The Silent Sandwich Cart

There is a breakfast cart near my house. On normal mornings, it’s a chaotic little corner, students from the school opposite queuing up, shouting out orders, and the vendor’s hands moving so fast it’s like a performance. But during social distancing, it’s fallen quiet. The hum of schoolkids, the rhythm of his work, all of this has vanished.

A large sandwich with all the toppings you have please, extra chilli. When you’re back, I’ll be first in line...

Now, during social distancing, the scene is transformed. The cart sits still, almost abandoned. No children, no chatter, no smell of fresh pate bursting fat on a piping hot pan. It reminds me of those final days before the holiday, when you still show up to class even though nothing really happens, present in body, but not in spirit. I lingered there for ten minutes the other day, but no one came out. Perhaps there is simply no point in selling when there are no customers.

Standing there, I felt an odd mixture of sadness and privilege. For me, the pandemic meant safety inside my home, meals still on the table, the comfort of time passing quietly. For him, it has meant silence where there was once life, and an income suddenly cut off. What feels like a pause for me is, for others, a heavy weight pressing down on their daily survival.

Soon, students will be back at school, and when they return, the vendor’s small office on wheels will come back to life. I look forward to that morning, to see him at work again, to join the crowd and buy a sandwich, if only to do my part in easing the losses of this long, quiet stretch. And when that moment comes, I hope the cart is filled with the full works: eggs, pate, cold cuts, herbs, chilli, everything tucked into one crusty roll. Perhaps the taste will carry a little more meaning this time.