Swiss--girls like the nutsy flavor; half-gallon mustard, four-five hard Jewish pickles. The excavation began for the secretly secreted twenty. Found, it opened from fourths to one in brittle expansion. One Kosher dog, like it came from the factory! Yes. Mounds saukraut, marshmallow soft roll; warm boiled smell, waterdrooling waves in the hungrymouth! Yum!
And a Pepsi. Large bottle.
Respect! That's what one gets handing over a twenty, and appearing one gloomy, middle-of-the-week Wednesday past the rush of the mid-day hour when usually the meek-mannered payment in nickels and dimes inherits the usual lemon stuffed donut and Pepsi, bottle, regular. Respect, he could see it on the wise ass's face. So! What you do to be here at this time of day, Slave Labor, wear out a link in the chain and break out? Big smile handing back big change, secretly secreting the once four-folded twenty in a slot to a metal box under the counter to hold it out from a hold up person, this from a counter-wait person. Non-persons have no answer, they mumble as they pick up lemon donut and Pepsi, and retreat to the street. Seventeen years rehearsal prepared Sam for this moment. --Boss says just to appreciate living, go down to the deli to see how assholes must make their living. How are you doing, Asshole, making a living? Don't go away, perhaps another wiener for a winner. Big morsely, meaty, mustardy, juicy, spicy, sourey, satisfying big bite. Yumyumyum!
--Fuck you! Handspins in the air, bird flying--middle finger poking upwards.
--Bragging about your I.Q., are you? Big cud in the cheek. Ta-ta, Freehole--a non-invitational, non-secret Brotherhood.
Almost back at the shop, the last of the dog going down. So good. He thought of going back for another. More reasonable to wait for it for supper. Rainsmell all over the place, but rainfall gone for the while.
Strange. Shop door open. He knew he locked it when he left. What's the story?
Sol. Standing tall, solemn faced, nose in the air, hands clasped behind his back, blue eyes now sighting from behind a coat of freezing rain--as a verglas--watching him walk in, feeling a peculiar pressure for out-of-the ordinary performance.
Sol, I...
Head shaking ever so slightly. Shutoff. No explanations wanted, or needed.
--Sol, I... But you have to know why I wasn't here, Sol, don't turn me off again. I want you to know--if not understand--I just had to do it. Not for just the wet clothes, or hunger, but to keep what thread of me there is intact. I want you to know how important it was that I perform for myself. I would've done it even if you were here, with or without your approval. Who excuses, accuses.
The closed eyes, the shaking head, were reinforced with an unhitched hand that waved before him; index rose slightly above the other partly closed digits as if in benediction, if you can believe.
--You vere vair you vere. Sam, ve close shop for some few veeks. I not not vish to transact business until I return. Here is sign for door. I vill come get you at your home ven I come back. I vill now go.
The transformation was all too obvious.
Sam saw the neat lettering on the white paper on the cutting table atop the damask he was working. He read it. Another step and another step closer to be sure. It said what it said: "Closed few weeks. Death in Family."
--Who?
--Bela. My Belaya. The flowing source of sustenance that made life sacred must provide now only in spirit and memory. It wasn't what Sol said, but that's what he meant. She was in the hospital by early in the morning, out dead by afternoon.
--Your wife?
--Wife, a word to mean all worlds. Yes.
--Oh! Sol! I'm so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.
Nodding. --Yes. Thank you. Long, long spinning seconds of silence.
--Ah...weeks? Two weeks, Sol?
--Maybe more.
--More? I really don't know about such things, I thought the period of mourning was ten days, or so, something like that. I would come to see you at your home, as is the custom,
And a Pepsi. Large bottle.
Respect! That's what one gets handing over a twenty, and appearing one gloomy, middle-of-the-week Wednesday past the rush of the mid-day hour when usually the meek-mannered payment in nickels and dimes inherits the usual lemon stuffed donut and Pepsi, bottle, regular. Respect, he could see it on the wise ass's face. So! What you do to be here at this time of day, Slave Labor, wear out a link in the chain and break out? Big smile handing back big change, secretly secreting the once four-folded twenty in a slot to a metal box under the counter to hold it out from a hold up person, this from a counter-wait person. Non-persons have no answer, they mumble as they pick up lemon donut and Pepsi, and retreat to the street. Seventeen years rehearsal prepared Sam for this moment. --Boss says just to appreciate living, go down to the deli to see how assholes must make their living. How are you doing, Asshole, making a living? Don't go away, perhaps another wiener for a winner. Big morsely, meaty, mustardy, juicy, spicy, sourey, satisfying big bite. Yumyumyum!
--Fuck you! Handspins in the air, bird flying--middle finger poking upwards.
--Bragging about your I.Q., are you? Big cud in the cheek. Ta-ta, Freehole--a non-invitational, non-secret Brotherhood.
Almost back at the shop, the last of the dog going down. So good. He thought of going back for another. More reasonable to wait for it for supper. Rainsmell all over the place, but rainfall gone for the while.
Strange. Shop door open. He knew he locked it when he left. What's the story?
Sol. Standing tall, solemn faced, nose in the air, hands clasped behind his back, blue eyes now sighting from behind a coat of freezing rain--as a verglas--watching him walk in, feeling a peculiar pressure for out-of-the ordinary performance.
Sol, I...
Head shaking ever so slightly. Shutoff. No explanations wanted, or needed.
--Sol, I... But you have to know why I wasn't here, Sol, don't turn me off again. I want you to know--if not understand--I just had to do it. Not for just the wet clothes, or hunger, but to keep what thread of me there is intact. I want you to know how important it was that I perform for myself. I would've done it even if you were here, with or without your approval. Who excuses, accuses.
The closed eyes, the shaking head, were reinforced with an unhitched hand that waved before him; index rose slightly above the other partly closed digits as if in benediction, if you can believe.
--You vere vair you vere. Sam, ve close shop for some few veeks. I not not vish to transact business until I return. Here is sign for door. I vill come get you at your home ven I come back. I vill now go.
The transformation was all too obvious.
Sam saw the neat lettering on the white paper on the cutting table atop the damask he was working. He read it. Another step and another step closer to be sure. It said what it said: "Closed few weeks. Death in Family."
--Who?
--Bela. My Belaya. The flowing source of sustenance that made life sacred must provide now only in spirit and memory. It wasn't what Sol said, but that's what he meant. She was in the hospital by early in the morning, out dead by afternoon.
--Your wife?
--Wife, a word to mean all worlds. Yes.
--Oh! Sol! I'm so sorry. Please accept my deepest condolences.
Nodding. --Yes. Thank you. Long, long spinning seconds of silence.
--Ah...weeks? Two weeks, Sol?
--Maybe more.
--More? I really don't know about such things, I thought the period of mourning was ten days, or so, something like that. I would come to see you at your home, as is the custom,
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