to not be used by some older
family member. With my mother's words ringing loudly in my
ears - I really should listen to music on my mp3 player,
instead of recording mommy's voice on my computer, then
converting it to mp3 format - I decided not to throw the
roll away, but rather to carry it around with me all day,
gently warming it in my pocket until I found someone who'd
want it.
The T-Shirt Paragraph
"Hey mate, what's in your fahking roll?" asked a man with
'My name is Stan' written on his t-shirt. I later found out
it said '...What's your fahking problem?' on the back. I
mention it now because although I only found out when we
parted company, you can cope with fucked chronology for the
sake of all the t-shirt information in one easily accessible
place. Just look for the heading 'The T-Shirt Paragraph" and
you'll be ok.
"The word, dear boy, is 'fucking' not 'fahking'. Sort your
'fucking' diction out, fuckfork," I replied, making sure I
got in the first insult so that I would be the powerful one
in the non-sexual, non-friendly relationship. "What's it to
you what's in my roll?"
"Well," replied Stan, for that was his name (refer to the
t-shirt paragraph for confirmation), who paused to allow a
brief explanation of who was speaking for when the incident
was later recalled, "I'd like to buy your roll from you, but
first I'd need to know what's in it just in case I'm
allergic to it, because anaphylactic shock hurts.
Emotionally, and to a greater extent physically."
"Oh," I said, also pausing after my first word, taking on
the customs of the dangerous unknown warrior (unknown except
for his name. You know where to look) so as to put him at
ease before I mercilessly mocked and ridiculed him, making
him say penis against his will somehow, "What are you
allergic to?"
"Certain," pause, "incontinence medicines, cat hair, and the
liquid from a lava lamp that isn't the lava. Are any of
those in your sandwich?"
"If..." This is me talking and I paused again. Get how it
works? "...I scrape off the incontinence medicine, do we
have a deal? ...Wait just one goldarn cotton-pickin' hob
gobblin' moment old timer, what is the deal?"
"You," "give me your roll and I'll give you some money. If
money doesn't appeal to you, then I could give you a good or
service. I don't have any goods on me, except for the
antidote in case I accidentally ingest something I'm
allergic to, and I haven't any talent whatsoever that would
help anyone, so I guess I can't really service you in any
way. I guess money is probably the best option. Lemme just
say 'fahking' once more, because I started off with a little
bit of an accent, and although it's now been ignored,
forgotten about, moved on from, it's better to maintain a
modicum of continuity even if it shits on any sort of flow,
hardens and becomes a real 'fahker' to scrape off the
carpet."
"You'," "re a Londoner then? That's the accent you're trying
to impress me with?"
"No," he paused, but in a very offended manner this time.
"I'm not a Londoner, I'm a man who just so happens to be
from London, you fahking racist fuckfork cuntfork wankfork.
Do we have a fahking deal or not?"
"Sure," I said, unsure where to pause in a one word answer.
I realised I had more words I wanted to say, which meant it
would look like I'd paused for a very long time. Better to
look like a long pauser than not to get the answer to a
question about the roll deal, as my t-shirt said. "How much
money are we talking about?"
"How much do you want?"
"You," "forgot to pause."
"Fahk," he replied in his quaint little voice. "I guess
that's put me on the back seat with my burning foot in these
negotiations. Well, fair's fair, just as eggs is eggs or my
name's not Stan Spankwankfork. Name your price."
"Spankwankfork?" "You're not of the Boston Spankwankforks?"
"No," he opined in a really negative way, so negative in
fact that he masked his opining with his sheer negativity.
"The Boston Spankwankforks are nouveau, they just married
into the name; the real Spankwankforks come from just
outside Boston. How much fahking money do you want for your
fahking roll?"
"A..." As I paused I thought to myself how much to ask. On
the one hand I didn't really want the roll, and would just
be happy to see it go to a nice home. On the other hand, he
really wanted it, and he was a twat. Then again if I asked
for a lot of money unnecessarily my karma would be fucked...
but my karma already was fucked from the rape, murder,
robbery, jaywalking and rape. I don't really like rape, but
I do like Mel Brooks films. The clincher for how much to ask
was that I'd paused after saying 'A', meaning I could only
say 'pound'. Fuck. "...pound." Fuck: ...fiver, ...tenner,
...monkey (he'd know how much it was, even if I didn't),
...hundred, ...thousand, ...h let me see... umm... what do
you think it's worth? How many times have I paused to think
what to say, only to later realise that I could have said
something else if I'd just paused a moment or two longer? I
reckon four, what do you think?
He paid up, but I didn't hand over the roll and ran away,
sure that I could outrun him because he was in a wheelchair
and I wasn't. Throw in a hill and, granted, he could outroll
me, but all the time we'd been talking I'd been slowly
edging towards Holland. I had a pound and a roll I didn't
want it. Things were starting to look up for me. He had no
roll and no pound, unless he happened to have other pounds
in his pocket; I bet he was suicidally depressed.