backforthmenu Later That Day... “Hello?” She always answered the phone on speaker mode. Bugs me. “Hey.” “Hi you.” She picked up, knowing it bugs me. ”How’s it going?” “All right... I guess. I’m tired as hell.” “Yeah? Me to. What’s up?” She talked fast, but her voice felt good in my ear. “Not much, just wanted to say hello.” I was actually pretty bummed but I tried to avoid bringing it up—she always bore the brunt of my funks. “You still feeling sick?” I asked. “It’s weird, but not really, I guess. My body’s fighting it off—I don’t feel better, but I don’t feel worse. I’m too crazed here to even think about it.” A hint to get me off the phone? “That’s good. I suppose.” Pause. She finally broke the silence. “So, what’s going on over there today? Everything cool?” Worried tone. I’d unintentionally indicated that something was wrong. “Just got back from lunch.” “Late one. Where’d you eat?” “Baba Pizza.” “Bad Pizza?” “No, Baba Pizza. Over by the bank... the car broke down there.” “Ohhh, damn. That sucks. What happened this time?” “Piece of shit, that’s what happened. I had it towed to Joe’s.” “How’d you get back to work?” “I walked.” “What! That’s like, five miles, isn’t it? Why didn’t you call anyone from work to pick you up?” She went on about how the guys from work would’ve been glad to come and get me. “I needed the walk,” I answered. No reply. She was peeved now. “I did... really, I enjoyed it.” “Andy...” Pity tone. I started again before she could lecture me on the virtues of something or other. “You know they have a sandwich named after Mussolini there?” “What? Where?” “At Baba—the woman that runs that place is so loud. She yelled the entire time. I couldn’t pin-point her accent. It wasn’t Italian... so I couldn’t help thinking, ‘Why the Mussolini?’ Isn’t that strange?” No answer. I went on. “It’s some kind of crazy sausage thing—the sandwich.” An image of the dictator and his wife tied up, hanging upside down flashed along with a vague memory of being told people had spit on their dead bodies. “Anyway, it was all loud in there, with her yelling and a big TV blasting the ‘People’s Court’—you know the former mayor of New York is the judge on that show now...” “You’re kidding? What's-his-name, Dinkins?” Her anger had already waned—she was slowly drawing away from our conversation and being sucked back into her own day, but I went on, a need to talk had seized me. “No, Ed Koch. Can you believe it? Jesus. He was mediating an argument between a woman and her carpet cleaners. They had hauled the carpets in there and were all yelling at each other about blood stains. This while I waited for my order. Then, the people who came in after me got their food first...” “I hate that.” “And I was really hungry—like, headache style hungry—and the people on the huge TV just kept arguing over blood and the counter lady was yelling and I was trying to figure out what to do about the car...” At this point, I almost stopped talking. I didn’t. I should have. “From where I sat I could see out the front door which was open—the clouds were so huge and there was this tiny sliver of amazing blue sky showing above the shitty strip mall. I had an overwhelming desire to just float up off my seat, out the door and into the sky. I really felt like I could have done it. I wish I could have done it.” “Really?” She was listening again. The worried tone had returned in her voice. I’d forgotten she already thought I was nuts. I made an attempt to backtrack. “Yeah, well, you know... I just wanted to get some distance on the mess.” “Are you okay?” Too late. I had dug a hole and I didn’t want to be in it. “YES, I’m fine...” Irritation came through. “The car is at Joe’s and I’ve got a ride home. Now I’m just tired.” Now I was trying to end the conversation. “I just want to lay down. I think I might.” “Maybe you should. You wouldn’t be tired if you’d called for a ride.” Another pause, then she started again. “Are you sure you’re okay?” ”Of course.” How could I get mad? I’d wanted to tell her everything, what kind of reaction did I expect? “Maybe they were just trying to be funny,” I said. “Huh?” “With that sandwich, I mean... the Mussolini. You know... Italian sausage.” We hung up. 4/3/99