by Bryan Kelly

I HAPPENED INTO a sandwich shop the other day whose name shall be withheld from the record (though it shall not be spared the indignity of being guessed correctly).

It charged some uncompromising prices! These were no wage-making sandwiches; they were intended for salaried folk. Indeed, if sandwiches were attorneys, this would be what they should charge, by the hour, to be eaten.

It saddened me, because it reminded me that we have hired an attorney as our Mayor. Prices like these for sandwiches should not make attorneys blush! But for the rest of us, it should be an embarrassment.

It ought not be that we require crowdfunding to consume our daily bread, no matter the quality of that bread. But think on the fortunes of bread! From the humblest of beginnings, bread has become as singular and celebratized as our President. And we have only sandwich shops like this one to thank! If, in your lifetime, you appreciate in value like bread, your fortune should rival that of kings.

I have eaten what I thought were “great,” even “unforgettable,” sandwiches. While they were being consumed, I was certain the legend of these sandwiches would be told forever. Good or bad, however, their memory slips away from us like advice offered from someone we do not respect.

And speaking of advice: recall the parting words of the late musician Warren Zevon. That is, “Enjoy every sandwich.” It is a wise riff on the doctrine of appreciating life. But if these sandwiches only brought enjoyment commensurate with their price, I would not be long in joining Mr. Zevon in the ecstasies of heaven!

What was I doing in this shop? Plainly, it is good for one’s career to be seen in a deli as prestigious as this one. It indicates that you are a person of taste and quality, even if your business is returning beer cans, or slipping bottles of olive-oil into your pocket. A fellow could stand stark naked at the counter and be thought of as the most esteemed man in town—more esteemed, even, than his dapper, well-heeled brother on the streetcorner.

In our city, one’s sandwich choice is indicative of one’s career ceiling. And the opposite is true, too. A hapless visit to one of the minor sandwich stores has been known to head off promotion, and even, to bring one to the brink of ruin. Who can forget the recall drive Mayor Hieftje weathered in 2011 after being spotted buying Taquitos at 7-11?

Indeed, no less a person than our country’s President has recognized the political value of appearing at this sandwich shop. And his presence is still being felt!  The price of the Brooklyn Reuben swelled by a full two dollars following his visit, as though his aura had been absorbed through the display glass.

And there I stood, little old anonymous me, in the foyer—the same foyer where the President had once stood! Realizing this, I preferred to go outside and place my order.

Instead, I scrutinized the menu with a look of pained apprehension. It wasn’t just the prices; my neck hurt from craning it to see up so high. It seemed appropriate that the sandwich menu was positioned so far off the ground. It should prove difficult to slip one’s shoe off and throw it at a price that high and hit it cleanly. If those prices were written on the ceiling, I wonder if the owners of this shop might be able to charge a few dollars more. I am not suggesting it—not without attaching a consultant’s fee—merely observing it.

I stood there for a long time. Yet the prices never changed. If I were wise, I would have ordered a sandwich sooner versus later. Around the world, the dollar is surging. It is only a matter of time before news of its esteem reaches our sandwich stores. Not to mention, sandwich markets are volatile beasts! The price of mortadella can turn on a dime, and increase by a lot more than that.

Recall that there was a time our country debated calibrating its currency to the value of the sandwich. Gold and silver had had their day, and proved inappropriate. It was wondered whether the era of the sandwich standard had come. But we chose not to—wisely, I think—because few could agree which sandwich to choose as the baseline. On the east coast, the go-to is lox and cream cheese and capers; in the Midwest, peanut butter and jelly suffice. In the South, not too differently, the standard is peanut butter and honey. In the mountain regions, where people climb to work, Clif bars are all that asked for. On the West Coast, toasted sourdough, soaked in coffee, is the norm. It was perceived, correctly, that fiduciary recalibration would fracture the country. The populist cry went out, that America would not be crucified on a hot cross bun.

I had stood for too long. But my vanity held me rigid. Aside from advantages to my career, I was waiting for a middle class tax cut to be approved. It is something the President has promised. I hoped it would pass in the next few minutes, without much dithering. If I waited, a refund might arrive—and who knows? Perhaps it would be a windfall, and then I could enjoy not just a sandwich, but a side, too, and a soda.

I had brought a powerful hunger; as I waited, this hunger intensified. Indeed, it was not just for food any longer. Now, I hungered for better wages nationally! My need to eat had paired with my zeal for social justice, splitting up my stomach like a two-bedroom apartment, and discussing politics in the shared living quarters.

Suddenly, the urge to picket was upon me—but just then, a girl happened along to help. She was sweet, and innocent, so I declined to lecture her. After some time more, a young man appeared. He was trustworthy, and naive, so I declined again. A third employee appeared, holding a mop. I told him that while I was stationary, I was a person, not a spill, and he moved along.

A fourth walked by, holding a platter of pickles with toothpicks stuck in them. I was famished, so I took one. Then, feeling duplicitous, I took another, saying it was for a close friend who had not arrived. I did not tell him that this friend had not been made, yet, either (though if he were as briny as I, or the pickle, he might become this friend).

Sensing displeasure in my voice, he asked if he could offer any help.

“Maybe,” I said, “if you lower the prices of these sandwiches.”

But that was impossible, he said. The price of labor was too high to cut back on what the shop charged.

“Labor?”

“We make fifteen dollars an hour,” he said, “at minimum.”

Then I understood! High wages weren’t the solution—they were the problem! I had it all politically backwards. Better to repeal the minimum wage, I decided, than to raise it. Do so, and you shall enjoy cheaper sandwiches in your stores.

I walked outside, holding my speared pickle aloft, and chanted for lower wages. But to my surprise, no rally formed. Oh, there was a line, and it ran around the block. But it was not there to picket. It was there to eat; and I soon found my words had little effect. Plus, it was cold—too cold for drawn-out political statements.

So, I walked to the grocer, bought bread, cheese and meat, went home and made a sandwich. And though it was good, it was not memorable, for it was not eaten in front of my peers. It proved nothing about my career potential. It passed through me like a land preservation bill: agreeably, and without much incident.