The word "catastrophe" isn't one I use lightly. By definition, "catastrophe" means "an event causing great and usually sudden damage or suffering; a disaster." So, think 9/11, Hurricane Ian, the Black Plague, Jaelan Phillips' Achilles exploding on Black Friday killing the only successful Miami Dolphins season in two decades, and what my brother did to me on a Saturday morning many years ago.
Like most early to mid-20-year-olds, a typical Saturday morning for me consisted of waking up full of regrets, a sponge for a brain, and an alarming number of late-night texts sent to the innocent women in my life. That morning, however, a hangover hit me harder than a Ray Rice right hook when he took his fiancé to Atlantic City.
The night itself wasn't relevant, and I don't think I'd remember it if it was. The only thing I can say for certain about what transpired that evening is that I ordered more car bombs than a Michael Bay movie. I'm sure I had a good time. I'm also sure it wasn't worth the utter disappointment that weighed on my mind, body and spirit because I woke up feeling like my brain got dipped in Nitric acid and got left to dry in an Alaskan tundra. My head throbbed, my throat ached and my body begged for any type of nutrients. If a doctor would've done a scan on my body that morning the prognosis would've been that I was dying from scurvy. They say men overreact when we get sick, but I swear to you I thought it was my last day on earth.
At this point my brother decided to get involved. I wasn't sure of his intentions considering my vulnerable state. Would he take advantage of me? To be determined.
He lured me into his 1999 Oldsmobile Intrigue like the Pied Piper at an elementary school and drove to an undisclosed location. The drive took what felt like 4 hours; he put the windows down on the hottest day in 10 years, blasting Wu-tang clan at max volume. The sun melted my brain as all members of the Wu' screamed obscenities through a subwoofer. I had my phone out ready to call the police and report myself missing when I saw the Tropical Smoothie sign. Stockholm Syndrome now made perfect sense. A smoothie and a nice, greasy, hot sandwich were exactly what I needed to flush out these toxins.
He looked at me as the beating sun kissed his face, the heavens smiled down on him and his eyes twinkled; the voice of an angel or some higher power spoke through him, "Wait in the car, I got you, bro." He went on his holy pilgrimage of righteousness and left me in the car, feeling like a child on Christmas Eve. I didn't know what I was going to get but I knew my older brother wouldn't let me down.
He came back with smoothies and sandwiches; my wildest dreams were fulfilled! Could it be a Cuban sandwich? The thought of hot, melted cheese on ham made my stomach trade in nauseousness for an eager grumble. Maybe a hot, buffalo wrap or flatbread! My mouth watered. The thought of these delicious, warm delicacies filled my imagination as he opened the car door and tossed a sandwich in my lap. Christmas morning.
Please be aware what happens next is very disturbing, traumatic and downright vile. Consider ending the story here if you have sensitivity to awful, awful things
Unfortunately, my enthusiasm got snatched away quicker than a 16-year-olds virginity on prom night. The coldness of the "sandwich" I held sent a chill down my spine. "Winter is here" Jon Snow whispered to me. The frozen meal made me dry heave as I unwrapped the unheated chicken. Chicken salad. A cold, grape and mayonnaise infested, celery induced piece of trash jammed inside of a stale croissant. The mayonnaise began to curdle as the sad excuse for a sandwich looked up at me from my hands. Disbelief ran through my bones. The American standard after a night of binge drinking was to consume as much grease as possible.
Adding cold, sour mayonnaise and grapes to my already problematic stomach would be like a gang of Somali pirates attacking the Titanic as it sank or the meteor from Deep Impact striking the Hindenburg. I'm sure he's been told not to kick someone while they're down, and this was like shooting a very ill bee with a shotgun. Just a disgusting misuse of power to prey on the weak.
Celery? After drinking enough alcohol to drown a pod of beluga whales? Unheard of. The Geneva Convention explicitly forbids this kind of treatment. I checked. Unfortunately, their verdict said sibling disputes were 'outside their jurisdiction.' Whatever that means. So, he remains free to this day, probably terrorizing other hungover souls with room-temperature poultry.
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