The Precise Moment Dominick Temporarily Became a Vegetarian

By Susan Major
        

At the Stop & Go deli counter, Dominick grabs a bright red ticket that sticks out like a brat’s tongue. Number 37.

It’s like getting a losing lottery ticket. The deli clerks are only on number 28.

“29.”

The customers glance from ticket to monitor each time the chain is pulled, as though their numbers might have somehow transformed. Dominick revisits his familiar internal conflict: to wait patiently, obedient to the system, or to rebel -- leave the deli counter to scout other supplies and try to accurately estimate the correct return time.

Time estimates involve knowing something about your competition. Dominick eyeballs two young mothers with toddlers in tow. They are the most unpredictable -- prone to bolting when the whining starts. Mom #1 hovers close to the sloping glass of the deli counter, tucking a stray hair behind her ear when she catches her reflection. To Dominick, her strategic location indicates that she’s just one or two numbers away.

Mom #2 is attempting to quiet her skittish children with overly polite, New-Age-parent negotiating. Dominick predicts her first deli request will be a pound of cheese. She’ll peel off slices as plugs and playthings for uncontrollable mouths and mischievous hands.

Deli Clerk #1 is serving the bearers of ticket #29, a couple in their mid-fifties. The woman wears an expensive-looking blazer and slim wool pants. The man wears his hair longish, an aging hipster cocooned in a rich, brown leather jacket that hangs perfectly on his body. They order the most expensive meats and cheeses in ridiculously small amounts, delivering their requests so awkwardly they seem like language-challenged visitors to a foreign country. Every decision requires deep discussion, punctuated with insightful comments about something they heard that morning on NPR.

A middle-aged woman is hogging Deli Clerk #2. Like a lucky gambler cashing in her chips, she’s exchanged her ticket for a jackpot stream of plastic wrapped packages. Maybe she takes lunch to the office every day. Maybe she has teenaged boys at home. They eat like pigs.

Dominick turns his attention to the deli men. Their skill and speed will also affect his waiting time. He is mesmerized by Deli Clerk #1, a thin man with stringy gray hair and a great, beaklike nose, who clutches the red meats and yellow cheeses too tightly in his plastic-gloved hands. Dressed in a paper hat and white coat lightly streaked with brown, it strikes Dominick that the man looks like a cross between a malevolent ice-cream man and Doctor Death.

“30.”

Starry-eyed love couple, holding hands. Newlyweds? Or maybe they just slept together for the first time. She kisses her companion -- with tongue -- after the guy orders cheese. Like he’s done something brilliant asking for provolone.

“31.”

Dominick mentally inventories his refrigerator and cabinets. He has bread. Spicy German mustard. American cheese -- white, not orange. He plots the architecture of his sandwich, mentally constructing cold meat towers while watching Doctor Death’s rhythmic slicing. If he makes a four-decker sandwich, can he fit it in his mouth for a clean bite, or will he have to flatten it a little with his hand?

Doctor Death has real showbiz flair. He cuts a slice of meat with a dramatic flourish and displays it on waxed paper atop his sanitary plastic palm.

“Bloody enough?”

Mom #1, deli ticket #31, has asked for rare meat, but this indelicate reference to the meat’s appearance is quickly categorized by her eyes and slight step backward as distasteful. With clipped precision she machine-guns her answer.

“Fine thanks just one pound.”

Doctor Death smirks and turns back to his slicing. Almost instantly he erupts in a groan and a curse, pulling his left hand to his coat, covering it with his right.

“You want a band aid?” asks Deli Clerk #2.

Doctor Death turns his back to the customers. Dominick can’t see what’s happening, so he shifts position to the end of the deli counter for a better view. Dr. Death has peeled off his plastic glove and is sucking his finger, a trace of blood flaring out at the corner of his lips. His white coat has a new stain, a bright red streak. He notices Dominick and smiles, but it’s a smile Dominick can’t quite interpret. Dominick stares at Doctor Death’s tongue as it begins a slow, continuous circle around the tip of his finger to pick up more blood.

A thought flowers slowly for Dominick, eventually creating a time-lapse bloom of uneasy observation. This is not some poorly attempted first aid. This is, in fact, nothing medically based at all.

Dominick unknowingly rubs deli ticket # 37 between his fingers until it becomes a tight cylinder that he drops on the floor. He feels bewildered for just a moment, then abandons his cart and strides toward the exit like a man with a purpose. He drives home well over the speed limit, perplexed by the intensity of his sudden craving for a grilled cheese sandwich, a desire that will stay with him for nearly a week.