“Ha ha ha.” Fink hauls himself off the barstool. “Avrumi if you’re serving you better get behind the counter because I see our first customer of the evening rush making her way inside.”

Before he can wonder at the sudden largesse — why Fink hasn’t even finished his triple-layer monstrosity — a sharp smell overtakes his nostrils and he knows without turning his head who has just entered Yossi’s deli. And why the other boys have been so eager to make a quick escape from serving customers.

Oh no, not again…. not now.

He tries to gesture to Shmuel Nochum to rescue him, but the older boy is looking away from him as he carefully wipes up a small ketchup stain from the walls.

The woman makes her way over, hunched and haggard. Red, chapped fingers strain under the weight of a dozen bulging plastic bags. One is ripped, and it trails a moldy-smelling piece of cloth. Her eyes are tiny black holes, hidden behind dark purplish bags of their own.

“A sandwich, boy?” she asks, voice rough and cracking like a shard of the chipped mug she has sticking out of a bag.

He stands stock-still, gazing over her head.

“A sandwich.” She peers over the steamy glass counters, thrusting a hand under his nose. The smell assails him. “There, boy. Lettuce and tomatoes, with meat. You hear me? My stomach won’t wait much longer, boy.” Her voice trembles suddenly, and he feels a pinch of pity. But he is sick and tired of playing the fool, day after day. Of giving in to her craziness, and watching the world tip on its axis of rightness and fairness and getting just what you deserve.

“I can hear you,” he says, pitching his voice low until it sounds almost threatening. “But what about the money?”

Her face contorts. Reddens and burns and suddenly, swiftly, melts to a chalky white. “M-money?”

“For last Thursday.” A rush of anger. “And the day before that. For the chicken wings and salami salad. The burger bun last week. You come and you eat and you don’t pay. I watch you every day. So, today, you pay me first. And then I’ll make you a sandwich.” There is a sick feeling in his heart, in his soul, but he can’t stop. “With lettuce and tomatoes and meat. After you pay.”

A dozen plastic bags sway in tandem with the woman. She opens her mouth and he is suddenly aware of a gap in the rows of blackened teeth. A wave of nausea overtakes him, and he doesn’t know why, just that maybe this wasn’t the fair that he is looking for.

And then she heaves a breath, turns wordlessly, and leaves the deli.

As the door closes, he tries desperately to catch Fink’s eye, but the boys studiously avoid his gaze, and his body trembles slightly as guilt thickens in his throat. And somehow, though he never heard the metal door swing open, Yossi is behind him.

“Shmuel Nochum?” Yossi never raises his voice, but somehow he attracts the attention of the boy clearing the tables at the far end of the room. “Come take over here, Avrumi is needed in the kitchen.”

He wants to protest, but there is nothing to say. Yossi’s hand is on his shoulder again, but this time it feels like a policeman’s grip. Why did that awful beggar woman have to turn up now? And why, oh why did Yossi have to see?

Yossi hands him a pair of oven gloves. “Avrumi, will you get the trays of burgers out of the end ovens? Bring them over here, we’ve got a whole lot coming out now.”

He sets down the trays, watching his boss flip the last few schnitzels of a fresh batch. Yossi wipes his hands on the oily apron.

“Avrumi, what happened to Mrs Stein? Why did she leave?”

There is no point trying to hide the truth, but he tries to postpone the moment anyway. “Nothing. She wanted a sandwich.”

“And what happened?” Yossi’s eyes narrow slightly, trained on him. Avrumi leans back against the wall and tries not to squirm.

“I asked her to pay up front.”

“You asked her to…? Avrumi, she doesn’t have the money. She’s homeless. You know that.”

He shrugs, aiming for nonchalance but falling far short, and crosses his arms defensively. “So what? We have expenses, this isn’t a chesed organisation. She should go to Tomchei Shabbos or somewhere.”

Yossi takes a deep breath. “Of course this is a business, but it’s a business that gives food to people like Mrs. Stein.”

Avrumi reddens. “She doesn’t deserve it.” The words tumble out even though he knows it is pointless arguing. But — fair is fair, and you can only get what you deserve in life, and isn’t that why he’s here, serving in a deli for endless hours each day, because he doesn’t deserve anything better?

Yossi tilts his head to the side. “It’s just a sandwich, Avrumi.”

But it isn’t just a sandwich. It’s the days of struggle and shame and endless lectures and self-hatred and never deserving anything better, and of course the school couldn’t do anything more for him because what had he ever done to earn the right to be taken care of?

The words come out harsh and jagged, like he’s talking to his father or rebbi or the principal of his last yeshivah. “I’m not interested in doing favors and feeding starving old ladies. I came here to work and earn money, not be part of some righteous old chesed organization. These things don’t make sense, not in real life.”

“Look, if it bothers you so much we can talk about it,” Yossi says, and Avrumi instantly regrets the outburst. All he needs now is another heart-to-heart after the deli is closed for the night. He shakes his head, refusing to meet Yossi’s eye. “But about Mrs. Stein, you treat her like a regular paying customer. Can I trust that you’ll manage that?”

Bile rises in his throat, but he can’t refuse. He forces a nod. “That wasn’t part of the job description you gave me,” he mutters, before he can stop himself.

“Then I’m clarifying it now, for the future.” Yossi smiles pleasantly.

Avrumi shoves the metal door open with his shoulder, choking on his own anger. “I’m not sure I want that job anymore.”

For the next three days, he stays at home. In bed for the most part, though he does pull on a sweatshirt at dusk and go for a jog, the small part of his brain that will still follow logic knowing that confining himself indoors for days will only destroy whatever sanity he still has left.

Yossi calls the first morning, leaves a voice message that Avrumi deletes without listening. Fink and Shmuel Nochum text every evening, but he figures that they’ll leave him alone as soon as they realize he’s not responding any time soon.

By the third afternoon, he’s had enough of being a total social recluse. He checks his phone. Shmuel Nochum: Just sayin hi, hope u ther tonite or fink n me might die of overwork. He wants to chuckle and respond, but there’s a bridge crossed and burned between them.

His fingers slide over the phone’s keyboard, picking out words against his will. Jeff, whatsup man. been a while.

He feels sick when he hits send. This is somewhere he promised never to return to. But that was before, back when Yossi Fried and his offer of a job, a mentor, and plain friendship was enough to lure his tired, struggling self away from the black hole his life had been.

Jeff replies instantly. Man u off ur rocker? havnt seen u in wks bud. didn’t u flip or sth? why wuld u hang with us wen u culd be servin pizza

Disgust rises in his throat. Who is he trying to fool? His old life, once alluring, now repulses him. And Jeff knows it too. He doesn’t belong there anymore. He left that behind long ago.

What’s left when all bridges have been burned?

On morning number four, he gets up early. Ten forty five is early by his standards, anyway. He showers and dresses and lays tefillin in the privacy of his bedroom.

Then he puts on sneakers and lets his feet take him down the avenue, past the oak tree he used to climb years ago, and onto the main street.

He doesn’t intend to go in, just stroll past, but with one furtive glance he can’t see who it is behind the counter, so he casually makes a U-turn and walks past Yossi’s deli again.

And then, without his mind so much as making a conscious decision to do so, he pushes open the door and lets his heart and his feet carry him back inside.

Yossi is behind the counter. He doesn’t notice Avrumi at first, intent on serving three customers and ringing up totals. He wonders briefly who is in the kitchen and if Yossi has been managing singlehanded since he walked out, but quashes the thought before it can make him feel guilty.

By the time Yossi finishes with the customers, he is leaning on the wrong side of the glass, wondering if he is out of his mind and if he should make an escape before Yossi sees him.

“Yes, how can I help—” Yossi looks up. “Avrumi! Hey, kid.” He makes a remarkably smooth transition. “We missed you.” He reaches behind him for an apron. “Here you go, get behind the counter. You’re needed.”

He is mortified and grateful all at once.

They don’t exchange a word more than that the whole day, aside from a few harried instructions from Yossi as he refills stainless steel buckets with turkey nuggets and yellow rice. Which suits Avrumi just fine.

The next day, before he leaves, Yossi hands him an envelope. Just as he does every Friday, except that this week he has hardly been at work. When his boss is safely back in the kitchen, he slits the envelope open with a clean knife and counts the bills.

Twenty, forty, sixty…

The horror mounts. Why has Yossi paid him for a full week’s work?

“Sick days, you have paid leave,” Yossi says brusquely when he asks.

“But — but I wasn’t sick! You know that,” Avrumi splutters. “I just walked out on you. I don’t… deserve this. I don’t deserve any of it.”

Yossi gives him a look. “Not everything is about deserving,” he says quietly.

The words make him uneasy, remind him of something, but it is only when he is halfway home that he realizes what it is. The last conversation that they’d had Sunday evening.

Maybe he’s also one of Yossi’s chesed cases?

Shabbos brings sunshine and cloudless skies, a novelty after the weeks of autumn. He wonders if it’s worth getting out of bed to greet the sunny day, or if there’s nothing much to wake up for.

Shul crosses his mind, almost tempting. He hasn’t been there in a while. Every week, Shmuel Nochum or Fink nudge him before Shabbos — c’mon, kid, won’t you come join us in yeshivah one of these days? He knew they’d be happy to see him, show him around their place, introduce him to their friends.

You’ll be one of the guys, Fink had predicted last time they’d brought it up.

But he’d resisted. It isn’t for him, this going and meeting and befriending. It would be a lie, a sham. He doesn’t deserve a place. Or new friends. Or happiness.

Or does he?

Yossi’s voice buzzes in his mind, irritatingly loud. It’s not all about deserving.

He swats the thought with his pillow and rolls back over, determinedly ignoring the sunshine.

This time, he doesn’t even see her come in.

To be fair, he’s serving a family of five with what he assumes are their grandparents, treating them to a night out. The youngest, a girl of about five, is staring at the larger-than-life image of soft vanilla ice cream. She whispers something to her grandmother, who chuckles and tells her to order whatever she wants. The little girl lights up, like the whole world will be put right with a pareve vanilla cone.

For a moment, her innocence overflows into his tempestuous world, and he almost smiles.

And that’s when he notices the next customer, hunched over her bags as the older couple and their bouncing, beaming entourage step aside, returning to their table for dessert. He has a sudden urge to grab the cone back, smash the luscious curls of ice cream into a dirty mess onto the floor, and scream.

But he can’t. And without glancing to the side, he is too conscious of Yossi’s presence just beyond the metal doors, so he just stands. Presses clammy hands onto the steamy glass, and feels his body go rigid.

“Yes?” Not, what can I get you. Not, how can I help you, what would you like, are you waiting to order… He will not lower himself that far.

She looks back at him unashamedly, and he’s not sure whether to be disgusted or impressed. “A cold schnitzel sandwich. With vegetables. And a drink, boy, something sweet, the cold blood needs sugar. It’s freezing out.”

He swallows a thousand words and a good portion of pride, but nothing can make him give a smile along with the plate. He avoids her starving, grateful gaze.

“A chair… would you have a seat for me, a table?”

“A table?” he stutters back, letting his eyes jump to the side so they gaze unseeingly just past her face. Those eyes; he can’t look at those eyes anymore.

“A chair. An old woman like me needs to sit down.”

He’s done his job. Given her the food, though he can’t seem to shut off the annoying little calculator in his brain that’s calculated the total to be $13.50, the stuff that he works his hands off for. He’s done it. Not that it would help his case much if she passes out on the floor now. Just imagining Yossi’s reaction to that is enough to rouse him to his senses.

“A chair… ummm, all our tables are full.”

The deli has quietened somehow, or maybe his voice had been louder than usual, but people turn and stare and he feels himself flush crimson.

“There’s a chair over here, a table too, just needs a bit of a wipe-down,” calls a jovial man — the ice cream girl’s grandfather. “Here, let the lady sit.” He pulls a wad of tissues out of his pocket, dabs the table, and nods to the woman’s profuse thanks. Avrumi watches, wishing he could tear his eyes away.

A clatter of a chair being pushed back. He jerks his head away from the bent, heavyset figure devouring a meager schnitzel sandwich as if it’s a king’s repast, and sees the small girl with bouncing golden pigtails and a vanilla cone stand up and head straight for the side table her grandfather has just cleaned. She carries the ice cream like a trophy.

“Here,” she says simply, holding it out.

There is a muffled choking sound. Avrumi stares.

“Here,” the little girl says again, a pleading note entering her voice. “I… you have the ice cream. I want you to. You didn’t get any of your own.”

There is wonder in the woman’s haunted, hungry eyes. Avrumi can’t bear to look anymore, but when he sees the child slipping back into her seat, hands empty but face stretched into the happiest smile, he knows what he has to do.

A cone. A double swirl of pareve vanilla ice cream, with chocolate sprinkles for good measure. As he makes his way from behind the safety of the counter, he’s conscious of the click of the metal door behind him, but there’s no going back.

“Here,” he says to the little girl, hearing the echo of her pure kindness in the hushed room. “Take this, on the house.” He thrusts the cone in her hand, feeling Yossi’s eyes on him. He catches his boss’s eye for a fraction of a moment, and smiles, suddenly feeling light and free. “Our treat. You deserve it.”

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 511)