He said, “Come on. Let me see you do it.”
So I tried, but the dough didn’t get much spin on it, and it came down in roughly the same shape as it had begun. There’d been an all-encompassing sadness in its trajectory. I didn’t have the magic. The old guy went nuts on me.
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT, YOU COCKSUCKER? YOU’RE ALL WRONG, COCKSUCKER. DO IT AGAIN. THIS TIME, DO IT BETTER.”
I did it again. Worse.
“NO. FUCK. SHIT. NO NO NO. SHIT FUCK. DO IT AGAIN, COCKSUCKER.”
I did it again, about as bad, and the old fuck pantomimed a series of simpering motions so as to insinuate that I threw dough like a queen. Then he wheeled around and said, “THROW IT HIGH. HIGH. SO THEY CAN HEAR IT IN THE DINING ROOM.”
I didn’t understand what was happening.
He said, “WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? ARE YOU A MAN OR WHAT?”
Obviously the pay wasn’t good, but on the bright side nobody apart from Old Man Gerasene seemed to mind if you took a fuckload of cigarette breaks. So that was good and I spent a lot of time hanging out behind the restaurant, bullshitting.
There was a young waiter who went to the same school I did. He was a skinny white kid like I was, except he smoked Newports and I smoked Winstons. He told me he was fucking one of Gerasene’s granddaughters.
Old Man Gerasene had half a dozen daughters and granddaughters. They all drove Escalades or Denalis or whatever and they liked soap operas and The Sopranos and shit like that. They all worked at the restaurant, not doing very much. I don’t know if Old Man Gerasene had any sons or grandsons, but if he did they didn’t go to the restaurant.
Anyway. The waiter told me how he was fucking Gabriella. Gabriella was 21. She had a pretty face and she was stacked. She always wore fuck-me shoes, rain or shine. She seemed nice enough, but the waiter didn’t give a shit one way or another.
“She’s dumb as a rock,” he said.
I couldn’t see how it mattered.
“She likes getting that ass stretched out, though,” he said. “And she buys me clothes.”
There was nothing worth saying, so I just looked up at the sky. Clearly this guy had the magic.
I went back inside and there were a few tickets up, so I started in on throwing the dough again, and every time I threw the dough and it spread out in the air I couldn’t help thinking about Gabriella and her dilating asshole.
* * *
—
I’D MEANT to drop out of school, but I took a 5mg Klonopin and drank half a 40 of Olde English and blacked out at the art museum. So I fucked off the deadline for dropping classes and I ended up having to fail out.
I got a letter saying I had to go see Father Whomever so he could tell me I was finished at the university. Which he did. And he asked me if I’d ever traveled outside of the United States. I told him I’d been to Spain once. He said I was lucky. He’d been all of 60 the first time he ever got to go overseas. And here I was, so young and already been to Spain! Then he asked me what I was going to do, and I told him I was probably gonna mind my own goddamn business.
* * *
—
BY MAY I had moved out of my parents’ house and gone to live in a duplex on Murray Hill with my friend Roy and his cousin Joe and whoever else happened to be there (primarily James Lightfoot). Roy was a big Irish kid, and he wore the same fucked-up sport coat every day and drank 40s and rolled cigarettes with pipe tobacco. Joe was a pretty little wop. He couldn’t not get laid all the time. It was really something. He was adopted; that’s how he was Roy’s cousin. He was the toughest one of the three of us. He was tough as shit. We used to beat the shit out of each other to prove how tough we were, so that’s how we knew.
Joe painted houses with Roy. And they actually made okay money. But then Joe signed up with the Marines, so he’d be done painting houses for a while. He was leaving for Parris Island in a few weeks.
Roy didn’t ever join the Marines, but he did call up Gerasene’s for me and lied and told them I’d broken my arm skateboarding at Cain Park. They said that was fine. And he got me hired at a restaurant on Mayfield, a nice place with two big dining rooms, high coffered ceilings, and one toilet. The owner was a dick but not too bad and all the waitresses were gorgeous and you could make money there. They had these Turkish guys working in the kitchen who’d pull a knife on you over nothing, so you felt like you were really alive. The manager started me off busing tables, but I didn’t have enough personality for it and my shoes were all wrong, so he stuck me making salads.
* * *
—
EMILY WAS leaving in three days. She was going home to Elba. She’d be in Montreal by the end of the summer. I had put together a picnic lunch: some fruit, some cold ravioli, some caprese salad, and some bottles of cheap red wine. The plan was that Emily and I would have a picnic down by the pond in back of the art museum. Instead we had it in Roy’s attic. We drank one of the bottles of wine, and we fucked there, in the attic. She was above me, concentrating. I could tell she was concentrating because her jaw would go a little sideways when she concentrated like that. Which was absolutely the most beautiful thing in the world.
It was a clear day and the sun was going pretty well so the attic became unbearably hot and we did eventually make it down to the pond, where a good number of people of all shapes and persuasions were out enjoying the weather. Emily and I sat by the water and talked about all the things we thought we were going to do. I said I wouldn’t go if she didn’t go.
She said, “Fuck you.”
And I guess I was wrong to try her like that. It was only that it had been such a good day, and I thought most of the days would have been as good.
* * *
—
I WENT into work at six. It was supposed to be a big night. The owner was throwing a party after we closed at twelve and the salad station was being converted into an extra bar and I’d get to serve drinks. I’d told Emily and Roy and Joe to be sure they came through so they could drink for free. They’d said they would come. And they did.
I saw Roy and Joe first. They were talking to the owner. Joe was saying how in three weeks’ time he’d be at basic training. The owner listened intently. He liked Joe because Joe looked like a TV dago; he said, “Parris Island…that’s Marines, isn’t it?”
Joe said, “Yeah.”
“But that’s a good way to go to heaven.”
I got Roy’s attention. I asked him where Emily was.
He said, “She’s around here somewhere.”
“Okay. That doesn’t really help me but thanks.”
“Gosh, look who’s on his period.”
“Man, what the fuck!”
“What?”
“Who the fuck is he?”
“How the fuck should I know?”
He was standing real close to her. And she brought him with her when she came over to the bar/salad station.
She said hi.
I looked at her.
“This is Benji,” she said. “Benji’s from Ghana. He goes to Case.”
I said what’s up to Benji. He flashed a smile at me and just as quickly turned back to Emily.
“I know this great restaurant,” he said. “It is called Mi Aldea. The food is so good there. I must take you sometime.”
She said, “Mmm. That sounds good.”
I came around from behind the bar/salad station and I put my arm around Emily and kissed her on the top of her head. But I was drunk and I accidentally dropped a lit cigarette into the hood of her sweatshirt.
Benji said, “Watch out. He has dropped his cigarette in your hoodie.”
“Get it out, man!” she said to me.
I didn’t understand at first. I got the cigarette out, but not before it had burned a hole through the material.
“Is it okay?” she asked.
“It’s fine,” I said. “Can we please talk somewhere?”
“What?”
“Let’s go over here.”
“You’re being an asshole.”
“Shh. Listen to me. Nobody thinks the food at Mi Aldea is good. The only reason he wants to take you there is cuz they don’t card and he wants to get you drunk and fuck you in the ass.”