Prelude To An Interview With Niccolo Fontana

Professor Fontana

What follows is a brief introduction of yet another brilliant author of Sicilian descent, that introduction amplified by an extended, occasionally interesting, recounting of the ordinary circumstances that connect his life with my own. Factual inaccuracies are intentional. No names have been changed, because no one is innocent, not even Joan Baez.

Niccolo Fontana teaches at his alma mater, the University of Absecon in New Jersey, home of The Lonesome Gull. His most sought after courses include The Speleological Evidence of Social Media Site Addiction During The Late Paleolithic Period, The Psychopathology of Dead Egotistical Authors Like Norman Mailer and Kurt Vonnegut, and The Similarities Between 21st Century Paranormal Romance Novels And Computer Viruses.

As well, Professor Fontana is a prolific author of fiction, nonfiction and falsified fiction books; short stories of resentment and revenge; and yawn-inducing articles printed in esoteric academic journals. His most recent publications include the soporific textbook, A Short History of A Nonexistent Revolution (Absegami Press, 2004), the pornographic masterpiece, Why Mary Jane Broke The Law (Farther, Stravinsky & Jareau, 2007) and the delicious short story, “Don’t Bogart That Legume” (Vegan Light Magazine, Issue 87, Spring 2010).

September 2012 will see publication of the first book of what he plans to become a three-part memoir. Volume I is titled, My Vanity Was Wounded At The Battle For Woodstock (Cocker, Jagger & Joplin Ltd.).

Mr. Fontana lives in Clam Haven Township, NJ, on the bank of the Mullica River. There he shares a clapboard cabin with his dog, Tom, his canary, Dick, and his muskrat, Barry.

Niccolo Fontana and I were roommates and putative close friends during our undergraduate years at Absecon University, years that featured Richard Nixon, William Westmoreland and Jane Fonda as both superstars and criminals. Together we grew our first fuzzy mustaches; analyzed our tepid sexual conquests; waxed philosophic about The Revolution we helped to foster; and became one with Krishnamurti at beach blanket, consciousness raising barbecues on The Marshland Quad.

Each one of our testosterone-dressed salad days arrived sunrise-spiced and golden with the aromatic promise of a future drenched in patchouli oil and sexual secretions. The universe beheld our hyperbolic sense of self-importance and moaned. Silken spirituality oozed from our pores. Love and lust had conspired to conceive us, and yet we enjoyed our misconception of their egotistical intentions.

Four years of incense, protest, pretense and nonsense. And then . . .

Absegami Tower
Absegami Tower at Absecon U.

On graduation day – Rah, rah, roo! Abbey U.! — Niccolo Fontana and I exchanged vows of infinite and eternal camaraderie. I pricked his fingertip, and he pricked mine, with the flame-cleansed tip of a platinum-plated paperclip, blessed with holy water and lent to us by the frat house chaplain, Friar Primo Sullivan.

“Non importa quanto lontano siamo vagare, saremo sempre giovane insieme,” we sang. Our two voices curled round each other to form a Sicilian treble clef, then joined inside a wave of vibratory exaltation to become one haunted note of an archetypal melody known to man and beast alike since long before the day that abra met cadabra and tick first measured tock.

“When you meet the wizard, Nicco, do give me a ring,” I said.

“But where will I find you, AVT? How will I know your location? What if you change your telephone number twixt now and then?” said Niccolo. Even then my companion, Fontana, favored slippery synonyms like twixt and ‘twill and ‘twat’s the use of talking plain when fancy is more fun.

“Thanks for caring,” I said. “Today I begin my search for Dorothy. I hear tell she roams through boundless fields of toasted wheat and travels yellow roads that lead to weeping rainbows. So I encourage you to gulp the future’s honeyed air, my loyal Nicco, lover of literature and seeker of lost souls. Breathe in deep and crave the possibilities, until you detect the scent of Dorothy’s maple musk. Wherever she be, I too shall be. Me and she. We shall be we. Thus spoketh the apparition of she to me last night.”

In this solemn manner Niccolo and I departed each other’s company. Fontana — always the insecure, pragmatic, goal-controlled type of pink-cheeked and studious scholar – packed his leather attache case, slipped his feet into his scuffed suede shoes, donned his corduroy sports jacket and tiptoed his way to the dean’s office, there to be interviewed for the position of Associate Professor of Pathological Anthropology at Abbey U (The Gull Will Never Die!).

The dean sat drunk and almost dead of terminal academic isolation, so Niccolo got the job and soon assumed the dead dean’s throne.

Meanwhile, I found Dorothy teaching kindergarten in a remodeled convent in Carmel Valley, California. I’d earlier visited Joan Baez’s Institute For The Study of Nonviolence. Although my application for admission to the program was the only one ever rejected – I was deemed a loquacious anarchist – Joan’s manager, a short, hairy-armed guy named Manny Greenhill, advised me to try the next leftwing school down the street, a place called Lorenzo’s. Manny told me that the crowd there might be more to my taste, seeing as how they all waved their hands in the air even when they meditated.

“Seems far-fetched to me, considering the Mediterranean climate and aroma of the place,” said Manny, “but Joan’s students swear they hear a woman’s voice belting out a sweet, Gallic rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow from that exact location.”

I entered Room 247 of Lorenzo’s School For Dreamers just in time for Show and Tell. My yellow-brick love – who looked a lot like Judy Collins before plastic surgery ruined her nose, but whose voice echoed Bob Dylan’s nasal tones — strummed and hummed a quirky G, C, D progression on her Gibson acoustic, while I yodeled a few verses of “I’m In Love With A Big Blue Frog,” and the school’s janitor tapped his work boots on the unisex bathroom’s tile floor.

Serendipity. Get down, bro. Can you dig it?

Dorothy’s name turned out to be Eireen Sullivan (Friar Primo’s abandoned love child, reinvented, recovered and reborn). A devout hedonist she was, always willing to indulge her appetite for repetitive consummation.

We feinted, feigned and entertained restraint over plates of raw oysters for Sunday brunch, then muttered prayers before a statue of San Carlos Borromeo at the mission as the afternoon air splattered shadows over rows of parked Peugeots.

Late that night we shook the bedposts against the wall when we made love. The consequent rattled drumbeat irritated hell out of Eireen’s angry, frightened, insomniac roommate Natalie Bartolini. “Pre-marital sex is one thing,” said Natalie. Her voice squealed, squeaked and skidded its way across the breakfast table. “It’s been redefined as a venial sin since Vatican II corrupted Catholicism. But tempting me to do the forbidden rub and twang while naked is another matter entirely. I think the bishops call it aiding and abetting unnecessary pleasure.

“So please get out and please get married, before I call Friar Primo and have you both excommunicated and shipped back to Jersey.”

We followed the first command, and soon afterward we followed the second. And while Natalie Bartolini never rang Friar Primo, I suspect that she may still today be entertaining the memory of those rock-n-roll bedposts.

I taught myself to love Colcannon and Crubeens, studied the works of Oscar Wilde and Samuel Beckett, and memorized the lyrics to “An Irish Lullaby.” (My Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra’s impressed my future mother-in-law, Innogen, enough so that she told Eireen, “Well, maybe with practice and a solid career to fall back on.”)

After a three-week courtship period, I declared the nature of my devouring devotion and popped my papist proposition, as Eireen stood and I kneeled, again in Room 247, during naptime for the itty-bitty children. Revisionist history’s rumor has it that on that day Room 247 stank of poopy diapers to everyone but me.

“Poop-polluted atmosphere be damned,” bellowed the Lord. “You, AVT, are destined to fall in thrall to Eireen Sullivan’s eau du maple musk.”

And so we set the date. I pretended confidence, and Eireen pretended that particular flavor of virginity that after The Summer of Love permitted a bride to wear white in America.

I dressed myself in a three-piece pinstriped suit and Italian ostrich-leather shoes, and attended the wedding shower. The restaurant’s Champagne Suite featured a panoramic view of the 101 Freeway at rush hour. Chicken cordon bleu leaked quick-coagulating grease into the green peas on our plates. Natalie Bartolini sat cross-legged in the corner and cried.

Still, there were a few positive indicators of a bliss-enhanced future for Eireen and me. Natalie spilled a glass of Rose wine onto her lap, blushed, and laughed at the shape of the stain. Eireen’s mother, Innogen, told me that her gardener had garlic breath, too. (“But he never let that stop him from owning his own business!”) And our pile of wedding gifts almost touched the Champagne Suite’s dropped ceiling tiles. Our unearned treasures included three fondue sets, a half dozen lavender love candles, and a perfumed negligee.

When we divorced a few years later, Eireen and I for a short time argued about how to divide the fondue sets so as not to destroy our claim of amicable separation. But we quick tugged back our tempers and decided to save the odd set as a present for Natalie should she ever change her mind, lose her virginity and celebrate with a coming out cotillion.

Eireen took our red Chevy Vega and the television set. I kept the stereo and our collection of Marvin Gaye albums.

I changed the locks, lay back on the couch, crooned along with Marvin, allowed my fans several encores, and otherwise devoted myself to sad regret and to the composition of an epic poem titled “Fugetabout Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra.”

The pity earned by way of landing hard, low and fast can become a habit more addictive than any injectable drug. I asked for and received more attention by turning out the lights and refusing to answer knocks at my door than I’d ever received when Eireen and I hosted friends at our fondue spud parties.

I taught myself to shiver my voice, tremble my lips and cast my glance downward whenever someone asked, “How you holding up, AVT?”

I stopped shaving, exchanged my pinstripe suit for flannel shirts and dungarees, and tossed my last bottle of deodorant into the trash.

I told everyone I knew that I’d given up on love as a career goal and replaced the practice with that of writing defiant poetry and publishing a snooty literary magazine named Spilled Beans (I fancied the edgy shade of noir as it lent an air of valor to otherwise masturbatory confessional essays).

Still, at the end of any difficult workday — ink-stained fingers stiff from passing pages through the mimeograph machine, mind muddled with plotlines unresolved — I lay stretched out on my couch, alternating verses with Marvin; and I grew lonesome. This disturbed emotional state led me to recall how The Lonesome Gull spread and flapped his wings to signal determination in the face of an attacking enemy.

And that image of a noble, familiar, regal bird in flight against a headstrong and aggressive wind inspired me to attempt a reconnection with Niccolo Fontana. Perhaps the staid corduroy professor would remember our vow and grant an old friend – a recently accepted member of the literati – an interview, a conversation that put to print might well push a certain publication toward a prominent position, thus affording its editor and main author the prestige he deserved and had been so long denied.

I supposed that Eireen, or Manny, or Natalie, or maybe even Joan Baez in a sympathetic mood had informed Nicco of my brush with the tragedy we poets name Love. Fontana, always a sensitive soul, might well have hesitated to invade the privacy of a brokenhearted friend. This must be the case, I told myself. Otherwise, I surmised, Nicco would have long ago detected the aroma of Dorothy’s maple musk and come knocking at my door. (Had he tapped? Had I ignored? Quoth the seagull evermore?)

No use in guessing. I would have to make the overture. This artist, this sainted purveyor of the linguistic curlicue, I said to myself, needs to gather sufficient verve and courage to wake the academic from his solitary slumber.

But as is true of many youthful friendships, Niccolo and I lost touch as his career soared into the professional stratosphere, while my own accomplishments floated, comfortable and unheralded, much closer to Earth’s surface.

Still, in spite of the fact that Niccolo and I led separate, if in some ways parallel lives, I read every word he ever published throughout the years. As was true when youth blessed us both, as an older man I considered myself a fortunate beneficiary of Nicco’s off-center insights. I admired his poetic flair with stilted language. I marveled at his engaging sense of inbred Jersey humor.

I’d shut myself in for so long that when next morning I pulled up the window shades, unlocked the front door and stepped out into the sunlight, I was surprised to discover that a head-high stack of newspapers blocked my view of the world beyond my borders.

I snatched the topmost copy of the Absegami Times, a prestigious source of literary news that I’d had flown to my California compound each and every morning since the day I met Eireen and thereby tripped into tragedy. Back inside, a mug of steaming Taoist Tea by my side, I opened the sunlight-stained tabloid to the book review section.

There I read notice of Niccolo’s soon to be published memoir.

Serendipity? Get down, bro? Can you dig the Gull?

Miracle, sign, timing or mere coincidence; no explanation could make a difference. With the Absecon Gull to guide me, I must follow the feather. I could no longer justify resisting the temptation to contact my old friend. After all, I told myself, I was there, occupying the Jersey Marshland Quad with this living literary archetype of an author during several of the years his Volume I was sure to address. I wondered how Nicco Fontana might nowadays interpret the significance of those tumultuous times in our engaged, enraged and hormonal history.

And truth be told, I was curious to know whether or not Corduroy Nicco would include specific and colorful mention of the bellbottomed me when he told his story, our story if he were fair enough to admit as much. If such mention were made, then would I be a major or minor character, an Othello or a Lodovico? Might I be represented as a hero or a villain, a Caesar or a Brutus? Would Niccolo Fontana attempt to disguise AVT by assigning me a costumed name?

Would my dear friend and passionate paisano Nicco hold me in high esteem? Or would he instead first recall the time I stole away from the frat house, along with his girlfriend Kelly Liccardella, while he suffered through an interview with the drunken dean?

Would Niccolo Fontana honor the pledge of the platinum-plated paperclip?

Ding-a-ling.

“AVT who?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

To be continued . . .

I Am An Ordinary Man

Proust On The Shelf

I am an ordinary man who owns extraordinary tastes in literature.

Plah, plah.

Proust and Updike live on my bookshelves, and yes, I’ve read them. Updike every word several times over. Proust now and again for a while, until I remind myself that Death awaits me at the end of a short corridor, and that therefore I might either finish Marcel, then cough and slobber through my final breath, or reach for one of Paul Monette’s tragedies or Auster’s New York Trilogy.

Like most ordinary men who suffer extraordinary tastes in literature, I am sometimes tempted to entertain the trashy part of my mind. She’s the Devil, a whore and a glutton. She’s Charles Bukowski’s puss-bloated boils. She’s Jim Thompson’s tree branches tilted to become a hungry, palpitating crotch. She’s Patricia Highsmith’s innocent nighttime stalker.

She’s the reason I am bound for Hell.

She’s the tender side of me.

Plah, plah.

I am a literary man without a valet. A writer destined never to become an author, because I refuse to surrender to the tawdry stampede of me-too digital personalities who try to outrun the bulls by branding themselves as cackling chatterers who just happen to write books.

So illogical some of their plans.

Not all, I agree. Not you and I. No way. We know that gurus come and go. I’m OK, You’re A Sucker. Seven Habits of Highly Effective Calendar Salesmen. The Secret Just Fell From The Sky and Killed You. Sock Drawer, Are You There? My Feet Are Cold.

Yes, some of us Hell-bound independents have lived long enough to understand that we are our own gurus.

Still, it’s a woeful fact that some less ordinary, less plah plah literary people these days say . . .

Follow my blogospherical, coffee klatch articles that compare my life to that of a sock drawer run amok. More than that, love me for the fact that some of my socks are missing their matches (so High Concept, because admit it now, I sound just like you, tee hee). Then please be sure that when my novel — my never-ending work in progress, my paranormal zombie romance self-help guide with a hunk and a hunkess on the cover — is published, you click on over to lightreading4thelighthearted.com and buy my book.

What’s that you say? Which chapter will be about mismatched socks?

Well, paranormal zombie hunks don’t wear socks. You must have missed that conversation in the comments section of my post about my life as a perfect pedicure.

You can what? You can read my chat-session blog for free, so why spend money on yet another guide to enhanced romance?

I told you already. I’m not religious, but I’m spiritual. And like we spiritual bloggers . . . like we . . . like we see things that other people don’t see. Like, one night, I was like Who’s that walking down my short corridor in the dark? And this zombie was like . . . well he was like sayin’ . . . it’s me. Like I used to live inside your sock drawer long before you were born. And like . . . I’m surprised you can really . . . I mean like . . . can you see me? Cause like that means you must be paranormal, and so am I. It’s like I’m a zombie, or maybe like a vampire who wants to like . . . slay you.

So now you’ll buy my book?

Sure enough. Like wow, why didn’t you say it was like about sex, not socks?

Well, like look at the cover.

But not I, yon teens. I refuse. I don’t give a damn about your sock drawer, unless it forces me to think about where my own feet travel. All my socks, by the way, are married and monogamous, folded neat and free from lint inside the footwear compartment of my mind.

Plah, plah.

I am an ordinary man who owns extraordinary tastes in literature.

I am my own guru.

And yes, I sometimes entertain my hungry whore.

So these days I am reading Paul Alexander’s biography of Sylvia Plath, Rough Magic. I’m a short way into the book, and a long way into the story.

Those of you who left the room after my mention of Proust, or somewhere between there and here, will likely not return to read what I discover in later chapters; as I intend to write more here about this book as I pursue it.

To the readers who might leave me comments about what a stuffed-shirt snob I am, I say thanks for a well-worded rejoinder. Life as we attempt to define it isn’t all about sad, chatty calendar salesmen and twenty-first century gurus young enough to be my children.

Rough Magic is a plah-plah book. No hint of paranormal zombies or coffee-klatch vampires. But for those of us who equate entertainment with intellectual challenge, its pages are more filling than a holiday feast of bloody feet.

And for those of us who are plagued by palpitating gluttons, there’s plenty of gossip and conjecture.

A couple of nights ago, I mentioned to a friend that I was reading this book, and she branded the story of Sylvia Plath a “downer.” Perhaps many of you yon teen bloggers are about as familiar with the term “downer” as I am nauseated by the frequent and misappropriated use of the word “like.”

Suffice it to say that my friend is not alone in thinking Sylvia’s life a sad affair.

I agree with her, but as my own life nears its end, I grow sadder for the prospect of oblivion. Sadness is a legitimate state of mind.

And did I yet mention that I love gossip? Not the tabloid variety that tells us what brand of toilet paper an ephemeral celebrity uses. But the curious kind that makes up most human conversation, spoken as well as written.

Ted Hughes, the dead Poet Laureate who married Sylvia Plath in 1956, suffered through the mad obsession of her depressive personality, and last left her bed to find a more intense flavor of hero worship in the arms of a woman more delicious than his wife.

His lonesome wife, now abandoned, caring for two diapered children, staring across a wintertime moor, pen, paper and passion in her hand. A tear inside her heart.

Ted Hughes was a thug who wore a cape to cover the slouch of his shoulders, shoulders far too weak to bear more than the weight of self-aggrandizement.

Professor Hughes, blowhard academic poet. His technical skills advanced, his conscience retarded by admiration for his own echo.

His hollow, wooden poetry praised by priests of Her Majesty’s Empire, subservient and obsequious members of the congregation one and all.

His cowardice ignored by all but the few who tried to chisel his name from Sylvia’s headstone.

The dead soul who for thirty-five years laid claim to grief by way his silent refusal to admit that adultery can kill a lover’s dream, if not her body.

The mean man who prepared his final, archival statement just months ahead of what he knew would be his death by cancer, yet who with purpose destroyed Sylvia’s last journal.

I’d like to condemn that man to company with me in Hell, but age, experience and my own list of mortal sins tells me not to dare such a claim to divinity.

That and the fact that no one cares what I think of Ted Hughes.

And isn’t that same fear — that no one will care about what a writer tries to publish — the more accurate reason that Sylvia sealed a dank and ugly room in Devon, then turned on the gas and placed her head deep inside an unlit oven? Was Ted Hughes, Plath’s second Daddy, an excuse for her own wrath?

I’ve read every word published by Plath, and I suspect that had she not committed suicide her name today would not be famous. The Bell Jar is a boring book, except for the fact that its somber story confesses Sylvia’s own and predicts her demise. Her Colossus poems fell flat before an absent audience, while at the same time King Edward James Hughes ruffled his hair in order to enhance his growing reputation as a wild romantic inspired by the gods.

And so what most attracts me to this pair of graves?

An ordinary man’s extraordinary taste for tawdry gossip? One writer’s probe into another writer’s pain? Love of a mystery left unsolved? A keen desire for justice, born of injustices resented during the course of my own lifetime? The tension of a mathematician’s need to make the numbers work in logical fashion versus the artist’s understanding that love and hatred aren’t based on numbers?

At this point, either I don’t own an answer, or I’m unwilling to confess another sin.

Maybe later I’ll have an answer. Then later still I’m sure to have a different one.

Dear Young Companion, Dear Old Friend, Part I

Dear Young Companion, Dear Old Friend

Dear Young Companion,

I watched you last night. Lying there on your antique couch, the one with the maroon brocaded upholstery and the wide-winged arms, one of which you use each day as an uncomfortable headrest, stiff and unyielding enough to leave your neck muscles in knots. Why do you remain there and refuse to climb into your bed each evening like any sane man would do?

Ludicrous of me to ask, of course. After all, I know the answer to every question I put to you. I am your old friend. I’ve been close to you for what seems to be a lifetime’s worth of days and years, and yet is just as short or as long as what human beings name a second.

I ask you questions so that you will ask them of yourself. If you want to survive these saddest days, then hear me and pay attention.

You will survive, by the way. I know this fact as well as I know myself. One day soon you’ll rise from your couch and walk out your front door for more than just a midnight walk.

For now, though, you must swim a while longer inside your self-made pool of tears. I could tell you not to worry. I could say that self-pity is a necessary step toward revelation and self-acceptance. But you wouldn’t believe me. Not today. You think you’ve reached your end. Fact is that you want your life to seize upon itself, at least that’s what your voice whispers whenever your mind settles on the subject of regret.

So she left you. You came back to the apartment that you shared with her, the home where you and she tried hard to destroy each other. Four weeks ago now. You walked through the door and smelled the odor of darkness that you kept safe by closing all the windows, all the shades drawn tight against your secrets. And there you found the note, the single scribbled sentence that you pretended would never come to meet you. There the note lay, on top of your prized writing desk, the desk that you and she in happier times pushed neat into the living-room alcove. The living room where death occurred each morning.

“I need some space, some time to think,” she wrote.

And you feigned anger in order to avoid spiritual disintegration. You screamed profanities. You blamed her for leaving you. You imagined yourself as an altruistic, noble gentleman who had been cruelly wronged. But no one heard you shouting. You knew that no one could hear you. After all, it was you who shut the windows of your second-story apartment, that very morning and all the preceding mornings, so that your neighbors and the angels flying by could not hear the ugly arguments that you and she entertained.

And there you stood understanding nothing of nobility or of gentleness. You knew that fact, too. Each day when you shaved your face — the same face you stopped shaving after she left — you saw the reflection of a sinner’s broken spirit.

I’ll pose just one last question for today: Why do you take those midnight winter walks through blizzard winds? Hear me. Pay attention. Ask yourself, and try to answer.

Dear Old Friend,

Somehow I know you’re here, your face close to mine, your lips kissing my mouth. But I cannot understand you. Why would anyone want to be near me? I’m a failure. I tried to love her, but I was born without sufficient capacity for giving love, without sufficient tenderness or empathy.

I’ve given up my desk. Instead, I lie here on the couch and scratch disjointed thoughts onto one pad of paper after another.

I changed the locks on the one door to this apartment. I go outside only after midnight. I never turn on a lamp. I want the air here to remain dark, black enough that I can think, think until the end arrives.

Yesterday afternoon, a friend came knocking at the door. “Are you there?” she asked. I slid my body silent to the floor and crawled, slow and careful, into the nearest corner, under a window sill. I held my breath until her murmured questions stopped. And then I held my breath a while longer. I stayed still inside the corner. I shut my eyes tight. I would not allow her to hear me moving.

She left, and I returned to the couch, to my place of refuge. There again I recorded the fearful moment. Someday soon I will destroy these pads of reckless paragraphs, but when I reach the bottom of the final page I’ll remember what I wrote.

I keep one dim light lit. A green glow behind a round clock face. There I can watch the clock’s hands move, listen as they tick off the needled steps toward midnight. At midnight I feel safe enough, alone enough to stand up and leave this place for a while. As I reach for my woolen coat, I can feel you holding it open, wide enough to allow me to slide my arms into its sleeves. This winter season, this season of my saddest, final days, is the coldest winter season I remember. So I wrap and tuck the scarf she gave to me last Christmas tight around my neck. I wear boots that keep most of the snow and ice away from my feet. I lost my gloves somewhere in the mess I made here, so instead I pull a heavy sock onto each hand.

I have nowhere that I need to be, no destination comes to mind, no one who asks that I visit. So I punch my legs into the snowdrifts, follow the misty orange streetlights that serve as background to windswept flakes, and I walk in circles. Until hunger returns to say, “Go there and eat.”

There is a sandwich shop at the intersection of two sets of trolley tracks. Each time I enter, the big man in the little kitchen throws a few slices of thin chipped beef onto the grill to join the pile of fried onions that lives there day and night. He asks me no questions; and for his silence I feel grateful.

I slip my body onto the vinyl-covered seat of an empty booth. I watch the man squirt pale-yellow oil onto the inside of a hard roll of bread, then press the roll down on top of the steak and onions. I breathe in deep the food’s cheap aroma, rise from my seat, snatch a cold root beer soda from the metal locker, pay the man and walk home with my food.

At the foot of the snow-covered path that leads to my apartment building, I stop and spy, just to be certain that no one waits for me there. That’s a nonsensical thing to do, isn’t it, old friend? Two-thirty strikes the darkest morning of my saddest day, Zephyr surrenders to the howl of frigid air, and I expect a visitor? Nonsense, yes, perhaps; but somehow I understand that it’s you who waits for me, you who will sit with me on my antique couch to share a meal, you beside whom I will sleep until tomorrow.