They pick up the trash every Thursday. Looks like I won’t be having breakfast today. That’s usually how it goes. Trash collection varies all across town. It wasn’t always this bad. When I was a kid, this used to be the best area of town. Right where I’m standing, there used to be a dentist office. I remember the dentist’s name: Dr. Necco. He was kind of tall and thin. He had a great big graying moustache and horn-rimmed glasses. He would treat his patients as his own kids. He always made sure we understood what he would do when he worked on our teeth and he would give out Tootsiepops as if he had some stock in that company. He probably just wanted more business.

Now, there’s just a decomposing brick building occasionally used as a convenient toilet for the homeless; graffiti covers the decaying, sun-faded façade like ancient cave paintings, a sign of civilizations past. Several blocks away there once was a bakery. Every Sunday, the family and I would walk to the bakery from church. I loved to smell the warm scent of the baking bread rising from the vents, the sense of fulfillment of having food in my belly, the kind of feeling you only get when you’re a kid, knowing you were taken care of, knowing you were safe. Some days, my friends and I would toss the football around a little in the street. My friends and I were all mesmerized by the John Wayne movies and what a tough persona he put on. What a load. But the gang and I still signed up: there was Fred, he was in the 4th Battalion, 9th Infantry Regiment—same as me; Simon was in Company B 1/7 Division; Eddy “Scary” Harry was in the same Battalion as Fred; then there was Nick who was always so cocky. He was in the 25th Infantry Division Artillery. As kids, Fred and I would pretend we were the championship Green Bay Packers. We were lucky that we didn’t get run over. Fred and I were the best at football. The others always hated us because we won so much.

I miss them all. What happened to them? They’re dead. All of them. Except for Fred. I lost track of him after we came home. Then I noticed changes happening in my town. Crime started going up, things started falling apart, murders were increasing. Then I started having problems with my wife. It just wasn’t the same anymore. I don’t know why. No one really knows what they have until it’s gone, I guess. I miss my little girl, too. Fighting in a war does something funny to you. It changes you. And the change is always bad. Enough of that. I’m starved. Much has changed in Brooklyn, but one thing that has remained in this hellish neighborhood is the corner restaurant, Vinnie’s Deli. It's A quaint little restaurant; its white stucco walls, large windows and red, green and white neon sign make it a very inviting and warm place. An American flag stands upright near the door. The flag's seen better days. It's tattered and a little dirty. The interior is beautiful. Like visiting a relative you only see around Christmastime. You can’t help but inspect every inch of the interior, observe all the decor and feel you’re in some far off part of the country. That place has been here since the dentist office and the bakery. Probably longer. Vinnie Abatto runs the place. He’s known me forever.

“Jaime!!!” he says with his ever-present exuberance, as if I’m still a precocious 12-year-old. “How ya’ doin’ ya’ scoundrel?”

He tries to keep me in good spirits. I guess it’s with good intention—after all, I am living out of a car. I guess I’m luckier then most in my situation. “Hey, Mr. Abatto, same old, same old.” I observe the menu every single time, yet I always chose the same thing I’ve chosen for years. “I’ll…uh, have the panini.

“You been getting' them aluminum cans again, eh? Got some sorta way of

keepin’ the others from collectin’?”

Sometimes he thinks he’s joking, when in reality he’s just adding insult to injury. He means well, though, so I brush it off.

“You know you’re always welcome to have anything you want here for free…”

Before he finishes I reply, “No! I’m no beggar, Mr. Abatto. I have decency and dignity. I’ll never ask for handouts and I don’t steal.”

I’ve never stolen anything in my life. I’ve never been that desperate, not even now.

“No luck in finding a steady job?” Abatto asks. I shake my head. “No one seems to want to hire me, with the way I look. Not even people who hire day laborers.” Seems like these days all they want to hire are people who make border-hopping a new national sport. I dig into my meal, and halfway through I stop. The delightful collaboration of bread, melted cheese and a carefully guarded recipe of Italian spices sits on my plate waiting for me to finish devouring it.

“Mr. Abatto, at some point in your life have you ever thought that after all the years of fighting, of struggling; after all the years of facing adversity, have you ever just wanted to end it all and give up?” I have no idea what made me spill my guts like that. I’m not usually so…emotional. What are they putting in these sandwiches?!

Mr. Abatto looks at me out of the corner of his eye and smirks. He finishes arranging a stack of menus on the counter, scratches his head and makes an expression like someone who doesn’t seem to know a lot about anything.“Well,” the restaurant owner replies, “that depends on what you’re referring to.” “To everything!” I said. “Fighting for your family, your country…your life. Working so hard for so long, building up wonderful memories and hopes and before you realize it, everything is gone? Sometimes the outcome doesn’t make any of the sacrifice worth anything.”

“All I can tell you is this: life is nothing more than a fight and everyone is in it. Life is not without conflict; in my opinion life is the very definition of struggle. What kind of life would it be if everyone just got what they wanted all the time and there was never a problem. That is not living. That’s just existing.”

He had a point there. Suddenly, everything went dark.

“Forget to pay the bills, Mr. Abatto?”

“Na, it’s ConEd. The power’s been going off and on all summer. They’ve been sleeping on the job, literally. I get scared, ‘cause if the power goes off at night I have no security alarm to guard this place.”

“Hope your food doesn’t thaw.” My appetite was fulfilled as I finished the last piece. “See ya’ Mr. Abatto.”

“God bless, kid,” he replied.