At the Causeway

 Ten minutes after she tells me I dare not grow up (my threat when together we hear on 50s on 5 of Bandstand’s Dick Clark’s death) she drives to the bank. I expect her to pull into a spot, park, get out, deposit, return.

     She moves instead into the dangerously tight slot at drive-thru, a car directly ahead of us, another behind.

     “No! Get OUT of here! Go in FRONT!”


     My head swings around. “They shot Sonny on the causeway!”


     “Are you CRAZY? This is how they shot Sonny on the CAUSEway? Move! Go AROUND! NOW!”

     Calmly: “What do you DO when I’m at work?”

     “Move this car NOW! This is how they…!

     “I know, I know.” Sing-song flippant mimicry:

     “’This is how they shot poor, poor Sonny on the…'”

     “CAUSEWAY! Yes!! Now PLEASE MOVE the damned…”

     The car ahead hums, lurches five feet, stops. I look for the teller to dive as three thugs with Tommy guns rise.

     She sees my face. Quietly: “That’s IT. I am taking that DVD set and I’m breaking the discs into very small pieces.”

     The car ahead resumes its creep forward, picks up speed, turns, disappears.

     “That was a close call.”


     “That’s how they got Sonny on the….”


     At Il Pinito we share garlic mussels, white wine.

     Vo-la-re. Oh. Oh.

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