500: An Anthology of Short Stories
A Sandwich, Please

“Here’s Conrad to collect scrap metal,” I told Dean, my son. “Do we have anything for him?”

“I don’t think so, Mom. But doesn’t he usually do his rounds in our neighborhood on Sundays? It’s Thursday today,” Dean told me.

“Yes, you’re right. Anyway, I think I still have that small broken heater, isn’t it?” I asked Dean, having remembered that it had given up the ghost just last week. “I don’t think I’ve got rid of it yet,” I said before getting up from where I was planting a tulip bulb in my garden. “Let me go get it for him.”

“No, it’s okay, Mom. I’ll get it,” my considerate son said.

“Thanks, sweetheart,” I said, smiling at my handsome boy. “I stored it in the locker in the garage.”

“Great. I’ll go get it quickly,” Dean said, dashing off.

Just then, Conrad arrived at the front gate.

“Morning, Ma’am,” he greeted me. “Any scrap or broken appliances?” he asked politely.

Conrad had been coming around to the neighborhood for ages, having become part and parcel of the area. He had told me once that he fixed and resold whatever we threw out as ‘broken’, or sold the items to the scrapyard.

He was an extremely tall Zulu man probably in his mid-forties, always dressed in the same outfit: black trench coat over dark brown pants. His sneakers were scuffed, hand-me-downs. Under his coat he wore a green or red plaid shirt. His head was adorned by a blue floppy hat.

“Morning, Conrad. Dean’s just gone to fetch something. I only have one item for you today, I’m afraid,” I informed him, dusting my hands off as I got up to go inside.

“Thanks very much, Ma’am. Really appreciate it,” Conrad said.

“Sure, no worries,” I replied.

“Ma’am, so sorry to ask, but don’t you have a sandwich for me, please?” Conrad requested, catching me by surprise. He had never, not once, ever asked me for food. I was unreasonably annoyed.

“Sorry, I don’t have a sandwich for you,” I said brusquely as Dean returned with the broken heater. Without another word, I rushed inside.

As I entered my home, I was abruptly awash in shame. I stood in mute silence as I felt deep guilt castigate my soul.

“Dear God, Jackie! How could you tell him that you don’t have a sandwich for him?” I asked myself silently. “For goodness’ sake, you have more than just a sandwich for him!” I realized.

Instantly, I called out to Dean who was still chatting to Conrad. “Dean! Tell Conrad I’ll get him a sandwich in a minute,” I said as I started on putting together two peanut butter and jam sandwiches.

Trembling slightly, I handed the wrapped sandwiches to Conrad. His weathered face creased into a bright smile.

“Bless you, Ma’am,” he prayed for me.

“You’re welcome, Conrad,” I managed to say.

Conrad never again asked me for anything. Two days later he was killed by a reckless truck driver.