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Two Years Ago ... In A Galaxy Too Close To Home
I had just finished my last class in my MBA program (yay me, so boring!) and was walking across the quad to the dining hall, when my mother decided to call, no doubt checking to see if I’d garnered a date to celebrate. Bah.
I answered. I had too. She’d keep calling, possibly every five minutes through the night.
Me: “Hi Mama. No, I don’t have a date. I just finished my last class. Besides, I have to work in the morning.”
Mama: “You listen to me. You find a nice boy, you be late to work. You get my meaning? How I find the ‘wink-wink’ emoji thing?”
Me: “I have bad date juju. I’m done with men.”
Mama: “You’re too picky. Most men are pigs. You’ll adjust.”
Me: “Mama! Todd hasn’t cut his toenails since Y2K. I think he set some kind of world record.”
Mama: “I caught your father biting his toenails once. Let me tell you, that was no sex for him for over a day.”
Me: “LALALALA I can’t hear you.”
Mama: “What, you think you popped outta my butt like fairy sprinkles? So what happened to Ben?”
Me: “He got the inside of his nostrils tattooed.”
I stepped around a guy sleeping on the quad.
Mama: “Well don’t tell your Nonno. He’ll be next in line for nostril tattoo. So. What happened to John?”
ME: “Liked to play chew and show. Not with food.”
Mama: “Hmmm. Huh. Maybe your father would like—”
Me: “My ears are bleeding.”
Mama: “Okay, fine. Keep your secrets. So, who else you dump?”
Me: “ Really, Mama? You want a list? Man buns and rompers aren’t enough?”
Mama: “I want to know why you don’t stick with one guy.”
Me: “Liam moved to Antarctica to study the effect of Chinese food on penguins. Logan picked his nose at every red light then studied the outcome in heavy traffic.
Daniel thought calling me Bitchface was an endearment. Ethan ate beef but not cows. Joel kept spewing lines from the Godfather in a bad Spanish accent.”
Mama: “Sound like regular men to me.”
Me: “Che palle! Josh dressed up like Buzz Lightyear on our first date. Chris is allergic to vegetables. And fruit. And polyester and cotton. Maybe even rayon. Definitely pasta. Linc has two inch nipples. Maybe longer. Ash thought Narnia was up my dress and was determined to get there.”
Mama: “So basically you need to stop dating men like your brothers.”
Me: “Gotta go, Mama, I think I see Elvis. Ciao!”
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I finally made it to the Commons dining hall just before closing and stood eyeballing the last taco to be had, when a masculine voice next to me said, “I’ll take that last taco.”
“You can’t,” I blurted. “It’s mine.” Of course the taco wasn’t mine, not yet anyway, but my mouth had always spouted off before my brain could engage the brakes and this time was no exception.
Twinkling blue eyes checked me out, then one dark eyebrow raised in question. “Is that so? Does it have your name on it then?”
The question was a tad snarky, but the man said it so politely that all I really heard were the lovely lilting mists of Ireland floating above me.
Then I got a grip on myself.
“I’d think you’d prefer a blarney sandwich, Irish.”
“I’ve been standing here for five minutes, Luigi, watching you debate between the taco and the pizza. If you can’t decide, I can. Bada-bing bada-boom, I’ll take the taco.”
Luigi?!?! Bada-bing bada-boom?!?! My eyes went squinty and my hands started moving. Like the Italian in me just instantly morphed into Tony Soprano and suddenly out of nowhere my hand just sort of smacked this gorgeous Irishman upside the chest. Not hard or anything, but still. Apparently my brain didn’t have any more control over my hands than it did my mouth. My mother would possibly be horrified. My nonna would be horrified I hadn’t smacked him twice. Upside the head. I, personally, was horrified to be caught acting like a second-grader with a crush.
“Okay, jeez, fine,” he said, “you take the taco. I’ll take the pizza. Chumley would prefer the taco, but that’s because he’s Latin.” The man looked at the kid serving the food. “Add two Cokes to that, if you don’t mind.”
Chumley? I wasn’t sure if the guy was referring to himself in the third person which would’ve been a huge scary tinfoil helmet kind of red flag, but then I saw where he was looking and my gaze landed on the most pathetic-looking dog I’d ever seen.
It may have been a Basset hound but it looked like a brown, black, and white blob that gravity had grabbed and slammed to earth then wouldn’t let back up. Skin hung in folds, ears dragged the ground, and the dog’s eyes had bags within bags and looked like he’d been hitting a bottle and a bong non-stop. Possibly he may have sneezed and his whole face fell forward then stuck there. “Basset hounds are Latin now, are they?”
“Aye, this one is. I think. Maybe.”
“He’s er, really cute.” I wanted to pet him, but didn’t want to bring attention to him either, which could get the very handsome Irishman in trouble. I leaned toward him and whispered, “But, um, you know you can’t have a dog in here. And he can have the taco, I’ll take the pizza.”
“Ah, but I do have a dog in here. And I’ll bet you’re no snitch, eh, Mario?”
For the first time since we’d been standing there, he turned toward me with a boyish grin. And that’s when I saw the blood. He had two bullet holes in his shirt, blood dripped down one arm, and spatter covered his jeans and one side of his face. I reached into my purse to grab my phone. “Oh my God! Call 911!”
“What? Why?” He grabbed me, threw me to the ground and then collapsed, possibly dead, right on top of me and my new yellow dress. “Is there a criminal? Does he have a weapon? Is it you? Are you hurt? What’s going on?”
He sure asked a lot of questions for a possible dead guy. “No, I’m not hurt! You’re hurt!”
“I am?” He asked, not moving.
Oh lord, he had to be in some sort of shock, or hallucinatory confusion pre-death throes kind of thing if he didn’t even realize he’d been shot. “It’s okay. You’re going to be fine,” I said, trying to comfort. “Just let me get my phone.” I yelled at the counter guy again to call 911 and tried moving my arms to get to my purse which held my phone which had been knocked several feet away. Alas, the poor nearly dead man was stone solid and wouldn’t budge.
Nearly dead could mean really dead any second. Euwww! Aaauugh! That freaked me out so bad I got that super human strength you hear about when under severe duress or whatever, and I HEAVED the guy off me then said a quick Our Father in case I might’ve hurt him.
He’s dead, Sophia, dead! You can’t hurt a dead guy!
My vision grayed at the edges. I’d never seen a dead person before, let alone have one die on top of me while arguing over a taco.
I heard a loud “Arooooo!” from the dog and figured he was probably hysterical because his master had just died.
“There’s not a crazed gunman around then, I’m guessing,” the dead guy said, and stood up rather athletically.
I stood there dumbstruck.
I eyed the man’s clothes, checked out the blood I was now covered in, and realized Mr. Dead Irish Guy hadn’t been shot at all and the blood wasn’t even real.
“Che Palle! I thought you were shot! I thought you were dying! I thought you were dead!” Oh boy. I think my hair was flaming out like some majestic halo of fury and fire in an X-Men movie.
I strode straight up to Mr. Not Dead Irish Guy and pointed my finger at him. “You! You scared me to death! How could you! You sneaky, manipulative taco burglar! I should call campus security! They can arrest you for fraudulent bleeding and dying on campus! I hope they lock you up with Big Scrotum Bagliano! And Butt Biter Balconi! And they don’t serve tacos in prison! You’ll be eating bologna till you’re ninety! And it’s not the all beef kind either! You’ll be dreaming of tacos and milking sheep in your sleep! You taco stealing fake! Mama mia, I thought you were hurt!” I actually felt tears starting to clog my throat.
“Look here, Guido, I’m not the one who went all hysterical. I’m not the one who started yelling about 911. I tried to save you!”
“Save me? From what? You nearly gave me heart failure! And you’re heavy! Jeez, forget the taco or the pizza, eat a darn salad.” He was heavy yes, fat no. Muscular, very. Not that I was going to admit that out loud.
“Well now, I didn’t know that did I? For all I knew there was a crazed gunman behind me.” He looked down at his abs. “Salad? Really?”
I pushed back the tears, cleared my throat, and asked in a calmer voice, “Why are you covered in what looks like very real blood?”
“Hostage situation.”
“What? Where? Oh my God!”
“Easy there, Capone, not a real hostage situation. A staged one. For my criminal justice class.”
“And you didn’t think to change or clean up?” My hair was definitely going to catch fire. My head was going to blow. Right after I stabbed him in the eye with a plastic dining hall to-go fork. Gah! Okay, that last part was a bit much, even for me. Oh, jeez, was I PMS-ing? Why wasn’t I flirting with this gorgeous male? Because, Sophia, he scared the ever-lovin’ Italian right out of you. Now calm down, quit shaking, and flirt. FLIRT, I tell you!
“Aye, of course I did. But I also wanted to get here before the place closed. Chumley’s hungry. I didn’t expect to run into the taco mafia.”
Taco mafia? So much for flirting. “I am absolutely going to let my mobbed-up nonno kill you, turn you into sausage, and feed you to hungry puppies.”
“Ah, see, now my feelings are hurt. I’d make lousy puppy chow. Much better to turn me into taco filling. I’d probably taste like what’s in that taco you’re about to eat.”
The kid working behind the counter looked bored and handed over the taco and a large slice of cheese pizza. Irish took the pizza, I took the taco (don’t think about the filling, don’t do it, don’t even go there, don’t ... bleerggh, too late...mental image locked in), and Mr. Irish Man paid before I could get my money out. He was like some kind of ninja money guy with his hands, which made an eerie assassin flute sound play in my head and before I could blink, the bill was paid.
Fine. It was probably going to cost me twice that to have my dress cleaned.
Actually...hmmm. Why did that move and his ninja hands look so familiar? Come to think of it, so did his face. Where had I seen him before? Did we have a class together? Had he been following me? Was he possibly a real assassin trying to game me for a taco?
Game. Oh. Oooh. Oh, crap. No wonder his hands were quick. He was probably trying to hide the big fat championship ring on his finger. My brothers were never going to believe me. I wondered if I should sneak my phone out and snap a picture as proof. Probably not. Somewhere in the laws of good manners, I was sure respecting another person’s privacy was up there near the top. The men in my family might disagree under the circumstances, but my mother and my nonna would boil me in tomato sauce if I didn’t at least try to behave.
“How about if we go out on the Green and give poor Chumley a place to eat his pizza?”
“We? There is no we.” No way was I going to make a fool of myself (again) by eating a sloppy taco with a questionable filling in front of one of the NFL’s most famous quarterbacks. Even if he was incredibly attractive and had great eyes. And hair. And hands. I already knew he had a great butt. Thank you, NFL, for revealing one of the most glorious things women watched football for.
“Sure there is. There’s you, me, and Chumley. That’s-a-we. Ha, see there, I can do Italian, too. Good thing I got the pizza, right, Guiseppe?” He took me by the elbow and escorted me toward the exit.
“Scusa. Non parlo Inglese.”
“I think it’s a little too late to be sayin’ ya don’t speak English, don’t you, Michelangelo? Being Italian, I’d have thought you’d want the pizza.”
“And being Irish, I’d have thought you’d want a potato.”
“Aye, and a brawl and a pint, as well as me Lucky Charms.” Graceful as a cat, he lifted off the ground, clicked his heels together and gave me a wink. “They’re magically delicious.”
I sighed and decided since he’d just bought my dinner, was being altogether charming, I should probably put those good, and deeply ingrained, manners to use and join him and his stubby-legged dog.
As we headed toward the door, the dog stepped on one of his ears and tripped. When he corrected his course, he stuck out one leg then the next. “Is your dog drunk?”
“Not my dog. My sister’s. He walks to a Latin beat. Bring your cankles and waddle on, Chumley.”
We walked outside, Chumley peed on the grass, danced a couple of yards to a curved, cement bench and collapsed. Mr. Football sat on one end of the bench and I took the other.
“I suppose since we’ve been horizontal together, and are now having a pathetically bad dinner unsupervised, we should at least introduce ourselves.” He stuck out his hand and said, “Jack.”
I shook his hand and said, “Donatello.” I tore off a piece of my taco and gave it to Chumley.
“Careful now, Leonardo, he’s a champion beggar, that one.”
“Can’t help it, he’s Latin and wanted a taco, after all.”
“So, when are ya plannin’ on tellin’ me your real name, Sophia?” He casually took a bite of pizza, then gave Chumley a glob of cheese and crust.
I froze. Then I got suspicious. “It’s Raphael. Last name’s Gambino. Family’s Don Carlo. From Queens. And we all drive hearses.”
“Do ya now? Must make parking a true pastime.”
“Why would you think my name is Sophia?” I tried a bite of taco, decided it wasn’t awful, and gave Chumley another piece.
“I’m a trained observer. You look like a Sophia. Also, you’re wearin’ a nametag.”
Oh jeez. How could I have forgotten the meet-and-greet we’d just had in my last class? “Good to know you can read, O’Donlan.” He raised an eyebrow so I continued. “Recognized your hands. And that championship ring you keep trying to hide.”
“My hands? That’s all I get? You recognized my hands? You’re a wee bit brutal aren’t ya now?”
“Me? Brutal? I mean, just because you jumped me for no good reason—”
“I did not jump you. I thought we were being—”
“Invaded? By homicidal leprechauns, perhaps? Besides, it would’ve taken me another hour to recognize your face with all that glop poured on. And if you didn’t want anyone looking at your hands, why in Saint Mary’s are you wearing a ring the size of a Barca-Lounger on your hand?”
Jack looked sheepish. “The guys in class asked to see it. I usually keep it locked up.”
“And I’m guessing that class is where you had your pretend shoot ‘em up? Law and Order major?”
“Criminology. What about you?”
“MBA.”
“Meatball Bandit Apprentice?”
“I’m Italian. So. Criminology. You learning how to beat the coppers or become a copper?”
“Already am a copper. Hoping to run for sheriff.”
“Donut patrol? You had me at homicide?”
“I fought the law and the law won.”
“In what state?”
“Ha ha. Right here in Georgia. Live Oak. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”
Well, that was weird. Of all the small towns in all the world, this guy had to pop off with one I actually knew of. “As a matter of fact. Lana O’Donlan. Had a couple of classes with her last year.” Wait just a minute. Was this guy married? I still had Lana’s phone number and we still talked occasionally, but I didn’t remember her husband’s name being Jack. I jumped to my feet, dropped my taco, and it plopped onto Chumley’s head. Then I figured no, no, no. I had to at least give Jack the benefit of the doubt. And I sat back down.
“What? What just happened?”
“I thought I saw a bee. It’s gone now.” I was definitely going to blame my emotional craziness on hormones. And the fact that I was really rusty in the flirting department. Obviously. Unless Jack was actually married to Lana. Which I guess he could be. But I’d hate to think of such a charming guy being a jerk. “So, how are you related to Lana?”
“Lana’s married to my brother, Greg.” He pulled up photos on his phone, held it so that I could see the screen, and sure enough, there stood Lana, all smiles, with her arm wrapped around a mountain of a man with auburn hair.
I looked at Jack. “That’s your brother?”
“He gets his coloring from our mother. I get mine from our father.”
“He’s awfully...” Oh boy. How to be polite?
“Big?”
“Well, yes. There is that. Did he eat a sasquatch growing up?” Greg wasn’t fat, just kind of super-sized. Like if he sat on you, your intestines might squirt out your nose or something. I almost felt sorry for Lana except that would involve thinking about their sex life and I wasn’t going there.
Jack look amused. “Nay, lass, he was only allowed one side of beef a day. He’s a mere three inches taller than I. As for his shoulders, well, there’s simply no explanation. Could be a mutation of some sort.”
“Any other mutations in your family?”
“If yer askin’ if I have man boobs on me arse, I can assure you I do not. As for other mutations, I’m not sure I know you well enough yet to show ya.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’ve seen your butt on TV and now in person. As for other parts, don’t exaggerate.”
“And what other parts would I be exaggerating about exactly?”
Oh brother. Men and their ... egos. “Whatever it is, I’ll make sure to go ahead and subtract two inches.”
“You’re a cruel woman, Sophia. I like that about you.”
“And I wonder why your brogue kicks in then out, makin’ ya sound even more Irish than normal, to be sure.”
“We’re an emotional bunch, we Irish. Same as you Italians, I imagine, especially as I’ve heard you rant a wee bit in your family’s mother tongue. Dependin’ on our mood, and the turn of phrase we’re speakin’, decides what words we’re about usin’ and how we go about sayin’ ‘em. So how about a real dinner, say tomorrow since it’s a Friday?”
I wiped my hands on a napkin and said, “Thank you. No.” I’d already made an idiot of myself and didn’t really want another helping. Plus, I absolutely needed to brush up on my flirting skills. Although to be honest, I hadn’t expected to be tackled when I’d gone inside for a measly taco. No wonder he’d been so good at football.
“Well now, why not?” Jack looked more amused than affronted.
“Your jewelry is better than mine. That’s a deal breaker in itself.”
“Ah, but your underpants are better than mine. You’re wearing luscious red strawberries and all I’m wearing is plain old boring blue.”
I wondered how far back I could roll my eyes before I passed out or sprained an eyeball.
“So, about dinner—”
“Sorry, no can do. You’ve already seen my underpants.”
“Can’t say I’m sorry about you flashin’ me. You have quite a lovely—”
I held up my hand in warning. Not that I could take him, but still. I had my dignity. And the parts he hadn’t seen. Yet anyway.
“Right. So. I know a really great place though. Although it’s Italian and you might get enough of that sort of food at home. Have ya ever heard of Try The Veal?”
Oh boy. My brain went straight into Casablanca mode. Of all the restaurants in all the towns in all the world, he had to pick mine. “I may have. Is it any good?”
“Five star rating, or whatever it is restaurants get. I quite like it.”
I studied my nails. “Do they serve decent tacos?”
“It’s Italian, but maybe if you ask real nice. I’m sure the chef would be happy to make you some sort of taco.”
“Oh? You know the chef?” I didn’t know if he’d met my brothers, but I had. And I knew if I ordered a taco, all three of them would come at me with steam billowing out their ears and my taco would probably come filled with pasta and red sauce.
“I don’t, no. But I’d think he’d want to keep his customers happy and if it’s a taco you’re after, well, how about a nice Mexican restaurant instead, then?”
“No, no. I think I’d like to try this Try The Veal place.” I had to cave. I really wanted to see if this sexy, macho, ex-football playing cop could pass the Italian family from hell test. My last date sure couldn’t. In fact, he’d run from the restaurant nearly screaming like a girl. I’d have to give my nonno an extra hug for that near miss. “Should I dress up? Dress down? Business casual?”
“I think whatever you decide will be perfect.”
“Are you being charming?” I all but fluttered my eyelashes, then remembered eyelash fluttering wasn’t in the flirting brochure. But for all he knew I was nuts and could decide to wear paint-splattered, holey, wrinkled up gypsy clothes to a fine dining restaurant.
“I’d say I’ve been practicing my whole life just for this day, but then I’d sound insincere and a wee bit wormy. Me da says charm, dear Sophia, comes to the O’Donlans naturally. Although knowing my dad, and that he’s often more wrong than right, charm may indeed be what’s kept my mother from murdering him all these many years. So I’ll pick you up, say seven?”
“Oh, uh, no, no, I’ll just meet you there.” I wondered how he’d manage to get a reservation, then remembered we always held a table or two for VIPs. And her family, along with their maître d, would consider Jack O’Donlan a VIP. Times ten. Maybe a thousand.
Jack looked a tad insulted. “I think I can manage to pick you up. I’ll even ask for directions if I must.”
Donkey balls. I lived above the restaurant. So, hmm, how to dodge? “My parents would grill you. Youngest daughter, axe murderers, and all that. I’ll let you take me home, though, if you promise not to tackle me again.” Or if you somehow manage to make it through the second course.
I half expected him to hold up a Scout’s Honor hand pledge, but he just grinned. “I’ll meet you there at seven then. Will ya be needin’ directions?”
I wagged my phone and stood, hinting that I had a GPS to help me find my way. He didn’t need to know that I lived there and could get home if I was simultaneously blind, had severe head trauma, and was stumbling drunk. “I’ll manage, thanks. Don’t be late. And whatever you do, don’t wear that ring. Someone could mug you.”
And then, while I was still ahead, I sauntered away all suave-like just as my legs were beginning to shake.
Oh, Lord. What have I done this time? And who would I need forgiveness from?
I definitely had to go home and question my life. And find an instructional video on flirting.
#TacosAreNotJustForTuesdays
#IGotMuggedForATaco
#SometimesTacoFillingIsSketchy