No Sad Songs

by Frank Morelli

  “Men,” I say, and I swear this is a true story, “we’ve got a soldier over the hill and he’s moving like pond water.”

  “That’s a big ten-four,” Doc responds over the boom of the exam room mortars. “It may be time to ruck up and bring in the red team.”

  “Never!!”

  Nick charges off the left flank and Grandpa peppers him with airborne cotton swabs and latex gloves. But then Doc covers him on the right, and I pop up from my foxhole and start winging tongue depressors in all directions—just to distract Gramps for a few seconds. Long enough for Nick to grab a hold of his right shoulder as Doc snags him around the waist. He struggles like a largemouth bass, but it’s too late. Doc’s examination is complete and he turns the prisoner over to his sentries.

  Danielle and a few of her staff members surround the perimeter, as General Weston leads Private First Class Nick LoScuda and myself, Captain Gabriel LoScuda, to his bunker for another debriefing. I don’t expect there to be any medal ceremonies in our future.

  “I’ll make this quick,” Doc Weston says when we’re all seated in his office. “His leg is fine. Just a bruise that’ll heal up in a few weeks. You can give him Advil if he complains. But the real question is: how did it happen?”

  Nick and I should have thought this through back at the house, maybe gotten our stories in order. Instead, we both blurt out our responses at the same time and it sounds all jumbled. Something like, “He fell down slipped the bathroom stairs.”

  Not our best moment.

  “Wait a minute,” Doc says. “Gabe says he slipped in the tub, and Nick, he fell down the stairs?” He pushes his glasses down on the bridge of his nose and stares at us. “Both are viable ways to get a bruise like the one Ernest has. But somehow I can’t picture your bathroom being located in a stairwell.”

  “Well, Doc, what—”

  “No need, Gabe. Look, I’m not here to play detective. I’m here to make sure you all stay healthy. And sometimes that includes more than just what you’d find in these anatomy books.” He motions to the stacks of books on the shelves behind him. “Look, I think it’s time you two at least give some thought to what we discussed on your last visit.”

  He slides a few brochures across the desk to Nick. I see the words “Assisted Living” at the top of one before Nick scoops them up.

  This time we don’t argue with the doctor—probably because we’re still licking our wounds from battle. But the brochures never make it as far as the car. Nick chucks them in a wastebasket before we hit the parking lot.

  12

  INTERVENTION

  It took almost four years, but I think I can see myself spending the next forty or so right here at Schuylkill High. It’s amazing how the walls don’t look so vomity and the teachers don’t sound as nasally when you have an identity. And even if I happened to share that identity with guys like Al Capone and John Gotti, and other, even scarier dudes with nicknames like “Knuckles” or “the Nail,” it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t stop girls like Mandy So-and-So from smiling at you when she passed your locker. And it didn’t stop football team captains like Vince Barchetti from holding the locker room door for you, slapping you on the shoulder, and calling you “champ.” I mean, I’m ready to ask the guy for his autograph and he’s calling me “champ?” How freaking beautiful is that?

  It’s not as beautiful as the scene that unfolded in the parking lot after school—that much I can tell you. I’m getting in my car. John’s not with me because I have a shift at Perdomo’s. I swear, the kid’s never around when the good stuff happens.

  I open the door and a pair of hands reaches around from behind me and covers my eyes. I can’t see a thing, but I can tell it’s a girl because no guy with hands this silky would ever go up and let some other guy know about it.

  “Guess who?” she says—and it appears we’re gonna play this game, which I’m not too happy about because I don’t exactly get accosted in parking lots by insistent female fans that often.

  “No idea,” I say. “I give up.” It’s my only real strategy, but it’s effective. She releases her grip and I turn around. And it’s her. Freaking Marlie!

  I can feel my pulse race. I spend four years trying to get her to notice me and all it takes is a few days as a fugitive and she’s tracking me down like Geronimo. She’s gorgeous as ever, and the blue flame in her eyes is turned up extra hot. Even my newfound persona is no match for a girl like this.

  “Oh, uh, hi,” I say. Here we go again, Gabe, you sweet-talking devil.

  “Everything back to normal?” she asks.

  “Oh … yeah,” I say. “Of course. You know me. Just doing my normal, everyday thing. Nothing out of the ordinary here.”

  “That’s good to hear, Gabe.” I start to wonder if she’s talking to the right person. Like maybe all those Garys and Jerrys she thought I was a few weeks ago are the guys she’s looking for today. But she keeps talking and I’m the only one here. “Nothing like a man who doesn’t let the heat get to him,” she says.

  “Oh, definitely,” I say mopping about a gallon of sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “I’m as cool as a cucumber. Nothing gets to me.”

  For a second I’m glad John is not here because he would have laughed in my face when I said that—and for another second I think Marlie might just fill in for John anyway. And who could blame her? Instead, she says something I thought was reserved for the jocks and the rich kids.

  “Cool. I’ll see you around?”

  “Yeah,” I somehow say without jumping out of my shoes. “Sure.” Then I duck inside the Trans-Am before I can screw anything up.

  And, boy, there’s nothing like driving out of your dream and into the Perdomo’s parking lot for an afternoon shift. But I guess working for Perdomo isn’t so bad. He stays out of my way as long as I keep the counters and tables sparkling and the floor mopped fresh. Sometimes he lets me throw an order of fries in the hot oil and dump them in a basket when they’re done. But he won’t let me near the pizza. The dude is Philly born and bred, so pizza comes about half a notch below the Holy Grail on his list of important shit. Seriously. I think he keeps the freaking recipe under lock and key, buried seventy miles below the bedrock under the restaurant’s basement—and you have to run a gauntlet through poison dart launchers and hidden trip wires just to reach it. I doubt even Indiana Jones could steal the Perdomo family secrets.

  The place is pretty quiet this afternoon, so I take the opportunity to sweep the dining room and gather stray utensils from the tables. I swear, people are pigs. The five o’clock news broadcast plays on the old black and white television Mr. Perdomo mounted above the counter. It barely receives three channels, yet Perdomo has the nerve to advertise “Free TV” in blinking, neon letters in the front window.

  Most of the time I tune out the news because it’s filled with the most horrific crap you could ever hear. I can never understand why people want to listen to stories about murders and armed robberies while they’re eating dinner. And since “the incident,” I’ve been trying to avoid the tube like the plague. But the story has picked up steam—since the little kid who got hit is freaking adorable. Just my luck.

  Every news station shows the same picture of the kid—at the height of his cuteness—with sandy, blond curls spilling out from under a toy store cowboy hat and each of his chubby, red cheeks kissed by perfectly round dimples. Like he pedaled his toddler-mobile straight off the label of a baby food jar or something. It’s weird, but adults always eat that crap up. If you ask me, we’re toast.

  But I guess even my curiosity has its limits, and since I’m stuck between refilling napkin holders and emptying ashtrays, I decide to indulge in the latest from Channel Six:

  “Still no suspect has been named in the Montgomery Street hit and run accident that rocked this community last week.”

  “Rocked this community?” Is she serious?

  “Seven-year-old, Timothy Mullin, broke his tibia and two ribs when a vehicle
clipped him as he rode his tricycle. Tonight, police are looking for any leads that will help determine who it was that sped down this quiet, neighborhood drive and almost took the life of a young boy.”

  I can’t listen to much more, so I reach for the dial. But then I see Officer Patterson up on the screen and I freeze.

  “At this point we do have a few witnesses and the department is using all of its resources to find the hit and run driver. But we must remember this is a community matter, and that means members of this community have an obligation to help us solve this crime and keep the streets safe for our children.”

  I flip the dial to another news broadcast. Same story. I turn the damn thing off.

  “Hey!?” I hear Perdomo shout from the recesses of his pizza dungeon. “I was listening to that!”

  Just as I turn the TV back on, I hear the bells jingle on the front door. Thank God. At least the customers will provide a distraction.

  But when I turn around, I see that these aren’t any old customers. It’s John. And following closely behind is Sofia.

  “What the hell?” I say before they can offer an explanation or even a greeting. John’s eyes dart like he’s just failed a polygraph test, and he dives for the nearest booth. Sofia doesn’t look startled in the least. Her eyebrows rise a little and she quickens her pace behind John, but she appears unfazed—maybe even amused.

  I’m not sure why, but I feel all the blood rush to my ears and then I’m burning up. The skin on my face radiates in waves of heat. I want to explode for absolutely no reason that I can explain. It frustrates the hell out of me, so I slam an empty napkin holder on the table, grab two menus, and walk over to the booth with a few beads of sweat trickling through my sideburns.

  “So what in the hell is going on here, then?” I ask. My voice cracks a little and I think maybe Sofia is about to laugh me out of my own workplace, but she just hardens her glare on the surface of the table and cracks her gum. “Well?”

  Sofia raises her eyes slowly from the table to meet John’s, but they don’t exchange a single word. Each one waits for the other to make a move, but nothing happens. Perdomo rips a pizza slicer through the crust of a piping hot pie on the counter behind me and John nearly springs out of the booth. But he still won’t give me an answer.

  “Look, I don’t even know how you know each other, but are you two together or something? Is that what’s going on here?”

  Suddenly I’m aware of the menus collapsing between my hands like the many-folded vitals of an accordion. I toss them down on the table. John and Sofia exchange shocked glances and everything goes all quiet and awkward.

  “Gabe?” John asks. “You feeling alright?”

  Before I can unload on him, before I can tell him what a snake he is for showing up at my place of business with the only girl in the Delaware Valley that doesn’t think I’m a charity case or an outright lost cause, before I can look Sofia in the eyes and tell her that maybe people are right when they see all the ink and think she’s a felon. Before I can fire off any of those missiles, Sofia says, “Gabe thinks ’we’re doing the nasty, John.”

  “No … Wait, what? The nasty?” John looks at me and his eyes tell me he’d rather be sitting at this table right now with Lily and Victor Chen, reliving their version of “the talk” where each and every part of the human anatomy has some awkward and super gross comparison to one of the plants in the Chen family garden. Chilling stuff.

  “Go ahead and tell him, Gabe,” Sofia says. “You know it’s true.”

  And she says it in this flatline voice, like it’s no big deal—like she’d just asked me to pass the dinner rolls instead of forced me to admit that I believed in some insane conspiracy from outer space in which my best friend was trying to steal the girl that I might admit I kind of liked if I wasn’t so afraid of her.

  “That’s what you think, isn’t it?”

  She stares at me. I can tell there’s a smile hidden under her poker face but she keeps it concealed. And somewhere between the dark chocolate of her irises and the stone-cold brutality of her statement, I start to think maybe I’m being kind of ridiculous. Sofia and John? Come on. John and any other living creature on the planet seems kind of laughable. And, come to think of it, I was never worked-up about it in the first place. Not really. I mean, why would it bother me that two of my friends just happened to appear at my workplace?

  “Gabe,” John says, “Sofia showed up on my front porch twenty minutes ago. She mentioned your name and I took one look at her tattoos and knew she had to be the girl from the hospital. You know, the one you can’t stop talking about.”

  “Shut up, John.” I grunt it under my breath and Sofia pretends not to notice.

  “I knocked on the front door,” Sofia says, “and the tiniest, most adorable woman in the world came out to greet me. I swear.”

  “Your mom saw her?”

  “That’s the best part,” John tells me. “Lily took one look at the black hair and the ripped up jeans and I thought her brain would explode into a million tiny fireworks right there on the front porch. It was awesome!”

  I drift over to the counter, plop two slices of pizza on paper plates, and bring them back to the table. My treat. Just to keep them occupied. “How in the world did you break the front lines with the grim reaper of punk rock over here as your sidekick?”

  “That’s the second best part,” John says. “Your friend here is such a badass that just the residual attitude problem emanating from her was enough to make Lily wilt. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. My mom was freaking powerless! I just grabbed my jacket and was like, ‘later.’” I look at Sofia. She nibbles on the crust of her pizza and shrugs.

  “But that still doesn’t explain how or why you ended up at John’s house,” I say.

  “Well …” Sofia says. “… even though I’m out of the prison population, I still have a few spies on the inside at the Schuylkill High State Pen. I asked around and got the scoop on your soul mate here.” She drills John with a quick shin-kick under the table and he winces. “I heard that you two are inseparable. I’m kind of getting a Bert and Ernie vibe, but that’s beside the point.”

  “This was all your doing?” I ask Sofia.

  “Basically … Yeah, that sounds about right.”

  “And why, may I ask, are you here? Because I already gave you a free slice and I already told you Perdomo’s discount policy: Gabe no work the register.”

  Sofia doesn’t answer. She just stares down at the three or four pizza crumbs left on her plate, which is weird because normally she’d meet my wisecrack with six of her own.

  “Sofia?” I say again. Her eyes rise slowly to meet mine.

  “Yes?”

  “My question. What are you two doing here?”

  There’s another moment of silence as John and Sofia exchange knowing looks

  “We’re worried about you,” John says. He fires the words off at warp speed so that maybe I won’t hear all the pity in his voice. But it’s too late. I hear them loud and clear and it’s pathetic when I think about how they rolled off the lips of someone who’s supposed to be my best friend.

  “So that’s what this is? Some kind of intervention?”

  I start to laugh. But John and Sofia are not laughing with me. They look scared. Ashamed. Their eyes dart back between the table and each other, avoiding mine completely.

  “Not an intervention. I hate that word,” Sofia says. Now she wants to get all humorous and I’m not sure I want to play along. “In-ter-ven-tion. Damn. It sounds dirty. Like what you think John and I did in the first twenty minutes of knowing each other.”

  “Yeah,” John says. “It’s not an intervention. Think of it as more of an enlightenment.”

  “An enlightenment?! You really expect me to fall for that kind of—” “Yes, we do,” Sofia adds, “and we’re here to enlighten you to the fact that you’re acting like an erratic ass.”

  “An erratic ass? Isn’t that o
n the endangered species list?” And now I’m just spouting off crazy nonsense because if I don’t keep things light right now Officer Patterson might need to add a few crimes to my record.

  “Gabe. We’re serious,” John says, and the crackle in his voice tells me they are. “We don’t want to see this whole thing blow up in your face. It’s not too late. You can still make a deal and make things so much easier for your grandfather and yourself.”

  “You need to do the right thing,” Sofia says. “Call the detective, Gabe. Turn your grandpa in.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. From my two so-called friends. Sure, Doc Weston—I expect this kind of crap from him. He’s a professional. He has insurance people to keep happy, so he has to reason these things out like a damn Macintosh computer. But my friends? Damn. I thought at least I had the judgment to choose friends with a little bit of heart and a tiny shred of loyalty. I guess I was wrong.

  “Turn him in?” You’d think Sofia just told me to light myself on fire. “Are you kidding me? Please tell me this is some kind of lame practical joke and that a cameraman’s about to pop out from behind the counter.”

  I’m pissed, so I crane my neck all giraffe-like and make a big show of searching for the hidden camera jockey. Still trying to keep things light so I don’t vaporize Perdomo’s shop and turn it into a mushroom cloud on the horizon.

  “This is no joke,” John says, and he’s getting this look on his face that I hate because it almost always precedes a freaking lecture from the good professor. I call him that sometimes, mostly when he annoys the crap out of me. His lips get all thin and his nose makes these tiny, flinching movements like a rabbit. Dude can’t control them.

  “Let me tell you a story,” he says. That’s how he always starts these little soapbox readings. “It’s an analogy, really.” Oh, boy, here he goes. He’s starting to roll. “It’s about this old man and a tiger. The tiger is chasing him and they reach a cliff. The old—”

  “Oh, God,” I hear Sofia grumble under her breath—thankfully.