The Deli

My husband and I were married about a year, when we were made an offer we couldn't refuse. There was a delicatessen whose owner was anxious to sell. He was moving to another state. We could have the store at payments we could afford. We accepted. There was an apartment behind and connected to it which was included in the deal. We had no idea what the neighborhood was like, but with youthful energy and optimism, we moved in.

New York is a great big city; most folks call it unfriendly, and yet, I never found it so. This area, from 96th Street to 100th Street, between Amsterdam and Columbus avenues, was absolutely small-townish. Everyone knew everybody else and most were related in some way. Outsiders who moved in had to prove themselves worthy of acceptance or remain forever strangers. We were fortunate. Even the local gang, called "The Dukes," on whose territory our place was located, accepted us whole-heartedly.

The "Dukes," unknown to us, had terrorized all the shopkeepers in the area. In order to be able to stay in business without being troubled by broken windows, shoplifting, out and out robberies, and, in certain cases, beatings, the Dukes were paid whatever they felt the shopkeepers, could bear. In their opinion, we were no exception.

One day three of the young men walked into the store. At the time, my husband was outside arranging a shipment of goods that had just arrived, and I was preparing a sandwich which was to be my lunch. As I glanced up, I saw one of them quickly grab some candy bars and put them in his pocket; another leaned against the fruit bin which was immediately minus an apple. I was simple enough to believe that the only reason anyone stole food was hunger. My heart broke and I really felt sorry for them. They asked to speak to my husband. "He's not here at the moment, but if you don't mind waiting, he should be back in soon." They nodded.

As they started to turn to walk around the customer area, I introduced myself and, at the same time, commenced making three more sandwiches. While I made small talk, they stood silent, looking fiercely, although hungrily at the sandwiches I was making: Italian rolls, piled high with juicy roast pork and, on top, my husband's wonderful homemade pickles. I placed them on paper plates along with plenty of potato chips, then I said, "Come on you'll have to eat in the kitchen, because we're not licensed to serve in the store. Do you want milk or cola?"

" ...  Don't you know who we are?"

"I've seen you around, but I don't know your names," I replied. They looked at me in disbelief, then shrugging their shoulders, marched as one into the kitchen which was behind the store. They ate to their hearts' content and, before they left, emptied their pockets, putting each stolen article in its appointed place. No apologies were given, none were expected. But from that day on, we were protected, and the only payment we ever made was that which we also received: friendship, trust, and acceptance.