Describe a Jewish deli in New York–writing it within the context of one of these themes: alienation, disease, diaspora, unrequited love, or a choice of your own!
He placed the naked chicken under running water. With a sharp knife, he sliced away the dark stains of blood. His gloves carefully covered his healing scars. The doctor’s unblinking eyes haunted him. He didn’t want any pity. Lifting up the chicken, he dumped it into a tub of water. He stood there and watched it sink. He then took off his glove and grabbed the knife again. Slowly, a drop of blood sunk into the water and disappeared.
By Jennifer
I take a bite of my bagel, cream cheese soft on my tongue and a subtle crunch as I chew. I’m at the corner deli, small and cramped. The tourists coming and going. I take a sip of my tea, but I am not calm. An older woman in a leopard print shirt and mom jeans passes hurriedly to the back restroom.
By Miguel
Somewhere in New York City El Capitan lets loose the musky scent of cured meats. ‘Somewhere’ is as specific as we can get – even the New York City part seems somewhat suspect at this point. No one really remembers where this brick and mortar shack is erected, but there are certain things they do remember. The three fans that adorn the ceiling, each with five blades cutting the air in lazy circles; the glass case of pastries and sweets muddied in spots with the ghosts of fingertips passed; the linoleum floor, proudly wearing its speckles as if they weren’t born from the strides of customers; the pots and pans and links of sausage hanging just above the counter, sacred talismans all of them; the colorful cast of Basquiat, Warhol, Dali, Picasso, and Monet watching the seat-less space between door and counter with restless vigor. This all is very clear, and can be corroborated by those who walk the streets with feverish look in their eyes, searching once more for this deli that seems scurry through back alleys as soon as back passes the door. But the scent always stays – that can never be forgotten.
By Rohan
The deli was there before you moved to New York and it will be there after you leave. You go on Saturdays, alone, and you try not to watch young families sliding into the booths next to you. You don’t look at the old couples either, the ones arguing over stale bread, cold coffee, and old newspapers. They drop Yiddish words you don’t understand and always say you’ll look up, but never do. You just focus on your sandwich, pastrami on rye, and look at the other people sitting at tables alone. Do other customers notice them? Do they feel the same sick pity towards them you do? But you always forget that feeling after finishing your sandwich, as if you’ve digested them both, and hardly think of it during the long climb back up to the apartment you share with no one. Once you leave New York, you never think about the deli again.
By Ashley
The Exhibit Unbound 