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At noon James decided he needed some air. On 35th Street
he looked around, trying to decide where to get lunch.
Then an idea struck him. He set off west, followed Broadway
for a couple of blocks, and dipped into the comicbook
store on 33rd. It was next to a carpet shop which bore
the unlikely name of Precious Piles. The proprietors
either had a wonderful sense of humor or none at all.
James kept meaning to find out.
In the window the comicbook store was promoting a set
of bound copies of The Spirit by Will Eisner. James
had never read Eisner. He knew he should, knew it was
seminal work. He cared about the medium deeply but a
sense of fun invariably drew him to the comicbooks that
he'd read as a young child, and then as a teenager.
The creators might have been less prestigious than Eisner
but they were no less magical and the characters were
rich, colorful and familiar. He headed for the back
issue bins and spent a happy half hour dipping into
memories.
Debbie laughed about his collection but it was always
kind laughter. She understood, better than James, that
he was reliving his teenage years and trying to do better
second time around. She knew a wounded kid when she
saw one.
When they shopped together she helped him to open each
plastic bag and gently withdraw the treasure inside,
careful not to let the scotch tape touch the paper and
lift the ink. She knew how to estimate the year of a
comicbook by its cover price, and then look inside to
find the exact date. James had taught her how to grade,
and how to check the price guide. She had even gone
with him on excursions to a giant comicbook warehouse
over the Massachusetts border.
Back in the street James realized that time was pressing.
He crossed the street and was about to duck into the
sushi bar in the lobby of the Empire State Building
when he heard a call.
"James?"
He turned. "Susan?" He was amazed to see
her. "Wow. This is a coincidence. How are you?"
He was surprised at himself. He felt his heart lift
when he saw her, the way it had when he first dated
Debbie.
"I'm fine. Never mind how I am. How are you?"
James looked down at his sling. "I'm sick of this
darn thing already."
She nodded. "I know."
They looked at each other for a few moments, neither
of them quite sure what to say. Then James broke the
silence. "I need to get some lunch. Would you like
to join me?"
"Yes. Thank you."
James was happy to have a lunch partner. He was gradually
getting used to restaurants, diners and delis in America,
but they still bothered him. People expected him to
know exactly what he wanted and, in the early days at
least, he needed someone to help.
When Debbie first introduced him to subs, he was awestruck.
They were sandwiches, perhaps 12 inches long, made with
bread in the shape of a French baguette, and stuffed
with enough food to feed a small family.
On their first day in America, after the jetlag had
worn off, Debbie and James strolled along the river
to the nearby deli. Most of one wall was covered by
a giant menu. James studied it at length, trying to
absorb everything. Along the top he noticed a astonishing
reminder: Having a Party? Try Our Famous 6-Foot Sandwich!
Behind the counter five men were making sandwiches
to order, working around each other like ants. They
sliced bread, grilled meats, toasted cheese, wrapped
up the food in paper, and scribbled the name of each
sandwich onto the wrapper. The words were impossible
to decipher, but they wrote them anyway. Perhaps they
had evening jobs at the hospital, teaching handwriting
to medical students.
Occasionally one of them would call "Next?"
over his shoulder and a customer would reply with an
order.
When it was James' turn he ordered a Tuna Melt, hoping
to keep things simple.
"What kind of cheese?" came the voice.
"Erm," said James. He wasn't prepared for
the question. He looked at the menu hoping for clues.
The man glanced over his shoulder. "What kind
of cheese?"
"What do you have?"
"We have everything."
This was well meant but not helpful. Debbie had already
teased him about the need to be decisive and precise.
She was grinning, enjoying this small baptism.
"Could you tell me what I can choose from?"
James asked, as politely as possible. The other people
waiting in line were beginning to stare at him. Reluctantly,
the man turned fully around. It was evident that he
was unaccustomed to seeing his working day disrupted
this badly.
"We have swissamericanprovolonemuenstercheddarmozzarellaandjarlsberg."
"I'm sorry," James said, and leaned closer
to the man, with a fading hope that he might repeat
the list.
Debbie threw an arm affectionately around his waist.
"It's good with Swiss," she prompted. James
considered the choice, but by the time he found the
words to mumble his assent the sandwich was almost ready.
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