The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 7

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Previously on Miller High Life presents the heavyweight diaries.

Think, Johnny, think.

Good night, podcast.

Star-crossed sandwiches.

Good night, healthcare.

Timothy Nelson.

Good night, Twitter followers.

I'm seeing a co-reporting situation.

I had saved the show, but at what price?

I guess you could say...

I've always enjoyed sandwiches, whispers Timothy Nelson.

He leans into the studio microphone with eyes shut.

He is being soulful, and I want to die.

I've been interviewing this man for the past five and a half hours as he meticulously recounts the tedious backstory to his subway sandwich order from the night in question.

He is walking me through what feels like a real-time history of his sandwich eating habits.

We've devoted over an hour to his love of open-face sandwiches as a boy.

Discovering pita pockets in his twenties was another hour.

Paninis in his thirties, an hour and a half.

And I don't know how long we talked about tuna melts.

Under the studio table, my fingernails dig into the palm of my hand.

I don't think I can endure much more.

And then there's olives, Timothy Nelson says with a sly grin.

You see, when I first discovered them at the tender age of five, they looked like marbles, and so of course I enjoyed shoving them up my nose.

They felt good up there.

It is the longest, most in-depth interview of my career, all in service to an idiot's tale.

A man orders a sandwich and receives the wrong one.

But after extensive test marketing with influencers from Generation Double Z and other key demographics, the haircuts on the advertising team have seized on Nelson's story, calling it immensely relatable and honest but truthful, as well as brand safe.

They've even hired a professional fashion photographer to shoot Nelson and I, quote, hanging out.

The most punishing photographic tableau features us spooning each other on a custom-made six-foot-long baguette.

By the time I hit my thirties, continues Timothy Nelson, heroes became a staple.

Roast beef, cheese slaw, ham salad, chicken salad, grilled chicken salad.

Which leads us to the night of the criss-crossed sandwiches, I say, exasperated.

Oh no, he retorts.

My discovery of heroes came years before that night, and I only got into subway sandwiches in my forties.

So much comes before.

Gyros, burritos, not to mention non-burrito wraps.

It's really quite fascinating how many different kinds of wraps there are.

Can we get to the night in question, I bark, my patience completely eroded.

I'm just trying to set the stage, Timothy Nelson shouts back.

Stage setting is a key part of storytelling.

So is keeping your interviewer from falling into an anger sleep, I say.

Just let me tell the story the way it needs to be told, says Nelson.

It needs to be told to a psychiatrist, I shriek, possibly the jailhouse kind.

I don't know why I ever let Alex talk me into this fiasco, yells Timothy Nelson.

Talk you into it, I ask.

I can't believe the depths to which I've sunk.

And you call yourself an interviewer, cries Timothy Nelson.

I feel like I'm talking to a cactus, an abnormally stupid cactus.

Just as I'm about to scream in Timothy Nelson's face that I hate him, hate everything about him, that I have hated him before I even knew him, hated him when he was just an innocent child, I catch sight of the recording light, which is not on.

In fact, it is off.

We've not been recording, I whisper, my voice hoarse.

What?

Nelson asks.

We've just spent the past six hours, I say, pretending to have a delightful conversation about your stomach-turning culinary habits for absolutely no reason because you never hit record.

My eyes tear up, and my jaw starts to twitch.

I never hit record?

Timothy Nelson repeats.

That's rich You're supposed to be the interviewer, you cactus It's your job to press record

Energy drinks and raspberry wine coolers litter the floor beneath Timothy Nelson's feet.

The room is thick with the smell of our body odor, though neither of us can detect it, as we've not smelled fresh air in six hours.

All

for

nothing.

This is a bad dream, I babble.

I gave up my two-year-old son's first ukulele lesson for this.

I passed up my best friend's bachelor party in Las Vegas, says Timothy Nelson.

We had Backstreet Boys tickets.

We stare at each other, breathing hard, when suddenly, like the bear from the Revenant, Timothy Nelson is upon me, and I am upon Timothy Nelson.

As he tries to lock my head, I, like the bear from the house at Pooh Corner, attempt to bear hug his waist.

For but a moment we are locked in a nauseatingly intimate embrace, before we crash into the shelves, knocking over a series of non-heavyweight related peabody statuettes, some rolls of Gimlet's promotional toilet paper, three ply all, and several heavy sacks of money bearing the Spotify logo.

It's enough of a racket to cause several Gimlet employees in adjacent studios to come rushing in.

Timothy Nelson and I separate.

Nothing to see here, I say, adjusting the collar on my shirt.

One too many cider jacks, says Nelson.

The gathering crowd stands around holding their noses and gawking at us until, in a puff of sea breeze and sandalwood, Bloomberg suddenly appears.

Everybody scatters.

Fellows, he cries, there's no time for horseplay.

We have a season premiere rap party to think of.

We are going to have a tastefully appointed fountain overflowing with Miller Highlight, the champagne of beers.

It's going to be so exclusive that even invited guests will only learn of it the day after it happens, and even then, only on title.

I guess I did overreact a little, says Timothy Nelson, extending his hand.

Just thinking of all the horrible Timothy Nelson-related nooks and crannies this hand is ventured is enough to make my abdominal pips wilt.

But there was Bloomberg, so full of hope for the sponsorship deals and ancillary revenues, licensing opportunities, and marketing hooks, but also for the story of this cursed subway sandwich.

I should never have tried to strike you, I say, accepting Nelson's hand.

Bloomberg exits the studio, leaving Timothy Nelson and I alone.

We eye each other warily, and each take our seats, Nelson behind the guest mic, and I behind the host mic.

And then I press the record button.

I guess you could say I've always enjoyed sandwiches, says Timothy Nelson as my pips explode.

This has been chapter 7 of the Heavyweight Diaries.

The next season of Heavyweight will begin in two weeks on September 26th.

Remember, if you don't listen to Heavyweight on Spotify, Jim, Gimlet's head of finance and operations, will tan my Canadian hide, but good.

Heavyweight is me, Jonathan Goldstein, along with Jorge Just, Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt, and B.A.

Parker.

This episode was mixed by Emma Munger.

Music by Bobby Lord.

Our ad music is Vivaldi's Spring, performed by the Wichita State University Chamber Players.

We'll have the final chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries next week.

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