The Sandwich

My older sister is an earth muffin artist, wafting successfully through life on the West Coast. I, on the other hand, am a solidly grounded, parka-wearing, van-driving Midwestern housewife and mother. We differ in almost every way you can imagine, including hair color and temperament, and only the most imaginative geneticist would be able to determine our relationship.

We work through the majority of our disagreements nicely, only occasionally regressing to the snarling cat fights of our childhood over toaster rights and bathroom privileges. There’s one area, though where we permanently disagree. She’s a dedicated vegetarian, and I remain a plebeian omnivore. We don’t discuss it much, though, because she’s so concerned about my karma that she lapses into sisterly tears at the thought of the topic.

Every so often, on her coast-to-coast consulting flights, she stops off to visit and complains about how we never come to see her, that she’s the only one doing any visiting. She’s right. And on one occasion, I decided to take a break from the daily scrum of my life and head west.

So, one fine southern California day, we drive to one of her favorite hangouts in Venice, an open-air café painted in beach colors and infested with pigeons. As we get out of the car, I’m on alert.

"Hey," I remark "what’re those flying vermin doing all over the tables? I’m not eating at a vermin-tracked table!"

"They’re part of nature! They recycle the crumbs and leftovers of our wasteful society!" she replies.

"They have lice," I inform her.

"Eyew," she says.

So, we whip out our various cologne bottles and attempt a fragrant disinfection of our chosen table, based on our joint belief that there’s enough alcohol in pricey perfume to kill the lice. After the cloud clears and patrons downwind stop hacking up their lungs, we take our seats, and a waiter dressed in black pants and a pink shirt arrives to take our orders.

Without even opening the menu, I fix him with a steely glare and order a chicken salad sandwich, and my sister orders some form of foliage, which makes him grin. There are still pigeons possessively strolling around on nearby tables, witlessly pecking and shedding invisible lice, much to my dismay.

"I hate pigeons," I tell my sister.

"Hate is very bad for you. It turns your aura red and black," she says. "It stresses you out and makes you wrinkly."

"It’s personal," I say, "they always crap on me."

"What?!" she exclaims.

"They crap on my head, my hands, my shoulders, my legs, my car, and my stuff; they crap on me. I am the ultimate points-intensive target in the pigeon paradigm of success," I tell her.

"I don’t believe you. I think you are paranoid. It’s all that red meat and caffeine you take in. You need an enema," she advises me.

"Can I have my chicken salad sandwich first?" I ask. She smiles a secretive and very familiar smile at me and agrees that I can eat lunch before clearing my colon. I’m worried now because I know that look. That look short-sheeted my bed, put itching powder in my underwear drawer and told my first boyfriend that I wet the bed until age nine.

I stare at her, trying to figure out what the look is for, but get distracted by a fit of sneezing. I lean over, open my purse, which is lying by my foot, to get a tissue and it happens. The great grandmother of pigeons flies over head and lets loose a doot with the volume and consistency of a full 8 oz. cup of dish soap. It hits me right on the bangs, travels down in a big "splort" to the back of my hand, and ends its journey completely painting the lovely Georgia O’Keefe tiger lily enameling on the back of my best compact, deep inside my purse.

I stop, frozen in shocked recognition of this fulfillment of my earlier statement. My sister gasps and says, "Ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod. You were RIGHT! Ohmigod." And then she starts laughing. Trying not to let my besmirched bangs come in contact with my face, I angle a look at her and say, "Next time, try not to recommend an enema; I think that stupid bird heard you. Where’s the ladies’ room?"

She points it out to me, still snorting with laughter, and I, my purse, and the pigeon poo all head off for a scrub. Fifteen minutes later, bangs, hand, and purse interior considerably cleaner and very wet, I arrive back at the table, only to find that lunch was served in my absence. And, at my place, where there should be a chicken salad sandwich is, instead, the leaning tower of sprouts, bookended in bread so full of fiber, it looks like someone has peeled bark directly off of an oak tree in loaf-shaped pieces. Next to this gustatory monstrosity is a small plastic cup of glossy white spooge with green flecks in it.

"What the heck is THIS?" I ask my sister.

"It’s your Ch’I-ken salad sandwich," she says "with herbed yogurt dressing on the side."

"Hold on," I say "how come that sounded different when you said it?"

"Well, this is a completely vegetarian restaurant" she answers.

"And?" I ask as I glare in my most forceful kid sister way.

"The waiter thought you were ordering a Ch’I-Ken salad sandwich, just mispronouncing it," she says, smirking. "It’s packed with just the right nutrition to put you more in touch with your energy meridians."

I look at my so-called sandwich, 6 inches in height, as it sways gently in the breeze, little bean sprout tendrils waving at me invitingly.

"There’s something I have to tell you about health food and me," I tell her, "and why I’m not that keen on it."

"Yes?" she whispers as she leans in for a girlie confidence.

"It’s the sprouts" I tell her. "Look at this". I pull three sprouts carefully from the Jenga pile of my sandwich and lay them lengthwise in my hand. "What do these look like to you?"

"They look like Health! Vitamins! Increased Energy!" she says.

I interrupt her, "Sperm," I say, "they look like sperm."

She studies the sprouts for a moment, her eyes pop open, and then her jaw drops.

"Oh, God" she says "you’re right. They look like sperm. Oh, God."

"I’ve got three kids and I’ve been married since Hector was a pup," I tell her, "and I’ve had all the sperm encounters I’m interested in. That’s why my husband went out and got fixed; so that neither of us would have to worry about sperm any more. And, I’ve gotta tell you, that, while I could deal with the bread, even though I can feel my bowels loosening from just looking at it, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit here, recently covered in bird shit, eating a sperm sandwich!"

"Oh, shit fire" says my sister, and she throws thirty bucks on the table, grabs me by the arm and runs hell for leather for her Alpha. "Get in! Get in!"

"Where are we going?" I ask as she burns rubber out of the parking lot.

"There’s a McDonald’s six blocks away," she yells, "and the fries are cooked in veggie oil."

Later, sitting in air conditioned, pigeon free comfort, she points a French fry at me.

"I’ll never be able to eat another bean sprout" she says.

"Not in mixed company" I say and grin.

"I can’t believe you’re my sister" she says, and I just grin.

She called me last week to tell me about her new healthy diet, which consists largely of brown rice, lentils and raisins. I refrained from telling her about a negative experience I had at a picnic which involved Waldorf salad and cluster flies. ‘Nuff said.