Two carpenters, Bill and Bob, break for lunch on a steamy summer day. They rest their bones in the shade and break open their lunch pails. Bill’s hands, calloused and covered with sweat-caked sawdust, unwrap his sandwich slowly. He peers underneath a piece of bread to examine its contents.
“DAMMIT!,” Bill screams.
“Tuna fish . . . Again!!! I hate tuna fish!” His yells slowly reduce to mumbling as he reluctantly bites into the sandwich, “Tuna fish. . every freaking day. . if I have to eat tuna fish again, I’m going to fall apart . . I can’t stand it . . . “
Bob was not startled by this outbreak. Bill has been blowing up at lunch everyday since he met him five years ago. Bob has resisted the temptation to point up the absurdity of this daily ritual. The enabling silence ends today.
Bob peers into the bottom of an empty Doritos bag and offhandedly remarks, “Hey Bill, I was thinking, maybe you should, uh, you know, let your wife know what type of sandwiches you do like?”
Bill responds with a blank stare. “I don’t understand”
“I’m just saying, you know, it seems like everyday you work yourself up over these sandwiches that you don’t like. Maybe it might be worth letting your wife know what type of lunch you would like.”
Bill’s blank stare breaks only slightly to respond, “Bob, what the hell are you talking about? I make my own lunch.“
We, too, make our own lunch . . .
