Backstage Writers - Think Hope Do

The other day I met a sandwich-maker.

He was waiting for the train one morning, as I was, and his gawking got me looking around. Was I really the youngest, most beautiful woman here?  Yep. All men for the moment. Come on, buddy, knock it off.  I’m not sixteen anymore. An old woman arrived. She seemed to know the gawker, and they spent the entire ride chatting.

We changed trains at Juvisy. The gawker came and sat next to me. We made small talk. I knew no evil masher could have a grandmother for a friend. Still I lied about where I lived, where I was going.

“I make sandwiches at the deli on Blvd W-,” he announced.

I loved the way he said those simple words. I make sandwiches. He made sandwiches, and sandwiches made him what he was. He lived in a world I knew nothing about. I make sandwiches. Each word carried the weight of a thousand. I wished I could feel the same pride about what I did.

“I know Blvd. W-,” I said. “I bought a piano there.”

“You know Blvd W-!” He could hardly contain himself. I knew Blvd W-. Everything about him seemed to reach out to me in a burst of sentiment that got immediately stifled by a loud voice. A man had started bellowing a well-constructed harangue about the value of money. If everyone in the car could give him 10 francs… He walked slowly down the aisle, leather purse in hand. No one moved, and at the next stop, he got off. My sandwich-making friend chuckled and said the man bothered passengers with that same speech every day. When I asked if the man ever got what he wanted, my friend looked confused and lapsed into silence.

“You come to the deli,” he said, as we pulled into Gare de Lyon. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”