Sandwich Hands

Nine neon letters, two hands. “Help Wanted,” it said beneath. Love for sandwiches, some experience necessary.
Gary loved sandwiches. Four years and he made them all. Pastrami, corned beef, horseradish, chipolte mayo, “guacamayo,” cuban beef. Four consecutive Zagat years. “Kevin Bacon Club” life, they called it. Memories blurred together, squishy honey mustard sweet entities melted onto the whole wheat bun of life.
Three yellow words. Slow: Child Zone. Three days straight on panini duty clouded Gary’s eyes. Zoom through the intersection. Bump. Shaking hands, calloused from dozens of wraps and presses, connect with the child’s torso: bump, bump, stayin’ alive.