The Slam of Silence

Mar 28, 2017 | 1 comment

The Slam of Silence

Buckle up kiddo, it’s time to talk Denny’s. If you scoffed you might as well stop reading now, do yourself a favor, and throw your hate-spreading computer, tablet, or digital device out the window of your wretched abode. If you refuse to accept the divine intervention that is America’s Diner, than I have no words beyond this point that will guide you to salty-sweet salvation. Your journey is your own, but from this point onward I will speak as though I speak to fellow acolytes of the 2am oasis.

The Grand-Slamwich. Unmatched. Unparalleled. Unbeaten. Our beloved fathers list this ambrosial concoction as such: two scrambled eggs, crumbled sausage, bacon, shaved ham and American cheese on potato bread grilled with a maple spice spread. Served with hash browns. 1,390 calories of pure existential ecstasy. For a mere 11.50, you can transport your taste buds to another plane of decadence and indulgence.

Perhaps we grew greedy. Perhaps we grew selfish. Perhaps we have tasted forbidden fruit. Whatever the case may be, we have indeed been cast from Eden. The Grand-Slamwich, as we know it, is not more. For the sake of sanity, all persons in the following narrative shall remain nameless, but believe a fellow acolyte when I tell you that everything I regale to you is true.

It is midnight. We are hungry. Naturally, we make our pilgrimage. As we enter the Denny’s, we only speak of the dish. The experience. The Slamwich. Eagerly we open our menus, dejectedly we look at our wallets. None of us can afford the aliment. We order cheaper options, yet can only speak of the toasted felicity of the ‘wich. Taking pity upon us pious wayfarers, the waiter makes a decision. In an act of selfless benevolence, he presents us with the dish itself, shining in the moonlight, free of charge.

A meal to share. A bestowal rare. We say a prayer. We take a square. We prepare.

Despair.

This is not the comestible of our forefathers.  This is not what we have sacrificed so much for. This is not Grand-Slamwich. This can barely even be called a Slamwich. Denny Above, this isn’t even a SANDWICH. Tears. Anger. Hate. We turn to the waiter, searching his eyes for the motive of such betrayal. He has nothing to say for himself. With the strength of ten ordinary men, my compatriot begins to tear through carnage of sausage, ham, and cheese. Realization dawns in his burning eyes.

“Where’s the maple spread.”

We turn again to the waiter for some sort of explanation in this hopeless world. He proceeds to dictate the harsh truth of our time: the maple spread has been removed from the recipe. Though some locations still carry the nectarous butter, tragedy has befallen the chain. Apparently, heretics have claimed that the maple spread is “too sweet” and “clashes with the rest of the sandwich.” Excuse me? EXCUSE ME?! WHO ARE YOU TO QUESTION AMERICA’S DINER? You know nothing you pathetic excuses for patrons. Because of you, the pious are denied entrance into the Valhalla known as the Slamwich. You can rot in IHOP for all I care.

I present this information to you not for indifference nor impotence, but as a call to contemplation. The future is dark and the world is cold, we must take it upon ourselves to forge the future we wish to see. Though the maple spread may never touch our yearning tongues again in this lifetime, we can and must carry its spirit in our hearts in everything we do for its efforts to not be in vain. Though it spent but little time with us here on earth, it is up to us to keep its message resounding throughout the oncoming night. We had our time in the sun, and it is now time to bring our own light to the darkness. Perhaps, indeed, the real maple spread is the friends we make along the way.

About the Author

Rob Condas

Rob Condas

Writer & Editor

Rob Condas is a sophomore at James Madison University, and is currently pursuing a B.A. in theatre. His fashion sense has been described of that of a “hipster Mr. Rogers,” which he begrudgingly does not dispute.
He hopes to someday run a creepy old book shop that disappears the day after you buy one of its mysterious items. His position at Reduced Pulp is that of editor
and writer.