The Trojan Lasagna

The Trojan Lasagna

This story is dedicated to all of us who grew up with the sound of radio station WLS, AM 89 in Chicago, playing on our transistor radios. (It's no coincidence that Lujack and Landecker are used as last names.)

Thanks as always to RiverMaya for being my Muse and the writing angel on my shoulder. Thanks also to AzureAsh for being my 'editor with a thousand eyes', and my MBR (Mystery Beta Reader) for his oversight and input. As I continually revise right up to publication, any errors are mine.

All sex between 18+ people.

For those musical historians out there, yes, while the story actually takes place 3 years before Skid Row released I Remember You, just chalk it's inclusion to poetic license.

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"Freeze this moment a little bit longer;

Make each sensation a little bit stronger;

Experience slips away - time stand still."

- Rush

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Fairburn, Indiana, (population 8,345) -- March, 1986

Let me just say it straight up: my time in high school sucked balls.

If I were tall and blonde and in the athletic crowd like the jocks and cheerleaders, or in an elitist upper-class crowd like the rowing team, I have no doubt my high school experience would have been golden. That was not the case, however.

Instead, I was skinny (122 pounds) and average-sized (5'8") book-smart nerd with zero athletic ability who came from a lower-class household in the upper-class high school district (thanks to recent school re-districting), so yeah, like I said, the years from 1982 to 1986 sucked balls. Four years of what was supposed to be an education was a figurative shit-flavored Twinkie, with my education being the skimpy cream filling.

Teased and bullied by the popular kids? Check.

Humiliated in gym class? Check.

Ignored or mocked by girls I had crushes on? Check.

Never invited to parties? Check.

My only consolation was academics. I regularly kicked the shit out of the grading curves so hard that my classmates jealousy referred to me as 'the curve-wrecker', and not always behind my back. My consolation for those 4 miserable years was a 1550 SAT college test composite score out of a possible 1600, so I was offered academic scholarships from several colleges and universities.

Academics aside, though, I was a pretty lonely guy. I wasn't ugly by any means, but with my brown hair, brown eyes and unremarkable physical stature I was pretty much...invisible.

I lived with my mother Maria and dad David (a waitress and plumber, respectively) in our two-bedroom house, situated on the East side of the Toledo, Peoria, and Western railroad tracks that divided the town. In Fairburn, the phrase 'from the wrong side of the tracks' was very apropos.

East side houses meant small, barren lawns behind chain-link fences with gravel driveways and carports, whereas West side houses meant opulent lawns, white picket fences, and long winding driveways leading to 3-car garages. Property values on the East side of the tracks jumped 2x when you crossed over to the West side.

As my senior year drew to a close, senior prom was the big social event prior to graduation. My parents had even asked me if I was thinking about asking someone, since their senior prom was where they decided they wanted to be with each other forever. Yes, I know, it sounds very 'Back-To-The-Future', but in their case my father didn't have to punch out the school bully; to the contrary, he had a much easier time of it!

Given the fact they'd married right after graduation and coincidentally my older brother Terry had been born 39 weeks after their senior prom, I'm guessing Pops got into mom's panties pretty easily that night. After being married 24 years, they were still crazy in love, so I guess things had worked out.

Anyway, I told them I didn't have anybody special in mind and hadn't asked anyone, but my mother just kissed my cheek and assured me, "Love will find a way, Josh."

My dad's gruff response was more to-the-point, "Son, you need to ask somebody. How can you win the lottery if you don't even buy a damned ticket?" He was right of course. The problem was it was a long-shot bet, and there were no girls at my school willing to gamble on me. Anyway, as the days leading up to prom fell away, my mood fell more and more deeply into the dumps.

That changed the day a U-Haul truck pulled into the driveway next door. Our elderly neighbors, Ethel and Robert Samuelson, had reached a point where they could no longer care for themselves, and the Health Department had found housing for them in a local retirement home. Their adult children quickly came in, pillaged what few valuables their parents had, threw out their furniture, slapped a coat of paint on everything and put the place up for rent.

When I heard the racket next door -- the driveway was literally twelve feet away - I looked out my bedroom window and saw a couple of dudes unloading stuff out of a moving van. Two little children, a girl and a boy, were running here and there, but my heart stopped when I saw the woman who appeared to be their mother.

She was wearing a yellow sundress, with her long brown hair tied back into a ponytail which reached the center of her back. The bodice of the sundress accented her full breasts, while the loose skirt did little to disguise the curve of her full bottom. Her face was round, with a cute, freckled turned up nose. She was the single-most beautiful woman I'd ever seen.

I must have sat there for an hour, just watching her as she repeatedly went in and out of truck, unloading smaller items into the house. Despite having two children, the new neighbor had a very youthful face. The thought occurred to me she could easily pass for a teenager.

I sat at my window until she shooed the children inside, closing the front door as the moving truck pulled away. The sun was going down, so I closed my curtains and laid on my bed. After watching her, I had a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach, one that most normal teenage boys experience when they see a hot woman. Grabbing a couple of facial tissues, I unzipped my jeans and grabbed my cock, then took care of business as I imagined what kissing the new neighbor lady might be like as we danced at my senior prom.

I'd just finished and zipped myself up when my dad opened the door to my room and stuck his head in and announced, "Dinner's ready."

I snapped, "Geez, Dad, have you ever heard of knocking?" Looking around, he spotted the crumpled tissues on the floor next to my bed. His eyes met mine, and he smirked, "I hope it was a 'she' you were thinking about," he wisecracked, "I would like grandchildren someday, after all. Now go wash up. Mom made lasagna tonight."

With that, he left. All through dinner, as my parents discussed my brother's recent engagement I tuned out, focusing instead on what I could do to get the attention of the woman next door. Then it hit me. A new house, lots of things unpacked, and two small children -- the answer was food. A plan formed in my brain, and I immediately put it in motion.

Mom was talking to my father about caterers for my brother's rehearsal dinner when I blurted, "Hey, Mom, the lasagna was really good tonight. Can you show me how to make it?" She looked at me, her eyes wide like I had grown another head.

"YOU want to learn to cook?"

Thinking quickly, I fired back, "I'm 18 now, Mom, I'm going to need to take care of myself when I'm on my own..." She raised her hand to silence me, smiling now.

"Say no more! You don't have to ask twice!" Grabbing a notepad, she wrote down the ingredients. "I'm giving you a shopping list. You want to learn to cook? You can learn how to shop for ingredients too!"

First thing the next morning, I hopped in our old Celica and drove to the supermarket. When I got back home, I measured out all the ingredients and staged them like I saw on the cooking shows. My mother was impressed, and we set to work. Three hours later, I pulled the baking dish out of the oven, and it looked perfect. The cheese was golden brown on top, and it smelled great.

Nodding her approval, Mom said, "Since I have a roast cooking in the crockpot, I guess we can freeze your lasagna for later."

Now came phase two of my plan. "Actually, Mom, I was thinking I'd give it to the new neighbor that moved in yesterday to, y'know, welcome her to the neighborhood. I figured with two little kids and with her still unpacking and all, she'd appreciate some already-made dinner."

A look of shock crossed my mother's face; for the second time in two days, I'd surprised her. Then she took my face in her hands, and kissed my forehead. When she pulled away from me, she had tears in her eyes. "Joshua Lujack, speaking as a mother who once had two little ones, that's a wonderful thing to do. I'm proud of you, son." She looked at my epicurean masterpiece. "Let me help you wrap it in tinfoil."

A couple of minutes later, I was standing on the threshold of my new heart's desire: my neighbor's front porch. I rang the bell, and heard little feet running around. The door was pulled open, and I found myself looking down at the face of a little brown-haired girl. "Hello," I said, "I'm your new neighbor Josh, and I brought you a housewarming gift."

The little girl stood for a second as if determining if I were friend or foe, then her verbal dam burst, and the words poured out of her. "I'm Etta and I'm 5 years old and my brother Jayden is 3 and he likes cherry popsicles but I like orange ones and my mommy's name is Rosalie and she's 27 and my daddy's name is Robert but he and mommy aren't married anymore because he went to live with Ariel who's twenty-two years old and mommy says Ariel's a coal-digger so we live here now, and I like cats but we don't have one do you?"

As my brain was processing Etta's information dump, her mother came running up. "I'm so sorry, Etta's such a talker, once she gets going, she doesn't stop." She held her hand out. "Hi, I'm Rosalie."

I took her hand, and it was soft and warm, just as I'd imagined. "Hi, I'm Josh Lujack, I live next door." I held out my left hand that was holding the lasagna pan. "I brought you a housewarming gift, I figured with two small kids, a lasagna might come in handy and save you from cooking while you unpacked."

She took it and smiled. "Actually, Josh, you're a lifesaver! I was going to splurge and order a pizza, but this is so much better! It smells delicious, too, and it's still warm! Come, Etta, let's get this on the table!"

The little girl ran down the hallway, and Rosalie followed, calling over her shoulder, "Will you be joining us for dinner, Josh?" At this invitation, a feeling of victory swept through me. Like Odysseus in the Trojan horse, my lasagna had helped me breach the walls and I had made it into my neighbor's good graces.

We sat and ate dinner together, Etta talking almost non-stop while her brother silently looked at me as we ate. In between Etta's monologues, Rosalie confirmed that what Etta had told me was correct. She was newly divorced after her husband had experienced a mid-life crisis and taken up with Ariel the 'coal-digger'.

Since she'd been a stay-at-home mom for Etta and Jayden, Rosalie was living mostly on savings, alimony from her ex-husband and child support payments until she could get a job. I shared with her how I was a senior in high school with my sights set on going to college, although I hadn't decided which one yet.

After dinner, while I cleaned up the dishes, Rosalie got the children bathed and ready for bed. As I was drying the last dish, Rosalie came into the kitchen with a sheepish look on her face. "Thank you for doing the dishes, Josh. That was very sweet of you."

"Not a problem. My parents taught me early that husbands and wives should always share chores." As soon as I'd said the last word, it dawned on me how that sounded. "I meant, men and women, sorry." I could feel my face redden. Talk about putting the cart before the horse!

Rosalie just chuckled. "I understood what you were saying, Josh, not a problem." Then it was her turn to look uncomfortable. "Listen, um, this is going to sound funny, but..." she laughed nervously, "Jayden has a request. He wanted me to ask you if you'd read him a bedtime story."

Now I laughed nervously. "ME? Jayden didn't say a word all through dinner, I thought he didn't like me!"

"Well, you've seen how Etta will talk the ear off anyone who listens, but Jayden is different. He's a kid who studies people before deciding if he likes them or not. I don't know what his criteria is, but apparently you met them, so he asked me to ask you. If you don't want to, I understand."

Wow, this little kid who I just met decided he wanted me to read to him? It gave the kind of indescribable thrill you get when you put on a coat you haven't worn for months and find a $20 bill in the pocket!

"Sure I want to! It would be my pleasure." I followed Rosalie into the kid's room where the kids waited. The children had single beds on either side, a small bookshelf on the wall between. I asked Jayden what book did he want me to read.

Sucking his thumb, the boy pointed to a thin book on the floor, The Tawny Scrawny Lion. I remembered this story, it was one of my favorites when I was a kid, about a hungry lion who was convinced to be a vegetarian by the very rabbits he was hunting.

I happily declared, "Oh, wow! I love this one, I know it well!" I looked at Etta and asked, "Do you like it?"

She set me straight by saying, "Oh, I'm a big girl, I don't need bedtime stories like Jayden does, but I don't mind listening."

"Well, OK then!" As Rosalie looked on, I found a little stool, sat down next to Jayden's bed, and began reading out loud. By the time I got to the part where the bunnies were feeding the lion carrots for the first time, the little guy was fast asleep, so I closed the book and began to get up. I was interrupted, however, by Etta whispering.

"You can't stop, you haven't reached the end!" As soothing as my reading had been to her brother, I realized I still had Etta's enrapt attention. No way was I getting out without finishing the story, so I sat back down and read the last few pages where the lion becomes a full-on vegetarian and the bunnies' best friend. I looked over and saw that Etta was now asleep, so I eased my way out and gently closed the door.

Rosalie was waiting in the hall, smiling. "You seem to have a way with children," she said softly, "do you have any younger siblings?"

"No," I whispered back, "just my older brother, who's 23."

"Well, then, you're a natural. You're going to be a fantastic dad when the time comes." Leaning close, she kissed my cheek. "You're a rare one, Josh Lujack. Thank you." Wow.

I was elated as I left her house that night. My plan was nicely coming together so far. When I walked into our kitchen, I grabbed the Betty Crocker cookbook and picked out several not-too-difficult meals: Pork chops with pan-fried sliced potatoes, quick chicken-pot-pie using refrigerator rolls for the biscuits, and roast beef in a crock pot. I made a grocery list, and would pick up the ingredients the next day.

The next morning, the smell of coffee woke me up. I opened my eyes to see my mother sitting on the edge of my bed with a cup for me, a cheerful look on her face. "Good morning, handsome son," she said in a funny sing-song kind of way. I sat up and took a sip. It was delicious, cream and two sugars, just the way I liked it.

"What's up, Mom? Everything OK?"

"This morning I went next door, and introduced myself to our new neighbor Mrs. Foley. We had such a nice chat! When she realized I was your mother, she couldn't stop saying good things about you, and about what a good man I raised." She lovingly caressed the side of my face with her hand. "You're a good man, just like your father. You're so smart and sweet and..." Seemingly bursting with pride and lost for words, she kissed my forehead, then stood up. "I'm proud of you, son. Now get dressed, breakfast will be getting cold."

I got up, took care of my morning bathroom routine, and got dressed. When I came down, Mom was looking quizzically at my grocery list. "Joshua, what's this about? I already bought groceries this week."

"Since the lasagna went over so well and Rosalie's -- er, Mrs. Foley's kitchen is still being unpacked, I thought I'd cook a few more meals for her." My mother eyed me suspiciously.

"With all this cooking, I'm beginning to think you might have a little crush on her."

I kind of smirked, and admitted, "OK, yeah, I kind of do. Is that such a bad thing? She's really pretty, and she's super nice."

"She's also older with an ex-husband and two small children to take care of. She's not some teenage girl you can just take up with on a whim."

Now I began to get defensive, and my response was a little heated. "In case you hadn't noticed, Mom, the line of teenage girls interested in me is pretty damned short right now, the way it's been for all four years of high school. If I can get Rosalie interested in me, I don't give a damn that she's older than me or that she was married before. Yeah, she's got two kids, so what? I happen to like being with them, and they like being with me! I love you, but if you have a problem with that, well, that's just tough shit!"

My Mom looked at me in shock, her face flushed. She was the greatest mother a guy could ask for, yet I'd just sworn at her, which was a first. I had to give her credit, though, she didn't go apeshit on me the way I'd expected. Instead, she took a deep breath and spoke calmly.

"Josh, you're 18. Your father and I can't tell you where to go or who to see, that's entirely your choice, but as your mother, I'm sure you understand, I just want you to make good choices, that's all."

"I get that, Mom, but like you said, they're my choices. It's also entirely possible to make bad choices that end up turning out great! I mean, you and Dad had Terry early on, but that turned out all right, didn't it? My brother is great!" That was no lie. Terry, six years older than me, was the quintessential big brother until he went off to college.

Mom held up her hands, conceding defeat in this discussion. "OK, son, you've made your point. As your mother, it's my job to worry about you. Just, please, tread carefully. I don't want to see anyone end up hurt, especially Rosalie. It's hard enough for her already, going through a divorce."

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The next few days, I cooked my ass off. When I took over the day's meal, Rosalie would mildly protest, but then gush about the food when it sat steaming and delicious on their plates. I could sense her warming to me. And as I read to Etta and Jayden every night, I was warming to them as well. I wondered if I was actually starting to love these kids. Was this what being a father felt like? I made a mental note to ask Dad about it later.

On Wednesday, following the advice of Shakespeare's Lady Macbeth to "screw your courage to the sticking place", I was ready to make my move. After reading The Tawny Scrawny Lion to the kids for what felt like the 57th time, I left them in their room asleep and walked out to the kitchen where Rosalie was finishing up the dishes.

She was standing there in a pair of jeans and a paint-stained sweatshirt, with her hair done up in a loose bun and no makeup, and looked like a million dollars to me. I would have given anything to walk up and wrap my arms around her, but it was far too soon for that. I internally coached myself 'one step at time there, boy, one step at a time'.

"The tawny scrawny lion is once again a vegetarian, and the kids are asleep," I announced, and she smiled at me. Then she took a step closer. Now we were face-to-face, just a few inches apart, and took my hands in hers. This just kept getting better and better!