OBSTACLES TO LOVE!
As Joey tries to make the all-important call to Esperanza from the phone booth of The Fox Hole, he is faced with all sorts of frustrations!
Taking a minute to calm down, I begin the crucial dialing process...
Rrrring! Rrrring!
Badump!
What the fuck-
Freaking Philly, banging on the door, pressing his big lips against the glass.
“What are ya doin’ Joey?” He screeches in that grating voice of his.
Rrrring…
“C’mon Philly, get outta here - I’m trying to make a call!”
Rrrring…
“Tommy Boy says he wants you up now! It’s gettin’ busy.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll be up in a minute”
“He says he wants you now, Joey! He’s smacking his gum, loudly and deliberately.
“Hello?” The voice on the other end inquires.
“Philly- will ya”-
“Who’s this?”
“Uh…uh”-
My concentration destroyed, I quickly slam the receiver down, and kick open the door, furiously.
“Philly, what the fuckin’ fuck is your fuckin’ problem?! Fuck!!”
I’m spitting out expletives, so livid I can’t even form sentences.
Philly’s freaked out now, starts backpedaling
“It-it wasn’t me, Joey, its Tommy Boy! He’s the one who told me to get ya!”
I storm past him and up the stairs, consumed by anger.
When I get out of work that night, several hours later, I’m still seething - at Philly, and at the world. As I walk home, my enraged thoughts shift to brooding meditations on the meaning of life. Just the tenuous nature of our existence here, the sheer fragility and randomness of events that happen to us. What if we had no control over anything? I mean, if Philly misses me by just one minute, or doesn’t see me in the stall? I wind up making the call, and it goes well, and Esperanza and I wind up going on a date, and as a result of that, getting married?! That could change the course of my whole life! That one action! Now I’m screwed! Finished. I slide deeper into existential despair, so that it’s almost painful for me to even continue walking. When suddenly – an epiphany?
“Why couldn’t I call Esperanza now? I mean, it’s only, like, 9:30. Is there any hard and fast Benjamin Franklin type rule about that?
“Early to bed and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise?”
No-no- there wasn’t! I could do it!
I lope home now, filled with an unshakeable confidence! Bursting through the back door and flashing past my parents, who are watching the Mary Tyler Moore show on TV, their heads swiveling quickly as I bound madly up the stairs.
“What the hell?! What is this - the Flying Wallenda Brothers, for crissakes?!” my father hollers.
“Joseph! Come here for a minute!” my mother calls out. I crash open their bedroom door, spring inside and pick up the phone. Freakin’ great – no dial tone!
“Ma! What happened to the phone?! I yell down, already in a panic.
“Joseph-listen...we…we…have something to tell you – come down –
“What?!” I begin to descend rapidly down the stairs, thoroughly annoyed.
“You ran up so fast we didn’t have a chance to tell you…your fish tank... your brother Paul -”
I immediately barrel up the stairs, and into my room, kicking the door open
“Oh, my God”…
Dead! Gone…all of them…my tropical fish. I had been raising them, breeding them, for about five years now. I had been awarded First Place with my neon guppies, at the 4-H Fair two years ago. Now…Bernie, my Kissing Gourami, Champ, my prized long tailed male guppy, Amazonia, my female Black Molly, who I have had for four years… Cal the Catfish…gone. The water is now a sickening mixture of milk, orange juice, and soggy Cap’n Crunch cereal. The aquarium light has also been destroyed. I sit down on the edge of my bed – crushed,
I half scamper, half trip down the stairs, and out the back door. I’m defying the screams of my parents to get back here.
I run for a long while, through the darkened streets, screaming, sobbing, and breathing as hard as I can through tears, till I eventually wear myself out. No! I must call Esperanza right now, the divine intervention advises me, and dedicate it to the memory of my esteemed underwater companions! I know where there is a payphone, and I rush to the site, brimming with a sudden surge of goodwill. Cumberland Farms - the parking lot! Yes!
I approach my destination, aglow with desire, visualizing my magical perfect phone call.
Uh-oh.
There in the parking lot, huddled together in a circle, and passing around a quart bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon. Rambunctiously puffing on Marlboros. Four members of Finnegan's Gang, or at least what’s left of them. Jackie Miller, Eddie Brukowski, his brother Tommy, and Dave Zambowski, clad in their long ratty army coats. Jabbering drunkenly about the Monster Car Show at Raceway Park in Englishtown, this weekend.
These guys are a huge pain in the ass when they’re sober, and that much more when they’re shitfaced. Nonetheless, I advance towards them, determined to use that payphone.
“Hey Niggerhead, what are you doing out here this time of night?” yells Eddie Brukowski.
“Hey! Cotton Comes to Harlem!” chides Zambowski.
They’re all breaking up now, as they crack open another bottle of Pabst, and flick their cigarette butts my way.
Yeah, you guys are real talented, I think to myself.
“I gotta use the phone, guys.”
“Oh, Cotton’s gotta use the phone, guys! Who you gonna call - Christie Love?!”
“Ha-Ha-Hee-Hee-Hee”, now they continue cackling.
“We’re using the phone right now, Afro Sheen,” spits out Jackie Miller.
“Yeah, go use the phone on Soul Train, or something!” adds Brukowski.
I start pushing past them, but one of the clowns flicks a lit butt at me, catching me on the side of the face…
That’s it. Patience gone. Rage in. I strike out, pushing Jackie Miller, who’s the closest one to me. He falls to the ground. The rest immediately pile on top of me, knocking me to the pavement, and pounding me in the back. A well placed kick from steel- tipped work boot sends a sharp pain through my ribs, knocking the wind out of me. A few more blows to the stomach ensue.
“Ok - ok, let him go guys! Stop! Eddie, quit it!” orders Jackie Miller.
“Get up, Montaperverto! You still wanna use the phone?!” He taunts further.
I stay on the ground for a few seconds, coughing and gasping for air.
“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”
“Next time, we’ll fucking cream you, man! Threatens Tommy Brukowski.
They all guffaw vengefully.
I get up on my knees, trying to regain my wind, and turn away, tramping off in apparent defeat. The next second, though, I grab a huge chunk of rock from the driveway, and hurl it at him with murderous intent.
“Whoa! Duck! Oh shit!”
It whizzes past their heads.
CRASH!
There goes the plate glass window of Cumberland Farms, shattered all over the parking lot. Jackie Miller and the boys all scram. Screams from inside the store as the customers scatter, ducking behind the sale rack of Lutz Potato Chips (probably expecting the Germans have attacked.)
Fat Jim Whitford dashes outside. The shrill voice of Mrs. Acker cries out:
“Oh dear God, Fritz, it’s the end of the world!”
“What in the name of Michael the Archangel?!” Fat Jim belts out in disbelief.
Apparently, he had found religion, because a big wooden cross hangs from a leather cord around his neck.
The force of the throw had knocked me to the ground, bloodying my hand on the gravel. Before I can get up to bolt, Fat Jim quickly corrals me in a bear hug, and begins spewing verses at me.
“May the Lord cleanse your bedamned soul for what you’ve done!”
Unbelievably, a cop car cruises by at that exact moment. Fat Jim frantically flags him down.
“Officer! Officer!”
Customers pour out of the store. Mrs. Acker’s little dog, Fritz, scampers around in circles, yelping furiously.