Reuben Sandwich

It’s thousand island dressing, pastrami, Swiss cheese, and sour kraut on toasted rye. It’s not a difficult sandwich to make. I shouldn’t have even been put in a position where I have to complain, you know? It’s a Reuben for christ's sake.

Now, in hindsight, I recognize that swearing in the restaurant wasn’t appropriate. I admit that. I was just having a hard day, ya know? A hard week, actually. I’m just really stressed out lately, and I figured I’d treat myself after a long week by going to my favorite deli and getting my favorite sandwich. I wasn’t even mad at the waitress, exactly. It was just a week's worth of stress and frustration and disappointment that I had balled up, and the sandwich was the tipping point. It doesn’t excuse my behavior, but I think it explains it.

I messed up, and I feel terrible about it. But I don’t think what I said warrants being followed back to my home. It certainly doesn’t warrant a stranger breaking in in the middle of the night, waking me up out of bed, putting a black bag over my head and zip ties on my wrists, putting me in a car, and driving me to the middle of the woods.

Cruel and unusual punishment, right? I don’t think saying “fuck” in a crowded Jewish deli warrants getting dragged out of said car and getting the freezing cold barrel of a pistol put in my mouth.

I mean, I’m wearing nothing but my boxers and a tank top and have no idea where I am. The man standing across from me has on a Batman mask and says “if you ever do that shit again, you won’t make it out of these woods”. He then brings me to my feet and kicks me into some general, indiscernible direction.

Well, I end up wandering through those woods for what felt like ages until I finally come across a road with some street lights. I choose left and wander that way for just as long until I find a tiny gas station that was thankfully still open.

I walk in and greet the attendant who couldn’t have been more than 17 years old. He’s immediately frightened but I insist he shouldn’t call the police. After looking at the clock that read 4:27am, I ask him how far from Sheboygan we are and he looks at me like I’m fucking insane. Apparently this gas station I stumbled upon was over 200 miles from the bed I was stolen from.

After a few more hours of walking, bussing, and dumpster diving for trousers, I arrive back home covered in sweat, dirt, and shame.

Out of curiosity, I check Yelp for the first time, curious if anyone else had had a similar experience to mine. Unfortunately, no such story had been told.

I learned my lesson, I suppose. Don’t disrespect service workers. Noted. Maybe next time I’ll just have a cup of soup or something.