It was balmy and clear last night and the Cute Engineer took me on a spin around town after dinner in his open-top roadster, a red two-seater roughly the size of a roller skate and by now worth about as much in resale value (though still lovable). On the return loop through the middle of Arlington we passed a nearly-finished block of new construction in which one of the buildings already sported a sign for a sandwich chain called Jimmy John’s.
“People have been raving about that on the local blogs but I just don’t think I could ever eat a sandwich from there,” I said.
“Well,” I explained, “the last time I saw Jimmy John used as a trade name it was on a flyer for a piece of colonic equipment, back when they had bulletin boards at the co-op for that kind of thing? The Jimmy John 2000. Remember when Sylvia” — one of the eccentric denizens of his group house — “was on that kick going for colonic irrigations? Kept coming home and telling everyone in graphic detail about everything that came flying out of her colon? She was probably being treated with just such a device.”
We were idling at the light by now and the Engineer turned full to face me with an expression of deadpan perplexity.
“A sandwich?” he said.
Oh well. We’ve all eaten sandwiches like that.