The Sandwich Lady. A familiar sight on Waikiki beach in the 1980s. (standard:non fiction, 454 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 16 2020	Views/Reads: 1458/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The Sandwich Lady was once my neighbor in Honolulu, and I swear this story is true in all respects. I've sat on her bed, drink in hand, and watched her.

The Sandwich Lady was once my neighbor in Honolulu, and I swear this
story is true in all respects.  I've sat on her bed, drink in hand, and 
watched her. 

She rises long before sunup.  Knocking a half-dozen cats and a vodka
bottle from the bed, she staggers to a tiny bathroom in her one-room 
apartment, forcing her stout frame through the door. Finished wiping, 
but not her hands, she turns on a stove, its oven, and a separate 
electric oven.  Heavy arms, drooping with fat, place a large pot of 
water on top of two burners. 

Darn, she sees the cats have gotten into yesterday's roast, now
partially eaten.  She holds it under the tap for a moment, rinsing it 
off, then cuts it into thick slices.  Grabbing several partial loaves 
of bread, dirty hands lay out a tight pattern in rectangular shape five 
up by ten across. 

Mustard from a large green squeeze-bottle, sprayed liberally across the
square, is next.  Half a jar of sliced dill pickles spot lucky slabs of 
bread; some make do without.  A partial cheese-wheel yields slices, 
some graced at the edges with spots of new mold, the old having been 
trimmed long before. 

Spotted cheese and gray meat top yellowing bread, in turn topped by more
slices of bread, some white, some rye, some hard, some soft -- some 
with cat pee and hair.  Said cats meow and prance patiently, waiting 
for scraps to fall to the floor.  The larger scraps are picked up, 
brushed off, and used for more sandwiches.  The cats are rewarded with 
the rest. 

Water boiling, half a bottle of instant coffee goes in, even as the fire
goes out.  Stir, and taste.  Okay.  The "Ding" of an oven reminds her.  
Two turkeys go from a table at the foot of the bed where they've sat 
defrosting throughout the night, to the ovens -- sandwich makings for 
later. 

Stack hastily plastic-wrapped sandwiches in front of window, scrape
table onto floor for felines.  Plastic foam cups and cigar-box for 
change ready, she brushes stringy blond hair out of bloodshot eyes and 
opens the window -- ready for business.  At sunup, when the tourists 
hit the beach, the sandwich lady will start her rounds, selling from a 
large wicker basket. 

For now, it still being dark outside, a half-dozen bums and unemployed
homeless are already lined up to buy sandwiches and coffee.  Most have 
slept on the grass, on the beach, or in doorways nearby -- as good a 
place as any.  Waikiki doesn't get all that cold, but it is chilly some 
mornings.  Ten cents for coffee, a dollar a sandwich. Ten cents for 
coffee, a dollar a sandwich. Ten cents for.... 

The End.


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