Unlike many of us, some people don’t have the luxury of living for today because tomorrow might not come; for some, tomorrow requires more consideration, because for them tomorrow is guaranteed. For them, tomorrow is a curse that drowns them in the certainty of its arrival as they go through today, so apprehensive at the question of “What will I do?”, as opposed to might, that it is all they can ask themselves. But as surely as the sun will come up, tomorrow will ask of them something that they do not have and then ask what they were doing the day before;
Daniel paid his rent today and Daniel’s daughter hasn’t eaten a damn thing all day and Dan has been trying to get her stomach filled, at least half way, with little regard for the emptiness of his own. He was standing in front of the deli with his hands in his pockets since this morning; that’s all day; fidgeting with a tie and the only $5 bill he has. That $5 could buy her a sandwich, “Honey turkey and swiss, no tomatoes”, and give him some peace of mind, but for it to be real would be for him to not have $5 tomorrow, and instead have “to figure something out,”.
“These niggas is really playing with calling me back,”
and Daniel doesn’t like this game, and I get it; it is hard to like a game when you keep on losing. Whod’ve thought that Daniel would be here at this point in his life, Daniel, who never so much as left the house with scuffed up shoes. But I guess no business is in the business of hiring felons, even ones that didn’t do it. He folds up his tie very neatly and puts it in his pocket when he leaves every morning, like he’s going to work, and when he comes back it’s still in his pocket, just wrinkled from playing with it too much, and these niggas is still really playing.
He goes into the store and orders the sandwich and Ali makes it for him, and gives him a little more turkey because
“I know you” and when Daniel reaches slowly into his pocket for the $5 bill Ali waves his hand once and tells him not to worry and that he will pay him next time. Daniel walks back to his apartment building with the turkey sandwich in a plastic bag swinging at his side, and goes into his apartment where his little girl is, and puts her sandwich down on the old table. She comes in and gives him a hug and reaches for the sandwich,
“No tomatoes, right?” and Daniel doesn’t respond, and she takes half and lifts the bread in search of something that isn’t there, and then picks up the other half and holds it up to her father.
“That’s for you, hun, I don’t want none,” he said.
“Put it in the fridge,” she told him. “I can eat it tomorrow,”