Mr. Ben’s Magic

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Mr. Ben knew that magic was about intentions, not spells or potions. That’s why he was very careful when crafting his award-winning sandwiches. Every slice of tomato was artfully arranged, every piece of lettuce delicately placed. All of his ingredients were selected specifically to sate both the physical and spiritual hunger of his friends, and they were quite grateful for it. He considered that his own special kind of magic, and he practiced quite often.

One day, Mr. Ben found himself in quite a pickle. His brain had decided that it would produce an eye-watering headache the moment he rose from bed. When he shuffled into his kitchen, clad in bunny slippers and wearing a blanket as a cloak, he found that he was so sick that he could not work his magic on his own. Chopping avocado and caramelizing onions are both bad things to do when you can’t see straight. Even serving Sally-Mae, his dog, breakfast proved to be a challenge: the screech of a metal spoon inside a tin can caused the wrinkles in his brain to cluster together behind the bridge of his nose.

Sally-Mae, though she loved her wet food, didn’t immediately pounce on her breakfast. She cocked her head and whined, and did that little tip-tappy dance she did that almost always made him laugh. This time, though, he grimaced and rubbed his ear. She sat down, rolled over, tried shaking paw, wagged her little tail so hard it blurred, but all it got her was a careful scratch on the head and a grumbled, “Good girl. Go eat.”

This absolutely would not do. So, after some more tap dancing, sharp yapping, and unsubtle puppy dog eyes towards her leash, Sally-Mae was finally able to yank Mr. Ben down his driveway towards his mailbox. It was excellent timing, too, as the mail carrier had just arrived with the latest copy of Ingredients Monthly.

“Good morning, Mr. Ben!” said the mail carrier. “My goodness, you seem like you’ve had a rough morning!”

“That I have, Chaz.” Mr. Ben shielded his eyes as best he could from the merciless sun. “I’ve been so sick, I couldn’t even make my own sandwich.”

Chaz the Mail Carrier gasped. Mr. Ben being deprived of his own divine culinary creations, even for a day, was a truly horrible thought. Even worse, Mr. Ben had no one to make sandwiches for him! Chaz had to do something to rectify this horrible atrocity, however small such an action may be.

“Here, have my tea.” Chaz pulled a warm thermos from their mailbag. “It’s lemon, ginger, and some honey from my mother’s farm. It’s no sandwich, but please take it!”

Mr. Ben did the polite thing people do sometimes, where they turn down a gift because “they couldn’t possibly” before graciously accepting it. Sally-Mae watched him tentatively sip the tea while Chaz continued their mail route. Satisfied, she tugged her leash and brought her human indoors.

Mr. Ben continued to sip the tea for the rest of the morning and felt the dizziness from his headache slowly dissipate. Still, he shivered whenever he dared emerge from under the covers. As much as he hated to do so, he called in sick to work and hid under a mountain of pillows and blankets.

Around noon, after she’d finished leaving her daily quota of short white hairs on Mr. Ben’s black couch, Sally-Mae leapt onto the foot of Mount Blanket and yapped. When Mr. Ben didn’t respond (she could smell that he was still dead asleep), Sally-Mae turned to digging in the trash for attention. The clattering of tin cans across the tile floor summoned the human much faster than barking. In ten minutes, the human and the dog ventured outdoors, accompanied by the week’s trash. This was fortunate timing, too, as the neighbor was out pruning her trees.

“Not at the deli today, Mr. Ben?” said Ms. Thea. She lowered her pruning shears so as not to startle the dog.

“No, I’m just a bit sick today.”

“Oh dear. Have you at least had one of your sandwiches?”

Mr. Ben winced as he heaved the recycling into the bin. The sound of clattering cans made stars dance behind his eyelids. “No, but Chaz kindly loaned me some tea.”

Thea clutched her pearls. Personally, she thought Mr. Ben’s sandwiches were just, well, sandwiches. She didn’t quite understand the magic Mr. Ben talked about when he cooked, and she didn’t need to. But for Mr. Ben to be so sick that he’d deprive himself of something he loved? That itself demanded rectification.

“Wait here.” Ms. Thea threw down her gardening gloves and stomped into her house. When she returned, she held a rattling container with white label tape on the front. “These are crackers I made with my son. We tried to cut them into stars, but they look more like hexagons. Hopefully these will be easy to digest, and maybe they’ll inspire your next sandwich.”

Mr. Ben thanked her kindly and munched on them on the way back inside. Sally-Mae trotted behind him in case he dropped any crumbs.

Later that evening, cured of a rumbling stomach, Mr. Ben held a knife to the cutting board. Any minute now, he’d make his best hoagie yet. The sandwich to beat all sandwiches. An epic BLT to prove to himself that he was all better. Yes, he was definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent ready to conduct culinary magic.

He curled his fingers under and put his knife to the tomato skin, but nothing happened. He held a loaded butter knife to a baguette, but still nothing. He was so tired, he had no intention left in his body to

even make himself a sandwich. There was just enough energy in him to put the knife safely away, slump to the floor, and bury his face in the sleeves of his robe.

“Oh Sally-Mae!” He cried. “I’ve been so sick that I’ve lost my magic! What am I to do?”

Sally-Mae sneezed in response. Her nails tip-tapped on the floor until she came to Mr. Ben’s feet. Being just smaller than a toaster oven, Sally-Mae managed to squeeze her way into Mr. Ben’s lap and yawned. When he opened his eyes, Mr. Ben realized that she’d fallen fast asleep on him.

Stuck on the floor, Mr. Ben considered the other kinds of magic in his life. Magic is about intention, not spells or potions. Perhaps, in gifting him tea, Chaz intended for Mr. Ben to feel cared for, and thus they imparted on him a bit of their own magic. Maybe, by giving him crackers, Ms. Thea intended for him to feel inspired. And, maybe, in forcing him to go outside, meet with people, and sit on the floor, Sally-Mae was casting her own kind of magic to make him feel better.

Ultimately, Mr. Ben did not make sandwiches the day he was sick. For once, he let others do magic around him, and that was quite alright.