Some Dummy To Love

Jealousy poked a tiny dagger into Sal's heart, every time he saw Joe and his new girlfriend Tammy mugging it up before his shift. Sal knew it was wrong to feel that way; to be disgusted with the idea that such a pretty girl would rather be with Joe the blind guy, than with a completely able bodied man, such as himself. Yet, that was indeed how Salvatore felt.

"All right, all right you two!" Angelo Innomorata shouted from The House's kitchen entrance, "Save that mush for when yous get married!"

Sal uttered a counterfeit chuckle before stamping out his cigarette, and entered The House from the service door. He strolled to the ovens, to check the prime rib. Angelo peered over his shoulder, reminding Sal -for the third time- that at least sixty-five guests would be expecting medium rares. Patrons -as well as all the other outsiders- know The House as Innomorata's Catering. Angelo Innomorata -and his neurotic wife Assunta- are the top bosses, solely by way of ownership. Together, they make boss number one, Angelo being number one in the kitchen, and Assunta being number one in the dining room. Salvatore Petrucelli -a Tony Danza look alike, with an added paunch- is first officer behind the counter. The dish washing/prep crew -a talkative troop of teenagers, headed by one Joseph D'Arno- call him Sal. Out of the so-called superiors, these are the three taken most seriously. The rest are taken with a grain of salt. But, among the top three, it is Joe that generally keeps the kids in line by way of example, comradeship, and his ability to mimic the more tolerable characters in the place.

"Joe? Who's better: Metallica, or Mariah Carrey?"

That was one of Pauly Sacramone's top ten questions of a given shift. He was fifteen; trying to go on sixteen, but had the tendency to fall back toward twelve. Joe used every spare moment he could, to make the boy understand why a wide span of attention was so important, but he could be so very thick.

"Uh, well...Mariah Carrey is definitely more attractive than any member of Metallica." Joe answered, which was exactly the same answer he'd given Pauly over the last three weeks.

"Come on, Joe. You know what I mean. Who makes better music?"

"Pauly, I've told you time, and again. I can't rate one type of music above

Another, because its all spiritual protein, in one way or another. But to be honest, I think they both suck."

A Mariah Carrey fan -manning the antique Hobart dish washer- giggled impishly. Pauly flipped him the bird.

"Come on Joe; really."

"Pauly; listen to me. We have a wedding party of two hundred and forty-three. I need for you to maintain your position on the ball at all times tonight. Can you do that for me, please?"

"But I was just askin-"

"I know Paul, but... When you try to talk, and work at the same time, the pans come out terrible."

"They do not."

"Yes they do, Pauly. Because I know you. Now as soon as we catch a break tonight, we can talk. Okay bud? Here, do this one over. The back is still greasy."

When the dishwashing crew had the time to shoot shit, Pauly's tendency

was to speak on a level of absurdity, which often struck a silly chord in Joe. The rest of the time, Pauly's remarks were simply, plainly stupid. Joe cringed when the boy related how he'd told his teachers that his near constant tomfoolery is the result of the ADD bug. In Joe's mind, that was asking for trouble. Pauly has yet to be professionally diagnosed, and Joe fears that the boy's case may turn out like many others; individuals who are wrongfully prescribed ridelin for symptoms of something as normal as growing pains. Joe for one, was positive that Pauly was just a victim of his own maturation. The child he'd come to be was trying to fit into an adolescent shell. Sure, he started a fire near the dumpster, and got caught. And he got caught drinking some champagne in The House's basement. And there was also the time he was caught flashing his genitals at the born again Christian member of the prep crew. But none of That was extremely abnormal behavior. Or, perhaps it was. Suffice it to say; Pauly's behavior was never extreme enough to get him fired, primarily because his dad and Angelo were best friends since the fourth grade.

"Pauly." called Sal, in his smoky Brooklyn sing song, "Get over here. Take dish shtuff, and put in on da back sheet of my car."

That was really how Sal Petrucelli spoke. Every s became sh, words like mouth lost their h, and pronouns -as well as conjunctions, affirmations, and negations [yesh, yesh, yesh, no, no, no]- were always uttered in slow stuttered triplets.

"Which is your car, Sal?" Pauly asked.

"Uh uh uh, the one next to Angelo's."

Pauly -his mood; so far, so good- went immediately to task. Without warning, the mood could change; depending on whatever cold front or thunderhead was brewing between one and another of the Innomorata's hierarchy. Joe continued in the sink, where Pauly had left off, and began to wonder why it was taking him so long to put an empty Tupperware container into Sal's car. Eight minutes later, Pauly returned through the kitchen entrance, by which Angelo sat, to read the paper. Joe noticed that Ant had been watching the boy from the service door.

"Hey, Angelo!" Sal shouted, turning the collective head of the kitchen staff, "I I I told Pauly to put this container into the back seat of my car, right? So so he tries the doors, and he sees that they're locked. Angelo, you know what he does? He checks the doors to your truck, he sees that there open, and and and he puts the container in in in your back seat!"

During the telling, Sal's force of habit gesticulations were slow, yet wild; like a slow motion charade of a struggling swimmer. Angelo lowered the paper, exposing his eyes, wide with disbelief. The rest of the staff laughed so uproariously, that Assunta came in glowering. Pauly was laughing too; until...

"Pauly, how stupid are you?" asked Sal; Pronouncing stupid as shtupid, "I mean, really; how friggin stupid could you possibly be? I I don't understand! Are you stupid on purpose, or are you really just stupid?"

As Sal went on, the kid's face reddened with each variation of the same insult. Joe felt terrible. Witnessing the situation brought back memories of all the stupid mistakes he'd made as a pre and post pubescent boy. But his own painful reminders gave way to the realization that lately it was Sal's tendency to degrade the less focused employees, particularly Pauly. Sure, Pauly's ineptitude outweighed his problem solving skills. But Joe saw Sal's means of discipline as some sort of soft persecution, and had grown sick of it. Meanwhile, Pauly's face was as red -with anger, and shame- as Sal's marinara. Joe thought that if he didn't say something then, the boy would storm out of the place. Joe pulled Pauly aside, and told him the real reason why Sal had to take that three year hiatus from Innomorata's, was because he had to do some time. The crime? Sal -already on a few shit lists, due to a great deal of outstanding bills- held up the wrong random stranger with a beebee gun, in order to get money for drugs. Finally, he'd seen the err of his ways. Yet, although he played the role of recoverist very well, the man tended to put down others who reminded him of the immense fool he once was. With that, it next occurred to Joe to tell Pauly that he was much too young to be lumped together with the truly stupid people. A small smile crossed Pauly's lips then, and the boy returned to his sink side responsibility.

But Joe knew that Sal was not one of the irretrievably stupid people of the world. He told Pauly that particular truth about the man, simply for the boy's sake. Yes, Sal was very hard on himself. But, it's only from his underlings, that he expected the world. From himself, he expected undying respect; no deviation from his present course, no regression, not a single second of submission to marijuana, beer, vodka, and other such spirits. Actually, Sal would have been on the inside for another four years, if it wasn't for his brother Lou: the lawyer, and his friendship with the newly elected East Haven chief of police. But that was all the official help Salvatore was going to get. The rest, was up to him. And from where would salvation come? Through work, of course. Would Yale University Food Service take him back? Never.

Would the House -the purgatory between his job at Yale, and failure- take him? As a matter of fate, Angelo was looking for just such a person; someone in need, who knew the job, someone that would be easily apprehended in the event that an extreme breach was to occur. Thus, Sal's mission in life was to maintain The House's kitchen; to uphold the codes set by the state health inspector, to never once disappoint -his bread and butter, his land lord, his comrade in cuisine, the key to his remaining on the outside- Angelo Federico Innomorata. Meanwhile, the kids just wanted their forty bucks at the end of the night, so they could buy that c d, video game, or pay that cell phone bill, or buy that bag of pot for Saturday night. Sal identified himself with The House, at least when he wasn't identifying with the compulsion that led him to incarceration. This compulsion was an occasional topic of discussion at the Tuesday night AA meetings in the basement of Saint Bernadette's.

"So how is this week going Salvatore?" asked Barb, the facilitator to the group.

"Oh just great." Sal slowly replied, not aware that Barb had caught him staring at her shapely legs, "Uh, I did my thing. You know what I mean? Get up at six o'clock, shower, dress, get my Dunkin Donuts coffee, go to work, work, leave work, get my night time Dunkin Donuts coffee, and fall asleep to the t v."

"Can I ask you, Sal: does it make you happy, all that predictability." asked Trevor, manager of the local Stop and Shop; sober for seven years, and five days.

"Well, it's like this. I've come to the understanding that I am fated to live alone. You know; without a...shignyficant udder!"

Sal slowly annunciated those last two words, which was his usual mode of sarcasm.

"So," he went on, "I'm getting used to life with just myself. Know what I mean?"

"Come on Sal," said Barb, "That's a terrible idea to have in your head. I mean sure, being alone isn't so bad. But that doesn't mean that there will never be someone who...compliments you."

"Oh. Well, people compliment me all the time. Oh Sal, this dish looks beautiful. Oh Sal the prime rib came out perfect-"

"No, no" Barb interrupted, smiling; "I mean like two colors compliment one another. Red to green, yellow to purple. Meaning that every degree of personality has a matching personality type. Now, we all know how we can create a new social base; keeping ourselves away from toxic environments, there by eliminating access to toxic relationships. That is your way of narrowing the field of search. Sure, we have our AA socials, and dances, but...what if -out of those people- you still can't find someone to click with? Well, when it comes to things like dating services, and personal adds, these are also really great ways of narrowing the field, eliminating any possible danger. It's like...putting in an order of exactly what you desire, and expect from another human being. Bonnie, Trevor; that's worked for you guys, right?"

Bonnie and Trevor -both in separate relationships with non-problematic partners- smiled, and nodded together. Sure, Salvatore thought, if I made over sheventy grand a year, I could narrow down the search real good.

"So what do you say Salvatore?" Barb continued, "place a personal add. What is there to lose? Tell them exactly what you want, get the results, start off on the phone, telling them what you're comfortable revealing about yourself, then...who knows."

"Uh...oh I don't know. I heard all those girls are either crazy or ugly. And, and, and besides...oh, I don't know. After being in a kitchen full of people all day, it's nice to come home to a quiet apartment. I don't know. We'll see."

Salvatore was a little glum as he left the meeting for the Dunkin Donuts on route one. He'd go to that one instead, making his daily routine a little less predictable. He never did the drive through either. Always went in, face to face, maybe look around the doughnut dining room; perhaps meet the gaze of someone special, just maybe. Sal languidly strolled in, took his place in line, folded his arms, and scanned the room. No one, no one single, white, female; age/25 to 35, blonde, five feet three inches, no more than 130 pounds. Interests... Interests in sex, no marriage, no drinking, no conflicts, no head aches. Jesus Christ, Sal thought, did I have to screw myself this bad? Naw, Salvatore's thought replied, come on man; it's really not so bad. I mean all you're really lookin for is to get laid.

"Can I help you?" said the perky teenaged girl behind the counter.

"Huh...oh, yeah, yeah. Uh...I'd like one coffee; medium, regular."

"Anything else?" she smiled.

"Uh...yeah, you know what? Gimme' a dozen doughnuts there; three plain crullers, three Boston creams, three apple cinnamon, and three...three more Boston creams."

From the Dunkin Donuts parking lot, to his front door; Salvatore consumed three of his Boston creams, his crullers, and one apple cinnamon. He tried to mentally undress the doughnut girl; but kept coming up with the same old images of his ex-wife Sylvia, and scenes from the last porno film he'd rented: Flaming Tongues. Salvatore placed the remaining portions of his late night snack on the coffee table, found the remote exactly where he'd left it the night before, and switched on the television. With his right hand, Salvatore channel surfed. With his left, he untied his shoes, and set them aside. Still surfing, Salvatore retrieved another Boston cream. He chewed the chunk of dough and cream with extreme patience, so that the solid became a liquid. Nudity, where's da nudity, he wanted to know. If he could afford any pay per porn channels, he'd indulge. However, he couldn't; so Salvatore made the most of what glimpse he could get via HBO, or Cinemax.

Still surfing, still chewing, Salvatore suddenly remembered those wet dream rendezvous' of teen hood. He sighed, remembering their intensity, and anonymity; never of any one he knew, an acquaintance, or someone in his celluloid association zone files. Nothing but strangers, beautiful strangers. They provided him with the best sensations he'd ever felt. In fact, out of any lover Salvatore had ever experienced -which includes Sylvia, and three nameless bar flies he'd found during the downward spiral that led to his arrest- not one of them made the feeling of ejaculation so intensely drawn out as the feeling of it from wet dreaming, into waking. Halfway through doughnut number ten; Salvatore wondered whether those nocturnal flights were previews into dreams yet to come true. Bull shit, was the last words of his conscience, before succumbing to the mild erotica of HBO's Sex Bytes: Installment 23.

"So, I was watchin' this thing on cable last night, some kinda' sex documentary." Sal said; leaning against the double basin sink, at which Joe was washing hotel pans, "They were showin...

Sal paused while a waitress passed.

"There's this new kinda' blow up doll," continued Sal; lowering his voice, "They're made out of of of silicone. Joe: I couldn't get over how life like these things looked. There was this couple that got one. They took it home, and and and the guy was fucking it, while his girl was suckin' the ting's tits!!"

Salvatore chuckled madly, and Joe smirked at the way Sal pronounced tits as titsh.

"So a couple might get that sort of item because they want to experiment." said Joe, "And they're either afraid of sexually transmitted diseases, or maybe the woman was using it as a test model for the addition of a real life third party."

"Why do you gotta' intellectualize about it? Its just sex."

"Sorry. So...did they say what kind of price tag there is on such an item?"

"Between four and five grand a doll."

Joe stopped washing mid pan.

"Five grand?" he exclaimed, "That's insane!"

"No. Believe me its worth it." Sal replied, "I had an economy model once; you know the kind, the inflatable naked cartoon lookin' lady. Well, after sockin' it to her five or six times, I I split a couple seams open-"

Salvatore began to laugh the rest of his story out.

"Pretty soon, I had her all covered in duct tape. Me, I got enough in the bank. Maybe I'll get me one of them five grand jobs!"

Joe cocked an eyebrow at that.

"Hey, no head aches," Salvatore explained, "No conflicts. I do the

doll, clean up the mess, and tuck her into the closet! You know, every inch of those dolls is anatomically correct. Everything; even the tongue in inside the mouth, right down to the taste buds. Hey, let me tell you something. In the long run, its cheaper than a hundred dollar a week call girl habit. Oh, and and and there was this other guy; he was a rich guy, who had a bunch of them, all dressed up, one in each room of his house."

"Wow." said Joe; without the slightest enthusiasm, "Thanks for sharing that with me. I'm gonna go make the sea food salad now."

"Yeah. Sure, sure. And and and tell Pauly he's gotta check the gazebo for trash before the guests start showin' up."

During the short stroll home that evening, home being just eighty yards from The House itself, Salvatore recalled something the Buddhist on the second floor told him one afternoon. If one has failed at living one's life, the one should abandon it, and start a new one. Such was Salvatore's case; and it was Summers Correctional Institute that led Salvatore Petrucelli toward his re-definition. Sal saw himself as jombotte, one of his favorite meals as a kid. You cook up some broccoli rob, and beans. Then you take old bread [that was Sal] you break it up, mix it in, and let the juices of the fresh broccoli leaves, and beans revitalize the bread; making it even tastier then it was at its freshest. The correctional institute was a crash course in Proactive Recovery. Passing through his kitchen, Salvatore thought of the Summers mess hall; the twice daily allotment of mashed potatoes, the inch thick slabs of bologna covered with one slice of melted Kraft cheese, the one Styrofoam cup he had -with the tiny hole in the bottom- the cup they refused to replace.

I never wanna see that place ever ever again, he thought while undressing, and tossing each item into the bathroom hamper. Salvatore turned on the shower, and stepped inside. He lathered up, recalling that day in the shower, when two young Hispanics beat the resident diddler -what they all called child molesters- nearly to death. His existence on the inside wasn't so bad for prison. He either kept company with the minority of Irish or Italian inmates, or kept to himself for the rest of the time. He remembered his novicent inmate status and his fear of some brutal inmate's attempt at raping himn only to learn that if one truly wanted such pleasures, one had to pay for it. Salvatore rinsed his hair, smirking from the memory of Luis and Havier. Havier led the customers into the laundry room, took their cigarette fee, and held a conversation with the recipient while Luis orally gratified him from his place inside a laundry bag.

Dried, and dressed in cut-off jeans and a white T-shirt baring the DARE logo, Sal took his keys, and headed out the door. Destination: Dunkin' Donuts. He lumbered to his bondo-spattered 87' Monte Carlo, and carefully opened its door because he didn't care to listen to the awful creak it made whenever opened quickly. Sal drove to the edge of Innomorata's parking lot that let out onto route 80. He observed the flow of traffic, as well as the lethargic pace kept by the young woman who -about 5'5, straight brown hair, and just shy of bony- had been making that stroll for the past five nights. Stroll was indeed the word; clear plastic clogs, tight bright red Nike shorts, an unbuttoned pink paisley blouse, exposing a lemon yellow tube top. Perhaps only twenty-five percent of her energy went to walking, because seventy-five percent of it certainly went to carrying the enormous blue duffel bag hanging from her right shoulder. Hey, Sal thought, nice legs; and rolled down his window.