When I finally started to get used to the hard deli routine I somehow began to feel more at ease with my doomed hospitality future. A fake pride of having outlived the hardship of a job that wasn't meant for me slowly replaced all the fears and uncertainty of the beginning. At this point even the killer blade seemed like an opportunity to showoff a skill that nobody else had.

I developed my own tricks to carry out tasks with speed and efficiency. My methods were often based on the elimination of certain schizophrenic standards in order to save time. I also discovered the power of abidance and the feeling of freedom that comes with agreeing with silly orders knowing that I'd do the exact opposite completely unnoticed.

As the days went by the deli became a stage for me, a gloomy theatre where I'd perform my silly server dances with rapid moves, wearing my black apron and pulling out my absurd lines/lies. A Neapolitan deli assistant taught me how to charm and distract customers by simply clapping hands once with determination while cheerfully singing Oplah! as if taming animals in a circus. He would sing this whoop every time someone would start a complain, "Oplah! Signora bella!" and suddenly the grumpiest of characters would be totally confused and forced to smile.

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