A Monte Cristo Monday

#170 a little bit of fiction to start the week

He awakes.

“Ughh, Monday, huh?” Hank sighed as he rolled over and shut off the incessant iPhone alarm that acted as his personal Reveille. The alarm was set at 7:30 AM but it took him precisely 3 minutes to get his bearings and get up, he had timed it. The weight of the universe sagged his eyelid every day, not just Mondays. Many people of his peers had begun using the phrase, “Sunday Scaries”, to express their anxiety or dread tin anticipation of a new workweek. But to Hank, the fear or dread was the same every night, so he found the phrase particularly benign.

He opened his window for some fresh air but was met with the cawing of the morning crows who cut through the idyllic silence of morning like a steak knife through butter. “choose your battles wisely” he thought.

He walked to the bathroom and flicked the light, wincing at the inescapable brightness. Every morning he took in what he looked like that day, hoping nothing new had sprung up to lower his self-esteem any further. To his glee, nothing shocked him today. He may have even seemed a little thinner today, but maybe that was just on account of his light dinner the night before.

Approaching his late thirties, Hank didn’t seem old, though he did have quite a bit of gray hair coming in. His skin was still youthful, but his eyes bore the weary bags of excessive screentime. He maintained himself well, never letting his beard grow longer than a day or two’s stubble and got haircuts regularly. His body was neither round nor athletic, simply average. Some days, he even felt attractive, but he couldn’t be sure it it was him, or just the lighting paired with some Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

Getting sick of his self-assessment, he hopped in the shower. His shower was exactly seven minutes long, the faucet turned exactly to 90 degrees, where he had become accustomed to the temperature. That gave him enough time to soap up and brush his teeth while waking up. He kept his hair cropped short so he didn’t bother with shampoo or conditioner, not that is was anything more than a corporate scam anyways.

After drying off he moved to his closet. His attire, as unvaried as his daily routine, was an uninspiring collection of identical shirts and standard pants. Aspiringly he believed this would make him more creative and thoughtful, like Steve Jobs or Mark Zuckerberg, but it hadn’t paid off yet.

Breakfast was a mundane affair but one that Hank enjoyed. A banana and a cup of coffee made in a French Press. He drank it black, as it should be. He also let his mind rest, preparing himself for the day ahead.

Dressed in his standard uniform of nondescript pants and a plain shirt, Hank then moved to his living room and sat in front of his workstation at exactly 8:00 AM. His hands hovered over the keyboard, fingers poised to continue their ceaseless dance across the keys, ready for the digital drudgery that was his existence.

Such was Hank’s morning routine. Each step calibrated and accounted for, each action devoid of spontaneity. Life slipping by moment by moment, but at least he was getting paid.

What was he paid for anyways? Hank struggled to explain his job to others. It was primarily data entry, taking forms and emails, pulling out the relevant information and entering it into his company’s program. When the information he needed wasn’t all there, he’d hunt it down. But that doesn’t impress anyone, hell it didn’t even impress himself. So he had gotten his self pitch and resume version down to something like: “I manage data extraction and ensure accurate documentation through independent research, strong problem-solving abilities, and attention to detail, enhancing overall data integrity and operational efficiency.”

It always changed a little bit every time it came up. No one asked follow up questions, and Hank was just fine with that.

Since his livelihood involved the ceaseless shuffling of electronic ephemera in the sprawling network of a faceless corporation, Hank was what you could call…unfulfilled.

One particular day, seeking for a brief respite from the womb of ennui, and admittedly, an empty fridge, he decided to shatter the rhythm of the monotonous and walk to the local sandwich shop. Dare he venture from his domestic sanctuary to dine at the meat and bread stacking emporium on Main Street? He dare!

Hank stepped out into the sun, feeling the warmth on his skin as he set out for the sandwich shop. His path, a concrete labyrinth, was a parade of everyday human absurdity, a perfect microcosm of the world.

To his right, a young couple argued about whether to order groceries online or brave the supermarket, a debate as fierce as any war. "How far we've come from hunting and gathering," Hank thought, a smug grin creeping onto his face.

Further ahead, he noticed a man obliviously walking his robot dog, both perfectly in sync, step for step. Hank grimaced, "What a testimony to our times, replacing companionship with convenience."

Just as he was immersing himself in these observations, a fellow pedestrian, a man around Hank's age, fell into step beside him. It wasn't intentional, but their strides matched almost perfectly.

"Nice day, huh?" the stranger commented. He had a friendly face and an easy smile.

"Yeah, it's not bad," Hank responded, glancing at the man, hoping his short response would quash any further attempts at conversation.

"You heading somewhere specific?" the man asked.

"Just getting a sandwich."

"Ahh, a man of culinary pursuits! You know, if you're up for it, you should try the Monte Cristo. It's a game-changer."

Hank raised his eyebrows. "The what now?"

"Monte Cristo. It's a sandwich. Ham, cheese, a bit of mustard, and the whole thing is fried and dusted with powdered sugar. Trust me."

"Sounds...interesting," Hank said, the word hanging in the air with all the enthusiasm of a lead balloon. "I'll think about it."

They walked in silence for a moment, the hustle and bustle of the world continuing around them. Hank, despite himself, was now considering the Monte Cristo.

~

As he enters the sandwich shop, the chalkboard menu is an intimidating sight. It is a cornucopia of choice that rattles his anxiety-ridden heart. Throwing caution to the wind, he orders a Monte Cristo sandwich. The sandwich artist hesitates before assembling it, perhaps questioning this sudden eccentricity in an otherwise predictable man. Afterall, he had seen this same man countless times, never getting anything other than a ham or turkey sandwich.

~

The adventure ends in anticlimax, the sandwich a bitter betrayal. The bread has lost its battle with moisture, the ham has a disconcerting twang, and the powdered sugar is a sweet imposter in this gastronomic tragedy. Hank's brief tryst with the unknown, with unpredictability, tastes as bitter as disillusionment.

His spirits deflated, Hank drags himself back to his artificial sanctuary. In his gut, he feels the leaden weight of his failed rebellion. He resolves to lock himself in the familiar, the predictable, the known. Change, he decides, is a sour dance that leaves your taste buds confused and your soul aching.

Little does Hank know, his Monte Cristo sandwich is not a failure of his adventurous spirit, but of the sandwich artist's negligence, a culinary misdemeanor born of stale ingredients and a distracted mind. Yet, this information remains as obscure to him as the purpose behind his daily digital exertions.

Thus, we chronicle the tragic tale of Hank and his ill-fated sandwich adventure. A tale of a man, ensnared in his own preconceptions, defeating himself even before the battle has truly begun. A tale that encapsulates the crushing inevitability of life, the futility of seeking change in a world of perpetual sameness, a stark mirror to the existential dilemma that many of us find ourselves in. Life, it seems, is nothing more than a dull sandwich, filled with ingredients over which we have little control, no matter how boldly or timidly we choose to consume it.

Hank returns to his digital domain, the memory of the Monte Cristo lingering like an ill-conceived dream, a testament to his quashed rebellion against the monotony of existence. He retreats back into the well-worn cocoon of his life, seemingly content with the suffocating familiarity, forever deterred from the siren call of the unknown.

__

A while back I had wanted to start something called Fiction Friday. I wanted some motivation to try writing fiction more consistently and I wanted to publish on Fridays strictly for the alliteration. Unfortunately this stayed in drafts a long time and the Friday - Sunday turn around for two pieces of writing is unsustainable — or perhaps a lofty start. Now after a busy weekend amid funeral and family time, I find myself searching for drafts to give me a head start. Perhaps more comfortable as I’ve worked my way through a longer piece of fiction writing and also with a fresh mind I’ve decided to share this. I liked it when reading it, and hardly remembered writing it — even if the story and where I came up with it is as fresh as it was when I first conceived it. I think I overwrote parts and could elaborate in others. That’s ok. Maybe I’ll write other renditions of this later. With or without the sandwich focal point.

The original idea was this — the most boring version of the hero’s journey.

A boring man with a boring life goes on a quest out of necessity (sandwich/hunger), he meets a teacher (the man who tells him about the Monte Cristo), and completes the quest. Rather than being inspired to change he reinforces his lifestyle and is redoubled in his efforts to lead a mundane, plain life.

In this case the lesson he learns is not beneficial, in fact the opposite. He has a judgement of the world that is reinforced by the poor quality of the sandwich. Had he gotten a well constructed sandwich he may have come to a different conclusion, but that’s life. People form opinions after one experience. There is a lot of luck and randomness in the world that works in the background and it is constantly tearing down or reinforcing people’s beliefs. Perspective matters.

And yes, the Monte Cristo sandwich was selected since it’s less common and more importantly, because The Count of Monte Cristo is an adventure novel so it’s a fun parallel.