freddie mercury, the future and me

FREDDIE MERCURY, THE FUTURE AND ME

It had been another terrible day. I had spent it washing up dishes and
porridge bowls and heavy soup containers and cutlery in the enormous
kitchen of my local hospital.
It sure was hot in that kitchen, and my shirt stuck to my back while I
stood letting the air from the industrial dishwasher blow the hair out
of my face. Every time I forgot about the dishes and made the machine
stop as the brown plastic bowls got trapped under the relentless
conveyor belt. This didn't make me feel so bad. The old man I had been
working with had a red face and seemed exasperated by my slovenly
technique. He had spent a lifetime washing dishes like me. I couldn't
bring myself to tell him that I knew what I was doing.

Man I hated that goddamn job. The final straw must have been spilling
hot fish juice all over my blue Levi 501 jeans and scalding my leg when
all I wanted to really do was wash up the pots as quickly as possible
and get home. I knew things had to change from that moment on and spent
the whole afternoon smelling my thighs and spraying aerosol deodorant
over myself to try to hide the smell of badly cooked dirty fish, and
plotting elaborate ways of escaping the hidden washing room where the
sound of machinery drowned out the radio and I kept forgetting there
were other people alive in the world.

Yes sir, things had to change.

I had met the most unfortunate group of devastated men of my life in
that hospital kitchen and was happy I never got to eat their food. I
could tell by their capillaries and breath that they were nearly dead
but not near enough for themselves, and teetering endlessly on the
wrong side of alcoholism.
One mans name was Colin. He was terrible and hideous but all of my
colleagues said that it wasn't his fault. He was around 6ft and 2
inches tall and his head had grey hair and he weighed in at around 185
pounds. The hospital legend was that he was run over by a bus when he
was seven years old and since then had developed amusing brain damage
and could barely talk or learn. I wasn't sure if this was true though
because everyone who told me this story laughed about halfway through,
and it shouldn't have been funny. I laughed too though.
Even at I guess fifty-something years old Colin still lived with his
old mom, who beat him up if he was late home from work which might have
explained the bruises on his arms and the nervousness in his gestures.
He only ever said "Sorry my mate," or "Y'all right my mate?" which both
sounded like somebody who couldn't stop saying the letter '-m' with
broken lips that didn't work properly.
His washing up talent was a little better than mediocre because he had
done it for twenty-seven years in the same hospital and learnt it like
a baby.

Trevor was a bigger shit than Colin because Colin smoked such rancid
cigarettes so fast and kept them in a tin with his full name engraved
on it as a reminder in case anyone asked and the thought silence became
unbearable and Trevor didn't smoke at all. He made me want to commit
suicide. When I worked really long days with Trevor he talked about
nothing but himself. He had once had the same moustache for ten solid
years but shaved it off for a part as an extra in a small movie.

It upset me that he thought he was a star because he signed up to free
agencies in London and got occasional one second shots in films and
sometimes even got paid but never credited for them. He managed to
spend too long telling me his Hollywood anecdotes that had clearly come
from the news pages of old Readers Digests.
Each story was told the same over and over again. I think he really had
forgotten that he had told me them before and all I could think about
was shaking the bastard by the collar and telling him to shut his
stupid mouth up because the rotten pots are better than your life and
I'm glad I'm not you and 41.
He did disco dancing in his local town and in nationwide talent
contests and won a lot of rosettes for third place or pleasing
competitive spirit. I asked him to dance by a recreational pool table
and he hand-jived for five minutes.

He insisted upon saying "-ish" after most of his sentences.

"I don't think it will take too long to do those spuds. Ish."

"I liked that movie a lot. You haven't seen that movie? It's a classic.
Yep, I like that movie a lot. Great choreography and songs make it
difficult not to smile. Ish."

Once it had become noticeable it became harder and harder to take my
ears off.

I needed to do something with my life. That much had become clear
through the headaches. It was difficult to find things I liked about
the building where they stowed the kitchen secretly, nothing there made
me feel like smiling or used good materials that smelt like an old
house. It was hidden by the hospital chiefs behind cracked walls and
building areas full of skips of rubbish, and they pretended it belonged
to somebody else, probably so they could feel sorry for that person
when they looked out of their executive windows. A middle-aged woman
whose hair was taller than her head blushed when she saw the kitchen
staff in the corridors. I wasn't sure if it was bad to have people
feeling ashamed to talk to you because you wore an apron.

So on my way out of work that day I stole a hotdog vendors portable
cart that had been left unprotected outside a public convenience. I
pushed it home following the coast road where joggers cursed mumbles
and jogged past the wheels and old people seemed to be unsure about
everything. I was formulating a business plan and whistling songs by
the rock and roll band Queen.

Half way through the second chorus of the song "Don't stop me now" it
fell into place. With special modifications that had been drafted
outside a block of flats I would use my new cart to sell chilled or
warmed peanut butter sandwiches in polythene bags or on sticks to the
public for snacks or even evening meals depending on the complexities
of the recipe and quality of the ingredients.

It seemed likely that I would be famous. The world had to be waiting
for something so simple. I had never seen a peanut butter sandwich for
sale in a store. I had to get to work as quickly as I could. I left my
job washing dishes behind forever and folded all my belongings into a
brown leather buckled suitcase and walked down the road into the sun
with my Peanut Butter Stall in the other hand. It was Freddie Mercury,
the future and me.

It didn't take long to prepare the cart itself. I painted it a new
green colour I had found in a hardware store and asked a mechanic
friend of mind to take a look at the wheels. "They seem to be in full
order," he said. I had to explain that I couldn't pay him for his time
but would gladly offer him as much peanut butter sandwiches as he could
eat. It could be hungry work being a mechanic. He rubbed his chin and
agreed that it made good business sense.

I had managed to pick up a second hand sandwich display unit at a
junkyard I used to play in. It looked a lot like a toast rack but I
could tell it was a sandwich display unit. The manager recognised me
from along time ago and I only had to pay him enough for a coke. He
even offered to throw in a baby's pushchair but I told him he should
hang on to it for the right person. A prospective mother would have a
really good day drinking coffee and buying that pushchair for a couple
of cokes. I didn't know how the junkyard manager called Steel Mike
managed to live very easily on just coke.

The secret would be producing good sandwiches with thick peanut butter.
Nobody wanted a sandwich with thin peanut butter. Thin bread could
certainly make for a better peanut butter sandwich, just as long as the
peanut butter was used well. I practised making up sandwiches for a
whole day until they tasted just right. I spent the next day making a
large replica sandwich out of wood and glue that could be put on the
roof of my peanut butter sandwich cart.

I could barely sleep at night, thinking about the bright green cart and
its sandwich display unit.

One Thursday morning that started off cold enough to wear a jacket I
woke up early and made up a batch of one hundred fresh peanut butter
sandwiches, which I carefully placed into the chilled half of the cart,
and set about wheeling it to the centre of the shopping street. It was
empty when I arrived so I displayed four sandwiches on the display
unit. They looked very attractive and made me start to feel hungry.
Peanut butter escaped from the sides of the bread, just like it should
in a well made sandwich, and I poured hot coffee from a flask into a
paper cup and waited for somebody to walk by and buy a sandwich for
their morning snack.

After two coffees a man with a brush asked me what exactly I was
selling. I pointed at the sandwich display unit and he squeezed the
bread between his thumb and forefinger. He looked happy with surprise,
and bought a sandwich for 60p. I asked if he wanted a bag or a stick.
He laughed like a waterfall and said a bag'd be fine. The bags were
see-through and said peanut butter sandwich on them, which he seemed to
enjoy. I pointed out the condiment selection on the front of the stall:
jelly, banana, pickled gherkin or bacon. He smelt the bacon but said he
was okay and walked off with his brush and his sandwich.

A few minutes later he came back with the empty bag.

"That was a good sandwich," he said contemplatively. "Damn good
sandwich. You bet, thickness of peanut butter was just the right
compliment to that soft bread your using back there."

"Thank you," I said. "I'm glad you enjoyed your sandwich."

"It was delicious. I think I will tell people I know about this green
sandwich stall." He nodded at me.

"Thank you very much again." I nodded back at him.

"What else you guys selling but those peanut butter sandwiches there?"
he asked. His hand was rummaging through his change in his trouser
pockets.

"I'm emphasizing the peanut butter here. You can buy any number of
sandwiches from any number of food stores, but I never saw me a peanut
butter sandwich before, not in a box or a bag, and never on a stick."
We both laughed at this because it was so crazy it was true. "I can do
a peanut butter sandwich of any size you like. Or a delicious HOT
peanut butter sandwich."

He looked toward the heated half of the peanut butter sandwich cart. "A
hot peanut butter sandwich?" His eyes had opened wider at the nearly
unfathomable prospect. "How much is that?"

"As my first valued customer I shall sell you a hot peanut butter
sandwich for 50 pence. I recommend it with bacon."

I carefully lowered a sandwich into the heated drum of the old hot
vendors stall. The man rested his brush against the paintwork and
bought the sandwich, which this time he ate in front of me off of a
stick with bacon and a slice of pickled gherkin on my recommendation.
He put the stick in a dustbin and came back for his brush.

"You make an excellent sandwich," he said and offered his hand for me
to shake. "I have never tasted anything like that before. Are you going
to be here all the time from now on?"

"Every day."

"Thanks."

He went back to sweeping the streets clean for the day, and I had some
coffee and thought about the ?1.10 pence I had made with my
sandwiches.

As people heard about and tried and spoke about this strange green cart
with a wooden sandwich on its roof that sold peanut butter sandwiches
in the high street the number of fillings grew and the choice of
accompaniments grew also. But the peanut butter came first. As long as
that was smooth and thick the sandwiches would sell even without the
gourmet additions. I began to prepare sandwiches of peanut butter
'plus', using a variety of carefully selected fillings to further the
sandwich eating experience. Handmade peanut butter sandwiches made to
order on a cart in the street. Customers were excited and started to
queue to buy my sandwiches. Working men who smelt of lager ate peanut
butter and chilli sandwiches; mothers talked to each other about my
peanut butter, plum and finely sliced duck explosion; children screamed
and pulled and stamped for the triple layered peanut butter, chocolate
and cream surprise.

But still nothing sold better than plain old P.B., and the man with the
brush was always first in line every day for his steaming hot peanut
butter sandwich on a stick.

I had even started making small amounts of profit from my stolen hot
dog cart, but it had become more important than money. People began
telling me that this simple sandwich idea was changing their life and
finally giving them a reason to go to work, just to wait for their
lunch hour.

After a few months of ideas and experiments I faced my first problem as
a peanut butter sandwich vendor. While I was just putting together a
peanut butter-mayonnaise on rye I saw a frustrated looking woman next
in the line. People hadn't often looked frustrated in my queue before.
The smell of good nut seemed to bring kindly feeling to all. But this
lady had a red face and her hair was a-fluster, like she had walked a
long way very quickly in a moderate wind. I finished up the sandwich
and asked her what she would like.

"Are you that peanut butter guy?" she snapped.

"Yes Missus," I replied. I think I was smiling a little too hard, and
she seemed to notice that. "Peanut butter is my trade! What would you
like today? I can recommend my new special brandy peanut butter for the
perfect solution to a hard day." I was still smiling at her.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice was hoarse and I imagined her
shouting about things at home in preparation.

"What?" I asked.

"Two days ago, mister, you sold a peanut butter sandwich to my eleven
year old boy, Thomas." She showed me a photograph of an unusual looking
kid who I remembered well. He had shouted at me when he asked for the
sandwich too. She had one hand in her brown coat pocket and one hand
clenched and half-pointing at me.

"I remember. He seemed happy with his purchase." She stared at me and
didn't say anything. "Was he happy with his purchase?"

"No."

"Ah."

"No. In fact, what you seemed to not realise was that my son is
allergic to nuts. And you sold him a peanut butter sandwich. He had two
fits and got swollen."

"That is awful." I said. I had not anticipated this, and felt a true
pain for my irresponsibility.

"Yes it is you irresponsible fool." She wasn't shouting anymore. I
preferred it when she was shouting as it made her actions more
predictable.

"Might I refund the cost of the offending sandwich?" I suggested
appropriately humbly. "In some small way it might ease the pain of your
swollen son."

"Your attempts at situation rectification are embarrassing. I don't
want your money. I want you to think about what you have done. I will
be coming back here with my husband who is a tall, tall man. I want you
closed down."

She snatched the photograph of Thomas out of my hand and stormed off. I
could hear her huffing all the way down the sidewalk.

The next day I opened up the cart ready for business as usual. I was
more tired than most mornings because I had sat up all night trying to
come up with a way that people with nut allergies might still enjoy a
good old- fashioned peanut butter sandwich.
The plan I came up with involved selling genuine and tasty peanut
butter that contained absolutely no traces of peanuts. I baked some up
and it sure tasted like real peanut butter to me. I spread a few thick
cut sandwiches up with my idea and offered it free of charge to my
friend with the brush that very morning. He said it tasted great, but
why would I just give him this regular sandwich for nothing?

I gestured for him to come a little closer. "That sandwich you've just
eaten, how d'it taste?" I asked in a whisper.

"I told you, it was delicious. Your sandwiches are always
delicious."

"Interesting."

"What is?" He looked confused.

"That sandwich you just ate didn't contain any peanuts."

He laughed at me. I didn't laugh, so he laughed again. "No peanuts?" he
said between laughs. I shook my head. "With respect an' all," he went
on, "I just ate that sandwich, that peanut butter sandwich, and it sure
tasted a lot like peanuts to me!" He laughed a few more times and
looked at me like I was crazy.
I explained the whole story to him, about allergic Thomas and the angry
mother, about my night of testing recipes. He looked doubtful.

"So if there ain't a single nut in that peanut butter," he pointed
vaguely at the cart, "what is there in it?"

"You really want to know?" I asked. "FUN! That's what's in there, plain
old fun, enough to make a great darn sandwich."

He really laughed at this and slapped me on the back. I sold him
another two nut free sandwiches and drew up a poster advertising my
100\% fun, 0\% peanut sandwiches (suitable for allergy victims). Before
long, I didn't even have to use regular peanut butter for those who
requested it. Everyone in town was dying to get their hands on this
crazy nutless butter.

Swollen Thomas' father never came to find me either. Sometimes I saw he
and his mom walking past the cart and I pointed at my sign, but she
would never let him have the sandwich. Despite his reaction, I think
Thomas was happy that he'd eaten that sandwich that time. it gave him a
little taste of something he might never get again, at least until he
got a bit older.