StoryTime: How Jerry Met Steve

What’s goodie two-shoes?
In case you didn’t know, I’m something like a screenwriter — “something like” because I don’t feel like worthy of the title until you’ve actually had some shit produced, which iiiii have not. Nonetheless, I’m currently working on a buddy-comedy. This will really be my first whack at a LEGIT feature length comedy, so I’m kind of excited about it. 
I decided to write a quick little something to see what the characters may potentially sound like, what kind of diction they use — how they interact — and figured it was only logical that I write and “origin” story so-to-speak i.e. a story of how they met. 
Hence the title of this post. 
This StoryTime jaunt will probably become a staple of cos for me, and anybody else who wants to flex their creative writing chops, so look forward to more stories in the future. 
Until then,
How Jerry Met Steve
Jerry fades in and out of consciousness, head resting in his palm, as he watches the minute hand run lap after lap on the clock above his cubicle.  He’s been waiting thirty minutes for five minutes to pass so he can finally go on his lunch break. He has a Tuna Fish Sandwich and a bag of Red Hot Funyons waiting for him; it’s this solitary thought, and it alone, that’s kept him from dipping his car key in a cup of water and sticking it in the outlet behind his computer—a Tuna Fish Sandwich and a bag of Red Hot Funyons.

His cubicle, a drab prison of greys’, lack the “homey” touches necessary for cuboric well being. No pictures of friends or family, no special note from that special someone, no “cat in hats” calendar—though he’s considering buying one, because there’s just something about a Tabby in a Fedora that makes everything in life worth while. Nope. All he has is a black stapler and a pen that reads, “Orange you glad I’m not a pencil?” But he’s not. He’s not glad. He’d actually rather have a pencil. In fact, it bothers him that his black pen has orange written on it. Why isn’t the pen orange? Jerry asks himself this very question at least once every hour: a true metaphysician.

For the 32nd time in the last five minutes, his eyes close. A small snore sneaks from his nose. His head drifts slowly, causing his elbow to lose traction. Jerry jerks awake, wide eyed. He frowns at the saliva that’s accumulated in his palm and wipes it on his pant leg. Perhaps that was a bad idea. It looks like he spilled and entire cup of water on his thigh. He shrugs it off and glances at the clock. It’s time. He sighs heavily, squeezes out of his chair and lumbers out of his cubicle.

The break room is just as drab as Jerry’s cubicle: grey countertops and tables, grey tile, fluorescent light . . . there’s no salvation. To add insult to injury, the room is littered with an array of quirky looking folk all sitting quietly at their respective tables, reading. Not eating and reading. Just reading.

“It’s like a got damned library in here”, Jerry thinks to himself.

He plops down at his table, removes his sandwich from his lunch bag and goes to town.  Steve, a slender fellow with bottle cap glasses, slides into the seat opposite Jerry causing him to pause mid chew.

“You know . . . if, initially, you put everything in Tupperware, only assembling your sandwich once you’re ready to chow down, it wouldn’t get soggy.”

“Who says it’s soggy?” Jerry responds, tearing into his sandwich triumphantly.

“Well . . . considering you have more tuna in your actual hand than on the bread . . . I kind of just assumed.”

Jerry licks the Tuna out of his hand. Steve cringes at the sight while removing a series of Tupperware containers from his bag. He pieces together his lunch.

Jerry scoffs, “Well, it still tastes pretty damn good to me. Soggy or not. Who are you supposed to be, anyway? The sandwich police?”

Jerry rips open his bag of Funyons.

“Actually . . . I am.”

Steve flashes Jerry a gold badge with a sub sandwich on it.

“You gotta be shitting me?” Jerry leans forward to get a closer look while simultaneously putting Funyons onto what’s left of his sandwich.

“I shit you not, my friend. Just got certified last week.”

Jerry’s mind is blown. He pushes his sandwich to the side and berates Steve with a series of questions, “Is there training? Can you hand out tickets? How do you get certified? Are there free sandwiches involved? How long does it take to complete program? Can I join?”

“Whoa there, cowboy. One question at a time . . . let’s see: Yes, yes, your lsa, that is, your local sandwich academy, yes, 6 months, and no.”

Jerry’s brow furrows, causing his forehead to look like a pack of lunch meat, “ Whaa? Why can’t I join??”

“Well, I hate to break it to you like this but . . .” Steve takes a bite of his sandwich and chews it methodically.

“But what?”

Steve swallows with a gulp.

“But –“

Steve raises his hand to silence Jerry. He’s taken aback. Steve sips from his can of coke with a straw, making really obnoxious slurping sounds, complete with a breathy “ahh” at the end. He clears his throat and fixes his mouth to speak, but stops himself before uttering a word and takes another sip of his coke.

Jerry’s irritation is rising by the millisecond.  He gropes at what little hair he has left on his head, “You’re killing me.”

“You must forgive me, I’m a diabetic. Ok . . . now . . . so . . .”


“What were we talking about again?”

Jerry slams his hands on the table and belts out at the top of his lungs, “The FUCKING sandwich police!!”

A collective gasp echoes through the break room. All eyes on Jerry. He smiles coyly, “Don’t mind me. Back to your books.”

A little grey haired woman scowls at Jerry.

He scowls back, “Back to your BOOK, lady.”

She gasps and turns beet red. She gathers her belongings and uses her walker to aid herself to her feet.  She moves as quickly as she can toward the door, her tennis balls squeaking across the tile floor. She never takes her eyes off Jerry. He slow claps her to the door.

“Almost there . . . Almost there. While we’re young, please? Good jobbb. Hey Jesus called. He said he wants his sandals back.”

She yips in disgust and exits the breakroom.

“Can you believe that lady?” Jerry asks, directing his attention back to Steve, who’s still frozen from Jerry’s initial outburst, “ The nerve. People can be so rude, sometimes. Seriously. No home training. None at all.”

“Whell. I. Never“, gasps Steve, finally, with a look of utter disbelief on his face. “If I wanted to be yelled at, I would’ve called my FATHER. Thank you.”

“I apologize. I don’t know what came over me. Guess I’m a bit on edge.”

“Maybe. Just. A. Smidge”, Steve cosigns, gesturing with his pointer finger hovering above his thumb.

“So . . . why can’t I be a sandwich cop?”

“Ohhh yeahh, that . . . I made it up.”

Steve nonchalantly takes another bite of his sandwich. Jerry grinds a quarter inch of enamel from his teeth.

“But . . . you-you have a badge.”

“Oh, this ol thing”, flashing his badge. “ I won this in a submarine sandwich eating contest. Pretty sweet huh? Real metal.”

Jerry’s had enough. Rubbing his temples, “Would you mind sitting somewhere else, please?”

Steve searches for his straw with his tongue for an excessively long time while looking down at his phone.




“Why? Expecting someone?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I am expecting someone.”

Steve gets up, walks over to an adjacent table, grabs a chair, walks back to their table, and slides the chair in between the two of them.

“Golden. The more the merrier.”

Jerry never takes his eyes off Steve.

“I think I hate you.”

Steve shrugs, “I wouldn’t be surprised. Most people do.”




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