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...”
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