Tuesday night I have enough vodka coursing through my system to fuel a small automobile and I’m browsing through the archives of a website poking fun at newspaper comics and a post mentions tuna fish which makes me think of tuna fish sandwiches and how long it’s been since I last had one.

I neither liked nor disliked tuna fish sandwiches during my formative years. To be precise I tolerated them, consuming my last fish-bread-mayonnaise conglomeration nine years ago around the age of fifteen. And, while my fondness for sandwiches lingers, I have never been motivated until now to revisit tuna fish. It has neither the warm nostalgia of PB&J nor the hearty practicality of meat and cheese.

Of course, in recent years I’ve discovered a deep abiding affection for foods that I passed over like the Craigslist missed connections section in my youth. My parents frequently admonished that I would like certain foods when I grew up, although their track record has been hit or miss. While I now realize peppers and onions are wonderful gifts from God, I would still rather be teabagged by Satan himself than eat a serving of lima beans. All things being equal, it’s entirely possible I may discover tuna fish sandwiches send my taste buds into a slightly fishy state of orgasmic joy.

It’s now slipped into Wednesday morning and that and the Grey Goose make it difficult to search the roommate’s cupboard which is curiously devoid of tuna fish. This will have to wait.

After nursing my hangover through a long day at work I drive to the grocery store Wednesday night and eventually find the tuna fish aisle where I grab a can. Here, though, I am filled with uncertainty: what sort of 24-year-old man goes to a grocery store late at night and purchases a single can of tuna fish? Lonely furries who own too many cats and dabble in sexual deviancy, that’s who. I need an acceptable cross-section that will not cause the clerk to judge me like a man purchasing a banana and lubricant. After a moment, I recall that my lettuce has probably gone off because I frequently buy lettuce with the intent of making salads and then don’t eat it because other things are better.

Winco recently rearranged their store and as I search for the lettuce I suddenly make eye contact with a complete stranger. Nothing sinister, it was just one of those moments when two gazes randomly cross paths, and suddenly I find myself locked into the most smoldering passionate eye-lock two men in a Winco produce section can share. After a moment he looks vaguely puzzled and I realize he thought I was looking at him and he wonders if we know each other, and then the puzzlement turns to concern as he realizes he does not, in fact, know me, and is doubtlessly wondering why I’m checking him out. I abruptly and casually look away and display intense interest in the rack of cucumbers in what I hope is not a sexual way. After a moment or two, I casually glance back to see if he’s still looking at me AND OH SHIT HE STILL IS AND WE MAKE EYE CONTACT AGAIN, and I realize he was waiting to see if I looked back at him and now I’ve confirmed his suspicions that I’m a total creep who’s ogling other men in the produce section. I grab the lettuce and sprint towards checkout.

Back home, I assemble the sandwich with care. Making tuna fish sandwiches is like riding a bicycle. You never forget. My fingers dexterously spread the tuna across the bread, organize the slices of dill pickle, top off with crisp lettuce. I’m literally tingling with excitement as I bite into it and chew slowly, precisely, experiencing the sandwich like a wine critic savoring Chateau Mouton Rothschild Pauillac. It all comes together: thickly sliced potato bread, hearts of Romaine, acidic-brined cucumber, phlegmy mayonnaise, and freshly canned albacore with just a hint of dolphin tears.

The sandwich is astonishing in its mediocrity. It dangles comfortably from the top of the bell curve, not provoking hatred or pleasure, content to be average. If I were forced to write a review, it would say “Well this was okay I guess.” I progress slowly, methodically, through the sandwich, like a cow chewing its cud, until I fully comprehend what was missing from the last nine years of my life: nothing.

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