ant sandwich

    Ever since Lohbado ate ants in a tuna sandwich, his stomach hurt. He lived with constant nausea. The ant eating incident happened a few years ago, around noon outside the ruins of a gas station. He sat on some spindly weeds and spiky grass and ate half way through the sandwich before a girl told him there were ants in the sandwich. It didn’t bother him.


    On numerous occasions he ate beetles, grasshoppers and worms to stay alive. Rumour suggested one should avoid eating ants, since they were loaded with radiation. Even canned tuna was suspect. Tests showed the presence of mercury, cadmium and arsenic. Everything had been touched by the apocalyptic war and environmental destruction of civilization. Life expectancy was back to 45 for men and 60 for women. Lohbado was already 60. He’d more than done enough for one lifetime. He had no reason to complain about longevity.

    A girl about twelve noticed the ants in his sandwich and laughed. She was with a group of girls scavenging through the ruins for souvenirs of the previous civilization. She found a pack of air freshener cards, shaped like ice cream cones, the kind you hang on the rear view mirror to freshen up the motor vehicle. Lohbado probably would have eaten the whole tuna sandwich without noticing the ants. “Men are blind,” laughed the girl. Maybe if she hadn’t told him, he wouldn’t be able to blame his chronic stomach pain on the ants. He would have had to find another explanation. He was even willing to admit maybe it was all in his head.

    In his head or in the stomach, whether mental or physical, pain is pain; nausea is nausea. The affliction was both physical and mental. Just to be alive during the gap between the collapse of one civilization and the resurrection of another was to suffer a dark psychological heaviness, a low-level incessant anguish. It wasn’t until a few years later, when he found a quiet room and kitchen of his own, he began to understand the horror. He looked back and shuddered at what humans had done to humans and the natural world.

    As Lohbado lay on a sofa in a shack that used to house low security prisoners of war, just as he was on the verge of crying from sheer lonesomeness, he heard an SUV pull up outside in the gravel lot. He heard footsteps on the wooden stairs. The door creaked. In walked a woman, maybe fifty, wearing a light blue windbreaker over a spruce green sweater. She wore brown canvas trousers and hiking books. Most people wore boots or else shoes with thick rubber soles since many sidewalks were damaged.

    She was startled to find Lohbado there, but also quite pleased. She could tell right away Lohbado would be a good person to talk to. He didn’t give off creepy vibes. Helen Winters had come to the shack to get away from Ernie.

    “Enough is enough,” exclaimed Helen, after she poured a coffee from what was left in the pot Lohbado had made, “I’ve had it! It’s finished. Over and out. I don’t know how we made it so long. Ernie thinks he owns me. He’s greatly mistaken. He hit me. I won’t tolerate it. He used to hit me years ago, until I learned to hit back...”

Ok, that’s enough for today. Stay tuned for more.