“The announcer crowed, ‘But it gets even better.’
“The crowd cheered as another cage containing a second tiger rose up from the underground.
“Turning to my buddy, ‘You said we’d have to fight the Bangles.’
“He nodded, ‘Yeah. Bengal tigers. What’d you think I meant?’
‘The band.’
‘From the eighties?’
“I said, ‘Yes.’
“He looked at me with disgust, ‘Dude, I would never hit a woman.’
“I said, ‘Normally neither would I, however…’
“Before being able to elaborate the cages opened, and the tigers came running out. I grabbed my former buddy, shoved him in the path of the carnivores, and darted for the cages already descending back into the underground. The sound of my ex-friend being torn apart rose above the cries of the crowd. I dove on top of a cage. Glancing back I saw the automatic doors sliding shut, and a tiger growling at the opening.”
“Wait a minute,” Lucas interrupted, “You killed ya friend?”
I shrugged, “Wasn’t much of a friend if you ask me. Anyhow, so I’m in the underground.”
Lucas cut in again, “Sorry, man, I’m not buying.”
“It’s true,” Bernie interjected, “I saw it.”
Lucas sneered, “Bernie, I love ya, but you’re eighty thousand years old. I don’t think you’re going to underground pit fights.”
Bernie shook a block of cheddar at the college kid, “Lucas, you don’t know shit about shit.”
I laughed. Lucas threw up his hands in surrender. Not having a better come back he headed into the back to make more German potato salad.
I said, “Thanks for backing me up.”
“Screw him. If he wasn’t my grandkid I’d beat him to death with a frozen turkey. Speaking of which.” Bernie pointed. I saluted him, and headed over to tend to the customer.
Maneuvering behind the meat counter I grabbed a pair of disposal gloves. While slipping them on I smiled at the middle aged lady eying the smoked ham. Noticing me she straightened up.
“What can I do for you?”
“I would like to start with a pound and a half of the honey baked ham. Thin. Like paper.”
“You got it,” I said. Working the meat slicer I considered the deli. It’d been a while since I worked a quiet job. Stopping in for corned beef one afternoon, about three weeks ago, Bernie recognized me from the pit fight. We made small talk, I mentioned looking for a job, and he offered me one. The deli on Dempster Ave. reminded me of my grandparents’ kitchen: the aroma of meats and cheeses, stainless white counters everywhere, and the low murmur of a ball game on the radio. Even shelves overrun with jars completed the recollection – grandma pickled, jammed, and jellied everything.
The afternoon arrived bringing a rush of customers. Something about delis makes people incapable of waiting in lines. This inability to maintain order is bypassed thanks to a simple device dispensing numbers. Yet, this also results in a kind of micro black market.
I announce who’s next, “Number 36. 36?”
Off in a corner negotiates begin.
“Excuse me, sir, I’m in a hurry.”
“Lady, we’re all in a hurry. You ain’t gettin’ my number.” Spying her groceries he adds, “Unless you wanna give up that last box of rye crackers.”
“These are the good kind. I’m not…”
“Guy just called 36, and you got 52. I’m next. You gonna be here a while.”
She sighs, “Take it.”
He smiles like a snake, “Pleasure doing business.”
So it goes. The hours vanish shaving meat chunks every kind of thin; cheese sliced the same; and shoveling pounds of coleslaw, potato and egg salad. Occasionally there’s a soft argument because a customer wants to use an expired coupon, or insists that years of patronage mean ten percent off, but like Bernie always sez:
“Most folks just want their eats then they hit the streets.”
Of course, there's some folks who come in wanting something other than the usual fare. Guys like Jim Pleasance, a bald stick figure wearing a wispy beard like a dust stain, who sprouts an obvious erection the second he steps in the deli. Ladies like Gladys Burroughs, anorexic scarecrows who whisper to the orders they carry out; the people whom Lucas claims:
"Man, they fuckin' that shit. Lemme tell ya dawg, they got sex dolls and toys and what all made uh like salami, man, I seen Gladys's prosciutto dildo, yo. I'm not sayin' it wasn't hot, but it is not something I wanna see all the time."
To each his own.
It isn’t the easiest job I’ve ever had. However, it certainly isn’t the hardest. The pay is enough to get by, and I spend most of the hours marveling at the pounds of meat people eat every year – the veritable genocide of species raised for the slaughter. Don’t get me wrong. Such thinking doesn’t shift me vegetarian, but when you know for a fact there’s an old lady in Morton Grove eating nearly eighty-two pounds of turkey a year, it’s hard not to consider how many birds died to feed one person’s fixation... which is why some things should come as no surprise.
I remember Lucas calling me at three a.m. to ask if I’d take his shift the next day. He sounded drunk, so I figured why not. If the kid puked on the blintzes again, the hang over defense wouldn’t stop Bernie from carving him up, and selling him to curious customers. Figuring I’d be saving a life, not to mention a little extra cash never hurt, I said:
“Sure. I got you covered.”
“Puhfuktion. Yoz a real margle. I fuckin’… fucking – you’re awesome, man. I owe you.”
“Remember to sleep on your side.” I hung up.
The next morning I went to the shop. Bernie unlocked the door for me. He didn’t ask. He just shook his head.
“That kid.”
I shrugged. We get down to the business of setting up. Bernie starts the coffee machine. I check the slicer to make sure it’s sharp and functional. We make side dishes, stack rows of meat, and before long the bell above the door chimes. Signaled of a customer, my head pops up from behind the counter.
Standing in the doorway is a wild turkey holding an MP40. Before I can react to the sight the bird squeezes the trigger. 9mm rounds tear into the counter. I dive to the floor, saved from the bullet-storm by a sturdy brisket. Drawn by the cacophony, Bernie comes out of the back.
I shout, “Get down.”
But Bernie is old school. He’s been in the deli game a long time. This isn’t his first murder-bird. While the Turkey reloads, Bernie whips a snub nose revolver from his apron. He returns fire, the Colt Cobra .38 special spitting fangs at the wild turkey. The bird doesn’t stand a chance. It collapses to the floor holding up a wing in a manner I can only describe as giving us the finger.
A gobbled death rattle, and the bird is no more.
Sighing, Bernie sez, “You and me are gonna eat that bastard.”
My reply: “Dah fuck just happened?”
“Don’t worry. Happens all the time. Last year a cow came right through that window.”
“A cow?” Getting to my feet I looked around dazed, ears still ringing from submachine gun fire.
Bernie nodded, “Damn thing was wearing a bomb. Only killed itself thank god. Made a real mess, but I got insurance.”
The fact there’s insurance for this type of thing did not make me more comfortable. Sure, there are plenty of everyday eventualities with which I’m unaware, but finding out about them doesn’t necessarily offer comfort.
Bernie said, “I figured you knew.”
I nodded, “No, I do not – did not know about… this.”
“Well, now you do.” Bernie dumped his spent shells in the trash, “Grab the bird. I got to make a phone call. Then, uh, clean any glass out, and let’s have a good day.”
And we did, although any enjoyment on my part evaporated every time I saw bullet holes in the display case. Several regulars remarked things like:
“Oop. Looks like a critter came blasting.”
“Hope you got the fucker what shot up the place.”
“Will you be closed for remodeling? After that cow I couldn’t get good meat for weeks, you were shut up so long. I don’t want to have to go through that again.”
To such things I responded the best I could, “Sorry ma’am. We didn’t mean to inconvenience you after the suicide bomber attacked us.”
Then Bernie would tactfully add, “Don’t you worry Marianne, we won’t be closed.”
Every time the bell jingled I felt my blood run cold. I kept expecting a chicken to come in shotgun blazing; a bovine wielding a Gatling gun mooing as it mowed down customers; a pig covered in anti-human tattoos incinerating the deli with a flamethrower… a hapless child caught in the infernal torrent because she wanted to spend the afternoon with GamGam.
By the afternoon I turned into a twitching wreck. On my lunch break I hurried up the block to a local bar. I began to recall animal noises outside my house at night, sounds I ignored figuring nothing to fear. Firing down three fingers of whiskey helped calm my nerves. Re-solidified I decided to face the rest of the day. However, walking back to the deli a mud covered pickup rolled down the street. Driven by a chicken with two angry looking cows in the cargo area, I watched them cruise by the shop. The chicken pointed at the deli, and pretended to fire its wing like an imaginary gun. One cow made a noise akin to laughter, while the other aimed its eyes, burning coals staring at me.
Stepping into the deli I waved to Bernie, “Hey, I quit.”