Shit Sandwich (An Original Short Story)

“Look at you, Maury. Your fly is down. You need to be more careful.” The nurse whispered.

Mr. Loeffler’s crippled and spotted hands struggled to button up his wool coat as he mumbled something incoherently under his breath.

“What was that?” the Nurse Rogers asked.

Maury fell silent as he zipped his trousers.

“Remember, you need to be back here by the time they serve dinner. What time is that?” The nurse inquired.

Maury looked down to the floor with a stoic expression. “Five o’clock.”

Nurse Rogers thrust a small ziplock bag full of pills into the pocket of his peacoat. “These are your lunchtime meds. Don’t forget to take them.”

“I won’t.” Maury wished he had the nerve to say what he wanted to.

“Your guest drives a blue Volkswagen and will be here in five minutes.” The nurse told him over her shoulder as Maury made his way to the reception area.

Maury’s curiosity only eclipsed his fear by a smidgeon. He had never known this particular relative existed. Patrick contacted the staff at Serenity Hills requesting a meeting after finding he and Maury were DNA relatives on 23andMe.

He agreed to the meeting but was nervous that he and this twenty-one year old kid wouldn’t even have enough to talk about to carry them through lunch, let alone spending the entire afternoon together. He figured Patrick probably wanted to gather stories so he could brag to his friends about his once rich and famous great uncle.

Maury sat in the reception area of Serenity Hills, perched on the edge of the wingback chair so he could see clearly out of the double doors in the front. He felt a charge of adrenaline as soon as he saw the metallic blue of the vintage Beetle as it slowed to a stop.

“Ride’s here!” he called out to the security guard at the front desk as he hobbled through the double doors.

“Enjoy the day Mr. Loeffler and be careful out there.” The guard responded.

Maury caught the first glimpse of his long-lost relative through the smudged side window of the VW.

“Tell me he’s not a hipster.” he mumbled under his breath just before opening the door and sliding down into the passenger seat. Patrick sported the signature prohibition cut, denim trucker jacket, and flowing beard that was already a few years out of style for his generation.

“So great to finally meet you Uncle Maury!” Patrick said as he leaned over to hug him.

Maury smiled uncomfortably until the hug was over and began to sniff the air as Patrick put the Beetle into gear and pulled off.

“Is that weed I smell?” Maury asked.

“Um, I - “ Patrick fumbled over his words, “I partake from time to time to help me relax.”

Maury sat silent for a second and closed his eyes. “I don’t judge. Smells wonderful. Have any more by chance?”

Patrick grinned as he slid a small black vape pen from the inside of his jean jacket.

“Press that silver button for three seconds then hold it in while you take a drag. It’s potent, just warning you.” Patrick said, chuckling.

“Son, I was smoking grass with Hendrix and Joplin long before you were born.”

Maury studied the vape then pressed the button and took a drag. He held the vapor in his lungs for what seemed like an eternity and launched into a coughing fit, fogging up the inside of the car.

“Whoa, I’d better pace myself. It’s been a while.” Maury rolled down his window as they both laughed as he handed the vape pen back to Patrick.

Maury began to feel the sharp edges of his self-consciousness and anxiety begin melting away.

Patrick clicked on the radio and began to drum the top of the steering wheel. “So you really hung out with Hendrix and Joplin?”

“Yeah, I partied with all of them. I was a writer for Rolling Stone in the late sixties and got to travel with all of the bands. The Stones, Credence, The Dead.”

“Damn, how lucky were you?” Patrick marveled.

Maury reminisced for a moment “They were wild times, fun times. But they came with a price.” he said, staring at the buildings rushing by.

“Where should we grab lunch?” Patrick changed the subject.

Maury tilted his head revealing his watery eyes, “I’m pretty high. How ‘bout we just grab some White Castles and eat in the car?”

“Works for me there’s one right around the corner here! How are you liking Serenity Village?” Patrick asked.

Maury wasn’t one to complain but his face took on a look of disgust. “The best way I can explain Serenity Village is it’s like waking up every single day knowing you’re going to be served a big old shit sandwich.”

“Oh no! I’m really sorry, Uncle Maury.”

“It’s my own doing. I’ve lived a selfish life. I haven’t kept in contact with family and my friends are mostly gone now. Enough about me, what about you?”

“Well, your niece, my mom moved to Naples a few years ago with her new husband so I’m on my own. I graduate from Berkeley in a few months with a degree in journalism. I can relate to you about the shit sandwich. I’m over a hundred grand in debt and don’t have any real prospects. AI is taking all the jobs. I’m making ends meet blogging on Hive, DoorDashing, and trying to grow a YouTube channel. The struggles of Gen Z.”

“Have a girlfriend?” Maury asked.

“I date from time to time but girls my age don’t want to settle down anymore.” Patrick said as he pulled into the parking lot of White Castle.

Patrick pulled through the drive-thru and ordered a sack of sliders, fries, and two chocolate shakes while Maury began to drift off while watching the world blur pleasantly at the edges. As the bag was passed through the window the smell of onions permeated every square inch of the car. They devoured the burgers in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the Beetle’s heater humming like an old friend.

“You know,” Maury said, wiping mustard from his chin with the back of his hand, “that nurse back there—she talks to me like I’m a toddler who just learned to zip his own pants. ‘Look at you, Maury. Your fly is down.’ ‘Your pant leg is tucked into your sock.’ Every damn day it’s something small like that. The aides, the doctors, even the lady who brings the mail. Little comments. Small corrections. After a while you start believing you really are just a doddering old fool who can’t be trusted with the simplest things.”

Patrick mumbled between bites, eyes soft. “That’s bullshit, Uncle Maury.”

Maury gave a dry laugh. “Maybe. But it chips away at you. I used to write words that people celebrated, walk into rooms and people listened. Now I feel invisible until someone needs to remind me I’m falling apart. That’s why I almost didn’t say yes to meeting you. Figured you’d just think I was the same broken old man everyone else sees.”

Patrick set his shake in the cupholder and turned fully toward him. “When I got that 23andMe match, I wasn’t looking for stories to brag about. I was looking for… I guess I don’t know what I was looking for. Maybe just proof that someone in my bloodline made it through the chaos and still had something to say. My whole life I’ve felt like I’m screaming into the void. Student loans, algorithms deciding if my writing is worth anything, girls who swipe left the second they sense I can’t spoil them. Everybody my age acts like we’re supposed to have it all figured out already. It messes with your head. Makes you feel small.”

Maury studied the young man’s face. It was earnest, a little lost, with a beard trying a little too hard to look wise. Something in his chest loosened, like an old knot finally giving way.

“I spent fifty years chasing the next party, the next byline, the next high,” Maury said quietly. “Missed birthdays, weddings, phone calls. Thought I was too important for ordinary love. Turns out ordinary love was the only thing that could’ve saved me from ending up in that damn place with nurses who think I can’t tie my own shoes.”

He reached over and squeezed Patrick’s shoulder with his spotted, trembling hand. “But here you are. Some kid I never knew existed, driving an old Bug that smells like Woodstock and new beginnings. Listen to this old fool ramble!”

Patrick smiled, the kind that starts in the eyes and spreads everywhere. “You’re not a fool. You’re the guy who rode with Hendrix. Who wrote words that probably kept a lot of people from feeling alone in the dark. Uncle Maury, you actually lived. And you’re still here. That’s not nothing.”

They sat like that for a long while, the taste of sliders still lingering, trading stories—Maury’s wild nights on the road, Patrick’s collegiate antics. The ice melted a little more with each story. The sun dipped just below the horizon, painting the parking lot gold.

Before Patrick dropped him back at Serenity Hills, Maury pulled a worn leather notebook from his coat pocket—the one he hadn’t touched in years.

“I want you to have this,” he said. “My old interview notes, half-finished essays, terrible poetry. Read them. Finish them. Burn them. Whatever. Just know somebody older and stupider than you believes you’ve got the fire.”

Patrick took the notebook like it was fragile. “I’ll come back next weekend. We’ll do this again. No agenda. Just two guys who get it.”

Maury stood a little straighter as he got out of the car, even though his back and knees still ached. He turned at the double doors and gave Patrick a small, genuine salute knowing full well the promise of next weekend might never materialize.

Inside, Nurse Rogers raised an eyebrow at his half-closed eyes relaxed smile. “Good day, Mr. Loeffler?”

Maury looked her dead in the eye, voice steady and warm. “Best day I’ve had in years. I was reminded of something very important today.”

For the first time in a long time, he walked down the hallway without feeling small. Somewhere behind him, a metallic blue Beetle honked twice—bright, hopeful, like a promise between generations that maybe, just maybe, it’s never too late to be seen.

All for now. Thanks so much for reading.

(image created by Grok/AI)

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