Sanded Alone
As the provolone and turkey were tongued by my titillated taste buds, tears were making themselves present in my eyes. Dash away, tears! Let me enjoy my sandwich peacefully. Which sandwich? My Giuliano’s sandwich.
In 1986 my mother returned home with my little brother, and he flashed me a smile only capable by a catalyst as powerful as a hoagie from my favorite restaurant. Giuliano’s was simply a local delicatessen, but it was the place where my mom would take us when we deserved something especially scrumptious. Maybe an “A” on a spelling test, perhaps after a baseball game where I hit a home run, and certainly after a game where I struck out in my last at bat. My parents supported us absolutely, in a manner where we knew we were always loved. I was hungry that day, and upon my mom and brother’s return from wherever they had been, I inquired as to our dinner plans. But Scott wasn’t hungry. Was that a mustard stain around his mouth? “Mommy, what can I eat?” “Well, I thought you and daddy had plans.” Wholly perplexed, I looked at my brother, then shot my mother a concerned look. I suspected cheating. “Did you guys go somewhere?” “Honey.” She addressed me with loving eyes and a light smile. “I took Scotty to Giuliano’s.” He started laughing, and I indulged myself in an all-out rant. “Why did you go! Why did you go without me! I can’t believe you would do that,” I screamed. I pushed my brother aside and into the wall and ran toward my room, crying. As I slammed my door I jumped on my bed and thrashed about, furious that not only was my hunger going unaddressed, but that my brother’s had been addressed by the delights of Giuliano’s.
Minutes passed and my mom entered my room and sat on my bed. “Bryan, I need to tell you something. Can I tell you one thing?” “WHAT!” “Scotty and I were at the doctor; he might need surgery. That is why I took him to Giuliano’s… He needed a special treat, just for him, to make him feel better.” That is when I began to weep a different variety of cry. Utter embarrassment, compassion for my kid brother and concern for what he could be facing. I had no idea, and I soiled his temporary joy by pushing him and compromising his pleasure. How could I forgive myself for such behavior?
A couple years later, Giuliano’s went out of business, and was replaced by a series of far less desirable establishments. No tangy cheese, no fresh roasted turkey, no ripe tomatoes and crispy lettuce, smooth cold cuts and bread that had just emerged from the oven. Baked. Lovely. Remarkable fusion of nature and man created this marvel of a sandwich. For nineteen years I regretted my actions from that day. How could I not have known that my mom would have a sound reason for taking my brother to our place without me?
July 5th, 2005 I moved from my hometown and into my new neighborhood. 40 miles from the place where I spent my childhood, I am now close to my work and closer to the beach. No complaints. I’m far enough for independence, yet only a short drive away for a visit to my family. At the time of my move, my brother was sailing the waters of the Southeast, spending the majority of his time on a fishing boat around the islands of Indonesia. While he surfed and swigged and scallywagged, I drove the streets of my new neighborhood. Possessed by fear of what could have happened, what might be happening or what may possibly happen during our lack of communication, I thought of my brother and wanted him here. Always present amongst my excitement in the newness of my surroundings was my concern for his safety. During a particularly quiet moment, I glanced to the left at a shopping center. RITE AID, Nail Salon… and then, the illustrious red cursive. Giuliano’s. This was not like the time where a single mile of road encompassed “La Casa Fresh, “Baja Fresh,” and “Casa Cantina.” No way. There was no false duplication going on here. God would not allow a practical joke of this magnitude. This was my f@#%ing delicatessen. I awoke from my driving daze, a malaise where I was near paralyzed by memory and nostalgia from what was, what is, what might be and what will be. Swerving into the turn lane, I righted myself and lefted into the parking lot.
As I entered, even more came back. Even more than when I first saw the letters on the wall, even more than the rapid fire thoughts initially entering my brain, even more than when I parked and saw the happy patrons carrying vintage Giuliano’s carry-out bags. I opened the glass door and the bell jingled. My nostrils were home. A home they had gone without for nearly two decades, and my mouth and stomach were soon to join them in their happiness. I ordered a custom-made joint with everything I could conjure up except mayonnaise, of course. No better way to ruin a best sandwich than to slather it with mayonasty. Upon my first bite, I became ravenous and reveled and reminisced. When my brother returned home, I surprised him with a trip to “Giulees.” I could love myself again. My new home. My new life. My old Giuliano’s.
