{"id":1298,"date":"2009-02-18T11:32:52","date_gmt":"2009-02-18T18:32:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/?p=1298"},"modified":"2026-02-19T10:19:21","modified_gmt":"2026-02-19T18:19:21","slug":"a368-phillippes-hot-mustard","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/?p=1298","title":{"rendered":"#a368 :: Phillippe’s hot mustard"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"021809\"<\/a>She peered into the jar, dubious.<\/i><\/p>\n

“Go on, dolly, put some on your sandwich. It won’t bite ya.”<\/p>\n

He was stifling a grin, the louse. She knew he’d take her to a joint like this<\/a>.<\/p>\n

He was a shift-boss at her job at Lockheed, always real sweet to her at quitting time. When she was weak. Always hitting on her. The crumb.<\/p>\n

He was an honest guy. But he was all jammed up paying alimony, to a wife who ditched him for some zoot-suiter. So he lived cheap. <\/i><\/p>\n

They were in production around the clock now. Seven days a week.<\/p>\n

The Japs had kicked our keisters hard at Midway. Now it was all hands to battle stations. Double shifts on the fighter-bomber lines. Because by God, air power was going to win this war. Nothing less, the plant manager said, that day in front of the big flag.<\/p>\n

So she left her son – who looked just like his Pop – with the Mexican lady on the corner in the evening. And she went to work …<\/p>\n

And she tried to forget that morning. <\/i><\/p>\n

“Ma, is Dad coming home this week?”<\/p>\n

“Not just yet, honey. He’s gotta finish beating up the Nazis.”<\/p>\n

“Is he safe, Ma?”<\/p>\n

“Sure, Gabe. He’s safe.”<\/p>\n

That little catch in her voice. She turned it into a cough. “Safe as houses.”<\/p>\n

“Any day now, right, Ma?”<\/p>\n

“That’s right, sweetie. Any day now your Daddy’s going to come waltzing through that door, sweep us both up off our feet and take us down to Clifton’s<\/a>, and we’ll have a real feast.”<\/p>\n

“A big, big feast, Ma.” He fingered the Jack Armstrong ring his dad had left him. “Right? Just like you said he useta?”<\/p>\n

“Sure, honey, a real feast.” She hugged his head to her belly. She sniffled, hard, and tried to keep a stiff upper lip.<\/p>\n

“Fried chicken? And waffles? And a Nehi, and everything?”<\/p>\n

“Everything, Gabriel.” Her body shook with keeping it in, tamping it down. “Everything. Everything.”<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/div>\n

“Y’know what I like about you, doll?” Matchstick in the crook of his mouth. Quitting time this afternoon. Again, real friendly like. He was 4-F, something about his eyes or his feet, or both. He had nice-looking hands, anyway.<\/p>\n

“You’re real. Not like these other dames.” He waved at no one at all. The shift was letting out. Sweating women and a few men streamed past. The clock thunked. An erratic heartbeat, a messed-up counterpoint to the sound of the lobster shift punching in.<\/p>\n

He cocked his head.<\/p>\n

God. It had<\/b> been three years now. <\/i><\/p>\n

“Nobody’s puttin’ one over on you. Know what I mean?”<\/p>\n

Nobody but me, she thought.<\/p>\n

“Wanna grab a bite?”<\/p>\n

She had<\/b> wavered, she told herself later. She really had given it some thought. But then she decided, firm: It’s just a sandwich. <\/i><\/p>\n

So now here they sat. Sawdust on the floor. Chink laundry workers and cops and lawyers ten, 12 deep at the counter. The lines moved fast. A couple of bucks. Pork sandwich and a glass of beer for him. French dip and a Coke for her.<\/p>\n

They sat, and she sipped her Coke.<\/p>\n

It was hot. The windows sat blacked and closed tight against bombardiers. A few dim lights. Ceiling fans just blowing the smell of people and pork around.<\/p>\n

He was being awful sweet. And now he nudged the little glass pot of mustard in her direction. <\/i><\/p>\n

“C’mon, Lina, it’s good. This is the stuff<\/b>. Y’ain’t afraid, are ya?”<\/p>\n

She hesitated. Not of a little mustard, she thought. <\/i>Not that, at least. That’s not it.<\/i><\/p>\n

“Me?”<\/p>\n

She hesitated, just a second longer. Three and a half years.<\/b><\/i><\/p>\n

She pulled the little wooden spoon from the jar. She dripped mustard onto a sandwich half. She put the spoon back, and sniffed the sandwich.<\/p>\n

“Boy, I don’t know. That smells pretty hot.”<\/p>\n

He knuckled her shoulder. “Aw, g’wan. Live a little. That’s good stuff, there.” He looked like he was going to wink – and then he didn’t. “The boss is always right, right?” He looked her clear in the eye. For just one second longer and clearer than she thought possible.<\/p>\n

And that was it.<\/p>\n

She bit an entire third of the sandwich half off, roll and all, and began chewing.<\/p>\n

The rude tang of raw horseradish exploded in her mouth. Her eyes flooded. Her tongue curled.<\/p>\n

“Oh!”<\/p>\n

He busted out laughing.<\/p>\n

Stunned by the spice, she dropped her sandwich in the sawdust. “OH!!!<\/b>” She waved her hands frantically.<\/p>\n

Now he guffawed: “Hah! Oh, mother, look at you!”<\/p>\n

She choked down the bite. She grabbed the Coke. She chugged it.<\/p>\n

It didn’t help. It went down the wrong pipe. She coughed, spat, sprayed it all over the counter.<\/p>\n

“Mmmmfff!” She couldn’t breathe.<\/p>\n

“Oh, no! Oh, Christ!” He laughed harder now, pounding the counter. “Oh, no! I’m sorry, doll! Here!” He handed her the beer.<\/p>\n

“That’ll cut it, get some of that down you!”<\/p>\n

She hesitated again. Now he was slapping her on the back, as if it would help.<\/p>\n

“God, Lina, I’m so sorry.” She grabbed the beer, took two quick swallows. She took a deep breath.<\/p>\n

He put his arm around her shoulder – real, like comforting, not being fresh.<\/p>\n

And she knew then how the evening would go. She began to figure out what to tell the Mexican lady, the next morning – no, later that night. And she began to sob. He hugged her tighter, and laughed and apologized some more.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

She peered into the jar, dubious. “Go on, dolly, put some on your sandwich. It won’t bite ya.” He was stifling a grin, the louse. She knew he’d take her to a joint like this. He was a shift-boss at her job at Lockheed, always real sweet to her at quitting time. When she was […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[14,37,23],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1298","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-edible","category-ephemera","category-microfiction"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1298","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1298"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1298\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":1825,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1298\/revisions\/1825"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1298"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=1298"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/heavylittleobjects.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=1298"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}