Abecedarian

A woman in a beret was in the kitchen making a giant sandwich following a long evening of drinking after work. By the time she finished constructing the sandwich (which she insisted on thinking of as a hoagie, which drove her husband mad) it was after midnight.

“Couldn’t you have made one for me?” her husband asked as he wandered in from the living room.

“Didn’t you see I was making a sandwich?” she said. “Everything is already put away.”

“Fine,” he said. “Goddamn if you don’t feel the need for one of those giant sandwiches every time you get a few drinks in you.”

“Hoagie,” she said, her mouth already full. “I really wish you would respect my desire to have the sandwiches I construct referred to as hoagies.”

Jealous of his wife’s sandwich, and starving, he drove off in search of something to eat, settling on a 24-hour restaurant not far from his home. Klingon-costumed conventioneers, many clearly drunk, were occupying most of the tables and booths of the restaurant. Lest it appear he was avoiding the place because of the presence of the Star Trek geeks, he grudgingly proceeded to take a seat at a small table near the front window.

Maybe, he thought, this wasn’t such a good idea. Now he was stuck trying to force food down his throat while he was surrounded by this irritating sideshow. Oh, fuck, he hated Star Trek. Perhaps, he hoped, a decent order of hash browns would salvage his utterly wasted night. Quests for food in the middle of the night, however, were inevitably regretable, at least in his experience.

“Ready to order?” asked a waitress who had suddenly appeared at his table. “Sorry, by the way, for the Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Tonight’s special, I suppose I should tell you, is the French Dip sandwich, but I can’t in good conscience recommend it to you after it’s been sitting back there under the heat lamps for going on fourteen hours.”

“Umm, no,” he said, momentarily distracted by an eruption of some sort at one of the Klingon tables. “Very sound advice, I’m sure.” Was it his imagination, or were these Star Trek characters starting to give him dirty looks, almost as if he had somehow trespassed on their private clubhouse? Xenophobic bastards, he thought, and made up his mind to leave at once.

“You don’t have to apologize,” the waitress said sympathetically when he attempted to explain his inability to spend another minute –let alone eat breakfast– in such disturbing and unruly company.

Zig-zagging gracelessly amongst the tables as he made his way to the door were two drunken Klingons who were lunging at each other with some sort of plastic weapons, much to the loud amusement of their stunted comrades.