WOLFE'S

He is a big man, too big, and I heard him talk about surgery.
I thought it was a good price, I hear him say, then I eat my sandwich, my mind drifting to writing, sun shine after rain, cars coming in and out of the driveway.
I talked to him.
He is young, friendly, sitting at a small table outside.
‘Market’s been here since the early 1900’s’, he says.
‘Heard it was going to change’ I say. ‘Take out some of the grocery aisles and make it a gourmet market, deli, counters with meat and salads, and not compete with big chains that bring oranges in from South Africa’.
‘But they didn’t’, he says. ‘They talked about it. People have been coming here thirty, forty, fifty years’, he says, ‘they talked to the owner, wrote letters, said they didn’t want the market to change. They know where everything is’.
‘I’ve been coming here for twenty years’, I say. ‘Used to bring Dad here and get sandwiches’. He liked coming here. Reminded him of an old time market, I think.
‘I like the meat counter, the deli sandwiches’, I say. ‘Good quality, good price, everybody’s friendly’.
I have cravings. Corned beef. Brunkhorst’s Boar’s Head beef bologna with American cheese. Nothing else will do.
‘Business is pretty good still’, he says. ‘Economy hasn’t hurt too much. Lots of people only shop here’.
Lot of BMW’s. Couple of Prius’. My Jeep Grand Cherokee. Delivery trucks with breads and produce and a few men walking in and out carrying small bags.
The birds will come back to the small bare trees when they blossom in a few weeks. That’s when I like it. Outside, with a corned beef sandwich. And the birds.