August 25, 2004

Mangi!

As Chris returned home from his evening stroll yesterday, he came upon one of his neighbors sitting on the stoop next door. It was a young man by the name of John, who lived there with his mother, father, three sisters, grandparents, uncle, and a wide assortment of cousins. He was wearing his usual NY Jets jersey and baggy shorts, and, with his head resting on his fist looked rather upset about something.

Just as Chris was about to say good evening to him, through the open door to John’s apartment came a shout.

“JOHN! JOHNNY! GET IN HERE AND EAT YOUR MEATBALLS!”

John, with furrowed brow, was quick to fire back with, “I DON’T WANNA EAT ANY MEATBALLS!”

“WHAT?”

“I…DON’T WANNA…EAT…ANY…MEATBALLS!!!”

"YOU DON’T WANNA EAT THE MEATBALLS? Frank, he doesn’t want to eat the meatballs.”

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN HE DOESN’T WANNA EAT ANY MEATBALLS!?!”

“YOU HEARD HIM. HE’S YOUR SON. HE DOESN’T WANNA EAT ANY MEAT BALLS!”

While an argument erupted inside, which eventually had at least six participants (most of whom were not on Johnny’s side), John turned to Chris, looked him right in the eyes, and gravely said, “I don’t wanna eat those meatballs.”

“I know you don’t, Johnny. I know,” said Chris.

And then, without even giving it a second thought, and in a beautifully selfless and Christ-like act, Chris stepped past Johnny, patting the teen on the head, and went into his neighbor’s apartment. He was going to bear this cross for Johnny. He was going to be the martyr. He was going to eat those meatballs.

When Chris entered the crowded kitchen he wasn’t greeted with a crowd waving palms, as he had hoped. Instead, his entrance caused the argument to come to an abrupt halt. Then there was silence. Only the faint sounds of Johnny’s Grandma slowly chewing her orrechiette could be heard.

Chris took this time to locate Johnny’s plate, which he assumed was the one sitting in front of the only empty chair at the table. On the plate sat three meatballs the size of tennis balls.

"I will bear this cross," whispered Chris.

“Who the fuck is this cetriolo?” said said one of Johnny's cousins.

When no one could identify Chris (who they had only seen before outside and therefore could not place him within the confines of their home) the family took to throwing various elements of their salads at him (primarily cucumbers to go along with the cetriolo comment). Johnny’s Uncle Bobby took matters into his own hands and, first taking a moment to wipe the corners of his mouth with a napkin, grabbed Chris by the collar. Chris struggled briefly and flailed around the kitchen wildly, but he couldn’t escape Bobby’s hold. In less than a minute he was back on the street, staring at Johnny.

Johnny had tears in his eyes, brought on by Uncle Bobby smacking him in the back of the head on his way back in. Chris, with his hands behind his back, and Johnny, leaning back on the stoop, looked at each other for quite some time on that quiet street.

And then, just as Johnny was about to turn beet red and put his fist through the first-floor window, Chris pulled a fist from behind his back.

Johnny looked confused, but interested enough to hold off smashing things in a blind rage.

Chris waved his other hand over his fist like a magician three times and after the third pass he opened it.

In his hand was a gravy-covered meatball.

Johnny smiled.

Chris winked.

Johnny tipped an imaginary hat to Chris.

Chris put the meatball on top of his fist and licked it as if it was an ice-cream cone.

Johnny broke out in hysterical laughter.

From inside, Johnny’s dad yelled, “HEY! WHAT’S SO FUCKIN’ FUNNY OUT THERE?”

Johnny grabbed the meatball out of Chris’s hand, kissed it, and then threw it clear over the horizon.

Chris and Johnny linked elbows and, as they danced around in circles, sang, “Na, na, na, na. Na, na, na, na. Hey, hey, hey. Goodbye.”


From inside Chris’s apartment, through a window, the last ant left alive after this weekend’s exterminator visit watched this scene.

The ant had to struggle to breath, there was a terrible pain in its chest, and it had to lean on one of Chris’s errant toenail clippings to keep from collapsing. But it could still see, it could still feel, and it could still laugh.

And laugh it did.

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