Bologna Steaks
The News. Early August 1995.
It was a mid afternoon lull. Tiny leaned back, eyes closed, while Jerk swept the aisles. Behind the deli counter, Kid was trying to figure out how the slicer worked from first principles.
“Wow this reminds me of a saw in shop class!”
“You’ll work better with fingers!” Tiny barked without opening his eyes.
Tiny was tired. Two weeks after her surgery, Norma had gotten an infection in her surgical wound. Fevers. Puss. Drainage. The kinds of smells that even Jerk wasn’t comfortable dealing with. Tiny was sleeping even less than usual.
Jerk looked past the Tiny act and saw his father—his Dad—for the first time in a year or two. It was always easier to look at what he was eating or yelling about. The circles around Tiny’s eyes were darker, bruised and black. Tiny had been burning it at both ends before Jerk was even a twinkle, but Norma’s illnesses were another kind of exhaustion.
“I’m doing it! I’m doing it!” Kid called from the back, and then. “Whoa, those slices are way too thick!” Another pause. “Are fried bologna steaks a thing?”
“I could certainly be convinced!” Tiny called back, eyes still closed. Jerk wondered how well Tiny was eating with Norma sick.
“She’s not coming back to work at The News, Jerk.” Tiny’s lips moved but the rest of him was a motionless mountain. He spoke softly, it didn’t carry far.
Jerk didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Why, Tiny?”
“You and Kid—you’re young. When you’re sick, they want to fix you.” Tiny stayed motionless, arms crossed, eyes still shut.
“Me, Norma. We’re old.” Tiny sighed, collapsing a little. Jerk could almost see the years that Tiny pushed back with sheer force of will creep in, just a little. “You get sick, their first instinct isn’t to fix it. It’s to simply rip it out.”
“That’s… medicine?” To no one’s surprise, Jerk didn’t get what Tiny was trying to say. Jerk heard the chain-fence-slamming-shut noise of Norma’s favorite flimsy frying pan hitting the coils of the range in the kitchen cubby behind the Deli counter. The snap of the burner clicking on clattered in Jerk’s right ear.
Tiny ignored him. “Eventually, they just keep cutting pieces off—patches of skin, chunks of colon—until you start wondering if they’re healing you or carving away what’s left. To live. To enjoy.”
“What’s this, Tiny? Has Norma got something else?”
“No. Not yet. But eventually.” Jerk could almost see Tiny deflating, very slowly. “This is four surgeries in five years.” He got quiet. Jerk finished D and moved to E to sweep. There was a sizzle from the kitchen, a smell of salted meat and garlic. The smell seemed to slowly rouse the giant to speak again.
“I asked her if she missed The News, and do you know what she did? She started crying.” Tiny opened his eyes and looked at Jerk, his eyes wet. “She asked me when she’ll have given enough to me, to this place.”
She was always saying The News was the family’s business and not hers. Jerk guessed she meant it.
“Is it OK to open condiments?” Kid yelled from the kitchen.
“Yeah Kid.” Jerk yelled back. He didn’t care. He turned to Tiny. “So she’s not coming back?” Jerk’s eyes shot to the Deli counter, where the delicious smell was emanating from. “Are we shutting down the counter?”
“My father’s ghost would kill us all.”
Kid beamed as they came from the kitchen, a plate in each hand—the kind of thick plates that always went mushy with spaghetti and meatballs. But not today. It was two thick slabs of bologna, fresh off the slicer, fried with salt, pepper, and Jerk sniffed had Kid found Norma’s personal celery salt/paprika blend? Three dabs adorned each plates. Two different mustard, and a spoonful of horseradish. Kid set down the plates, then pulled out enough napkins for an army.
Jerk eyed Tiny’s iced tea, it was nearly full. He got himself coke. Kid was leaning on the counter, sawing into the second steak. Jerk was confused until he noticed that Tiny’s plate had one fork and the other, two.
“I only want a little. I thought we could split it,” Kid said, eyes smiling and so bright as they looked at Jerk. They took a cube of fried, salted meat and dipped it in horseradish, their “Mmm” cracking in their throat like a cat’s purr. Jerk shared some of his coke with them.
“This is great, Kid.” Tiny couldn’t lie about food. “A real supper.”
Tiny ate the slab of bologna quickly and methodically. He hadn’t been eating as much as he’d like, Jerk could tell. Tiny groaned as he stood up. He removed his bulk from behind the counter, grabbed a newspaper, and turned towards the bathroom.
“Hey Tiny, can we fix the fan in there? It’ll help with the smells.”
“Sure, I’ll have the facility manager call around for someone to fix it.”
“Who’s the facility manager?”
“You, Jerk.” Tiny disappeared into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.