A new frozen yogurt shop had just opened up but she hadn't noticed it until she was leaving her favorite sushi restaurant next door. After teaching tenth graders all week, she'd look forward to Friday night: the only day of the week when she'd get to wear something besides slacks, drink a little too much, and most importantly, eat food prepared by other people. Her friends suggested to her that she make a bit more effort to "put herself out there" on the weekends, but she was quick to tire on a Friday, and the only thing worse than making no plans that involved drinks with an attractive man was when she'd actually make an effort--including liquid eyeliner--to go out, only to discover that she could not, for whatever reason, get laid, and had not had any contact with a male body since her college boyfriend had decided that he needed to be alone in order to figure out who he was.
Maybe wearing nothing but slacks and orthopedic Sweedish clogs all week had psychological ramifications. Sure, the slacks made her ass appear wider than it really was and the clogs had this elfish, slightly-upturned toebox, but it was important to be physically comfortable when you were on your feet all day. And she'd read an article on the internet about teachers developing back problems as early as age thiry-five, and she wasn't about to develop a full quasimodo stoop--it was bad enough that her upper back was already beginning to reveal that she spend most nights hunched over essays.
She'd had a particularly exhausting week, so she drove to the sushi bar for an early dinner. Behind the sushi bar was a college-aged white guy with black Buddy Holly glasses. She was the only person at the bar.
"Can I get the Quail egg sashimi?" she asked.
"You want it just plain? Or I can do it with the rice? Or wait, I know!" He grinned devilishly. "I can do a Quail egg shot for you. It's Midori and sake with a poached egg."
This goopy combination sounded disgusting to her, but he was speaking in a hushed, eager voice.
"How can I turn that down?"
The shot looked like a sunset, but as she popped the yoke in her teeth, she was reminded of raw cake batter ingredients.
"How'd you like it?" he asked.
"It was okay."
After that, he ignored her. She worked her way through two rolls and large beer, paid the beautiful waitress with the straight teeth, and this was when she saw, upon exiting, the new yogurt place.
The was no one behind the counter, which was lined with bins of toppings such as gummy bears and crumbled candy bars. The soft serve machines whirred: an unsupervised free-for-all of treasures. There was one quiet family, mom, dad, baby, in a booth, and a group of teenaged girls with long hair and Catholic school uniforms. It was self serve and there were sample cups. She tried the no-sugar-added vanilla, the peanut butter, chocolate, country vanilla, cookies and cream, red velvet. Her mouth on that plastic spoon, filling with cold, creamy sugar, then empty and sticky until the next bite. Finally, she grabbed an extra-large cup and layered in every flavor. She worked her way across the parlor and pulled each heavy lever with the deliberation of a trucker shifting gears. For toppings, she chose crumbled Oreos and Reese's pieces, and plunked her cup onto the scale. It was then that a young man in a white chef coat emerged from the stockroom. He had a bald head.
"Is that all for you?" he asked in a kind voice.
"Yep," she said. His voice had been careful, as if he were trying not to upset her. "That's all for me. Do you guys have lids?" She was looking forward to eating on the couch.
"Right here," he said. "But you can't put the spoon through it." He picked up a dome-shaped clear lid that had a round, flat top. It did, in fact, look like you were supposed to put a spoon through it.
"That's odd," she said. She felt herself smile as he handed her the lid. She flipped it over in her hands. Then she took a spoon and pantomimed an attempt to jam it through the lid. She gave a theatrical cry of anguish and soon she had him laughing--a real laugh, she could tell by its deep pitch, and quite a nice set of strong white teeth. She couldn't help laughing, herself. The group of girls threw away their cups and spoons and the family was leaving, too.
He read the scale with an attentiveness more appropriate for a scientific laboratory than a Bosco's yogurt.
"That'll be three fifty."
She placed four one dollar bills on the counter and felt an energy drain from her body. Then she was crying, only a little bit. He pretended not to notice and finished ringing her up. She dumped the change into the tip can without bothering to wipe her face.
"Would you like to sit with me?" she said. She looked at her feet.
"Okay."
The sun had gone down. She chose the booth farthest from the door and slid in. She patted the spot next to her and he sat.
"Want a bite?" she asked, prying the lid off.
"Okay," he said. He surveyed the contents of the cup. "What flavor is this?"
"All of them," she said. There was that deep laugh again. And then they were both laughing between bites, taking turns with the spoon. She found out that he used to be a graduate student in Chemistry but had since dropped out, and he found out that she taught high school, but mostly their mouths were full of yogurt and there was a lot of sighing, mm's, and staring ahead. Then he was feeding her--he'd let her swallow and wait for her to nod before he prepared another bite. On the third bite, she put her fingers around his wrist and soon they were kissing, mouths and hands sticky with sugar, and then was moving over her, her thighs sticking to the booth pad as she slid onto her back. He had to leave her for a minute to lock the door, and she lay there starting up at the shabby ceiling but only for a moment before he climbed back into the booth and she wrapped her legs around him, which took a moment of awkward repositioning. Then there was just the industrial whir of the yogurt machines, and breathing, grabbing, pressing, skin on skin on sticky booth.
She made him stop early and they sat up. He was breathing heavily and slumping against the back of the booth. She could feel a sticky ring of sugar around her mouth, which suddenly felt empty and acutely parched. She reached for the yogurt cup, which was still half full, and brought a spoonful to her lips. It had become a soupy and brown syrup, but she ate it anyway and even tipped the cup to get the last sip. She thought about thanking him, but then decided that would sound desperate. Instead, she said nothing as he did up his pants and got up to unlock the door and busy himself behind the counter.
She chose some Country Vanilla for the road and grabbed a fresh lid without bothered to weigh it.
"You have a good night," she told him, her elbow against the door.
"You too," he said. He had a look of amusement and disbelief.
In the car, she remembered with a little twinge of excitement that a recorded episode of her favorite show was waiting for her at home. With any luck, she could have her second helping on the couch while watching it and then fall asleep as quickly and as hard as it is possible for a person to do so.
Wooo!
Band-aids. Do you rip them off quickly? Deal with the stinging pain in an instant or try to slowly ease the plaster away from your skin. Everyone has their methods. Maybe it's all a matter of preference.
For Robbie, the chance to make a quick and clean break had long since passed. Too many band-aids over one wound. Three months after the engagement announcement -- which, of course, she congratulated through grinning, gritted teeth -- the "Save the Date" card arrived. And with it, a heavy dose of reality.
"I am so fucked."
Back then, there was still some time until the actual wedding date. A lot of time. Twelve whole months full of nothing but time to reflect on the last decade. Fuck, had it been ten years? No matter. This was the inevitable. The thing in the back of her mind that she always knew would eventually come, yet for whatever reason (and heaps of self-delusion) she'd been avoiding.
"Idiot. What were you thinking?"
Twelve whole months later, Robbie stepped out of a taxi, as dusk began to fall. Her heels click-clack-click along the cobblestones as she hurried, late and already a little tipsy, into the reception hall.
"Robbie! I didn't think you'd make it! I didn't see you at the ceremony." Mrs. Bernhard, mother of the groom, greeted her at the entrance.
"Traffic was a killer, but I got here as soon as I could!"
It was a lie, but the best that Robbie could come up with at such a short notice. She made a beeline towards the bar. Too late for liquid courage, she opted for liquid happy. Or, at the very least, made a valiant attempt.
"This could have been my wedding." *gulp gulp* "No, wait...could this have been my wedding?" *gulp* "You never even wanted to get married." *gulp* "He never asked and you were never officially together." *guuuuuulp* The questions swirled around in her thoughts as she started her second glass of wine.
"So very fucked." She chugged the second glass and went back for a third.
Looking across the dance floor, she spied the bride and groom sitting at their table. Even while engaged in conversation with other guests, Robbie is distracted. No one notices. The buffet is opened. Robbie poured herself another glass of wine.
After everyone has eaten, the best man and maid of honor get up to make a toast. A waiter rolls out a projector from the back and - surprise - the toast is now an iMovie clipshow of relationship highlights documenting a thirty-some-odd years of life and ten years of true love blah blah bullshit.
Fifth glass. Robbie was there for it all, but more the crazy parallel universe version of events. The sanitized instant replay burned like salt in a wound.
The train of congratulatory speeches feels endless. The open bar is the only saving grace. After the last speech, a group of waiters and waitresses appeared, clutching clusters of red, heard-shaped helium balloons and began handing them out to guests. The best man announced to the attendees that they should write down a wish, or message, or quote on the little sheet of paper attached to the end of their balloon string. Once everyone is finished, the group is to go outside to release the balloons.
After several minutes of drunken scribbling, the crowd began to file out the doors. Clutching her balloon, Robbie discreetly choked back her tears as the countdown to release began.
The brief message that she wrote replaying in her head over and over like a mantra.
It read:
I used to love you. Now I don't.
The crowd chants in unison, "3-2-1...Woooo!"
And one hundred and eighty red, heart-shaped helium balloons drifted into the sky.
For Robbie, the chance to make a quick and clean break had long since passed. Too many band-aids over one wound. Three months after the engagement announcement -- which, of course, she congratulated through grinning, gritted teeth -- the "Save the Date" card arrived. And with it, a heavy dose of reality.
"I am so fucked."
Back then, there was still some time until the actual wedding date. A lot of time. Twelve whole months full of nothing but time to reflect on the last decade. Fuck, had it been ten years? No matter. This was the inevitable. The thing in the back of her mind that she always knew would eventually come, yet for whatever reason (and heaps of self-delusion) she'd been avoiding.
"Idiot. What were you thinking?"
Twelve whole months later, Robbie stepped out of a taxi, as dusk began to fall. Her heels click-clack-click along the cobblestones as she hurried, late and already a little tipsy, into the reception hall.
"Robbie! I didn't think you'd make it! I didn't see you at the ceremony." Mrs. Bernhard, mother of the groom, greeted her at the entrance.
"Traffic was a killer, but I got here as soon as I could!"
It was a lie, but the best that Robbie could come up with at such a short notice. She made a beeline towards the bar. Too late for liquid courage, she opted for liquid happy. Or, at the very least, made a valiant attempt.
"This could have been my wedding." *gulp gulp* "No, wait...could this have been my wedding?" *gulp* "You never even wanted to get married." *gulp* "He never asked and you were never officially together." *guuuuuulp* The questions swirled around in her thoughts as she started her second glass of wine.
"So very fucked." She chugged the second glass and went back for a third.
Looking across the dance floor, she spied the bride and groom sitting at their table. Even while engaged in conversation with other guests, Robbie is distracted. No one notices. The buffet is opened. Robbie poured herself another glass of wine.
After everyone has eaten, the best man and maid of honor get up to make a toast. A waiter rolls out a projector from the back and - surprise - the toast is now an iMovie clipshow of relationship highlights documenting a thirty-some-odd years of life and ten years of true love blah blah bullshit.
Fifth glass. Robbie was there for it all, but more the crazy parallel universe version of events. The sanitized instant replay burned like salt in a wound.
The train of congratulatory speeches feels endless. The open bar is the only saving grace. After the last speech, a group of waiters and waitresses appeared, clutching clusters of red, heard-shaped helium balloons and began handing them out to guests. The best man announced to the attendees that they should write down a wish, or message, or quote on the little sheet of paper attached to the end of their balloon string. Once everyone is finished, the group is to go outside to release the balloons.
After several minutes of drunken scribbling, the crowd began to file out the doors. Clutching her balloon, Robbie discreetly choked back her tears as the countdown to release began.
The brief message that she wrote replaying in her head over and over like a mantra.
It read:
I used to love you. Now I don't.
The crowd chants in unison, "3-2-1...Woooo!"
And one hundred and eighty red, heart-shaped helium balloons drifted into the sky.
Why'd you have to say that?
Before dinner, my mother-in-law Ellen serves Little Caesar's pizza and cheesy bread to our nephews who are holding their knives and forks expectantly. My brother-in-law Aaron is one of those dads who has apparently decided that kids won't consume anything but chicken nuggets, pizza, goldfish, chocolate milk, and various kinds of juice. Ellen asks each of them what color tupperware cup they'd like.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
"Owange," says George.
"Lellow," says Lee.
Once the boys get their pizza, we watch them eat (our salmon is still grilling on the barbeque pit outside).
"Don't hold your knife crooked. Hold it like this or you won't be able to cut your pizza," Aaron says to George.
"Like this?" George struggles to cut his cheesy bread with a butterknife. He seems used to constant corrections.
"Is that good?" I croon at Lee, who is in a special class at school for slow learners. He has some kind of speech impediment.
"Yee-ah!" he sings. He's been humming since Ellen placed the food in front of him.
In my in-laws' dining room, we have assigned seats. I'm sitting next to my husband Brian. Next to him is his seven year old nephew George, then Ellen (who has dubbed herself "Grandmama," Montreal-style), then the five year old nephew Lee, then Brian's brother Aaron, then my father-in-law Olav (dubbed "Bestifor," Norwegian-style).
Brian's brother Aaron has driven in from Florida--he and his two sons in his black Chevy stationwagon that he bid on over the Internet. (Brian had noticed a new sticker in its window when we drove up: Romney 2012). Aaron is a single dad: we heard, through Ellen, that he and his ex-wife Lisa divorced a few years ago, and she moved into the house next door. Aaron is a manager at a construction company and remodels houses for a living; he'd bought and renovated the house next door with the idea that he would use it as a rental property, and we're guessing he had Lisa move there partly to help her out and partly to make custody visitation easier. No one talks about what this must be like for George and Lee: weekdays at Mom's, looking out the window at Daddy's house but not going there, and weekends at Daddy's house looking out the window at Mom's.
We can only guess how this housing situation is affecting Aaron since he doesn't talk much about anything but his interests, of which there are few. Over the years I've deduced that he likes Sci Fi TV shows, cars, craft beer, raw fish, hunting, guns, pure breeds of cats and dogs, and Libertarianism. He doesn't eat vegetables or fruit, he has two close friends, and we can't tell if he's had any dates since the divorce. Now, we see him when he drives the kids in for a visit. Lisa is never mentioned by anyone. Even George and Lee seem to be aware that nobody wants to bring her up, but every once in a while they slip and puncture all of our pretending.
We adults finish our salmon and asparagus while the boys run off to play matchbox cars in the den, and Ellen calls them back to the table to eat dessert with us. There are large squares of fruit in a bowl: honeydew melon, watermelon, and mango, and there is a small storebought strawberry cheesecake. Ellen places these on the table to a few oohs and ahhs (dessert is never discussed, either) and we aren't sure if the boys are going to touch any of it.
Lee hears "cake" and wants some of that. George peruses the fruit.
"The red one's watermelon," I say. Ellen loads his plate with one of each kind.
"What's the green?" says George.
"Honeydew," says Brian. "It's a melon."
"I want some yellow watermelon," says George. He pierces a tough slice of unripe mango and saws it with his butterknife. "I had this kind with my Daddy before."
"You did?" says Ellen, looking at Aaron. Aaron shrugs.
"Yeah," says George. "With my other Daddy. At mom's house." I look at my plate and take a bite of cheesecake, then another. "I have two daddies," he says matter-of-factly.
"George, hold your knife straight," says Aaron. "Not like this, like this." He demonstrates with a chopping motion of his hand. We all watch George saw at his Mango to no avail. Finally, his knife slides through and hits the plate with a clunk, and we can at least be relieved about this.
"There you go. It's hard as a rock," I chuckle. Brain's the only one that chuckles back.
Hi're yuuuuu?
Bertie shuffled around the kitchen, stirring, rearranging, slamming cabinet doors shut while she muttered to herself about Lord knows what. In honor of Thanksgiving, three generations of her family had gathered in her cozy, slapshod house and were trying to ignore how awkward it was that they were related. They usually segregated themselves like children at a Middle School dance: boys on this side, girls on the other.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.
The front door squeaked open and slammed with a flimsy bang, as everyone turned to see who had arrived. It was Ally, Bertie's middle child, who always smelled slightly of patchouli.
"Hi're yuuuu?" crowed Bertie as she grabbed Ally, gave her some sugar and hugged her neck.
"I'm good, Momma," Ally answered warmly. "How are you?"
"Oh, I'm good. My hip's been just aaaachin', and see my thumbs here," she held up the deeply-lined palms of hands. Ally looked, narrowed her eyes to slits -- all she could see were her mother's hands.
"See how this part is disappearin'?" Bertie asked as she rubbed the meaty bit of flesh directly beneath her thumb.
"No, Momma. I don't see that."
"Well, anyway ... you lookin' good. I just love to see you in some jeans," Bertie said as she turned to stir the cranberry sauce and take the homemade rolls out of the oven.
Ally walked towards the boys' club to say hello and overheard one of them explaining, "Yep. Whin I'm bow huntin', if I don't git that aim up, I will miuss ever' dayum tam."
"I've had similar issues with my own bow hunting," Ally offered, as 6 sets of eyes turned and stared as if she'd farted.
"Whoops," she chuckled. "Didn't mean to kill the conversation. Nice to see y'all again."
"I's reddy!" bellowed Bertie.
All three generations emptied into the kitchen, gathered around the overflowing tables and halted.
"Who's gonna say grace?" asked Bertie.
"Why don't you say, Momma? You did everything else. Might as well say grace, too" Ally suggested.
"Oh lawrd ... awright. BlessusohLordandthesethygiftswhichweareabouttorecievefromthybountythroughChristourLord, Amen."
"Amen," echoed the entire troop, in unison.
"Le's eat," Bertie cried.
With that, they descended on the hearty buffet like a tidal wave.
Advice
Tony had been at the job far longer than most. Considerably longer than his predecessors, of which he had personally witnessed the demise of over two dozen in the span of a decade. Longevity, however, wasn't the name of the game here. Sooner or later your number came up. Regardless of whether or not you kept head down, asked no questions, did what you were told, or begged for mercy. All of that was well-intentioned, yet ultimately useless advice.
It's not exactly like he had any alternative options. Porto Vista wasn't a town rife with opportunity. If you weren't one of the fortunate few to break out and away, then you were absorbed into the system. Don Acerbi's system. There were no exceptions, just countless forks in the road leading to -- literal -- dead ends.
In a rare stroke of "luck", Tony was spared from the fate of becoming a mule, foot soldier, or even hitman. Instead, at the age of 10, he began working as an assistant in kitchen of the Don's personal food taster. Part cook, part guinea pig - it was the food taster's job to make sure that Don Acerbi's meals were poison-free and fit for consumption. Most lasted on average around six months.
Tony, on the other hand, had held the job for 10 years (and counting) after Guiseppe, the previous food taster, succumbed to a tainted batch of Tiramisu. However, Tony had not escaped unscathed over the years. He had experienced his fair share of crippling stomach cramps and vomitting. One time, he was even in a coma for a week. Somehow, he always managed to continue. It earned him the nickname L'uomo di ferro, the Iron Man, for his "iron" consitution and the play on his first name. Porto Vista mafiosis weren't exactly known for their literacy.
But this time, this time it looked like Tony's number might be up. Lying on the hospital gurney, slipping in and out of consciousness, he went through the mental checklist that he had cultivated throughout the years. From the simple and obvious, "Does it look and smell ok?" to the less-obvious, poison-specific characteristics that he had taught himself.
A wry smile crossed his face as he thought of an old black and white comedy film, in which the main character, a heavyset slapstick buffoon, stumbles out of a restaurant grasping his stomach and pleads to patrons entering the restaurant, "Non mangiare il pollo!"
Don't eat the chicken. Pollo alla parmigiana. Fuck.
Tony's eyes fluttered closed as he drifted off again. Breathing slow, but steady, he added that gem to the seemingly endless list of well-intentioned, but ultimately useless advice.
It's not exactly like he had any alternative options. Porto Vista wasn't a town rife with opportunity. If you weren't one of the fortunate few to break out and away, then you were absorbed into the system. Don Acerbi's system. There were no exceptions, just countless forks in the road leading to -- literal -- dead ends.
In a rare stroke of "luck", Tony was spared from the fate of becoming a mule, foot soldier, or even hitman. Instead, at the age of 10, he began working as an assistant in kitchen of the Don's personal food taster. Part cook, part guinea pig - it was the food taster's job to make sure that Don Acerbi's meals were poison-free and fit for consumption. Most lasted on average around six months.
Tony, on the other hand, had held the job for 10 years (and counting) after Guiseppe, the previous food taster, succumbed to a tainted batch of Tiramisu. However, Tony had not escaped unscathed over the years. He had experienced his fair share of crippling stomach cramps and vomitting. One time, he was even in a coma for a week. Somehow, he always managed to continue. It earned him the nickname L'uomo di ferro, the Iron Man, for his "iron" consitution and the play on his first name. Porto Vista mafiosis weren't exactly known for their literacy.
But this time, this time it looked like Tony's number might be up. Lying on the hospital gurney, slipping in and out of consciousness, he went through the mental checklist that he had cultivated throughout the years. From the simple and obvious, "Does it look and smell ok?" to the less-obvious, poison-specific characteristics that he had taught himself.
A wry smile crossed his face as he thought of an old black and white comedy film, in which the main character, a heavyset slapstick buffoon, stumbles out of a restaurant grasping his stomach and pleads to patrons entering the restaurant, "Non mangiare il pollo!"
Don't eat the chicken. Pollo alla parmigiana. Fuck.
Tony's eyes fluttered closed as he drifted off again. Breathing slow, but steady, he added that gem to the seemingly endless list of well-intentioned, but ultimately useless advice.
Backstage
"Yo...yo, man..." *ssthp* *sssthp *sssssthp* Punch takes three more quick hits off the blunt and holds it out to JoJo. "Yo, man, you wanna hit this?"
"Naw, man, I'm good," replies JoJo
Right at that moment, Steve the Tour Manager charges into the makeshift dressing room, an almost comical mixture of panic and rage streaked across his face.
"Just what in the fuck do you guys think you're doing?!" yells Steve. "Y'all are up next and you're back here dickin' around like you've got all the goddamn time in the world. And weed?! Seriously, save that for the bus. Are you guys trying to never get another gig booked again? Because if that's the case, then-"
"Then what, motherfucker?" JoJo snaps back. He bolts up from the couch; standing toe to toe with Steve, he asks incredulously, "Are you my doctor?!" Turning to his bandmate, he continues, "Yo, Punch, did Steve here get his medical license and not bother to tell a motherfucker about it?"
Cackling from his spot on the couch, Punch replies, "Yo, that's messed up, Steve. You shouldn't be fuckin' around with us like that. We got cards for this shit. Real medical shit."
"Yup. Real medical shit," JoJo echoes.
"Like what?" challenges Steve.
"Plantar fasciitis, motherfucker," Punch retorts.
"Booyah! Eczema!" proclaims JoJo.
The cramped, musty space is silent, as Steve sighs in defeat. He lowers his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the alternating sharp inhales and luxurious exhales as Punch and JoJo pass the blunt back and forth.
"Fuck you guys. I quit."
"Naw, man, I'm good," replies JoJo
Right at that moment, Steve the Tour Manager charges into the makeshift dressing room, an almost comical mixture of panic and rage streaked across his face.
"Just what in the fuck do you guys think you're doing?!" yells Steve. "Y'all are up next and you're back here dickin' around like you've got all the goddamn time in the world. And weed?! Seriously, save that for the bus. Are you guys trying to never get another gig booked again? Because if that's the case, then-"
"Then what, motherfucker?" JoJo snaps back. He bolts up from the couch; standing toe to toe with Steve, he asks incredulously, "Are you my doctor?!" Turning to his bandmate, he continues, "Yo, Punch, did Steve here get his medical license and not bother to tell a motherfucker about it?"
Cackling from his spot on the couch, Punch replies, "Yo, that's messed up, Steve. You shouldn't be fuckin' around with us like that. We got cards for this shit. Real medical shit."
"Yup. Real medical shit," JoJo echoes.
"Like what?" challenges Steve.
"Plantar fasciitis, motherfucker," Punch retorts.
"Booyah! Eczema!" proclaims JoJo.
The cramped, musty space is silent, as Steve sighs in defeat. He lowers his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the alternating sharp inhales and luxurious exhales as Punch and JoJo pass the blunt back and forth.
"Fuck you guys. I quit."
My Invisible TV
On its own, stop-and-go rush hour traffic is bad enough. That combined with an unrelenting summer heat wave, no AC, and a broken radio is nothing short of pure torture. Gas, brake, wait. Sigh.
With all of the car windows down as far as they can go, there's really nothing else to do except sit here stewing in my own juices and entertain myself with the human dramas occurring around me.
The vehicle directly in front of me is a late-model minivan with out-of-state plates. A family of four sits inside. Obviously on vacation, by the looks of their over-packed trunk. On the one hand, I envy the the artificial freon breeze that is likely circulating inside. On the other hand, the children -- one is definitely younger than 10, the other around 13 or 14 -- seeming to have devised their own game. It's a mixture of what looks like the classic "Punch Buggy" and "Simon Says". Although, I can't hear their actual words, I can tell that it's loud. And testing every bit of their parent's willpower not to murder their offspring.
*Zap*
I turn to my left upon hearing a pounding bass sound eminating from the car next to me. The driver, oblivious to the traffic jam and other cars all around her, is holding her own private sit-down dance party. She alternately puts one hand in front of the other in a motion that makes it look like she's pulling a rope or a cart of some kind. Sounds like that YOLO Drake song, but I can't be sure...
*Zap*
The driver on my right looks to be suffering just as much as I am, if not worse. The windows of his ancient pickup don't even go down all the way. I can nevertheless hear strains of the local news and traffic report coming from his radio. Bottleneck approaching due to a freeway accident less than a mile away. Traffic may be backed up at least 5 miles behind us, but we're almost through the worst of it. We exchange weary glances. Solidarity, my sweat-covered comrade.
*Zap*
A peek in my rear-view mirror reveals a driver applying (or re-applying) make up. Could be worse, I suppose. Still, I could probably make money hand over fist, if I could invent a product that allows women to apply make up in the car, without sacrificing safety...or fashion. I imagine it would be some type of mask-like contraption. You'd have to choose the makeup combinations in advance, but then you could just put it on your face and drive. Set it and forget it, as the great Ron Popeil always says.
Money, hand over fist...maybe that's the name of the dance that the woman was doing.
I sit forward in the driver's seat and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The air around me is so thick; it's the kind of heat that makes you feel like you're somehow outside of yourself. I put my car into park and close my eyes for the briefest of moments.
*HONK*
Jolted awake, it takes a microsecond for me to recall my surroundings. Minivan family and YOLO are already gone. Comrade Pickup has already merged in front of me. Set-It-And-Forget-It is the likely honking culprit.
I glare back at her through my rearview, put the car into drive and start rolling forward.
With all of the car windows down as far as they can go, there's really nothing else to do except sit here stewing in my own juices and entertain myself with the human dramas occurring around me.
The vehicle directly in front of me is a late-model minivan with out-of-state plates. A family of four sits inside. Obviously on vacation, by the looks of their over-packed trunk. On the one hand, I envy the the artificial freon breeze that is likely circulating inside. On the other hand, the children -- one is definitely younger than 10, the other around 13 or 14 -- seeming to have devised their own game. It's a mixture of what looks like the classic "Punch Buggy" and "Simon Says". Although, I can't hear their actual words, I can tell that it's loud. And testing every bit of their parent's willpower not to murder their offspring.
*Zap*
I turn to my left upon hearing a pounding bass sound eminating from the car next to me. The driver, oblivious to the traffic jam and other cars all around her, is holding her own private sit-down dance party. She alternately puts one hand in front of the other in a motion that makes it look like she's pulling a rope or a cart of some kind. Sounds like that YOLO Drake song, but I can't be sure...
*Zap*
The driver on my right looks to be suffering just as much as I am, if not worse. The windows of his ancient pickup don't even go down all the way. I can nevertheless hear strains of the local news and traffic report coming from his radio. Bottleneck approaching due to a freeway accident less than a mile away. Traffic may be backed up at least 5 miles behind us, but we're almost through the worst of it. We exchange weary glances. Solidarity, my sweat-covered comrade.
*Zap*
A peek in my rear-view mirror reveals a driver applying (or re-applying) make up. Could be worse, I suppose. Still, I could probably make money hand over fist, if I could invent a product that allows women to apply make up in the car, without sacrificing safety...or fashion. I imagine it would be some type of mask-like contraption. You'd have to choose the makeup combinations in advance, but then you could just put it on your face and drive. Set it and forget it, as the great Ron Popeil always says.
Money, hand over fist...maybe that's the name of the dance that the woman was doing.
I sit forward in the driver's seat and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The air around me is so thick; it's the kind of heat that makes you feel like you're somehow outside of yourself. I put my car into park and close my eyes for the briefest of moments.
*HONK*
Jolted awake, it takes a microsecond for me to recall my surroundings. Minivan family and YOLO are already gone. Comrade Pickup has already merged in front of me. Set-It-And-Forget-It is the likely honking culprit.
I glare back at her through my rearview, put the car into drive and start rolling forward.