I know a guy who won’t eat my food. It hurts me, because I like this guy. I see myself in this guy, except this guy was an orphan. He grew up on pastina, with some polenta thrown in. While I was sporting 12 inch hoagies, he had potato sandwiches. But I didn’t know him then, so I never did anything to make it worse. But he acts like it’s somehow my fault. He always seems pissed at me, like I was Lord Fauntleroy and a wiseguy to boot.
When he first moved in, I said hello to him in the street, stopped him cold and shook his hand, walked with him. I made him laugh. Better, he made me laugh. We went past the church and neither one of us made the sign of the cross. I asked where he went to school and he told me about being an orphan. He studied hard and became a pharmacist, worked like a dog. Now he was set up.
I sent over a couple of stromboli, like you do when somebody moves in. He sent them back. Said he was a vegetarian. I was shocked. At least he could have passed them on. But I always gave him my prescriptions, what few I had, and I always said hello when I saw him on the street. Until he started acting like he didn’t see me, which wasn’t very nice. Still, I sent over my prescriptions, which started to feel like I was sending insults, which I admit, I enjoyed. But never once did he order anything from me. I even saw him get through an entire community board meeting without touching the food I sent. And everybody was crazy for the food.
I thought it was something I did, but my wife said it wasn’t my problem; it was his problem, poor thing, which didn’t make me feel much better. I don’t like problems, especially if it’s a problem that involves me. And if it’s something I did, I’d like to undo it. I reminded my wife that you don’t want to be on the wrong side of your pharmacist. Her response was to see that my prescriptions were sent elsewhere.
I saw him once at The Bellevue, in the bar. I said hello, and I was all set to ask him what was the problem, when he completely shut me up by being the nicest guy in the world. He asked me about my family, told me how good I looked, mentioned my mother, and thought that the Bellevue never looked better. He ran down the mayor, made another joke about the dentist on Chadwick St, and then blew me off when he saw his appointment, another hail-fellow well met. I never got a word in, even though my mouth was open the whole time.
I understood that he was having none of me, and I understood why everybody was sending over their prescriptions. They loved the guy. I just couldn’t figure why he was cutting me out. I was never anything but nice. But some guys are like that. They refuse to give you any satisfaction, and it’s a point of pride. They need an enemy and they pick you. Just like that. You’re like a voodoo doll, an empty well, a can to kick. And they hate everything about you, once they get going.
My wife says he feels threatened by me. I say I’m the one who feels threatened. I feel like a prisoner falsely accused. I’m being forced to hate a guy I’d like to like, and I can’t figure out how to get on his right side. I can’t re-write the script because I’m trapped inside the play. My son says it’s because the guy is short, not so handsome, and is in love with my wife. Maybe so, but I wish the asshole would just taste my eggplant.
