Alexa Daskalakis

Nine Dollars​

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Everyone in Bellmont Heights swore by the deli down the hill. The neon sign flickered between “Del’s Market” and “el’s Mar,” depending on the wind and the hour. The sushi case wasn’t exactly Nobu, but it was there—wedged between pre-made pasta and boiled eggs in foggy plastic shells.

On Tuesdays, the spicy tuna roll was $9 flat. No tax. No tip. Just nine dollars—exact change if you had it, or a crinkled ten and an “all set” from the kid behind the counter.

Nina wasn’t supposed to eat sushi.
Not because of mercury or health codes,
but because of the quiet war in her life—
between the image they all clung to
and the small, defiant facts of survival.

Sushi meant indulgence—
proof that you weren’t suffering enough.

So when she walked in wearing last year’s coat and picked up the tray,
it felt like a crime.

She remembered the last time someone saw her holding it.
“Really? You’re buying that?” he’d said—
not in anger, but disbelief.
“That’s expensive.”

It wasn’t.
What was expensive was pretending.
Pretending there was room to breathe.
Pretending the bank balance proved you were okay.
Pretending the people who should’ve fed you
weren’t watching you ration rice—
then raising an eyebrow over a $9 roll.

She bought it anyway.

Sat on a bench facing the pharmacy.
Ate it slowly.
No soy sauce.
No drama.
Just a person trying not to starve,
still trying to look fine.

A neighbor passed, smiled, and said,
“That’s the good stuff.”

Nina didn’t answer.

She knew better than to explain
the price of small dignities.

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Full Legal and Creative Disclaimer:
This is a fictional narrative intended as an artistic reflection on dignity, class perception, and quiet resilience. It is not based on, nor intended to depict, any real person, family, or community. Any resemblance to actual individuals or events is purely coincidental.