by Edward Goble
Chapter 2
The door was still closed at Martin’s Deli as he approached, he pulled it open, holding it for two young women who looked right past him as they exited with their purchase. “I blend,” he thought. “No need to thank me, I do this for a living,” he wished he had said. A string of bells tied to the inside handle chattered and bounced against the door as he pulled it closed, entering the nearly empty little eatery. There were six round tables, two against the front window and four running up the sidewall toward the restrooms. Each was fitted with small wooden chairs and red and white-checkered plastic tablecloths, “Plastic cloths, that’s an oxymoron,” he quipped to himself. The walls were covered with posters, he supposed, of Italy, Germany, or at least Europe somewhere - only the Leaning Tower of Pizza and the Coliseum were notable among the landscapes and shorelines. Along with the posters were old advertising slicks for bread, cheese and wine, and a few headshots signed by stars that, presumably, had eaten at Martin’s at some point. The deli case itself was at least five feet tall, and the top was stacked with biscotti and baskets of dry salami so high that the slightly built Martin’s disappeared behind it. To communicate with customers, the Martin’s would crouch and shout and point through the cold glass of the case, “You vaun the gorgonzola? Von pound?”
The only sound in the place at the moment was coming from two ancient ceiling fans that spun so slowly you wondered if they moved any air at all. Their low hum, mixed with the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the ever-present opera that emanated from an old boom box that sat underneath a disheveled stack of paperwork behind the cash register. Behind the deli case were shelves of fresh bread, meat and cheese cutters, a long counter and stove with various pots of soups and sauces brewing away. Beyond the counter was a door that led to the small office, a supply room and a staircase that went up to the Martin’s apartment. Andy had never been up there, but imagined what it might be like. Quaint, nicely kept, furniture and art from the sixties, a stack of newspapers by an old Barka-Lounger that Mr. Martin would crank open each evening after dinner, raising tired legs, to watch the Yankees on a console Zenith.
Mr. Martin and his wife Maria had lived in the city since the late 50’s when they came to the States from Italy. Maria was Sicilian to the core, while Mr. Martin was a German who fled the motherland just before the craziness of the Third Reich and got a job on a fishing boat in Palermo where the two met and married. Albert Martin never forgot his German roots and each October, the only month when beer was served at Martin’s Deli, savory imported brew flowed like water from a fountain. Andy spent more than a few evenings sipping German beer and listening to stories recounted in broken English over the Brauts the Bread and the Beer. Oktoberfest at Martin’s Deli defined living in the city for Andy Boyd.
Today, however, November 1st, Martin’s was quiet as a hangover. In the wake of a month-long party it would stand to reason that the place would power-up a little slower on the day after. Mr. Martin was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Mrs. Martin was sitting on a bar stool behind the counter, trying to return to the crossword puzzle she’d been working on before her previous customers. She had just adjusted her reading glasses and focused on the next clue when Andy stepped to the counter, accidentally startling her.
“Oh la Mia!” she cried, putting a hand to her chest, “Signori Andy! You give me a heart attack!” She took a deep breath and opened her eyes wide, regaining her composure.
Andy didn’t mean to smile at the old woman’s distress, but he couldn’t help it, she was too cute, “I’m sorry. I came by to see Mr. Martin. Is he taking the day off?
“No, no. He’s-a go up to the house for a phone call. Too much problems,” she said, waving her hands to help make the point.
“Is everything okay?”
“Si, it’s okay,” she shrugged, brushing off her problems like a good Sicilian. “What you eat today, Andy? Especial, huh?”
“Okay, sure...” Mrs. Martin smiled and turned to start the sandwich. Her Italian Special, a recipe she brought from the Old Country, was food for the gods. Andy had watched her make it a dozen times, but could never replicate it at home. She combined provolone cheese, salami, black olives, red onion, mortadella, cooked pancetta, turkey, dried tomatoes and pepperoncini, pesto and pizza sauce onto a homemade sourdough roll that became a work of art when she shoveled it into the pizza oven for about two minutes. Andy was drooling by the time Mrs. Martin extracted the sandwich with an oven mitt and halved its crunchy, gooey goodness with a clean knife. She brought her creation to the counter with a satisfied grin.
“It’s a good one, yes?”
Andy nodded in hearty agreement and paid what he considered a bargain. He sat by the window and ate quietly, allowing Mrs. Martin to reacquaint with her puzzle. His inquisitive mind wanted to know what Mr. Martin was doing and what was in the brown-paper wrapped package that had been delivered earlier. It was none of his business, of course, but that never stopped a mind from wondering. The sandwich, which, on the other hand, was his business, was amazing. In weaker moments Andy had ordered two of these mammoths—one to eat here in the deli, and one, ostensibly, for dinner. Of course, by dinnertime, the sandwich, which he tore into like a ravenous caveman the second he caught his breath at the top of the twelfth step back at his place, was long gone. That was his problem, he thought, he never really felt full. He could just eat himself sick, sometimes did.
As he gobbled down the last bite of the second half, sad that the giant sandwich was already gone, Mr. Martin entered the deli through the kitchen door speaking something in German to his wife in a matter-of-fact tone. He pushed through the little saloon door on the far side of the deli case, and, walking crisply through the deli, spoke again in his native tongue and exited the front door, never acknowledging Andy’s presence. His bushy eyebrows were pushed together causing deep furrows in his generous forehead; his chubby chin was set firm. The string of bell’s clattered and bounced against the door, as it slammed shut of its own accord. Mrs. Martin’s eyes followed her husband to the door, her face without expression, she didn’t have a chance to respond to what he had said, or, maybe response wasn’t an option, Andy didn’t know. Her gaze remained fixed on the door for several moments, as if waiting for the old man to storm back in, then returned to the next clue in the puzzle. Andy rose to leave just as a group of suits from a nearby office stepped loudly into the deli for lunch.
Alone on the sidewalk, the red sauce from the big sandwich gurgled into a deep burn. He decided to walk around the block instead of going straight home. Maybe being upright for another five minutes would help his digestion and, more importantly, help him focus on the job that loomed on his professional horizon, finishing his next novel by the publisher’s deadline. With a hand pressed against his chest just below his ribcage in an effort to suppress the heat, he started walking toward the Embarcadero. Andy lived a few blocks outside the main tourist areas, so he didn’t have to dodge too many explorers, but there always seemed to be plenty of people on the street, enough, anyway, to confirm his theory of invisibility. He would smile and nod but rarely make eye contact. “I’m the invisible man,” he muttered. Then a song flashed into his head. He was a 70’s music buff, which was a real drag in moments like this because the songs back then could be pretty lame. When you get a song like Amos Moses or Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves stuck in your head it can ruin your whole day. Nothing short of a concussion can remove those gems from your cerebral cortex. Today would prove to be no exception to the grueling song-that-wouldn’t-end, as David Cassidy started serenading Andy as he headed down Jones St.
“Oh, doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me? - Where are you? - Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me - Just like me.”
“Not the Partridge Family, he thought, “anything but this.” But it was too late.
“I go downtown and roam all around - But every street I walk I find another dead end - I’m on my own but I’m so all alone - Oh, Doesn’t somebody want to
be wanted like me? - Where are you? - Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me, just like me.”
A wave of loneliness struck him like a train. Depression began to flood his mind as his eyes welled with moisture. “Doesn’t somebody want to be wanted like me...” “Uggh.” He decided to head for home.