Deli counters I have known

If indeed “Hell is Other People” then how best to describe the melodrama of waiting at the deli counter? Conceding of course, that one gets what one deserves by participating in the first place, let us stipulate: everything in moderation. Back home there was a small independent grocery store whose deluxe deli counter was staffed by nutters. They were always embroiled in petty problems, which played out openly to the exclusion of waiting on the customers. After a while, I came to think of their antics as a reality show which I stepped into, one in which my turkey may or may not be sliced properly. Their mutual dislike spilled over from behind the counter to the waiting, yet oh-so-inconvenient shoppers. They hated us, some more hateful than others. Depending on who was manning the case, in my head I would make the case whether to forgo the sliced stuff or endure the insanity. It was a crapshoot. In Las Vegas it’s less petty squabbles and more head-scratching inefficiency. It plays out in many ways. They are either too preoccupied with busywork to wait on people, or once they do wait on a person, are glacially slow. Often, they unceremoniously walk into the back room without helping anyone. There is other drama– which brings me to the conundrum of the octogenarian deli-worker. It is brutal to watch an elderly woman battle a meat slicer; a person so short as to reveal only the tip of a hairnet bobbing with the movement behind the counter. Her slicing skills have long since retired. Her lipstick ranging off her lips, polishes off all confidence in a proper finished product. Taking a number I say a guilty silent prayer that a younger person will wait on me. Please please please not the aged one. If it is her, the plan is to order three slices of whatever, wish her a nice day, and call it a wash. Once, a gorgeous younger woman stood next to me, both of us clutching our tickets. The capable young dude behind the counter calls out a number- it’s mine! Hallelujah!  I shall request a foot-high stack of perfect paper-thin meat and I shall receive it. Once he calls the number and my arm raises he looks at me in disappointment. Immediately his co-worker calls out the next number and the beauty raises her sculpted arm. My guy shouts to his co-worker: “Oh man. Look at that! One number away. I wish I’d gotten her!”. The young woman shrugs at me with a trace of pity. I clear my throat, order my weight in chopped liver and head home.