Download pdf - Don't Forget the Sandwich

7/31/2019 Don't Forget the Sandwich

1/6

Michael Zervos

Miguel Soto was fidgeting in line. It was all he could do to keep from exploding into a fit of lusty

screams. The scent of it was everywhere. It clung to his clothing, his hair, and his skin. It was more

powerful than the cheap perfume the noisy cell phone-wielding woman in front of him wore, more intrusive

than the biting taste of the cinnamon gum in his mouth, and it was more seductive than Margarita

Hernandez in algebra class. The scent, he knew from experience, was just the start of it. Pretty soon it

would be between his fingers and he would caress its soft, warm exterior. He would be able to gaze upon

its succulent, meaty contents instead of simply imagining it. Juices would dribble out slowly and roll down

the side of his fingers and arms. With its ravishing scent and dazzling visuals, it would take all of Miguels

willpower not to bury his face within its delicate mounds.

Next! the counterman yelled.

He was next. Miguel was next! He celebrated with a tiny whoop and stepped forward.

Corned beef sandwich. Double beef, extra horseradish mustard, pickle on the side. Please. he

said. Just saying its hallowed name elevated Miguels heart rate.

The counterman nodded and began to gather the necessary ingredients for his latest masterpiece.

Miguel watch with great satisfaction as the counterman sliced a two thick pieces of marble rye and placed

them in the toaster. He then reached for a fist sized dill pickle marinating in a jar to his side and sliced

cleanly through the center. Next, the counterman bent over and reached for the hunk of corn beef, the

crowned jewel of the masterpiece. The beef was a healthy brownish-red and Miguel could detect little to no

fat on its edges indicating a prime cut of meat. His current highly selective sensory abilities could make out

the pungent, salty-sweet aroma of the cured delicacy. It made him weak at the knees.

What his senses couldnt make out were the two men that were approaching the deli from the

outside. They both wore black and walked with a swagger that usually indicated an unrevealed trump card

up a sleeve. Or in the two mens cases, their waste bands.

His tongue was now nearly drowning in the saliva and he had to wipe some from the side of his

leaking mouth. The counterman slid his knife gracefully through the meat and began to pile it high upon the

nearly assembled sandwich. Once finished, he took an unlabeled bottle and squeezed its contents onto the

slices of rye he fetched from the toaster. Miguel knew it was the horseradish mustard and he giggled to


2/6

himself gleefully. Finally, the counterman heaved the mammoth of a sandwich onto a serving platter and

cut it right down the middle. He handed it to Miguels outstretched hands.

Behind Miguel a bell rang but his attention was violently focused on the treasure in his hands. He

failed to realize other events were transpiring.

Thatll be seven-- the counterman tried to say but Miguel gave him a ten and told him to keep

the change. It was worth more than a mere seven eighty-nine. To him, it was worth his whole days

earnings.

Miguel bounced over to the side counter to grab napkins--he would need them--and the two men

approached the counter.

Yo, fuckstick, how about sandwich? one of the men said, smashing his open hands on the

counter. He wore a tilted baseball cap with UCONN on the front.

The counterman bit his bottom lip. What kindof sandwich, sir?

Fuckin fish fillet, man. UCONN-Hat said.

We dont carry fish, sir. You may want to try McDonalds down the street. the counterman

suggested.

What kinda sandwich shop is dis? Can you believe dis shit? he said, turning to the other man,

who wore a fur jacket with the hood up over his face.

Naw, man, that aint right. What the hell we gonna have now? said Fur Jacket.

UCONN-Hat shrugged. Fuck ifI--

Get the corn beef sandwich. Best on the menu. Double beef, extra horseradish mustard sauce.

said Miguel without turning around from the napkin dispenser in the corner of the room.

The two men at the counter looked at Miguel and then turned to look at each other.

Damn, UCONN-Hat said, that sounds go-oo-ood!

Aint nevea hearda no corn beef befo. Dont sound good. Fur Jacket remarked.

Live some, muthafucka, said UCONN to his fur-clad friend, Two corn beefs like mah man ova

there suggested. The counterman nodded and went to work.

Miguel was nearly done ransacking the napkin dispenser when he felt a tap on the shoulder.

Yes? he said, turning face.


3/6

A black man dressed like he was about to go on a nighttime raid stood before him. The bill of his

hat, sporting the name of Connecticuts pride and joy, was tilted almost straight upward. He was smiling

crookedly and Miguel could just make out gold-plated teeth through his splayed lips.

Yo, lemme have a tastea that sandwich. UCONN said.

Miguel wasnt at all ready for anyone to taste his sandwich.

No. Youll get your own soon. he responded.

UCONN took a step forward and cocked his head. He was taller than Miguel by almost a foot and

certainly looked like he could play for the Huskies. Behind him, a man of equal size wearing a fur jacket

approached the confrontation.

Yeah, but I wanna taste it now. UCONN said.

II dont want to give you any. Its mine. Miguel said softly. He could feel his heart bounce

between his ribcage.

Give me that sandwich so I can taste it, muthafucka. UCONN said as he lifted his black t -shirt

above his navel to show Miguel what was tucked underneath it. Miguel looked at the gun with horror.

Breathing became laborious and his muscles tensed involuntarily. Miguel found it difficult to utter a word.

His throat so willing to accept the sandwich he had just purchased was now tight and constrictive.

Its my favorite sandwich he managed feebly.

The next ten seconds moved in frames to Miguel. In one, he was backing away towards the door.

He could sense that on his face was displayed pure terror in a heightened anticipation of the incoming

malice. In the next, UCONN brandished his firearm and was saying something threatening. UCONNs eyes

were as wide as fishbowls. His friend behind him was grinning from ear to ear. Another frame: Miguel was

shaking his head, dread pouring over him like a disease. Yet another: there was a flash coupled with three

cracks. Impossibly, UCONNs eyes widened even further and he yelled something to Fur Jacket. The next

several frames Miguel witnessed saw the frantic exit of UCONN and Fur Jacket.

Miguel stood blank faced at the spot where the two assailants just departed. His poor, overworking

heart was the only sound that he could hear.

Suddenly, cold air blew in from the open door and a loud voice in front of him brought Miguel

back from his jilted state of being. He blinked once, then twice, and stared at the excited face in front of


4/6

him. It was the counterman and he was asking Miguel if he was alright. Miguel nodded over and over like a

zombie but the counterman was now pointing down at Miguels pants. He looked down.

He felt it before he saw it. It was warm and it felt as if he had decided to wade into a bath without

taking off his clothing. His pants were soaked with liquid and Miguel immediately thought that he had

pissed himself. Then he saw red.

Oh, God. Miguel said.

He had been shot.

There was a rapidly growing puddle under him and his soaked baggy jeans were sagging even

more with the weight of blood. He didnt feel any pain, though. Wait a second! The sandwich, Miguel

thought, where did the sandwich go? He had been waiting this whole day to have one and now it was

missing!

You have to go to the hospital! the counterman urged him.

Where did the sandwich go? Miguel spoke aloud.

Sandwich? the counterman asked.

Corn beef. Miguel said.

The counterman looked at him in amazement. Youve been shot.

I think I dropped it, Miguel said. I think I dropped it somewhere.

Youve been shot. the counterman repeated.

Yeah, I know. But I dont think its that bad. I mean I imagine it would hurt more if it was

serious, Miguel said as he looked across the deli for his prize, Oh there it is.

The sandwich was sitting perfectly atop the serving platter in which he had received it several feet

behind him. He ran to it gaily.

A miracle, Miguel exclaimed. Not even a scratch on it! Sure enough, the sandwich wasnt

harmed in the incident. Even still, it retained its warmth!

But.youve been shot. the counterman said once again.

Miguel looked up from cradling his sandwich and looked at the counterman with concern. Are

you OK? You keep on repeating yourself.

Miguel grabbed some more napkins since most of them fell into the puddle of his own blood and


5/6

proceeded towards the door.

What are you doing? the counterman asked, with a look one part perplexed and the other, awe.

Im going to eat my sandwich at my house, Miguel said as he opened the door, Oh, you should

probably call the police.

Miguel was almost to his house when the adrenaline in his body began to fade and the pain began.

He knew now exactly where he had been shot; his thigh and his groin throbbed with a dull pain. He placed

his hand, the one that wasnt wrapped tightly around his sandwich, around his groin and it was met with

warm blood and new dose of pain. He gasped in surprise and stumbled, nearly losing footing completely on

the sidewalk. A man walked by and stared at him in disbelief, perhaps to shocked to say anything. Despite

the pain, Miguel could almost taste the corn beef in his mouth and it energized his steps.Just a little

farther, Miguel, he thought.

When he reached the door to his small house, his head began to feel light. Colors were blending

into one another and light from inside was uncomfortably bright. He pushed the door open and made his

way to his favorite couch, an old beaten up thing that squeaked when he sat down in it. He didnt care that

he would leave footprints through the living room. He didnt even think about the fact that his blood would

leave stains on the material of his couch. His mind was narrowly focused on the fading scent of the corn

beef. Miguel wasnt sure whether it was fading because he was dying or because the sandwich wasnt

warm any longer but he grabbed one of the slices and fit it into his mouth. The taste was instantly

electrifying. He moaned out gratuitously. The taste was even better than he remembered it being. It was

phenomenal, empyrean, Olympian, celestial! He took another bite and a smile grew wide across his face.

The lights were bright in his house, too bright, and it felt just a little too cold, but he was content

to die, if thats what was to happen.

Ay, Dios mio! Miguel suddenly heard in front of him. He knew that voic e. His eyesight was a

little blurry now but he managed to focus somewhat and made out the round figure of his father. Que paso,

Miguel? Estas sangrando!

Hospital, Papa, hospital. Miguel said quietly.

Si! his father said in a wavering voice and Miguel felt himself lifted into his arms.

Wait, Miguel said before he was carried away, dont forget the sandwich.


6/6