That's Amore

The restaurant was decorated in a combination of Christmas and Italian kitsch. White lights and garland hung from the ceiling. The tablecloths were red and white checkerboard. The walls were adorned with posters of Lamborghinis and maps of Sicily. The tables were accented with chianti bottles and plastic grapes. The employees all had heavy accents and yelled at each other in Italian in the kitchen while Dean Martin sang “That’s Amore” to set the mood. I loved it.

We ordered a large cheese and pepperoni, and an order of garlic bread to start. I was pleased to hear him order a Coke instead of wine or beer. I didn’t want to feel pressured to drink tonight. I ordered the same.

He told me that working on the ambulance, he knew of every exceptional hole-in-the-wall eatery in the city. If you ever needed to know of a good, cheap place to eat, ask an EMT or a cop. They knew all the best places. In addition to this place, he told me about a taco stand on the south side of the city that was so popular, cops would come in from other precincts to eat there; a burger joint about three blocks over that served them smothered in fried onions; and a deli that made sandwiches so large, you could easily take home half or more for lunch the next day. I wondered how I had managed to live in the city for so long without discovering any of these places. Then I remembered that I was too poor to eat out, although my cash position was slowly improving with my new lower rent. It didn’t seem possible that I could live someplace that was so dramatically nicer, yet be paying less per month. I was waiting for it all to come crashing down. It had to. Things couldn’t possibly be this good.

The pizza came and it was to die for, the perfect blend of sauce, cheese and meat on a thin crust. I made a mental note that I would be coming back here someday.

We talked as we ate, and he seemed very interested in my return to school.

“What do you think you’ll be majoring in?” he asked.

I had to chew before answering. “Honestly, I don’t know yet,” I said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been in an academic environment, and I think I want to try several things before deciding on any one.”

“Like what?” He slid another slice of pizza onto my plate before serving himself.

“Well, I liked to write when I was in school. I don’t know if I’m any good, though.”

“You won’t know until you try,” he said, signaling the waitress for a refill on our Cokes.

“True, but of course writing is so deeply personal that it’s hard to build up the courage to expose yourself to that sort of criticism. Because it’s not the work they’re criticizing. It’s you. It’s the way you view and experience the world.”

“But you can’t take it so personally.”

“I know I shouldn’t, but you’d be hard-pressed to find a writer who isn’t fundamentally insecure about what they write. What will people think, they wonder? It controls every word that comes from their mind. They're putting their soul on the page.”

He thought for a moment. “That’s really interesting,” he said. “I wouldn’t have seen it that way.”

“Maybe it’s just me,” I said. “But I don’t think so. Even though math or physics might be more intellectually demanding, writing is the most emotionally challenging major.”

He stopped me. “Not necessarily. Medicine, nursing… these are professions that are emotionally challenging.”

“True,” I said. “You’re dealing with very emotional situations every day. But those are externally emotional, dealing with other people's health and feelings. It's about stepping outside yourself and connecting with others. Writing is about dealing with your inner emotions – your demons, your insecurities, your hopes and fears – every day of the week, and putting them on display for others to see and judge.”

“Interesting. So you think you want to be a writer?”

“No,” I laughed. “The more I talk about it, the more I think I want to be something where emotion doesn’t come into play at all. Like an accountant.”

“Please don’t take offense,” he said, “but you would make a lousy accountant.”

“Why?”

“You’re too creative. The numbers would be too rigid for you.”

The waitress came to clear our plates. The momentary break led us down a new conversational path.

“Tell me about your family,” I said.

He thought for a moment. “I don’t know what to tell you, really. My parents are still together, married for 32 years. I have a sister who’s two years older, and she’s married with a son.”

“The boy you were buying the book for?”

“Yep, that’s the one. Joshua. Josh. He’s a great kid. I learn a lot from him.”

“Does your sister live nearby?”

“On the north side of town, near the park. It’s good, because I get to see Josh a lot. I’m his favorite uncle.” He paused. “Of course, I’m his only uncle. But he hasn't realized that yet."

“And he’s your favorite only nephew, of course.”

"Of course. We're a match made in heaven."

He talked at length about growing up not far from here in a neighborhood that was later leveled for an urban redevelopment project. The new houses are beautiful, with none of the problems that the old neighborhood faced, but they lack a certain charm that the old places had. His parents met graduation night. She was a friend of a friend who attended a nearby school and had come to the graduation party. They talked for hours on the patio and were married less than three months later on Labor Day weekend. His sister made her grand entrance into this world the following Christmas Eve, and he was born two and a half years later in the summer of 1976, just shortly before the big Bicentennial celebration. I did some quick math to realize that he was four years older than I was. Not a bad age difference.

He went to community college right out of high school, got his LPN degree, and while he loved medicine and helping people, he hated being confined indoors with sick people all day long. He decided to parlay his medical knowledge into a career that got him out of hospitals and out into the fresh air. He had been working on the ambulance for almost five years now, and was perfectly happy to continue doing it for as long as his back held out. It was usually a bad back that forced you to find a different line of work. He was one of the more senior members of the crew, so he got to pick some of the better shifts and avoid the overnights where you dealt primarily with DUI accidents, bar fights and late-night domestic violence.

I liked to listen to him talk. He was a good storyteller, and by the end of his memoir, I felt as though I had known his friends, family and coworkers for years.

He looked at his watch. “It’s nearly midnight. What do you say to me taking you home? I hate to cut the night short, but regardless of whether I got here late or not, I still have to start work at 6am.”

“Hurry up, then! Let’s get moving! The last thing I want is to have a fatigued medical professional out on the roads in the morning. Come on!” I grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him out the door towards the car. He laughed, took my hand and pulled me closer to him. He put his left hand on my face and gave me a quick, gentle kiss. I felt my legs turn rubbery.

We drove back to my place in silence. He pulled up outside the building and I thanked him for a lovely, albeit short evening. I leaned in to give him a peck on the cheek, still not sure what to make of the kiss outside Vinnie’s. He turned his head so my lips met his. I was secretly pleased. When I pulled away, he asked if he could see me again. I suggested that perhaps he should have my phone number for next time, and I gave it to him.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ve already got a plan for next time.”

“Oh yeah? What?”

“How about I give you an early Christmas present?” He paused for effect. “Why don’t I cut your cast off for you?”

“How did you know I wasn’t planning on going back to the doctor?” I laughed.

“I could just tell. It’s been seven weeks; you could have had it removed at six. And I didn’t want you to be stuck with that thing on until you were old and gray.”

“Yeah, but it’s handy in the city,” I said, trying to sound serious. “It can be a very good weapon.”

“You’re just going to have to carry a gun like all the rest of the ladies,” he said, jokingly.

"Hmm, me with a gun. Does that frighten you as much as it frightens me?"

"You're probably right," he laughed.

I caught a glimpse of the dashboard clock. “It’s getting later and later. You have to go!” I kissed him quickly and hopped out of the car. I rode up in the elevator singing to myself. “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore….”