![]() He'd also lost the mouthpiece, which from Round 1 had triggered his gag reflex, and each breath gasped through his gaping mouth sounded like oh-oh. It was hard to tell whether the lip was split. His nose dribbled what looked like squirts of ketchup over his upper lip, where he'd been trying to cultivate a Salvador Dali mustache. He was losing the trunks that at the start of the bout he'd hiked considerably above the no-hitting-below-the-belt line, but he was beyond hoisting them. By the second round Olwatt was on the ropes. Donny Mingo and I staked out prime seats by his corner to cheer him on. The day my father created that first chop suey sandwich was also the day my buddy Les Olwatt fought his one and only intramural bout. At lunch, the basketball stands vibrated beneath stomping feet, and the gym amplified the voices of students shouting between mouthfuls as they watched guys forge or squander reputations they'd live with for life. Boxing defined both the school and one's standing in it. Several school legends had gone on to fight in the Golden Gloves Tournament. Augie's dominated the state CYO boxing championships. A ring spattered with the blood of past generations was erected in the middle of the basketball court, and every day the student body packed the stands and folding chairs set around it and ate lunch while watching classmates in ill-fitting satin trunks duke it out. Augie's for the annual gladiatorial rite known as Perhaps in the Lenten tradition of suffering and sacrifice, it was also the time of year at St. Augustine's was boys-only and so there was no girl's bathroom. Keep It Bent for Lent and other appropriate graffiti had appeared in my school's bathroom, which was marked BOYS, even though St. He was inspired to make it one winter morning during Lent, a season for fasting and renunciation. When my father created the first chop suey sandwich a few months earlier, it caught me by surprise. I knew from previous experience that by lunchtime, when I unwrapped the tightly folded packet that held my sandwich together, the Wonder Bread would have dissolved. The rice was later mixed into the leftovers. It was a kind of Asian goulash, a runny stew of cubed beef, celery, onion, Worcestershire and soy sauce, served over Uncle Ben's instant rice. When my mother sensed that our diet required an exotic change of pace, she made chop suey from a recipe she'd clipped from Woman's Day. At our house, chop suey did not originate in a take-out carton. This was the second time my father had made a chop suey sandwich for my lunch. Economakus said, "but I couldn't pass him just for that." ![]() "At least he didn't lose any fingers," Mr. He added to my humiliation, and to my father's shame, by recounting how on the second project - a teapot wall-ornament cut out on the jigsaw - he'd caught me digging through the dumpster for other students' rejects that I could pass off as my own. Economakus, the shop teacher, explained that I hadn't even completed the first project, a sanding block. My father was sure there was some mistake. ![]() When I failed woodshop in freshman year, he went through the stages of grief: shock, anger, disappointment, denial, but not, in the end, acceptance. My father took for granted the natural aptitude that enabled him to build, without a blueprint, a garage from the lumber we'd scavenged at urban-renewal sites, or to rebuild the engine of the Dodge he'd salvaged from a wrecking yard and parked in that same garage, or to repair both the garage-door frame and the Dodge's right-front fender, calling for tools as a surgeon might while I stood by to assist and maybe to pick up a pointer or two watching him pound out the damage I'd done trying to sneak the Dodge out for a late-night joy ride. I'd never been able to fold a road map back into its original shape, and I couldn't get past the primary step of tearing the paper evenly from the roll of CutRite. But the art of wrapping, like so many of the skills he regarded as essential to the cardinal virtue - Practicality - seemed beyond me. He prided himself on his technique and tried to impart it to me. My father's care in wrapping allowed him to save the crisply creased waxed paper to use again. Methodical as a mason, he tamped a gob level with the spoon and aligned a top slice of bread to which he applied a gentle pressure before wrapping the sandwich. He made his lunch every morning before leaving for the factory, and he made mine, too, on days when he wanted to clean out the fridge. ![]() This short story was edited by McSweeney's for ESPN The Magazine's Fiction Issue.įROM MY SEAT at the kitchen table, I watched my father scoop last night's congealed chop suey onto a slice of Wonder Bread he'd centered on a sheet of waxed paper. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |