Arby's

I went to college in Dayton, Ohio. It is not a farmland town that you might expect living in the middle of the country. Dayton is a small-sized city that you can tell, at one point, was prospering but for various reasons peaked and been shrinking as the years go by. The university is a major contributor to the various businesses in town.  One of the businesses is Arby’s.
I did not frequent this roast beef sandwich and curly fry establishment on a regular basis even though their giant cowboy hat marquee tried to lure me in, reminding their food “is delicious”. The only time I justified eating Arby’s was when they had a deal where you could buy five roast beef sandwiches on a flavor-filled onion roll for five dollars. This deal was named “5 for 5”. As a college student, always looking for a deal, this one was too hard to pass up.

I drove over to Arby’s and tipped my hat to the giant cowboy hat in the sky and pulled into the parking lot. Skipping through the parking lot the change jangling in my pocket provided a theme song for someone set to voyage on a tasty sandwich adventure. I walked up to the counter and did not even look up at the menu.
Welcome to Arby’s. May I –
Five for Five, Please. Extra Horsey Sauce. Make it to go.

She had seen my kind before. I meant business and she could tell from the look on my face.  She turned quickly and threw the five sandwiches, conveniently already made sitting under some warm red lights, into a bag like a teller filling a sack full of money during a robbery. She returned to counter, I handed her the correct amount before ringing me up and headed for the door. I lifted the bag to up to my face and the sweet, sweet smell of thinly slicked roast beef filled my senses, I felt weak in the knees but knew I had to stay strong. I was almost to my car.

I jumped into front seat, tossed the bag on the passenger side. I was not riding alone; I had a date with five sandwiches and this date just started. I grabbed the first of five sandwiches, unwrapped the silver paper, sparkling back at me, inviting me to be the mayor of melt-in-your-mouth mania. I ripped open a pack of Horsey Sauce, a creamy horserasdish sauce that tastes as good as mile from an angels tit and slathered it on the neatly piled mound of meat and the top side of the onion bun. My teeth sunk into the sandwich, my eyes closed and I let out a sigh of relief that I would be eating five Arby’s Roast Beef sandwiches this afternoon. I exited the parking lot, my first of five sandwiches in my hand, and waited for the light to change at the intersection. It was then when a friend pulled upside my car at the intersection. We acknowledged each other and raised my sandwich in the air as if I was toasting him a flute of the finest champagne. He flashed a quick smiled and motioned through his closed window, showing the appropriate amount of fingers with one hand, “FIVE – FOUR – FIVE”. I raised my hand-food once again and he nodded in approval just as the light turned green. He drove off, squealing his tires through the intersection. I looked down at my sandwich and smiled.

My destination was my apartment. The summer sun was screaming down on me and I sought air conditioning so I could enjoy my sack of sandwiches in comfort. In four bites, the first sandwich was complete, all that remained was the balled up aluminum that was tossed in the back seat. My hand was back in the sack, fishing out my second of five roast beef sandwiches. I was only few blocks from home but once the beef touches your lips, it’s hard to stop so I decided it was useless to fight temptation and bit into the second sandwich, each bite better than the rest. 

Two were down, three more to go. I tossed the foil of second sandwich into the back seat, arrived in front of my apartment at the same time, grabbed the sack and headed inside. I was going to be alone with this sack of beef snacks and knew I had nothing to do but eat some sandwiches and possibly take of my pants. Now, this is where I may have blacked out. I do not clearly remember eating the final three sandwiches. I awoke on the couch, television still on, and the only recognition of what happened was the strewn wrappers on the floor. I looked down at the pile of aluminum wrappers and the empty white bag and I did not feel guilty for what I did. I did not look back at the amount of roast beef sandwiches and feel shame. I did feel something else: Hunger.
Like an addict waking from a drug-induced bender I had food on the brain. Do I go back to the scene of the crime and pick up five more, succulent roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s? I lifted my head off the couch and looked out the window of my apartment down at my car on the street then looked down at the wrappers on the floor. I rubbed my belly and thought I should play it safe, I just ate five roast beef sandwiches, and it would be pushing it if I ate ten. It was called “Five for Five” for a reason. I rose from the couch and headed across the street to my friends apartment. As usual they were sitting inside, air conditioning blasting, watching some quality mid-week, afternoon television. I walked in and smelled someone cooking in the kitchen. Mary is making hot dogs, one of the said, grab some if you’d like. I headed back towards the kitchen, ordered up two hot dogs and returned to the living to find a spot on the couch. Before the next commercial break two hot dogs were presented to me. My secret roast beef sandwich mission had yet been revealed to the group and chose to just eat two hot dogs instead. About ten bites later, two hot dogs were digesting in my belly and I settled into the couch to watch some midweek, afternoon television with friends. I was lazy-eyed, relaxed on a comfortable couch, the cool air conditioning protecting us from the blistering Midwest heat just outside the window when it hit me.

I started sweating profusely.

Keep in mind I was not doing anything. I was sitting still, on a couch, in a room that was colder than inside an industrial meat cooler when I began to sweat. I am not talking about some perspiration on my brow. I am talking about a wet ring around my shirt quickly appeared, changing the color from light to dark, as if I was exercising rather than sitting on a couch. My armpits were soaked, my hair looked as if I took a shower. My body was releasing massive amounts of fluids from its pores. At first I just sat there, scared almost, unsure what was happening to my body. I sat quietly, not drawing attention to myself as my friends were scattered about the room focused on what was on TV. Eventually, I turned to my friend who was falling asleep on the couch next to me. All I did was nudge him with my damp elbow and motioned for him to look at what was going on with me. I was soaking wet. There was no need for words. He looked over at me, eyes heavy with afternoon nap. Immediately his eyes opened wide; he sat up and said, what the fuck? I simply responded by not saying a word but pulled at my damp shirt like Rodney Dangerfield, and ran my hand through my wet hair.

What is wrong with you? Is that sweat? What’d you do?
Nothing! All I did was eat lunch then come over here.
You had lunch here. What are you talking about lunch?
I had five roast beef sandwiches from Arby’s.
Then you had two hot dogs?
Yes.

My friend started laughing hard and it was then the rest of the group took notice of my perspiring body. They were laughing but at the same time concerned. They did not know why their friend was sweating exuberantly from just simply sitting on the verge or sleeping. I did not feel uncomfortable. I actually felt good. My belly was full and the environment was welcoming. The sweat showed up unexpectedly. I too had no idea what was wrong with me. I began to worry what was happening to me.

What do you think is wrong with me?
It’s looking like you have the meat sweats, my man.