The sandwich shop sits on the corner of Solano and San Pablo. Inside, the walls are covered in paintings of old New York subway tubes; some of the pictures are of people waiting for the subway, some standing in the subway, and ancient blueprints and subway maps. An older man sits by himself, his mouth gaping and crashing closed as he chomps at his sandwich. Pieces of lettuce and pickle dribble out of the bread.
The door opens to a biker who is wearing a stylish, yet thick, winter sweater. Cars zoom by outside. An old lady hobbles by using a silver, plastic cane. A young lady crosses the street, her mangy, white pup leading her through the all-too nice traffic, which slams on brakes and waves kindly to the nice lady and her dog, while cars pile up behind, a train of SUVs, Mercedes, and Volvos.
The biker walks to the front of the restaurant, and aimlessly ignoring the line of seven people, asks the cashier for a free sandwich. She looks at him, her expression caught between befuddlement and amazement, and then replies a moment later, “I’m sorry sir, I can’t.” He pretends to puff out his chest, looks to the line for support, and asks if he can have a free sandwich again. She shakes her head, that sorry look pulled out of her managerial training in desperation. As if for a final hurrah, he asks again, this time figuratively getting on his knees, while he clasps his hand and tells the whole restaurant how he has got no money and would really appreciate a free sandwich.
By this time, the line has become irritable. The customer buying her sandwich quickly tells the cashier, with a polite smile on her face, “Just put it on my bill, whatever he’s getting.” The biker beams at the customer, and tells her “how pretty she is” about two times, until the customer looks so embarrassed she grabs her sandwich, gives the man a quick nod, and dashes out of the restaurant.