I Hid a Hero Under My Jacket Because I Wasn’t Sharing Shit

There are certain luxuries you don’t understand are luxuries until you grow up without much.

Sometimes it’s money.

Sometimes it’s privacy.

Sometimes it’s getting to eat your entire fucking sandwich without somebody asking you for a bite.

I learned this in seventh grade.

Everybody Was Talking About the Hero

At the time, I lived in Bricktown, New York, and a new Dominican deli had opened near where I lived.

Everybody was talking about the hero sandwiches.

Apparently, these things were delicious.

I had never had one.

I kept hearing about them until eventually the hero became something larger than a sandwich in my mind. I needed to know what the fuck everybody was talking about.

The problem was that I was a broke seventh grader.

Five dollars was money.

So I scraped together five dollars and eventually walked into that deli ready to have my first hero.

There was just one small problem.

I had absolutely no idea how ordering a hero worked.

“I Want to Buy a Hero”

I walked up to the counter with the confidence of somebody who had been ordering deli sandwiches her entire life.

“I want to buy a hero.”

That was it.

I did not specify a meat.

I did not specify a cheese.

I did not mention lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise, oil, vinegar, peppers, onions, or anything else that might reasonably be required when constructing a sandwich.

I ordered a hero.

And apparently the man behind the counter decided this was sufficient information.

He didn’t tell me I could customize it. He didn’t start asking me questions.

He just put some shit together.

And because I didn’t know any better, I stood there and let him.

Then I handed over my five dollars and walked out with my mystery hero.

I had done it.

I had finally acquired the sandwich everybody had been talking about.

Now I had another problem.

I had to get the motherfucker home.

Is That a Hero?

My friends were always around the neighborhood, and I knew how this shit worked.

You appeared with food, somebody wanted some.

And I had not scraped together five dollars to purchase my first hero so that everybody could have a community tasting.

So I tried to hide it under my jacket.

This was not an especially sophisticated smuggling operation. A hero is a rather large object to conceal on the body of a seventh-grade girl.

But I was committed.

Unfortunately, my friend Marie happened to be looking out her fucking window.

“Is that a hero?”

“No?”

I don’t know who I thought I was fooling.

Marie knew exactly what was under my jacket.

But instead of coming downstairs and trying to get some, she told me:

“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna beg you for your hero.”

Thank God.

Because I wasn’t sharing that shit.

In My Defense, Marie Fed Me All the Time

Now, before anybody decides seventh-grade me was a selfish little asshole, let me make the story worse.

Marie fed me.

Regularly.

Her mother had put far too much adult responsibility on her, including cooking dinner. And Marie could cook her ass off.

She made some of the most delicious Haitian food.

We walked to school together, and I would be at her house before school eating that shit up.

So no, I cannot claim some grand principle of reciprocity here.

I cannot say, “I never ate anybody else’s food, therefore nobody was entitled to mine.”

That would be a fucking lie.

I ate Marie’s food.

Happily.

Repeatedly.

And when I finally acquired my precious five-dollar hero?

Still wasn’t sharing.

Children contain multitudes.

The Bedroom Was Empty

I made it back to my apartment without anybody successfully intercepting the hero.

At the time, my little brother and I shared a bedroom.

But that day, by some miracle, he wasn’t there.

He must have been outside playing.

I had the room to myself.

Nobody knew what I had.

Nobody was standing over me.

Nobody was asking:

“Can I have a bite?”

“Let me taste it.”

“Give me a little piece.”

Nothing.

Just me and my hero.

So I sat down and started eating.

And you know what?

It was good.

But it wasn’t as good as I thought it was going to be.

Everybody had hyped these damn sandwiches so much that I think I expected some kind of religious experience.

It was a sandwich.

A good sandwich.

But still a sandwich.

The best part wasn’t the food.

The best part was that nobody was asking me for any.

I Ate That Whole Fucking Thing

I don’t remember routinely eating that much food in one sitting at that age.

But that afternoon?

Oh, I put that hero away.

Maybe I was hungry.

Maybe it tasted better as I kept eating it.

Or maybe some part of me understood that an unfinished hero represented a future negotiation, and I wasn’t interested in negotiations.

There would be no leftovers.

There would be no discovery.

There would be no dividing it later.

I had spent my five dollars.

I had successfully smuggled my purchase through the neighborhood.

I had reached the sanctuary of an unexpectedly empty bedroom.

The operation was going to be completed.

I ate the whole fucking thing.

Sometimes You Just Want Something That Is Yours

Looking back, I don’t think this is really a story about being poor.

And it definitely isn’t a story about me being virtuous.

Marie fed me all the time. I benefited from somebody else’s generosity and then guarded my sandwich like classified government material.

I can admit that.

But I also understand that little girl.

When you don’t have much, having something entirely to yourself can feel luxurious.

Not because you’re incapable of sharing.

Not because nobody has ever shared with you.

Sometimes you just don’t fucking want to.

Sometimes you worked for it, saved for it, waited for it, imagined it, and finally got it.

And for once, you don’t want a committee.

You don’t want negotiations.

You don’t want to calculate portions.

You don’t want to hear, “Can I have some?”

You just want your thing.

All these years later, I barely remember what was actually on that hero.

The man could have put damn near anything between those pieces of bread. I certainly hadn’t given him much direction.

But I remember carrying it home under my jacket.

I remember Marie spotting me from her window.

I remember sitting alone in that bedroom.

And I remember how good it felt knowing that for those few minutes, every last bite belonged to me.