Fringeville #210: Up Fifty Bucks (Part Two)

(Missed Part One? Read it here.)

By the end of July, Giuseppe was up three hundred dollars and eight pounds. Old Pete was scolded by his heart doctor for his blood pressure and expanding waistline. Even Louis had picked up a little weight, despite his daily regimen of long walks. The three old men, thanks to their young sidekick, were the happiest they’d been in years.

Breakfasts were now just part of the daily routine. They returned to Vinnies for supper in their booths at six in the evening. The only day excepted was Sunday, when the doors were locked and the little restaurant was closed, its tables, chairs, and booths barely visible behind the lightly-tinted glass, where the only light came from an old Café Cotera wall clock, black numbers and red letters on a faded burnt yellow face. Exquisito Tomelo was the slogan next to a steaming copy of black coffee. Vinnie’s served Maxwell House, and when Giuseppe once asked Trixie about the clock she had shrugged and said it was there when Vinnie bought the place, it worked, and that’s all he cared about.

The old and complicated rotation rules for breakfast were officially dead, and at dinner as well as breakfast, new rules applied: Everybody ate whatever they hell they wanted, or whatever it was Mikey ate. No one ate what they were supposed to.

“Maybe you can start Villanova in the winter, Mikey,” Giuseppe said as he cut into a massive Belgian waffle one evening at supper. “Look as this, I’m having another breakfast for dinner! Maybe tomorrow for breakfast I’ll have pot roast!”

"It needs another cup or two of whipped cream," Louis said, but Giuseppe ignored him and continued to cut his food.

“I’m down to four guys I owe,” Giuseppe continued. “If Petey pays me, I’m clear. No, ahead. I’ll be up fifty bucks.”

“It’s coming, Giuseppe!” Pete cried. “I got rent! I got doctor bills and trips to the drugstore for a million bottles of whatever they’re pumping me with. God, I can’t even pronounce half the stuff.”

“No rush, pal. Take forever. I’m just saying that since the kid started coming to breakfast, things have turned around. The food’s a hell of a lot better, too. Hey, I ordered steak and eggs yesterday, remember? No more effin prunes or plates of egg-white snot. Thanks, Mikey!”

Mikey gave a slight smile but said nothing.

“He’s going to Villanova at the end of August,” Louis said, pointing his fork at his two friends in turn to drive the point home.

“I’m just saying maybe he’d rather start a few months later and spend more time with his new friends,” Giuseppe said as he lifted a massive forkful of waffles from his plate.

“You two won’t live another five months on this diet,” Louis scolded.

“But we’ll die so happy,” Pete pleaded.

“And full!” Giuseppe somehow managed to say through a mouthful of food.

“Sorry fellows. Your cardiac rehab starts next month.”

“Well, what do you say Mikey?” Pete asked.

“I’m not going to Villanova.”

“What do you mean?” Louis asked. “It’s all settled. Your mother said…”

“Nothing’s settled Pops. Nothing. I never wanted to go there.”

“Where, then, Mikey?” Louis asked. “Penn? Temple? A state school? God, not Penn State.”

“What’s wrong with Penn State?” Guiseppe asked.

“Cow country,” Louis mumbled.

“You went to Pitt. That’s what it is,” Pete laughed.

Louis smiled and said: “Yeah, maybe a little.”
 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Mikey exclaimed. “I’m going get a job. Maybe work a boardwalk or dig some ditches and screw a bunch of waitresses. That seemed to work out pretty well for people at this table. Everyone here is happy. Even my grandfather. He’s happy. None of you put up with any bullshit. I don’t need college. It’s bullshit. My parents are bullshit. Everything’s bullshit.”

And with that Mikey set his fork down and left.

The three old men sat stunned.

“What the hell was that?” Pete asked.

“His mother called last night,” sighed Louis. “From Barcelona. Started giving him a frigging laundry list of things to do before they get back. Then she insisted he change his major to political science.”

“That kid? In politics?” Giuseppe scoffed. “He’s too decent. Sorry, I just don’t see it.”

“Neither do his parents. My daughter says it’s a path to pre-law. A part of the grand plan.”

“Mikey as a lawyer?” asked Pete, a frown on his face.

“He convinced you guys to ignore your doctors,” Louis said. “Imagine him working on a jury.”

“You’ve got a point there, Louis,” said Pete as he attacked his meatloaf.

“That’s going to be one fat jury,” said Giuseppe.

They all looked at Mikey’s empty place and quietly finished their meals. No one said another word.

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...Be good to each other...

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