The guys in the kitchen at the Italian restaurant across the street are
washing dishes. They aren't happy. The best dish is a hamburger, served
wrapped in wax paper. When you're done, congealed grease and cheese are
pooled at the bottom of the wax paper. You're forced to confront what
you just ingested. It's awkward.
Recently, at the grocery store, the guy behind the deli counter
recognized me. "Don't ever eat at Gino's," he told me. "I used to work
there. Cheap bastards. They make their spaghetti sauce with ketchup."
He gave me a half-pound of mesquite turkey and his phone number. I
didn't know how to interpret that. I entered his number into my phone
but never called.
If you gave me your number, I would call. I would call with such
frequency that people would start talking about us because they would
be jealous because they know I have long legs and they know what that
My porch is covered with green fabric, littered with tiny burn holes
and a rather large burnt crater from the plastic Folger's coffee can my
landlady gave me to use as an ashtray, only it was plastic and
cigarettes are generally lit so the plastic melted then adhered to the
porch. That's mostly why I quit smoking. I still stand out there,
though, to watch what's going on in Gino's kitchen and confirm the
improper use of ketchup.
Send me your number.
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Read RG's story, "How It Is."
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