"I'll have one pickleball sandwich, hold the onions"
I told the guy at the counter.
He just stared back at me
like I had three heads.
So I repeated my order to him.
"You can't have one" he finally managed to say.
"Why not?" I demanded.
"Your sign says 'Pickleball Sandwiches' out front!"
"I don't . . . " the guy at the counter began.
He looked very confused. Then terrified.
Some young punks at a corner table
began sniggering and pointing at him.
"Why do you want a sandwich from me?" he
eventually stammered out. "I'm a CPA; I don't make
sandwiches, or sell them."
"Well, your sign out front advertises
pickleball sandwiches -- made to order!"
I told him, rather sharply.
He took off his pristine white apron
and ran outside. After looking up
he slowly came back in, his face
cupped in his hands.
He was weeping.
"This is what I've been afraid of"
he told me. "Transmigration."
The punks in the corner got up
and shuffled out, not making any
eye contact.
I remained silent.
The sandwich shop smelled of onions
and sour mayonnaise.
Afternoon sunlight crowded in from the front window,
waxing everything a dirty yellow.
The man put his apron back on,
drying his eyes with a corner of it,
went back behind the counter,
then turned resolutely
to face me.
"You said no mayo, right?" he asked quietly.
I could have hugged him,
if it weren't for the social distancing rules in place.
He was the first real hero
I'd ever met.
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