“What would it take for you to throw your sandwich at an armed guy, you think? A turkey sub or hoagie, right at the chest of some flak-jacketed paramilitary goon with a holstered automatic weapon?”

“Probably mayo.”

“What?

“I quite distinctly told them to hold the mayo, didn’t I. Yeah. Don’t slather mayo on a hoagie.”

“And you’d be so indignant that you’d throw it at a federal agent or whatever.”

“You simply can’t let such culinary outrages go unchallenged, Em. Mayo is the devil’s mucus as far as I’m concerned.”

“Fight the power, eh guy?”

“I do what I can. When a nation turns its weary eyes to me.”

“That’s not how the song goes. All jokes aside. What would it take, M? What would it take for you to be this guy and throw your sandwich at a police officer?”

“Does it have to be a sandwich? I like my sandwiches.”

“We’re talking about making sacrifices here. What would so incense you that you would assault a federal agent or whatever with some food that you particularly love?”

“And it would have to be something handy and convenient too.”

“Like a sandwich, yes.”

“I mean, you’re probably not going to be tossing your plate of pasta primavera at the guy.”

“Sure. Getting up from your table, entrée in hand. No. You’re probably right.”

“So, like you said, a sandwich, slice of pizza even.”

“A burrito would work too. They’ve got some heft to them. Certainly would make a statement.”

“More than a flimsy piece of pizza, sure.”

“I feel you’re stalling here. Like you’re trying to avoid the question.”

“I do think, watching the footage of that guy with the sub, I might even probably get away with throwing my food at federal authorities. I’m definitely a faster runner than that guy.”

“There you go. A consequence-free act of provocation. No repercussions.”

“I might run directly to my lawyer, though.”

“No shame in being proactive.”

“Exactly.”

“So? What would do it for you?”

“Well, we already discussed my mayo line in the sand.”

“That’s a tossin’.”

“That’s a tossin’, yep. Maybe a couple other egregious condiment applications. Relish for sure. Nowhere but on hot dogs as far as I’m concerned.”

“So culinary crimes might get you raging against the machine.”

“A man needs a moral code.”

“Anything else put you on the front lines?”

“Honestly, Em. I see myself more of a strategy guy than an implementer or instigator, you know?”

“Uh huh.”

“One of those passive resisters through subtle acts of sabotage and gear grinding, right? Messed up paperwork. On the surface, appearing to do nothing but in the background, gumming up the works. So that’s me. What about you? What would drive you to toss your daily toasted bagel at The Man?”

“I don’t know, M. I look at those people, watch them screaming in the face of authority, armed authority, you know. With the power of life and death over you. And these people are just right there, right in their faces, right? Calling them fascists. Nazis.”

“Throwing their late night snacks at them.”

“Right? And I just can’t imagine myself doing that, being able to do that. That’s the definition of cowardice, don’t you think?”

“I fought the law, and the law won.”

“What does that even mean, man?”

“There are other ways to push back, I guess is what I’m saying, Em.”

“Protest, but never outside your comfort zone? It sometimes feels like I’m devoid of what did you say earlier? A moral code? A moral core. I shop local and bring my own reuseable bags. That a sufficient contribution to the revolution?”

“Let me ask you something. Do you think when the sandwich guy went out to get his sub he was planning to use it as a projectile against that soldier or whatever he was? Do you think it was premeditated act of resistance?”

“It certainly didn’t look like it.”

“In fact, what I saw was a last minute, completely impulsive burst of inspiration. Not to in any way diminish his fearlessness. I just think history isn’t pre-determined, you know? It’s made up of spontaneous feats of pluck, is what history is made up of. You can never tell, until the crucial moment arrives, who it will be that will rise up to be a hero—”

“A hero sandwich. A hero sandwich thrower.”

“A hero sandwich thrower. Easy to say ahead of time, I would do this, I wouldn’t do that but when the chips are down? You just never know until you know, until you’re battle tested.”

“I just hope, M, that I don’t turn out to be the person who rats out the girl hiding up in the attic, you know? I can’t say with any confidence that I wouldn’t be.”

“Well, fingers crossed, Em, that this entire conversation remains purely hypothetical.”

“But it isn’t, is it. Sandwiches have already been thrown.”

“Viva la revolución! Viva la Cubano Sandwich! I say, in the spirit of these revolutionary times, why don’t we go and get something to eat? All this talk, I’m starving. I know this little place.”

“We’re going to be the first ones up against the wall when the shit goes bad, aren’t we?”

“Probably. That’s why we have to, in the immortal words of Warren Zevon, make every sandwich count.”