“Are you sure?" I asked, "They’re yellow. Some people call them bah-na-nah peh-pers," I continued, as if enunciating the syllables might help my plight.
The lady in the hair net shook her head.
"Could you check in the back again, please?” I was almost begging. Yet, surely she understood the importance of locating the pepperoncini for my sandwich.
I stood in front of the glass case that afternoon edgy, tired and hungry, looking longingly at the roast beef, my fingers pressed against the glass case.
It was that time of the month.
But I held strong, my eyes imagining the prize. If only they had my peppers, it would all materialize, and I would receive the best roast beef sandwich a girl with raging hormones could want. I was just moments away from receiving my reward when an older gentleman saddled up next to me at the Kroger deli counter in Little Rock, Arkansas. He was wearing a straw hat and suspenders.
My mind drifted for a bit, away from my roast beef sandwich and my bloated, growling stomach, noticing the gentleman was not eyeing the rare roast beef inside the case like I was. No, his eyes were fixed on a pair of golden wings.
“How much you want for your wings today?” he asked another woman behind the counter; she'd replaced my sandwich architect who was busy look for my peppers.
“.99 cents a wing,” she replied with a robotic stare, as if there wasn't an actual person standing in front of her.
“What in darnation?! A dollar a wing?” His forehead was rumpled from countless years of hard work.
I couldn’t believe my ears either. My stacked roast beef sandwich was estimated to come in at $3.99 when they finally finished assembling it, but there was hardly any meat on the chicken wings he wanted.
So I just had to ask him. Perhaps it was because I wanted a father like Jim in Huckleberry Finn who'd tell me stories about himself as a boy, or maybe it was because I fell deeply in love with Sidney Poitier when I was nine, the first time I saw him in To Sir, With Love. Could this be my chance, right here at Krogers, in front of all the Hillshire Farm cold cuts. Maybe he would actually agree to tell me a story or two if I asked him to share half of my dream sandwich: rare roast beef stacked high atop mayo and cream cheese on a soft roll, slices of pepperoncini strewn everywhere, finished off with thinly shaved red onion. But, alas, he was already smitten with a spring chicken.
“That doesn’t seem right at all," I said, leaning in. But, uh--well--did--uh--did-you see the roast beef?”
“Well, now, I try and eat healthy, I do,” he answered, taking off his hat, looking straight at me. He eyes were amber and gold, like the glow of Autumn when the sun goes down but the light doesn't want to leave.
“But, now and again, I like the wings they roast and the gravy and such.“ He stood tall with his hat over his heart, his denim shirt buttoned all the way up to his regal chin.
“Oh, okay, then,“ I said, feeling like the spoiled, middle-aged glutton I knew that I was. “I must say, though, sir, you are in terrific shape. You must eat very healthy.”
“Well, now, that I do. But, you--you still holding yourself up pretty good. That young man of yours sure did buy you some nice engagement ring.”
I wanted to throw my arms around him right then and there and have lunch with him forever and ever, roasting chicken or beef over an open spit.
There we’d sit, tending the fire, rocking back and forth on our big, wide front porch while my husband and children jumped up and down inside the house, banging on the glass, trying to get our attention. But, we, well, we were busy. We had cream cheese to carefully spread across warm rolls. We had red onions to shave down real thin, using his old tortoise shell knife, and pepperoncini to lovingly toss to our sandwiches. Me, glued to his his stories about growing up along the Mississippi. Him, asking me why I'd run away from home.
“Ma’am!” the lady snapped from behind the counter. “Your sandwich is ready,” attempting to lift a brown package the size of a toddler.
“Well, your fiancé, he sure is a lucky man, you bringing him his lunch at work,” he said, before he shuffled away with two chicken wings and a little container of mash potatoes and gravy.
“Oh, he’s one lucky man, all right,” the Kroger lady muttered to her co-worker, who'd just spent ten minutes looking for some damn thing called, “pepper-RON-cheeky” for a PMS-ing, middle-aged nutcake.
As I headed to my car, I couldn’t help but wonder where he was going to eat his lunch and with whom. I wished it were me. Then I strapped my roast beef sandwich and myself into our seat belts and drove away. I was 'holding myself up pretty good,' bloated but renewed, remembering the light in his eyes, and feeling like a spring chicken.