In Memory of that One Dude

The old dude who owned the sandwich shop next to my apartment died. I never learned his name.

He was old. I remember that. And he was a little heavy. His hair was gray and he had a lot of it coming from his nose and ears.

He always called me, Sport. I always called him, Pops.

He had three daughters. Two were fat and married. One was hot and seventeen. I once asked him what it was like having three daughters. He said he thought it was a lot like having four daughters, only a little less.

Come to think of it, he could be a smartass.

When I told him I was eating right and didn’t want any cheese on my sandwich, we argued for ten minutes about whether or not cheese was healthy. Pops was dead sure that cheese was healthy.

Now he’s just dead.

I went up to his shop yesterday to get a frozen yogurt and a newspaper. It was closed. There was no sign of explanation on the door. Or anywhere else for that matter. I got no yogurt.

I called the store’s phone number and a recorded female voice told me that the sub shop would be closed until further notice due to the death of the owner, but the recording did not say the owner’s name.

It took me twenty minutes to find another place that sells frozen yogurt.

Pops used to sing while making sandwiches. Not all the time, mind you; only when he was in a good mood.

He could sing in Italian.

He had a real bad cigarette burn on his right wrist. That scar was probably older than me. I never asked him how he got it or who burned his arm.

And I guess I never will.

Anyway, the old dude who used to make me sandwiches is dead. And I feel as if I hardly knew him.

Probably because I hardly knew him.