I wanted to release a barbaric cry that I had pent up throughout the years of my coexistence with Pierce Stone that would make the blacktop shake and car windows shatter. But when I attempted to yell, what came out was the flickering ember of a yelp that vanished into thin air, and the group turned toward me as if I had interrupted a classified meeting—I was nine years old again, trying to sneak into “double digits.”
John Thompson, who had been the focal point of attention since sixth grade, submissively backed away from the circle and allowed Pierce Stone to step forward, acting as his own champion.
We stepped up to each other and neither of us spoke a word—him smirking, me clutching my jaw so tight I thought my molars would pop out. Somewhere in the depths of my psyche the levees broke, and every memory I had of Pierce Stone flooded into the senior parking lot as apparitions, mixing and mingling as if attending a soiree in Rosenblatt’s basement.
I could see words like “guinea” and “guido” float into the air like balloons, and a tingle climbed up my spine and whispered in my ear: “You can’t even reeeeeeeeaaaaad.” Little burgundy demons climbed out from the blacktop and danced with their flaming tridents above their heads in celebration, summoning rains of uncircumcised penises as snakes wrapped around Pierce Stone’s legs, exploding their heads as they reached right above the knees. Cracks of thunder erupted, screaming “Dammit, Ferraro! Dammit, Ferraro! Dammit, Ferraro!” Michaela Silves lay spread eagle on the hood of the Hummer, clutching a hairbrush tight in her snatch, as boys wearing “Summit Hilltoppers” varsity jackets surrounded her, lacrosse sticks in hand—she sat up on her elbows and said, “Don’t worry, Victor. The camera loves me.” And right when it all began to shake like the stream of a river beyond recognition, my focus slipped as I saw Ivanka seated in the passenger seat of the bright yellow monster, attempting to remain motionless as if I were a Tyrannosaurus Rex.
I caught myself searching the pockets of my pants and jacket in a frantic fury and dropped to the ground when I realized I lacked any semblance of a weapon—in a moment I had been subconsciously planning for my entire life—and I started to laugh. I flipped onto my back and splayed out my arms and could hear my father’s voice telling me, “Only hit someone in the face if you really want to hurt them, Vito.”
But I didn’t want to hurt Pierce Stone—I wanted to kill him.
Had I been born in the age of sabers or revolver dueling, only one of us would’ve made it through Glenwood. But despite the progress espoused by our modern age, the strong continue to do as they please while the Melians continue to suffer what we must.
I was still laughing quietly to myself as Jabie and John Thompson lifted me from the blacktop, dusted the pebbles and pavement debris from the back of my head, and put me on my feet.
By the time spring arrived, I had decided to attend Ursinus College, a tiny liberal arts school in the Philadelphia suburbs where I was promised the big-fish-in-a-small-pond lifestyle.
“Your Uncle Simon—I guess your Great Uncle Simon—will be so glad to hear it, Victor. Stop playing with your hair. You should call him,” said my mother as she searched for the cordless phone in the kitchen fray.
“When did he graduate from Ursinus?”
“Oh jeez, I’m not sure about that. That’s something you can ask him. Let’s just say it was back when they limited the amount of admitted Jews.”
“What? Uncle Simon is Jewish?”
“You didn’t know that? I mean, I don’t think he practices, but…”
This whole time I had a familial connection—albeit not by blood—to the Jewish community, and she let me go naked and afraid into all of those bar mitzvah services at B’nai Buh-Bi See Ya Later Goy without this essential factoid? Perhaps I’ll give accounting a shot.
“His last name is Saperstein, for heaven’s sake. I wanted to name you after him, but your father insisted on Gerrardo or Bruno or Vito. But I refused to…”
Probably missed some opportunities to present myself as a real mensch and take a shvitz and kvetch with a Columbia alum. Now I gotta shlep down to Montgomery County, PA—the chutzpah of this one! To thine own self be Jew.
“… and so we agreed on Victor.”
“I see. Okay, I’ll call him tonight. I’m going to Oscar’s with Karl and Mrs. Geiger.”
“Okay, I’m going to pick up Britney from the middle school. If you don’t get there early enough that car line is murder,” she said, rifling through her purse. “You need money?”
But I was already out the door.
Oscar’s was a small establishment wedged on a commercial block of Millburn Avenue downtown. Set above the cashiers at a downward sloping angle, a bright green menu shined the variety of sandwiches with their respective ingredients tailing off in smaller white print. While Oscar’s floated in restaurant purgatory somewhere between a deli and a diner (perhaps a luncheonette?), it was still nevertheless fully operated by a sun-tinged Greek family who shouted orders to each other in their native tongue while gracefully slipping back into English to speak to us customers. I would enviously picture them strolling along the white beaches of the Greek islands, handing out sandwiches to the Northern European tourists from platters that reflected the Mediterranean sun.
The multi-layered sandwiches were all named after Greek islands, with exotic titles like Mykonos, Ios, Rhodes, and the Peloponnesian.
“You know what you want?” Karl asked, sticking with his go-to of succulent white meat chicken fingers and a side of fries.
I had yet to obtain an Oscar’s “usual” and was caught in the ingredients of an island I could barely pronounce
