Beacon Hill broker at his neighborhood deli

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Beacon Hill broker at his neighborhood deli

The Beacon Hill broker enters the Italian deli; only a handful of guests, most sitting by themselves.

The broker checks the counter menu first. Bologna, hard salami, Black Forest ham, pepperoni, roast beef, smoked turkey breast, prosciutto, corned beef, liverwurst, cheeses.

“Nice place,” I tell the heavyset bald man, probably the owner.

“Thanks, sir,” he says. “Business is slow, though. People no longer eat out or no longer see eye to eye, I dunno. Jus’ a few come here anymore.”

Beacon Hill broker picks up a bag of chips, still deciding what to order.

There’s a TV on the wall next to the counter; on the screen we see a deep crater where a hospital was standing a few hours ago. The deli man sighs and shakes his head.

An elderly woman who entered the store right after me and states, “how sad to bomb a hospital.”

The deli man sighs and murmurs a few words, the four-lettered type.

“In a bad mood today, are you?” I ask him.

“Always, sir,” he says. “What a world we live in!”

The Beacon Hill broker orders, roast beef on Russian rye, mustard, pickle. And an extra pickle to help ponder the world we live in.