c. 2024 Rod Ice
All rights reserved
(5-24)
I was 16 years old when my family moved to Ithaca, New York in
the summer of 1978. We had come from a city outside of Pittsburgh, and I was
approaching my next birthday. This sort of last-minute relocation had become familiar,
because my father was a minister in the non-denominational Church of Christ fellowship.
We often had everything packed up in moving boxes, with no idea of our next
destination. This gypsy mentality helped to shape my own psychology throughout
childhood. I did not have a hometown, or an identity firmly rooted in geography.
No favorite sports teams or thoughts of belonging to any defined social group. Only
the traditions of our family, habits associated with education, music, creative
writing, and faith bonded us together. Thankfully, those elements were sturdy enough
to put down a foundation for intellectual growth.
And I loved to eat pizza.
In the Finger Lakes Region, I discovered college-town culture
around Cornell University. It was in those days, still infused with leftover
traces of the hippie generation. Incense and candles and marijuana were
everywhere. Volkswagen Beetles and Microbuses were ubiquitous. Folk and Acid
Rock could be heard on the radio. Along with Reggae and other world sounds of
Jazz and ethnic variations. I soaked up this mix like a sponge. Midwestern at
my core, I relished the opportunity to see and hear new things.
I had discovered Punk Rock while living at the Three Rivers,
in Pennsylvania. A natural companion to this sometimes atonal, confrontational
explosion of art came in the form of Genesee beer and fast food, inhaled at
ungodly hours. But while exploring my new environs, I discovered a gastronomic
temple called ‘Napoli Pizzeria.’ Apparently, this student-friendly restaurant
had been open around two years.
From their very first slice, the product of Emilio and Leo
Sposito, from Fondi, Italy won me over. It was a dish baked in the classic
style. With a crust thin in body, yet bubbly around the edge. Ingredients were
delivered with a generous amount of olive oil. When first pulled from the pan, a
fresh serving oozed this natural cooking medium. Mozzarella cheese pulled away
in long, stringy gobs. The aroma permeated everything in their dining room,
which had the look of an old-fashioned banquet hall. Tablecloths were checkered
red-and-white. The ovens were clearly visible, right behind their counter. A
cooler of Italian brews offered Moretti and Peroni varieties. Another contained
cold sodas, and had a cheap, black & white television on top. Some sort of
vintage programming always seemed to be running.
Any excuse was reason enough to pause at this eatery. I
often visited several times per week, if available funds permitted that kind of
behavioral excess. Though most often, I had an empty wallet. Conning friends
into covering the bill became a constant preoccupation. Thankfully, that slightly
devious pursuit wasn’t difficult. Everyone loved their Paisano pies. A good
value for money, delivered in a working-class setting. Fancier venues could not
compare.
After I moved away in 1983, return trips always had to
include a stop for pizza and reflection. Memories were plentiful. I would fill
my belly, and wander through recollections of those yonder days, spent learning
and growing in personal terms. My last taste of this Mediterranean manna came
at a new location, nearby. They had moved in 2004, and a week of vacation time permitted
me to land in the area, a couple of years later. That was my final spin through
Tompkins County.
Napoli Pizzeria closed in 2019. I learned of its demise
through an online article at 14850.com. The revelation struck me like a hammer
blow. I had no equivalent on which to lean, for comfort. No similar meeting
place to discuss bygone show ideas for Channel 13 on West State Street, where I
had once been a crew member and program host. No common ground for debates over
poetry and politics and the merits of European breweries.
I felt empty after reading this sad report. But a dream sequence
filled my head, upon passing out, later that night. One rendered like a
single-act play, performed in a coffeehouse setting.
“Enter with me if you will, for a moment, the Twilight
Zone. A place that transcends normal boundaries of time and physicality. I
present for you two men dining on a circular meal of baked dough, pepperoni, cheese,
sausage and onions. One of these participants has slipped through cracks in the
continuum, to meet himself at a point in history that defies the calendar. He
will counsel his own childhood image, and offer hope. And perhaps, come to
terms with what he has endured, as a product of fate and consequence...”
Rod Swindle wore a leather jacket, styled in the Ramones
motif. His hair was a flowing mass of brown, uncut and rarely brushed. He was
barely old enough to have grown a beard. Yet carried himself with a cocksure
attitude that betrayed youthful ignorance. He sipped from a bottle of Italian beer,
despite being underage. No one had ever checked his identification. He didn’t
have a driver’s license, anyway. Walking everywhere kept him fit. Though he
often bummed rides when they could be cajoled out of friends.
“Hey, thanks man! I love coming here. This is the best grub in
our city. I didn’t get your name though. Are you attending classes, or just
drifting through town to catch a show? I meet a lot of people that way, records
and guitars are my thing!”
His benefactor was much older, and walked with a cane, and a
limp of arthritic limitations. He had a similar lack of grooming excellence,
but his facial hair had turned shades of white and gray. He was stooped over
like a building with structural fatigue.
“Dean. Dean McCray. Does it matter? I’m following a caravan
of concerts between here and Buffalo. My van needed a muffler, so that’s being
done as we sit here. I wanted some company while waiting. You looked to be
alone. That was reason enough to offer a spot at this table...”
The youthful miscreant nodded while chewing on a slice of
steaming, savory pie.
“No big deal, I just wondered. I work over at the TV
station, it’s a public access channel. There are all kinds of freaks and
misfits on the staff. Everybody is older, and they’ve got lots of stories. I always
like to hear a good yarn! One guy is a poet, he used to be on the radio. Four
years of study at Cornell, and then two more in grad school. And he never got a
real job! I like that, screw working a regular grind! The rat race is boring as
hell!”
McCray shrugged and twisted the Harley-Davidson ring on his
finger. Its design mirrored the one of his new contact, who was busy enjoying
their feast. The rowdy kid seemed not to notice this match of blue-collar
jewelry. He was more concerned with quieting his growling stomach.
“You’ve got plans then? An idea of what path to take, toward
tomorrow? There’s an old saying, by Antione de Saint-Exupéry, ‘A goal without a plan is just a wish.’ That’s no joke, friend...”
Swindle spat oil and Mozz.
“What, you’re a damn expert at this game? I get it, you must
think I’m a baby! Some of my friends treat me like that, they get their noses
in the air. I tell them to piss off! Don’t worry about me getting stuck in
traffic, I’m not going to turn out like chumps who spend their cash on earning degrees,
to eventually don a suit and tie, and crawl around on their hands and knees. No
way! I won’t be led through the tents like a circus horse or an elephant!”
His senior advocate laughed out loud.
“Calm down, I wasn’t passing judgment. I just wanted to know
how seriously you’ve thought about the future...”
The ambitious punk snorted and twirled his own ring, with
nervous agitation.
“Why do old people always get their boxer shorts in a bunch
about that kind of shit? I’ll do what I do, don’t worry. I’m not gonna run or
jump on command, like a trained animal. Eff that! I watched my father struggle
for years, saying kind words, giving his support, uplifting others who were in
need. And landing on his ass every time! He’s broke and doubled over, like a dog
left out in the rain! The congregations he has loved all humiliated him,
completely!”
McCray brought his fist down on the table. Plates and
silverware began to bounce.
“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT HE WENT THROUGH! OR WHAT’S
WAITING AROUND THE CORNER, WHEN YOU FINALLY GROW UP! THERE’S A REC KONING ON
THE HORIZON, JUNIOR! YOU’LL EAT DIRT INSTEAD OF PIZZA, AND LIVE IN PLACES WHERE
THE SUN NEVER SHINES! LIKE UNDER A BRIDGE ON GREEN STREET! AND ONCE THAT PRICE
HAS BEEN PAID, YOU’LL GIVE THANKS JUST TO OPEN YOUR EYES, AND FEEL THE BREATH
OF LIFE IN YOUR LUNGS. IT’S A PRIVILEGE TO WALK THE EARTH! DON’T SCREW UP YOUR LAST
CHANCE TO SHINE!”
Swindle turned pale and cold. He looked at his left hand,
and then squeezed the silver ring with emotion. A tick he had used many times
over, to release stress.
“You’ve got the same skull band on your finger as me. And
that mark in your forehead, is the same. The scar on your arm, long and
rippled. Right by your elbow. And your handle is my middle name. All that is
giving me the willies, right now. Why do you care so much? Why do you know so
much?”
His shadowy compadre stood up and took out a leather wallet,
with a chrome chain attached. Just like the one in his naïve guest’s pocket. He
threw a wad of bills on the tablecloth.
“It might be weeks before you get fed again. Don’t take this
for granted. Zip up that motorcycle jacket, you’ll need to stay warm. Winter is
here. That guy you just spoke about is in Ohio, wondering if he’ll ever see you
again. Your mother cries every night, in bed. They don’t understand you, and
never will. But it doesn’t matter. Because the bloodline is intact. Believe it
or not, once you’ve finished messing up your pitiful journey, things will get
better. Trust me, I know. I know the whole story!”
The door clattered rudely as he made his exit. Despite the
hot blast from pizza ovens that were busy, a frosty whisper of what lay ahead
could be felt inside. And one young man, one impulsive, reckless soul, was
about to fulfill his own destiny.
“The Twilight Zone is a place where even the humblest of
fools may meet himself for a free dinner, and refreshment. And tidbits of
wisdom, that perhaps, might offer a second chance at attaining redemption. It’s
all a matter of choice. All a matter of courage, and meeting a time-traveler
with the right perspective...”