I saved a guy’s life. And I didn't do it by jumping in the water. I brought him from sickness to health and he never missed a paycheck - or a premium. There is no doubt in anyone’s mind that if not for me, he would be dead.
He used to work here. He got sick. I pulled him out of hell – a hospital up in Manayunk, and got him into Penn. I even paid his carfare up to Sloan after I convinced the doctor to see him, who wasn’t looking for patients, believe me. I saw him through treatment and back behind a slicer, where I let him sleep for weeks. This guy was dying of the same disease that was killing my sister, and I was desperately trying to save her life. It wasn’t working. But for this guy, who got to tag along, it worked fine.
Two days after my sister’s funeral, I get a letter from this guy. The letter wasn’t addressed to me. It was addressed to my cousin, who handed it to me halfway up Mole Street with tears in his eyes. There was a list of cc’s that included my partner and my uncle. I’m so sorry, my cousin said. Just tell me what to do.
It was a long letter, and once I got the gist of it, it was hard to read, so I skimmed. He called me everything in the book – a liar, a thief, a hypocrite, a dissembler, a conspirator, you name it. Plus, there was no redeeming quality I didn’t lack. I had betrayed my family in every way, my recent agonies on their behalf not withstanding. I was a mentally disturbed sociopath who held everyone in contempt. He had proof.
He gave this letter to me at the wake, my cousin said. It made me afraid of him. Then it made me angry. Now, it makes me want to cry. I agreed it was heartbreaking, which we didn’t need.
People do the strangest things, especially when they face death. If this guy’s reaction wasn’t so disturbing, I might have been angry too. So I told my cousin not to do anything, since the only thing left was to make it worse. But it was impossible not to broach the subject with this guy, since he was still working here, cashing his paycheck out of the register. All I said was: I saw what you wrote. That was it. Then I accepted his resignation, which didn’t feel especially good, but wasn’t so bad.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Art of Eating
My mother hates food, which is something I’ve said before. She thinks I want to blame her for everything, but the only thing she’s responsible for is this gut I’m sporting. Call it reactionary. And you should see my brother, poor thing. It’s no reward for being her favorite.
My mother would have made an excellent purser, one more career denied. Our house was full of food, but we weren’t allowed to eat it. For some reason, crackers went into the basement instead of the cupboard, where they adopted some funny tastes down there in the dark. Fresh meat went into the freezer, from which a deeply frozen piece of something else was extracted, defrosted, and eaten so there was room for the fresh piece, which would emerge sometime in the future, like a time capsule of what was being eaten way back when.
I was sitting at her table and asked for mayonnaise. Luckily, I looked at the date, which began with 19. I pointed out who was president before spreading it further. I just opened it, she answered. The dates are there for a reason, I said. This condiment was made before the war on terror. They’re lying, she answered. They always lie. They just put those dates on there so you’ll buy more mayonnaise.
My wife loves food and makes her own mayo, but she’s like a broomstick, which in Italy is no compliment. But she never thinks about food unless she’s hungry, which isn’t true for Americans, who think about food all the time. I saw a German mother confront two American kids in a pool at a hotel where I stay, which is what I get for being there in August. The kids were standing in the water, eating ice cream. The German lady was furious. Why are you eating in the pool? she demanded. Because we’re hungry, they answered. The German lady was livid. How can you possibly be hungry? Look at you, she said. This brought over the American mother, no small specimen herself, who was ready with an explanation. They eat a lot, she said, even if they just ate.
This confirmed a theory for my wife, who contends that the reason we eat so much is because we’re never fed properly in the first place. We tend not to overeat but to dwell on it constantly, doling it out by the calorie, always wanting more. We simply don’t know how to eat, which art largely involves doing the opposite of what we do.
Italians skip breakfast, shop when they’re hungry, eat when they’re starving, gorge, feel sick, and sleep on a full stomach. Dinner is a form of punishment after eating so much at lunch, so they barely touch it. They make themselves disgusted with food, swearing off the stuff by the time they’re ready for bed, which usually involves some kind of purgative. I love a good bicarbonate of soda with Ferrarelle and fresh lemon. By lunchtime the next day, you’re ready to eat all over again.
My mother would have made an excellent purser, one more career denied. Our house was full of food, but we weren’t allowed to eat it. For some reason, crackers went into the basement instead of the cupboard, where they adopted some funny tastes down there in the dark. Fresh meat went into the freezer, from which a deeply frozen piece of something else was extracted, defrosted, and eaten so there was room for the fresh piece, which would emerge sometime in the future, like a time capsule of what was being eaten way back when.
I was sitting at her table and asked for mayonnaise. Luckily, I looked at the date, which began with 19. I pointed out who was president before spreading it further. I just opened it, she answered. The dates are there for a reason, I said. This condiment was made before the war on terror. They’re lying, she answered. They always lie. They just put those dates on there so you’ll buy more mayonnaise.
My wife loves food and makes her own mayo, but she’s like a broomstick, which in Italy is no compliment. But she never thinks about food unless she’s hungry, which isn’t true for Americans, who think about food all the time. I saw a German mother confront two American kids in a pool at a hotel where I stay, which is what I get for being there in August. The kids were standing in the water, eating ice cream. The German lady was furious. Why are you eating in the pool? she demanded. Because we’re hungry, they answered. The German lady was livid. How can you possibly be hungry? Look at you, she said. This brought over the American mother, no small specimen herself, who was ready with an explanation. They eat a lot, she said, even if they just ate.
This confirmed a theory for my wife, who contends that the reason we eat so much is because we’re never fed properly in the first place. We tend not to overeat but to dwell on it constantly, doling it out by the calorie, always wanting more. We simply don’t know how to eat, which art largely involves doing the opposite of what we do.
Italians skip breakfast, shop when they’re hungry, eat when they’re starving, gorge, feel sick, and sleep on a full stomach. Dinner is a form of punishment after eating so much at lunch, so they barely touch it. They make themselves disgusted with food, swearing off the stuff by the time they’re ready for bed, which usually involves some kind of purgative. I love a good bicarbonate of soda with Ferrarelle and fresh lemon. By lunchtime the next day, you’re ready to eat all over again.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Genius
I got a guy who’s a genius. Seriously. Why do you think I hired him? He’s crazy, that’s for sure. Maybe dangerous. But he’s so smart that he makes you think that you’re the one who’s crazy, which is what I love about him. I already fired him twice, but he’s still here.
He’s one step ahead of everybody else, which is his big problem. Take it easy is usually my advice after he fucks everything up by going too fast. How do you think you crash? A guy like that should go to sea.
At sea you sit around a lot and stare at the water. At some point, no matter how much you hate it, you love it. First of all, you have no choice. Second, it’s the closest to an afterlife you’ll ever know – everything and nothing. I loved it right away, since it’s better than any medication I’ve tried. It also helps that I can swim.
My son died at sea. He thought he knew more than he knew and it killed him. But I never blamed the sea. None of us did. It doesn’t take a genius - which my son happened to be. He could swim, too. But the sea doesn’t care. It will take whom it wants, or who gets too close. That’s why I like the flying bridge.
I used to work for a woman who called me a genius. She was really convinced. I later discovered that she said it about everybody who worked there. Still, we all liked it. As a management tool, it was very effective, which is not to say this guy isn’t a genius. Plus, I have to think of him that way because he expects it. I’m guessing that his parents praised the genius part but were in denial about the other issues.
Whenever he reaches an impasse, instead of stopping to think, he reminds himself that he’s a genius, and thinks up some very stupid shit, convinced it must be genius. Or he lets serendipity be his guide instead of reaching for his calculator. Then he gets stubborn about it. This is where he reaches a terminal impasse, which has resulted in too many employers for a genius his age.
He’s one step ahead of everybody else, which is his big problem. Take it easy is usually my advice after he fucks everything up by going too fast. How do you think you crash? A guy like that should go to sea.
At sea you sit around a lot and stare at the water. At some point, no matter how much you hate it, you love it. First of all, you have no choice. Second, it’s the closest to an afterlife you’ll ever know – everything and nothing. I loved it right away, since it’s better than any medication I’ve tried. It also helps that I can swim.
My son died at sea. He thought he knew more than he knew and it killed him. But I never blamed the sea. None of us did. It doesn’t take a genius - which my son happened to be. He could swim, too. But the sea doesn’t care. It will take whom it wants, or who gets too close. That’s why I like the flying bridge.
I used to work for a woman who called me a genius. She was really convinced. I later discovered that she said it about everybody who worked there. Still, we all liked it. As a management tool, it was very effective, which is not to say this guy isn’t a genius. Plus, I have to think of him that way because he expects it. I’m guessing that his parents praised the genius part but were in denial about the other issues.
Whenever he reaches an impasse, instead of stopping to think, he reminds himself that he’s a genius, and thinks up some very stupid shit, convinced it must be genius. Or he lets serendipity be his guide instead of reaching for his calculator. Then he gets stubborn about it. This is where he reaches a terminal impasse, which has resulted in too many employers for a genius his age.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Neapolitan
Why choose one flavor when you can have three? Still, I’m not sure why they call vanilla, chocolate and strawberry a Neapolitan, because those people want it all – especially coffee. My father-in-law rarely eats ice cream and he never takes more than one flavor at a time. And he hates sandwiches. He won’t eat one. He’ll reduce it to its components, which is not to say he’s dainty. He drives his knife and fork like a Ferrari, and it’s a beautiful thing to see. He also loves to whistle Chopin, especially when we’re on our way to eat. The one thing I can say about his whistling is that he does it loud.
As a boy he saw his life completely destroyed, so his looking forward to lunch is informed with a knowledge you and I don’t possess – and it doesn’t include fast food. This guy has seen everything and he enjoys most of it, even a sandwich, as long as he can sit properly, take it apart, and put it back together in his stomach. He is an Engineer, after all. He always takes his time, he’s never frustrated, and he never has a bad thing to say about anybody, especially when he’s at the table.
He started out as the ring bearer for his cousin the Princess, which is where I found him, in the only photo he has before the war. His grandfather is just behind the bride, chatting with the King of Hungary, making a point even as his niece is walking down the aisle, the exact same guy as my father-in-law but with a bowler and as Secretary of State. My father-in-law is 5 years old and out in front, like the whole party is for him.
He was an only child. His father played the piano, the only person in the family to carry a tune in centuries. Consequently, he was no disappointment to his father the statesman, who loved him dearly. We have one photo of my wife’s grandfather, sitting at a piano in formal wear, spats on the pedals. A few years later he was dead, leaving my father-in-law, at 14, alone with his mother - a debutante from Philadelphia with no relatives in Italy who couldn’t even speak Neapolitan.
They lived in a big house down in Posillipo, a gift from the grandfather, who got a street named after him up in Vomero (which is bad news for my brother-in-law, who now has that name and can never go near the place, which is a shame, since there’s a good friggitoria up there). But that was before Mussolini. When that idiot showed up, the party was over, since whatever money they had left was worthless. And being the opposition in a nation of opportunists, they went from having few friends to having none, this widow and her son, just as the war was breaking out. So they lived alone in poverty and hunger, which was common in Naples, stuck in their big, cold, damp house. Then the house got bombed and they had nothing.
They found a couple of pictures, taken from their frames by the firemen, who were not begrudged. As a courtesy, the firemen left a locked armoire standing upright, undisturbed. There was little inside. My father-in-law says it’s a good thing there wasn’t anything much, since they had nowhere to go. Luckily, he was 17 and in love - another condition common in Naples.
I once got a letter from a French Viscount, who would be a Cardinal among Cardinals. It had my name on it. It was a 7 part wedding invitation on hand-made paper inscribed in purple with a cut pen. I was afraid to open it. My wife took it away like I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my phone. She looked inside and made a face like she spit out a bad cherry. My cousin, she said. Do we have to go? I asked, thinking of the pate at L'Ami Louis. Most certainly not, she said. My poor parents, though.
This invitation had nothing to do with my father-in-law. It had to do with his in-laws. I mention it because it’s where my wife grew up. I know it sounds strange, but some girls grow up that way, with Viscounts all around. The only question I had at the time was: How did they get my name?
She dropped the subject until our own wedding rolled around. Ours was at the Municipio on Capri with lunch at Paolino – the usual deal. My father-in-law paid for everything, including a dozen hotel bills. He invited more people than I expected and I was presented with a seating plan. I looked to my right. Who’s this uncle from Rome? I asked. You’ll be fine, I was told. His English is perfect. The night before, my wife tells me that this uncle was the Ambassador to France, some years ago. I ask: Why did you wait until now? She says: Because it might come up at lunch.
It didn’t. I got this perfectly charming older gentleman who gave the most beautiful toast I ever heard. He described me as someone I never met, drawing on a relationship we didn’t have, in an amazing attempt to fully impart what I had just spent about 10 seconds trying to impress upon him, but without the pretense and twice the nerve. I didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he repeated everything in English and it all made sense.
I understood that my father-in-law didn’t get along with this guy, his brother-in-law the Baron, this uncle from Rome, who never missed an opportunity to use his title, even though as Ambassador you’d have thought he earned a better one. But no, Baron it is, which is a sticking point with my father-in-law, who has steadfastly refused to call this guy Baron under any circumstances since the old Baron died, which would be about 40 years ago. Ambassador is what he calls him, which is the closest my father-in-law comes to contempt.
Like I said, my father-in-law is an Engineer, which title he is never without. It is his sword and shield. Engineers are men of action. They must do. It is not sufficient to be. And his is a generation that idolizes Engineers, which figures, since Naples was a wreck - something that tends to happen over there. Nature wrecks it slowly, unless there’s an earthquake or something. But when it’s people, fighting over all that beauty, expect a better job.
So he got himself through college and even managed to build a building before he came to his senses and began working for his father-in-law, the late, great Baron who was in need of a son with less pretension and more desire, who wanted to stay in Naples and take money from the air. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father-in-law had the same name as the first son of the city and a father of the Democratic state, which noble idea was briefly sidetracked. Add that to the manufacture of oxygen, and you have a happy ending.
The first time I met my father-in-law was on Capri. He was in a bathing suit being served breakfast on his boat. He couldn’t have seemed more at home. Funny thing, he made me feel the same way. Believe me, I was prepared to disembark after my delivery of pasticci, but there wasn’t a bit of it. My wife had sent me down to the marina alone, with instructions to introduce myself, shake hands, and come right back with breakfast. I had already met my mother-in-law, even spent a day on the boat while my father-in-law was at the office (it was like watching my wife in 30 years, and I fell in love twice), so I knew I had a green light. But I wanted to stop, not go, and it’s been that way ever since.
As a boy he saw his life completely destroyed, so his looking forward to lunch is informed with a knowledge you and I don’t possess – and it doesn’t include fast food. This guy has seen everything and he enjoys most of it, even a sandwich, as long as he can sit properly, take it apart, and put it back together in his stomach. He is an Engineer, after all. He always takes his time, he’s never frustrated, and he never has a bad thing to say about anybody, especially when he’s at the table.
He started out as the ring bearer for his cousin the Princess, which is where I found him, in the only photo he has before the war. His grandfather is just behind the bride, chatting with the King of Hungary, making a point even as his niece is walking down the aisle, the exact same guy as my father-in-law but with a bowler and as Secretary of State. My father-in-law is 5 years old and out in front, like the whole party is for him.
He was an only child. His father played the piano, the only person in the family to carry a tune in centuries. Consequently, he was no disappointment to his father the statesman, who loved him dearly. We have one photo of my wife’s grandfather, sitting at a piano in formal wear, spats on the pedals. A few years later he was dead, leaving my father-in-law, at 14, alone with his mother - a debutante from Philadelphia with no relatives in Italy who couldn’t even speak Neapolitan.
They lived in a big house down in Posillipo, a gift from the grandfather, who got a street named after him up in Vomero (which is bad news for my brother-in-law, who now has that name and can never go near the place, which is a shame, since there’s a good friggitoria up there). But that was before Mussolini. When that idiot showed up, the party was over, since whatever money they had left was worthless. And being the opposition in a nation of opportunists, they went from having few friends to having none, this widow and her son, just as the war was breaking out. So they lived alone in poverty and hunger, which was common in Naples, stuck in their big, cold, damp house. Then the house got bombed and they had nothing.
They found a couple of pictures, taken from their frames by the firemen, who were not begrudged. As a courtesy, the firemen left a locked armoire standing upright, undisturbed. There was little inside. My father-in-law says it’s a good thing there wasn’t anything much, since they had nowhere to go. Luckily, he was 17 and in love - another condition common in Naples.
I once got a letter from a French Viscount, who would be a Cardinal among Cardinals. It had my name on it. It was a 7 part wedding invitation on hand-made paper inscribed in purple with a cut pen. I was afraid to open it. My wife took it away like I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my phone. She looked inside and made a face like she spit out a bad cherry. My cousin, she said. Do we have to go? I asked, thinking of the pate at L'Ami Louis. Most certainly not, she said. My poor parents, though.
This invitation had nothing to do with my father-in-law. It had to do with his in-laws. I mention it because it’s where my wife grew up. I know it sounds strange, but some girls grow up that way, with Viscounts all around. The only question I had at the time was: How did they get my name?
She dropped the subject until our own wedding rolled around. Ours was at the Municipio on Capri with lunch at Paolino – the usual deal. My father-in-law paid for everything, including a dozen hotel bills. He invited more people than I expected and I was presented with a seating plan. I looked to my right. Who’s this uncle from Rome? I asked. You’ll be fine, I was told. His English is perfect. The night before, my wife tells me that this uncle was the Ambassador to France, some years ago. I ask: Why did you wait until now? She says: Because it might come up at lunch.
It didn’t. I got this perfectly charming older gentleman who gave the most beautiful toast I ever heard. He described me as someone I never met, drawing on a relationship we didn’t have, in an amazing attempt to fully impart what I had just spent about 10 seconds trying to impress upon him, but without the pretense and twice the nerve. I didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he repeated everything in English and it all made sense.
I understood that my father-in-law didn’t get along with this guy, his brother-in-law the Baron, this uncle from Rome, who never missed an opportunity to use his title, even though as Ambassador you’d have thought he earned a better one. But no, Baron it is, which is a sticking point with my father-in-law, who has steadfastly refused to call this guy Baron under any circumstances since the old Baron died, which would be about 40 years ago. Ambassador is what he calls him, which is the closest my father-in-law comes to contempt.
Like I said, my father-in-law is an Engineer, which title he is never without. It is his sword and shield. Engineers are men of action. They must do. It is not sufficient to be. And his is a generation that idolizes Engineers, which figures, since Naples was a wreck - something that tends to happen over there. Nature wrecks it slowly, unless there’s an earthquake or something. But when it’s people, fighting over all that beauty, expect a better job.
So he got himself through college and even managed to build a building before he came to his senses and began working for his father-in-law, the late, great Baron who was in need of a son with less pretension and more desire, who wanted to stay in Naples and take money from the air. Of course, it didn’t hurt that my father-in-law had the same name as the first son of the city and a father of the Democratic state, which noble idea was briefly sidetracked. Add that to the manufacture of oxygen, and you have a happy ending.
The first time I met my father-in-law was on Capri. He was in a bathing suit being served breakfast on his boat. He couldn’t have seemed more at home. Funny thing, he made me feel the same way. Believe me, I was prepared to disembark after my delivery of pasticci, but there wasn’t a bit of it. My wife had sent me down to the marina alone, with instructions to introduce myself, shake hands, and come right back with breakfast. I had already met my mother-in-law, even spent a day on the boat while my father-in-law was at the office (it was like watching my wife in 30 years, and I fell in love twice), so I knew I had a green light. But I wanted to stop, not go, and it’s been that way ever since.
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