THE CALL

The Call. It all comes down to The Call. I really don't know exactly when I should call Esperanza...I mean, what are the rules on that? I know that she knows that I am desperately in love with her. She has to. Still, I don't want to seem like some totally drooling ghoul. This would be either my Apocalypse (Now) or my Garden of Eden, and the margin for it going either way is thinner than the remainder of hair on my father's head. One slip-up, one awkward pause, prolonged silence, one stupid or misunderstood joke - and epic disaster looms. What is the protocol on calling a girl, anyway?

Monday passes. Tuesday comes, but that is the night All In The Family and MASH are on TV back-to-back! My favorite shows. I'm not missing them for nobody.

So it comes down to Wednesday. Even I know that if I don't call her by today, they'll probably be packs of gold-tooth and matching chains mira-miras, just waiting for their opportunity to charm Esperanza.

All day in school, I am afflicted with a severe case of the nervous farts. Although I try my best to restrict this particular activity to walking quickly in the hall, hoping the black kids would blame it on some unsuspecting white kid.

When I arrive at The Fox Hole in the afternoon, I try to wash away that feeling along with the dishes, but I know it is not to be. I tell Marc, the other dishwasher, this Greek kid burnout who always stinks of reefer and hash, that I need a major bathroom break. Downing a few shots from the bottle of Pepto Bismo, Tommy Boy leaves on the shelf above the dishwasher, I march downstairs to the payphone to face my destiny. First, I go to the bathroom, splashing cold water on my face, as I stare in the mirror. Willing myself to go ahead, and do what I have to do. I walk over to the urinal, even though I don't really have to go, but it's a good stalling tactic.

Just then, Philly, Tommy's (the owner) youngest son, and a bit of a strange character, makes his usual entrance. I find it rather odd, and also extremely creepy, that every time I go to the bathroom these days, Philly instantly appears a minute later. And takes his leak exactly two urinals over from me. He does it again, of course, but now heads over to the mirror to admire himself, as he usually does.

Suddenly, he launches into this rendition of The Rolling Stones song, Angie, employing his ever-present hairbrush as a microphone.

"Angie, I need you"...

He sneaks a look at me, then executes this perfect Mick Jagger move. He thrusts forward his upper torso, wiggling his butt and high-stepping backwards, as he caresses his chest while tightly gripping the 'mike'.

The spooky thing is, that he actually looks a lot like Mick, albeit a darker, Italian version of him. Tall and skinny, same gangly arms and legs - and especially the lips. No doubt he's got the lips. He totally digs it when customers tell him he resembles Jagger, too.

Even his voice is somewhat similar, which is really surprising, since he possesses the most irritatingly nasal, high-pitched cackle when he normally talks. He's got to be practicing this stuff secretly in his bedroom, I bet. Because if he ever did it in front of his brothers - or especially his father - they would freaking pummel him.

Half reviled, because in some freaky way, I feel he's directing it at me, and half enjoying the show, I finally have enough, and break over to the toilet stalls. He better not follow me in here. My plan to just wait him out is rewarded a couple of moments later, as I hear Tommy Boy yelling for him to come back upstairs. There, now I can make my call.