Unknown Novel

Found this in the deep space of the interwebs. Check it: 

Stanley and Joe sped through the night in a stolen Chevy van blitzed on Xanax and cheap wine. It was a good night, filled with potential, and they talked excitedly about adventure, major league baseball playoffs, and the divine convergence of beauty in the universe. As usual, Joe did most of the talking; Stanley listened quietly, nodding his head occasionally. He was happy to be along for the ride.  

The Bonds of Stupidity

You ever screw up so big that you can never outrun it? Not even if you lived to be 113 years-old?Like, there would be only one other person alive who remembered the embarrassing event, but that would be enough. The guy would be sitting in the lounge of the nursing home, telling all the other old timers about it. Passing it down to the younger ones so it will never be forgotten. Well, here it is: 

It was my sister's wedding (last weekend). She married this Hassidic guy, Meir, only his real name is Mark. This is no big deal because my sister, Avivit, is really named Gloria. As you might guess, she's changed. So they had this beautiful traditional wedding, and everything was great. There was the best Jewish food in the world: blintzes, and pickles, and matzot-ball soup, and noodle coogle. And my father's side of the family cooked Portuguese: arroz demarisco, chouricos, and cozido a portuguesa. They had the usual stuff too: cheesecakes, strawberries, and the ubiquitous chocolate fountain. 

So right in the middle of all the toasts, I settled in with a cup of strong coffee and a nice piece of yellow cheesecake. It was gorgeous, this cheesecake. The texture was light and creamy, and it looked like there was no crust. And I wondered how in the hell they made it without any crust? Must have been some insane genius of a pastry chef. I decided to meet him after the wedding and shake his hand. Maybe buy him a beer. 

I put a giant forkful in my mouth just as my father was giving his toast. Now, you've got to know something about my father. He never cries. He's one of those old fashioned tough guys, like Sinatra or Bogart, only Portuguese. But sure enough, there he was at the podium, talking about Gloria, I mean Avivit, with real tears in his eyes. It was beautiful the things he was saying. My little girl...may she be as happy as she's made me, etc. You could tell everyone at the wedding was getting choked up too. And that's when it hit me, what had happened. What was happening. I stood up abruptly, spilling my wine and water glass everywhere. I clutched my throat in horror. I screamed! Yes, without thinking, in a panic-reflex of stupidity and poor taste, I shouted above my weeping 67 year-old father who was giving his only daughter away to some nutjob black-hat who sold junk bonds and collected toy railroad trains. This is what I said: 

"It's FUCKING BUTTER! This isn't cheesecake. It's FUCKING BUTTER!"

There. I'm not proud of it. Actually, I'm quite embarrassed. I mean there I stood in the center of everyone's attention, with a giant lump of butter in my mouth and my sister, Gloria, I mean Avivit, trying to melt my face off with her laser eyes. And my father, well... let's just say I've got some making up to do.        

 

THE ONION DEFENSE

I just visited a friend in Buffalo. He lives in a terrible neighborhood, which I understand isn't so hard to arrange in that rusting city. Anyway, I was cooking a big dinner (jambalaya) and needed an onion. This sorry bastard (my friend) didn't have a single onion in his house! Can you believe it? I couldn't either. So I walked a couple of blocks to this really great old Italian market called Guercio's, on Grant Street. I bought one large Vidalia, wrapped in a plastic grocery bag. It was the size of a grapefruit, and hard as a baseball; I marveled at it's superiority.

In the street, from a tall skinny man who was obviously insane, on crack, and in desperate need of a dentist: "Hey, motherfucker!" 

A voice called out. To me? I didn't really know anybody on the West Side, other than my onionless friend. But my attention was definitely being solicited.  

"Yeah, you. I'm talking to you, bitch."

What do you do in a situation like this? I'm a relatively nonviolent person. It took me seven years to earn a Bachelor's degree, and not one class ever covered what to do when threatened by a street tough. My mind scanned all the cool movies I'd ever seen. But they involved actual punching, karate moves, and a substantial loss of blood. Not that I'm incapable of fighting. Not at all! I actually kicked Ronny Dermot's ass in the 3rd grade. You should have seen it! But on this day, I couldn't fight because I really wanted to get home and cook that jambalaya. 

Walking away, I said over my shoulder, "I have to go now. I defrosted some giant prawns, and I don't want them to spoil." 

He quickened his pace. Said, "What? What did you say? You got some money for me, bitch?"

So I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I faced the guy and planted my feet firmly. I twisted the bag around the onion so it looked kind of like one of those prehistoric weapons - I think it's called a bola - only it had one onion tethered to the end of a plastic bag instead of 3 stones connected by rawhide thongs. Then I started swinging it in a giant arc. I think I even managed a menacing smile, as if to say, bring it on you deranged-crack-addled-person-with-poor-dental-hygiene. Bring it on. 

Incredibly, he stopped dead in his tracks and began to twitch and jitter. He was evidently making a decision. Do I stab the fat man with the onion, or go find an easier target? But then it looked like his thoughts got confused. Find fat onions in easier places? What? Not making sense fat onions."  

"Shit!" He cursed to the street. "Crazy motherfucker. I'd mess you up if you wasn't so damn crazy."

And with this pronouncement, he walked away. And so that's the story of how that one single Vidalia onion served me in battle and then in the kitchen. No bullshit!