I don't know if I ever told you about The Italian. [ed note: I just reviewed the archives, and I haven't.] This guy was a trip, and he was smitten with me for a while.
The Italian was steeped in his Jersey Italian upbringing. Parents from Italy, worked hard, bore 2 sons, worked themselves to death and died young. He and his brother raised themselves among the old school Italian-American community and the tough streets. Hence, the nickname. I don't know if you've ever seen Raging Bull, which I saw a few months after cutting The Italian out of my life, but he is the epitome of DeNiro's Jake LaMotta in that movie. Imaging dating that shit!
I met him at a 4th of July BBQ, where I don't even think he made an effort to introduce himself, and I didn't notice him for the first 3 hours. He finally spoke when we were both near the potato chips. Probably just small talk about chips.
Less than an hour later the BBQ morphed into a house party, and we got to talking a little more. And let me tell you, people at the party thought we were going to kill each other. They even verbalized it to us. Separated us at times! He made asinine comments and I called him out, then he yelled at me asking what the hell I was talking about and I yelled back that he was incapable of having a real, open discussion. This went on and on. And then he walked me home, tried to get me in a headlock several times, and then held my hand. Wha?!
I never gave him my number, but he called. "How'd you get my number," I asked, thinking he had called up the hosts of the party to get it. "You're in the book!" Oh, right.
He was the ultimate tough guy with a soft, very much protected heart. Completely incapable of holding a conversation, anytime I asked him something about himself he replied "whaddya want from me!" And that was that.
The Italian wore the same exact outfit every time I saw him. An old white undershirt, a black "police" belt, worn 501's (with the cuff up!) and black "police" shoes (with white socks! Warning! Don't try this in the milennium! It doesn't work! Unless you're over 60 in Florida!). Sometimes he'd mix it up by wearing a Kangaroo hat (white. Warning!) or a jacket or a flannel shirt, depending on the weather. Truth be told, I wanted to buy him a sweater. Just to see.
He was [not] studying Christianity at some um... what are those places that study Christianity? Oh yeah, he was at the Franciscan School of Theology (Roman Catholic studies, of course!). I kept asking him what he was planning to do once he finished and he replied "Whaddya asking me!" He never invited me over to his house, claimed to not have any material items, and was proud of the fact that he probably spent the absolute least amount of money of anyone living in San Francisco. Great. Spoil me, why don't you?
I was never really iterested enough to want to crack his code. I don't even think I feigned interest. But The Italian kept calling me for a long non-conversations or he would spontaneously happen to be in front of my building wanting to come up and visit. Most the time I let him. Most the time because I was home watching TV anyway. And he was exactly one ounce more interesting.
So this one time, I had had a really rough day, can't recall why now, this must have been a year ago or so. But I came home and I was treating myself to a very nice bottle of wine I had been storing for a special occasion. I decided that feeling like I just survived whatever I survived was a good enough occasion. I was enjoying my first glass when.... you guessed it! The Italian just happened to be downstairs!
I let him come up and offered him a glass of wine. He wasn't saying much, mumbled something about it being his birthday. And went to refill his glass. And refill it again. And... I finally said: "Listen, I'm glad you're enjoying the wine, but I really wish you'd slow down and enjoy it, because it is a $30 bottle of wine my dad gave to me - this is no cheapo shit here...." Apparantly that was enough to offend him and he shortly thereafter he excused himself.
A couple days later my phone rings and it is The Italian downstairs at my door. I am so tired of this by now, that I tell him I am working and it is not a good time. "I have something for you. Come down and get it. I'll leave you alone." So I go downstairs and he hands me a paper bag. I can feel that inside is a bottle of wine. I thank him and go back upstairs. I'm touched! That is, until I pull the bottle out of the bag and it is.... a bottle of Manischewitz. Only the worst wine ever. Traditional, yes, I'll give him credit for that. But drinkable? No.
Anyway, I think I ran into him on the street one day and looked like shit and was in a horrible mood, and I may have said something mean and that ended any further interruption of my life by The Italian.
Until tonight. Because my latest odd fun thing to waste my time with is to troll Craigslist for funny post titles and compile them into a list. (I only have a few so far, but if it gets good enough I'll share it here). Yeah, I know, lame, but that's beside the point. Point is, one that I clicked on was... guess who it was! Yep. Raging Bull himself. Now, in order to protect the innocent I am not linking the post here, but it just about blew my head off. And no, I didn't reply.
skip to main |
skip to sidebar
No comments:
Post a Comment