The tomato incident / Eugene Itsokay

Sophomore year of college I lived in a rundown house with seven friends. Not yet blessed with the capacity to purchase groceries at regular intervals we lucked out as the building directly across the street offered a student meal plan. For a parent-fitted monthly fee all we had to do was muster the energy to put on some pants and a fully prepared breakfast, lunch, or dinner was a mere 50 feet away.

The place had a buffet style, all you can eat, punch card policy. Each time you walked in you gave your name, presented your card, and got checked off. It didn't take us too long to figure out that the way to get the most bang for your buck was to make it there for breakfast, stuff your face with eggs and hash browns, then smuggle out food for lunch and/or dinner. Multiple meals for a single card punch was the goal. Since the breakfast bar offered a nice spread of bagels and cold cuts the 'ole "fully loaded bagel sandwich tucked into the hooded sweatshirt" became a daily staple. I took great pride in this sandwich - toasted bagel with turkey, ham, roast beef, mayo, mustard, lettuce, and tomato. Take it home, wrap it in tinfoil, pop it in the fridge, head off to morning classes and come home for lunch to enjoy 'Divorce Court' and my bagel sandwich. It was a daily routine. I had a pretty good thing going.

One day I came home from class, flipped on the TV, and bit into my precious bagel sandwich only to realize something was missing. No tomatoes. I thought back to that morning's breakfast and could swear I added the sliced tomatoes same as I had every other morning for the past several weeks. There'd be no reason I wouldn't have. Some asshole had stolen my tomato slices. On the surface it didn't seem that big of a deal but the fact that one of my roommates took the trouble to carefully unwrap my sandwich, deconstruct it, remove the tomato slices, rebuild it, and rewrap it the same as before hoping I'd never notice bore a level of brashness and entitlement I couldn't leave unexposed.

"Did someone take the tomato slices off of my sandwich?"

The question was answered with guffaws and fierce dismissal. Who the fuck would bother taking a couple soggy tomato slices off your stupid sandwich they said. I was an fucking idiot they said. Shut the fuck up and eat your fucking sandwich they said.

I couldn't let it go. Months later, drunk at some bar I'd routinely pull roommates aside and sequester them. "Look man, about those tomato slices. I know you didn't do it but c'mon. It was Jimmy, right? No? It was Garrett then? Dude, I'm not even mad about it anymore. I just want to know who did it." No one was talking. They grew sick of the interrogations and retaliated with vulgar insults of varying accuracy. I conceded that I'd never find out what happened to those tomatoes.

Ten years since that troubling day I'd all but forgot about the sandwich. It was my wedding day. I was starting a life free from such controversies. 'My' tomato slices were now 'our' tomato slices. I could finally move on. The night was coming to an end. The dj was in the homestretch. Those who weren't dancing to "You Shook Me All Night Long" were busy gathering their suit jackets or heels. I was debating the pros and cons of one more beer when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to receive a heartfelt embrace from Jeremy, a close friend, a trusted confidant, and sophomore year roommate.

"It was me," is all he said. It was all that had to be.