| SCOTT NEDRELOW, holding a Reuben sandwich in one hand and a kitchen knife in the other, stood in a dark corner of the sandwich bar between two attractive but fading blondes who sat waiting for him to say something. But he said nothing; he had been silent during much of the evening, except now in this private sandwich bar – for peace – in Northeast Minneapolis he seemed even more distant, staring out through the semidarkness and white light reflection of the neon sign in the window into a large hallway beyond the sandwich bar where dozens of young artists sat huddled around small tables or twisted in the center of the floor to the clamorous clang of noise-rock music blaring from the stereo. Nedrelow had been working on a Reuben. He was hungry. He was the victim of a feeling so common that most people would consider it trivial. But when it gets to Nedrelow it can plunge him into a state of questioning, deep thoughtfulness, panic, even aesthetic rage. Scott Nedrelow serves sandwiches. Out of his studio. In a specially constructed kitchen-slash-sandwich bar he’s had custom-installed. He serves sandwiches to artists. For peace.
submitted, on a napkin, by Andy Sturdevant
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