There’s one in every Jersey town. More than one, probably. Named the same. Fat Tony’s. Greasy Joe’s. Vince’s. They all look the same, with the grease-slick linoleum floor that was never new, faded posters of barely-remembered movies, maybe a Pong or Pac-Man machine, maybe out of order.
The smell of cheese, of vinegar, of frying onions and peppers. Stacks of sub rolls piled on a rack, a well-worn slicer on the back counter. The shop’s first dollar in a cheap frame on the wall above a Polaroid of the owner’s father behind the counter, face bleached snow-white by the flashbulb.