Dark of the Deli

 

     The Library, one of my favorite places to go when I want to write or study – and also eat a healthy-enough lunch. I go there every weekday. I enter one of the automatic entrance doors. I swipe my ID card for entry through the security gate. I nod a greeting to the security guard. And I head towards the back left of the first floor, towards the Deli which I have always regarded as a place of relief, a respite from work and school. I love the Deli. I’ve become such a regular customer that the two workers there know my name, and I’ve gotten to know at least one of theirs: Judie. I always like how Judie makes my sandwiches so neat and tidy that I rarely have to use napkins. That’s not to say that the other worker makes my sandwiches sloppy. In fact, I’m sure she always gives me a little extra on my sandwiches, which of course means more sauce and more napkins. But I love both of the workers and always look forward to seeing one or the other when I visit. I also love the other customers there. More often than not, they’re students coming in to study or to take a break from studying. Sometimes they order their food or beverages and then choose to remain within the Deli, and sometimes they take their order and leave on the go. And there’s always a healthy mix of the two: people eating and conversing and studying in the Deli, and people stopping by just for a minute before rushing back into the fray. There’s always a lot of people, a lot of life.

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     But today was different.

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     Today, there was no one in the Deli except for the generous worker, me, and a trio of girls sitting by the glass wall that overlooks the Gold Lake. And it was dark too. Of course, the lights were all on, but the sky threatened rain – that plus the fact there were hardly any smiling faces there. Yes, I know, you can’t really see people smiling behind their masks. But sometimes you can see a smile in someone’s eyes - and sometimes you can feel it too. And I felt very few smiles in that empty Deli. But I knew it was simply because there were few people, period. So, I went ahead and ordered my usual: eating-in; whole white hoagie; beef; extra cheddar; mayo and honey mustard; onions, tomatoes, and olives; no chips or drink; $6.72. Yes, I would like my receipt. Thank you.

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     I stick the receipt in my pocket, knowing I’d never need it because they always make my sandwiches good and I never have any reason to complain. So then, I walk slowly from the ordering counter, and very slowly at that, so that I can choose exactly where to sit and enjoy my meal. Even with the pandemic and fewer people on campus, I rarely have the whole Deli to choose my view while I eat. So, I walk slowly, considering old views I knew well and new views I’d never seen. And though I eat lunch by myself every day, I rather enjoy eating with people, even if I don’t really eat “with” them. It’s just that I like seeing life and smiles while I eat alone because it reminds me that I’m not alone, and that I can share in the happiness of strangers when I’m not happy myself.

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     So, while I walk slowly and think over where I want to sit when my order is ready, I take into consideration the girls who had already received their food and were talking merrily amongst themselves like they were good, ole friends – especially one girl who was actually not wearing her mask. And I loved that. It shows a level of trust between friends that I wish I could share with my own. So, deciding that I’d like to see those honest smiles and laughing faces while I eat, I chose a high table on the right wall where the only real view there is of the Deli floor, and it’s usually only nice when the floor’s full with people.

But today was different.

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     There was only me and those girls, and while that might have been a little sad at first, I found that it was actually something special. With only us in the dark of the Deli, the only smiling people and fonts of life, I felt intimate with those girls, like I was sharing a very private moment that only we would know. Though we would never speak, I will always remember enjoying a short, cloudy afternoon under the Library alongside three nice girls.

At least, that's what I wanted to remember.

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     As I was reaching the high table on the wall, I caught a glimpse of the girl who wasn’t wearing her mask – and she wasn’t smiling – and she was looking at me. Truth be told, she was just smiling and talking with her friends the moment before I walked over. But now, she saw me, and she just stopped; the smiling and the talking all stopped. Her friend also stopped, and I can tell she was just as confused as I was at her mask-less friend. But I didn’t show it – though I stopped for a moment as well. For a full second, I stood looking at the mask-less girl looking at me. Though my body was still, my heart recoiled from those un-smiling eyes. And so, I chose not to sit at the high table where I could have seen the honest smiles and laughing faces. Instead, I chose to sit far behind the trio, behind the mask-less girl where I couldn’t see or dare enter the view of those suddenly unfriendly eyes.

I couldn’t figure out what went wrong, what could’ve disturbed her so from her happiness.

Was I too close? No, I made sure I was at least two tables away from them, at least more than six feet. Did I have a mean look? I know I can seem standoffish, but that’s only when I’m agitated – like really agitated – and few people or things can agitate me like that.

What did I do wrong?

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     When my sandwich was ready, my name was called. I got up and saw again the mask-less girl stopping her conversation and looking at me while I walked to the front counter. She knew my name now – and it didn’t change her un-smile. I received my food, thanked the generous worker, and walked back toward my table behind the girls. And again, I saw the mask-less girl drop what she was saying and look at me with the same, unfriendly, not-smiling eyes.

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     What did I do wrong?

And the last thing I wanted to consider, the last thing I never wanted to admit as the problem, was– our skin.

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     We had different skins, different colors. But it wasn’t just the differences between our skins. It was also the history they had with each other. That history goes back and back and back, and it also reaches forward too with a claw or two or many dug deep into a lot of people’s lives who share my skin and the mask-less girl’s. That history has caused a lot of hate and horror, fear and terror between our ‘peoples.’ But I never let it run through my mind when meeting someone whose skin is not my own; and when it does, I let go of that history because it carries a lot of baggage that can easily wear a person down if they’re not careful. But of course, I can never be free of that baggage. Whether I want it or not, my skin carries it, and maybe not on my own person, but on others when they see me. And perhaps I’ve never noticed it because I was always surrounded with honest? smiles and laughing? faces. I was always cushioned with happiness and peace and general goodwill.

But now, in the dark of the Deli, I was alone, unshielded – and the honest smile and laughing face was mask-less. But maybe she wasn’t really who I was beginning to fear she was. Maybe I’m the one who’s paranoid and thinking the worst of people. Or maybe I’m not. In either case, I ate my sandwich – not necessarily in peace – and grabbed my stuff to go. And I usually don’t carry much with me to work or school. I try to keep it light with just my laptop, some headphones and a good book.

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     But after the Dark in the Deli, I find that I feel a lot heavier now, like I’m lugging around a lot of weight, a lot of bad stuff that doesn’t feel right on my– skin. And I think it’s because I can never forget the mask-less girl and her un-smiling eyes. Of course, it’s a memory – good or bad – that I’ll always cherish.

Because it reminded me not to forget my baggage.

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• Michael H D McCall

• Biology major | English minor