"Work hours are from 11 a.m. to evening. The day ends somewhere between 8 p.m. and 11 p.m., depending on the weather and the cust'mers." The man in the off-white apron glanced at the brooding clouds above us. "On days like this, it's usually eight-ish." A yellow crown was printed on the fabric covering his chest.

We stood on the beach walk, outside 'Royal Sandwiches,' the food stall I had passed on my celebratory unemployment jog last week.

I had had a handful of interviews since then, for positions on the list they had given me at the job center. But none of them had been conducted under the open sky.

And none of them had been successful. Upon seeing TCorp's terse termination letter, eyebrows had been raised, questions had been asked. I had been told of many other applicants, had been told they'd consider my resume, had been told I'd hear from them.

So far, I never had heard from them again.

Then I had remembered the note posted at 'Royal Sandwiches', the one about the Sandwich King, wanted. And here I was.

As expected, the King was supposed to cut bread and stuff it with whatever stuff that goes inside.

The man, Paul Petrovich, was Royal Sandwiches' CEO and owner, and he eyed me from under his bushy brows and bald head.

"What's the pay?" I asked.

"$15 an hour... and that stops when we close at night. One hour break in the afternoon. That's mandat'ry. I'll tell you when to take it. Two weekdays are off, I'll tell you which ones. We work weekends."

$15 was the minimum wage by law. On a good day, I'd make something like $135, which would be $2700 a month. Enough to pay the rent. Enough to survive if I ate sandwiches. Not enough to live.

"I'll take it." I smiled at Paul.

"Okay, if you say so... let's go to the office and get the papers."

The office was a tiny desk at the entrance to the kitchen, and the kitchen was a small, crammed space behind the counter—the only room at Royal Sandwiches.

Paul handed me a form where I entered my name, address and phone number.

"Don't you need my bank account and social security number?"

"No, we pay cash."

I didn't explain that they needed my social security number even if they paid me cash. I was done with rules—following them had cost me my job.

Nor did I ask if they had a swimming pool for their employees. Well, they had, kind of—the ocean was right behind my new employer's main building. Matching my job title, it was king sized. And it was still swimmable at this time of the year.

With that kind of benefits, who would care about career options?

"When do I start?"

He pulled his phone from his pocket to check the time. "What about today, 4 p.m.? I'll show you the moves, so you'll be ready for rush hour at sunset."

I hadn't expected to assume my royal duties that quickly. But cutting sandwiches beat spending yet another evening in front of my TV or laptop. And the sooner I started, the sooner I would know if this job was something for me or if I should continue searching for a better one.

And I was tired of being without job and profession, of living off my steadily dwindling bank account, and of drifting among the dregs at the bottom of the ocean called life.

~~~

The menu at the Royal Sandwiches had a beautiful simplicity. There were four types of buns (medium baguette, aka tiny; large baguette, aka feeds a dwarf; giant baguette, aka feeds an adult; whole grain, aka brownish but—apart from that—the same as medium). These buns were combined with five kinds of fillings (cheese, ham, chicken, veggies, royal—the latter being a mix of everything). To make matters more challenging, customers could choose sauce flavors (none, ketchup, mayonnaise, sweet & sour).

This added (or multiplied) up to no less than 80 different types of sandwiches!

A Sandwich King's duty was to translate the order ("giant with chick and k'chup") into a specific sandwich. Not rocket science. Not even accounting.

"You're ready to go, Sandwich King?" Paul asked me. "Any more questions?"

I stood at the slaughtering desk, as Paul had called it, in my crowned apron, holding my royal scepter—a long knife with a serrated blade. "Um... yes, one more question."

Bushy brows were raised.

"Can I be a Sandwich Queen instead of a King?"

Paul hesitated and wrinkled his forehead. "Dunno, no one's ever asked me that. It's always been a King. Even if it was a girl. Never had them as pretty as you, though."

I gritted my teeth. Why were all my bosses trying to make a pass at me? Or was it just in my head?

But I wasn't in a position to argue. Bottom dwellers, such as I, ate the crumbs that floated down to their level and, apart from that, tried their best not to be trodden on.

Paul shrugged, dismissing my complex question. "Anyway, now that you're ready, I leave you and George here to run the show. Okay?"

George was operating the counter—a lanky, pimply guy a couple of years younger than I. Watching Paul leave, he picked his nose. When he saw my eyes on him, he blushed and wiped his finger on his apron. It left a stain.

I looked away from him, out of the large window where people could order our delicacies.

A customer standing outside coughed to get George's attention. "Hey, I need a large one, with ham and lots of ketchup. And a coke."

George nodded at him. "Coming." He looked at me, taking a breath to relay the message, but I was already reaching for one of the giant baguettes. I filleted the thing, spread butter on it, and covered it with slices of ham. Paul had instructed me to always add a few leaves of lettuce, for the royal touch, so I did that, too. To complete my work, I upturned the bottle of ketchup over my handiwork, took aim, and squeezed. Lots of it, the customer had said. I'd give him that.

A jet of red escaped the nozzle. But it didn't land in the sandwich I had been targeting. Rather, it sprayed straight at me.

"Shit."

Globs of red sauce stuck to my royal apron.

I tore a piece of tissue from a kitchen roll to dab at the sauce, spreading it further and biting my tongue to prevent even more cursing.

"That'll be five fifty. Your sandwich will be ready in a moment, Sir." George was finishing the transaction.

I pried off the dried, brownish matter clogging the ketchup's nozzle and tried again, this time jetting the ham, not me. Then I covered the sandwich up, wrapped it, and handed it to George.

His eyes lingered on my messy chest, and he grinned.

~~~

At around eight, the flow of customers slowed to a trickle. A faint drizzle had set in, and people started to flee the beach.

Seeing off a freshly sandwiched family, George glanced at his watch. "It's fifteen minutes past eight now. If we don't have a customer for twenty minutes, we can close the shop. That's Paul's rule."

"Okay." Wiping my hands, I looked down at myself. My apron was a bloody mess.

George's phone gave a ping. He retrieved it, read its screen, smirking, and started to text.

I felt exhausted.

The beach was almost deserted now. Only a handful of teens were hooting with laughter as they ran barefoot through the waves.

My eyes fell on a newspaper a customer had forgotten on the counter. It was a tabloid, wasting precious paper to tell the world about scandals, celebrities, and smut. Bold letters on the front page announced that the president's hair was dyed—as if this were news, and as if anyone cared.

For lack of better things to do, I turned to page two.

A gasp escaped my lips.

Half of the page was covered by a photograph of Thierry Thorne. His face was grave, and he wore a black suit and a black tie. Theresa was at his side, thin-mouthed and unusually pale in a dark coat.

The title was boldfaced, uppercase.

THE THORNE TRAGEDY

Thomas Thorne had died.