The Sandwich

This was written a LONG time ago... far before I knew I had a thing for guys who break or have broken the law:)




THE SANDWICH


The man of my dreams broke into my car today. He took Tori Amos, the Eagles, Pearl Jam-- and he left behind a sandwich. Turkey on a whole wheat roll with avocado, olives and ranch dressing. It’s my favorite. He got half way through it. The rest was left there in a white wrapper on a brown paper bag. It’s an unusual choice for a man. I like unusual men. I’m sorry he got interrupted. Or rather, I wish that I had been the one who interrupted him.

I had a doctor’s appointment later in the day, so I didn’t go to work that morning. It was early afternoon before I went out to the garage. The door was open. And inside, so were the car doors. It took me a minute to register what had happened. I climbed inside the car and looked around, in an effort to inventory my losses. Whoever it was left the dry cleaning I hadn’t bothered to bring in, a shirt I had to return to a store, and the quarters I keep in the console for parking. But they took a few select CDs and a book-on-tape. David Sedaris. This thief has a sense of humor, I think. I’m intrigued. So much so that it doesn’t even bother me that my battery’s dead because he neglected to lock up when he was done.
A criminal and I like the same music, eat the same food. I didn’t even have that much in common with my last boyfriend. I smell his cologne in the car. And I like it. It’s kind of musky with a hint of citrus and spice. I realize it turns me on. I wonder what he looks like. And how he picked me, my car, my garage. If he just knew instinctively that he would find what he was looking for inside.

I have the police come by. I insist they dust for prints. They think it’s a waste of time and say they probably won’t find him.
“But you have to find him," I say, “for me. I don’t want this one to get away.”
“Okay,” they say, “We’ll do our best.”
But they don’t mean it. Not really.
I think of taking out an ad. Setting a trap. Instead, I go to the police station, ask to look through mug shots like people do on TV shows. The officer clearly thinks I’m nuts but it’s no skin off his back, he says, so he sets me in a chair with a book. Carefully I leaf through each picture and read each rap sheet, trying to imagine the two of us as a couple. For some, it’s harder than others. Criminals come in all ages, shapes and sizes. Not to mention, all ethnicities-- there are Latinos, African-Americans, Caucasians and even a few mutts. It’s more diversity than any bar or internet dating site, that’s for sure. Facial hair is big with them, too. Serving as a source of camouflage, I suspect. I’m not really a fan of moustaches or beards, but I figure I can be persuaded to make an exception if the guy has other qualities going for him. I learn that the police also make a point to list certain characteristics that I usually take for granted in a man. Like-- Teeth: Normal and Speech: Normal. I know my guy has to fall in the ‘Normal’ category. No question about it. I can’t envision a man with black and crooked teeth listening to Tori Amos. Or being a fan of David Sedaris either, for that matter.

Some of the men have legitimate jobs, apparently performing crimes in their spare time. That’s got to be tiring, I think to myself, fully understanding why those who have jobs have no wife or children listed. They’re out of the house twenty-four seven. In some cases, they’re divorced. And I wonder why – was it that their wives just didn’t get them? Were all their crimes getting in the way of their sex lives? I remember the scent my guy left behind in the car and I know that he couldn’t be divorced. The smell of him alone would stop me from leaving. I concentrate on the singles.

For some of the men, it’s hard for me to view their offenses as anything but accomplishments. After all, how many men are smart enough to run a counterfeit ring or athletic enough to scale a twenty-four foot wall? I figure the guy deserves a diamond necklace for his efforts. And what about the executive who kidnapped his boss and led police on a four hour car chase? If he can keep news crews and the people at home captivated for the entire ride, I figure he can entertain me on a date. Who cares if they all got caught? At least they’re resourceful, I think to myself. Go-getters. They know what they want and they go after it. I’ve never been the type to date a guy who sits on the couch watching football and drinking beer.
After four hours, I’m convinced I’ve found him. He seems to have the right MO for the burglary and for me. I leave with high hopes. And I know what I’ve got to do. After I park in the garage, I turn the alarm off on my car. I figure why play hard to get with this guy when there are naïve women all over the place forgetting to lock their doors? I go upstairs and pick out some other CDs I like as an offering. And this time, I choose to leave a book by Maya Angelou. Then, I wait.

Throughout the night, I sit by the window drinking a glass of wine in the dark, watching over the door that leads to my garage. I see cats run by, alley diggers collecting cans, neighbors who return guilty and intoxicated, but my criminal doesn’t make a move. This goes on for four nights. I become familiar with the comings and goings of the people around me. I figure out who’s having an affair and who’s hiding a dog from our landlord. Some guy goes out every night at two in the morning, only to return an hour later. To do what is a mystery. But there’s no one taking my CDs.
I try to avoid the car wash because I don’t want his scent to fade, but soon I can’t take it anymore. I realize, it’s time to cave in. That’s when I get the call.

“We found your man,” the officer says on the other end of the phone.
My heart races.
“Do you need me to come down and identify him?”
“No, no need to trouble yourself.”
“It would be no trouble, really,” I say. “It would be my pleasure.”
“No. No need. We have a positive ID on him from his fingerprints.”
“You do? That’s great. So you’re sure it’s him?” Trying to mask my excitement.
“That’s right.”
“What does he look like?” Then, “I just want to make sure he’s the same guy I saw lurking around the alley.”
“He’s Latin. Dark hair. Green eyes."
So far so good.
“He has a scar on his neck.”
“Really?”
I want to go there now. Visit him in jail and bring him a sandwich. Something to read.
"Oh, and he’s about five-foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds," the officer continues.
“Excuse me?” I say.
“He’s about five-foot four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds. That sound like your man?”
"No," I say, suddenly, "too short. The guy I saw was entirely someone else.”