The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 7

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 a 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 peeda pockets in his twenties was another hour, Pannini's

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 Olive's 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 sand 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 Crisscross sandwiches. I said, 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 Giro's burrito's. Not to mention non burrito raps. It's really quite fascinating how many different kinds of raps 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 in 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, christ Timothy Nelson, I feel like I'm talking to a cactus, and 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 absolute lutely 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 back Street 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 Gimblet'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 and 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 fellas 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 High Life, 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, in 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 Mike, and then I press the record button.

I guess you could say I've always enjoyed sandwiches, says Timothy Nelson as my pips explode in chapter seven of the Heavyweight Diaries. The next season of Heavyweight will begin in two weeks on September twenty sixth. Remember if you don't listen to Heavyweight on Spotify, Jim Gimblet'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 Va Parker. This episode was mixed by Emamonger,

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