Deli-Boy

by Alexander Fontanez-Ordonez

Deli-Boy’s Boss waves him over.

“Come here a minute,” he says. “You see that? You know what that is?” He points out the window. Deli-Boy wipes his hands on his apron and looks out at the luxury car. A woman in the passenger seat checks her makeup in the mirror. Boss speaks slowly for his benefit. “That’s mine. All of this is mine, Deli-Boy,” he sweeps his hand through the air. “So try not to burn the place down while I’m gone.”

Deli-Boy looks up at Boss. “No sir,” he laughs anxiously. “She’s in good hands. I’ll make sure everything runs nice and smooth. I was even thinking—”

Boss holds up a finger. “Deli-Boy. Did I ask you to think?”

“Ah, no sir,” Deli-Boy bows his head.

“Then get back to work, and don’t bother Cashier-Girl,” he says on his way out. Deli-Boy goes back to the sandwich station and shakes his head as he pulls on a new pair of gloves. Bother Cashier-Girl? Right. Like Deli-Boy would want to mess with her ugly ass, all reading books and shit up there behind the counter. He plans on just running out the back door if they ever get robbed.

The bell over the door jingles. “Hey, Deli-Boy,” Regular walks up. “Can I get a number eight-hundred-and-sixty-three?” Deli-Boy nods and springs into action, hands flying over his workstation, without once stopping to consult the ingredients list posted on the wall. Regular raises his eyebrows. “You memorized the entire sandwich menu?”

“All eight-hundred quadrillion of ‘em,” Deli-Boy says over his shoulder. “Yep,” he says, wrapping the sandwich. “Figure I’ll start saving up soon and open my own place one day. Make my millions, buy a house down in Tijuana.”

Regular takes the sandwich with a pinched smile. “Sure. You can do anything you put your mind to,” he says as he turns to walk away. Deli-Boy leans over the counter and continues.

“Yeah, figure one of these days I’ll take some business classes or—” But Regular is already up front pulling out his wallet in front of the register, Cashier-Girl’s voice squeaking with small talk. Deli-Boy strains to follow their conversation from the back of the narrow store in the hope that Regular will shoot him a look that says, “Christ. How do you manage?” But Regular just pockets his change and leaves.

Deli-Boy gets back to work, wrapping a rag around his finger and scratching dried condiments off the counter, just going through the motions until his day off tomorrow. Fashion Girl walks in and looks around like something dirty might jump off the shelves and touch her.

“Hi,” she forces a smile. “Can I get a five-hundred-and-thirteen, but can you make it a Code Green?” Deli-Boy grabs a bread roll and spins it in the air in front of his face before catching it by one end.

“Five-One-Three-Code-Green,” he calls out to no one, his hands working the knife through the bread as he looks up at her pretty face. “All dressed up, huh? Going out tonight?” She looks away and pulls up at her neckline.

“Could you not make eye contact with me?” she asks. He shrugs and turns around to layer on extra portions at no extra charge, wishing he could be there when she first bites into the sandwich and realizes that he’s hooked her up. The two of them would lean against a wall outside a bar and polish off a shared snack, the summer night alive with people. The passing groups of guys would give him silent nods of approval, and the girls would breathe sighs of defeat when they saw how it was just Deli-Boy and his girlfriend in July, happy together, while all around them the city blinked and shimmered up out of the Pacific.

He finishes up and hands Fashion Girl the sandwich with what he hopes is a look of a deep connection, but she just takes it by its farthest end so as not to risk bodily contact, and quickly clicks her heels back to Cashier-Girl. Deli-Boy watches her butt cheeks flex and compress through her tight black pants and sucks air through his teeth like it hurts.

A group of well-dressed young guys walk up. “Hey, Deli-Boy. How fast can you make us sandwiches?” Deli-Boy decides they’re cool, the type of guys he could see himself cruising for chicks with on a night like tonight, all cocky swaggers and force-of-numbers as crowds made way for them. He says in mock challenge, “Time me,” and the guys give courtesy laughs before they resume their conversation. His hands become a blur.

“That’s pretty damn fast,” one of the guys turns to watch.

“Work hard, play hard,” Deli-Boy jokes. “Matter fact, you fellas need a few pointers on how to party, I might be able to show you a couple things. I get off in a couple hours,” he offers. The lead guy shakes his head decisively.

“Nope. But you can shut your mouth and finish my fucking sandwich,” he counter offers. Deli-Boy shrugs sensibly.

“Cool!” he agrees, and hands over the goods. On their way out, the guys brush past Boss coming in. Boss extends his hand and waves him over with short, impatient flicks of his fingertips.

“Deli-Boy,” Boss stands by the register. “I’m giving you your check, but as you can see,” he pulls out an envelope, “I’m giving you cash, and for two reasons. One, neither of us have to pay taxes this way, and two, you can’t complain to anyone when I short you money,” he says. He flops the envelope against Deli-Boy’s face before grabbing a candy bar on his way out. “This is coming out of your paycheck,” he holds the candy aloft as he walks out the door.

Deli-Boy scrambles to collect the scattered bills and jogs back to his station.

“Hey, amigo,” Pimp looks up over his sunglasses. “Got something for you.” He gestures toward the girl beside him, who twirls her hair and scoffs at the light-skinned Budweiser girls in the promotional posters.

“I don’t know,” he sizes her up. “I think I’ll just wait till I see you guys in T.J. tomorrow.”

“Nah. I’m tellin’ you. Ain’t gon’ be nothin’ left, you wait till tomorrow. Act fast, homie,” he urges. Deli-Boy shifts his leg to tighten the jean fabric over his thigh and feels the reassuring pressure of the envelope.

“The thing is, it just costs so much, and I’m trying to save up.” He shakes his head. Pimp stares out over his glasses in silence. “Nah, it’s not worth it,” Deli-Boy concludes, and Pimp steals a look over his shoulder as he leads the girl out by the arm. Deli-Boy starts to refill the sauces.

“Excuse me?” someone calls over the counter. Deli-Boy sizes up Nerd’s backpack and glasses.

“Yeah?” He lolls his head.

“May I order a sandwich?”

Deli-Boy barks an aggressive little laugh. “Alright. Which sandwich?” He whips his hand at the menu behind him.

“Just . . . ham and cheese. On a roll.” Nerd lowers his eyes.

Deli-Boy picks up the knife and begins a sloppy cut through the bread, only to drop knife and bread to the counter and squeeze the tip of his pinky. The cut is shallow, but painful. Deli-Boy hasn’t cut himself in years. He puts on a Band-Aid and a new pair of gloves before picking the knife back up and angrily turning on Nerd.

“This for studying tonight?” he asks. Nerd holds the straps of his backpack and nods. “On the weekend,” Deli-Boy accuses. Nerd nods again. “Dude, no offense? But you need to get a life.” He finishes the sandwich and tosses it onto the counter with a dismissive flick of his chin. “Get some girlfriends or something.”

“’Girlfriends?’” Nerd asks, bolder now that he has his sandwich in hand. “You have more than one?”

Deli-Boy rolls his eyes out over the store. “What do you think, man?”

The bell over the door jingles after the Nerd.

Rag in hand once again, Deli-Boy is too distracted to see Bandana walk past Cashier-Girl and sneak up behind him. Deli-Boy turns with a start and throws his hands up as Bandana pulls his hand out from his waist and points two fingers at Deli-Boy’s head. His thumb makes a metallic clicking sound as he cocks it back.

“We got shotguns, Deli-Bitch. You know? We take you out, you disrespect the ladies again,” he says through a thick accent.

“No, no,” Deli-Boy waves his hands in front of his face. He pleads, “It’s just that I always pay for a girl ahead of time, but when I get across the border, you guys tell me they all had to go home. I wind up sitting in the bar, drinking alone. I just pay and I never get anything. That’s all.”

Bandana nods. “That’s why you gotta keep payin’. So the girls will see you’re serious about the relationship and wait for you. You know?” Deli-Boy nods back, relieved, and tries not to shake as he counts out some money from the envelope. The Bandana pockets the money and a generous tip on his way out the door. The world is once again silent.

Deli-Boy squeezes his fist at his side, his finger throbbing in time with the humming of the empty store. He looks out at nothing for a long moment before his cheeks pull back into the start of a smile. Like a slow student proud to join the ranks of his smarterpeers with a display of comprehension, he declares, “I gotta get outta here!”

Cashier-Girl closes her book and walks out from behind the register. She holds the front door open, and a sea of people flood in from the street. The front window explodes as a trash can sails through it and bounces off the floor, rolling off to one side as dozens of people crunch and slip their way over the shards of glass on their way toward the back of the store. Everyone is screaming shoulder-to-shoulder as they fight for space at the deli station. The mob roars, “Eight-hundred-thirty-two with no pickles! Balsa wood with extra mayo! Pick a number, any number, and add extra thumb tacks!”

And Boss sails a paper airplane over to him with a note that says, “Deli-Boy, the milk delivery is out back. You serve no purpose.”

And someone punches the empty tip jar, “Can you hurry up?”

And a group of people pick up a chant, “Can you do it blindfolded?”

And, “Can you rewrap this? We think it’s leaking through! Don’t look at us, Deli-Boy, you’re from another planet! Early to bed and hurry to sandwich! Die, Deli-Boy, die, Die, DIE!”

And he crouches down and hides behind the counter as he squeezes his head between his hands until it hurts. He uses a trick that works when he wakes up in the middle of the night and can’t shake the empty feeling in his chest, talking nice to himself and stroking the side of his face the way he thinks someone who cared about him would.

Relax, he tells himself. Take deep breaths. (In) He moves his cheek over the calluses in his palm. (Out) He instructs himself: Start from the front. The magazine racks are empty. The register is empty. The coolers are empty. The walk-in is empty. Everything is empty. The store was empty before, it’s empty now, and it will be empty when you open your eyes. He takes long, deep breaths, fighting back the blood that pulses behind his eyes.

There’s never anyone here.

(In)

You’re always alone.

(Out)

You’re All Alone.