About five years ago I started writing a memoir. I kept at it for a little while, writing about 1,000 words a day for a few weeks. I hadn’t yet been to therapy and there were many things I didn’t really understand about my life, but I still find the unfinished memoir to be a fascinating look into my own past. I’ve decided to post it in installments here, with only a few redactions. You can find the other sections by clicking the Memoir category.
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3.
I have a friend named Otto who’s intensely connected to the past. He loves old movies and TV shows. He listens to music from the 30’s, 40’s, and 50’s. He’s an Italian-American who’s lived in the same city all his life. He knows people, and they know him. He knows the birthdays of his relatives, living and dead. He’s like my Tartus, and I’m Dr. Who The Hell Am I?
I’m drawn to Otto as a person and as a gateway to a different world and a better time. Being around him is like stepping into my family’s stories about our early days in Lenox, Massachusetts, in the 1940’s and 1950’s. I joke with Otto that I’d like to rob the Italian restaurant we frequent, because when I’m with him, I’m like Claude Raines in The Invisible Man. I’m not part of the club, so no one can see me in the restaurant. I’m the invisible Irish-American kid with the orange goatee. (And you know what? I’m not even all that Irish. Just the bit that shows. About which more later.)
Otto shops at a meat market called Palermo’s, so I shop there, too. You know those mom-and-pop stores that used to know your name and wonder about you if you didn’t come in for a few weeks? If you’re anywhere near my age, the answer to that question is probably “no.†But I’ve read about them, and so have you. I’ve seen all those paintings Norman Rockwell did. He did most of them within a couple miles of the corner where I grew up, because he was from the next town over. He painted my mom’s doctor, the local cop and the soda fountain. Once, he even painted a picture of my Aunt Linda.
Well, Palermo’s is my Rockwell painting. It’s my Cheers bar. The guys behind the counter know who I am. They know what I usually order, and remind me to get it if I forget. The place is run by a guy named Guy who slices the meat himself, and whose wife and kids work in the store, too. Everybody who comes in knows everybody else who comes in. Except me, of course, because I’m a tourist.
When I go to Palermo’s with Jen and the boys, it’s as if I get a chance to step back into a gentler time. It’s an almost euphoric feeling, as if the real world – the world that I know is waiting just outside the old metal door – is being held at bay by the smell of the sauce and the friendly smile of the kid who cuts my porchetta.
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NOTE: As you can see from Otto’s note below, I’ve betrayed my general ignorance of Dr. Who my misspelling TARDIS. I’m still a nerd, though, right?
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