Just Another New York Story

The Diner Part III

Veronica is halfway through her second egg cream and barely remembers the first. She silently urges herself to stop staring up at the old photograph of Frankie Checkers and Della Marie and do something productive with that far-off thing that is her actual life—study that new monologue she printed out at the performing arts library that's folded up inside her purse, take out the pen and pad and figure out this month's bills, something to remind her she's a person in the world...But "Moon River" comes on and she's sucked in anew, swept up in a feeling of romantic impotence approaching heartache. Ridiculous but painful...the longing's so strong she feels her skin could burst, her soul escaping, her form disappearing from the stool...perhaps that's how time travel happens...She's relieved to be pulled from this line of thought when Janet interrupts her with another egg cream.

"This one's on the house," she says with a wink.

Janet stares up at the photograph with a vaguely misty expression. "Such a long time ago," she shakes her head. "We were all a little nicer to look at then." She pats her red hair piled up on her head. "Thing is, we were also a little stupid. I guess that's just how it works."

Veronica smiles and sighs. At last, she bends down to the floor to fish out that monologue from her purse that's propped up against the base of the stool.

A hand settles on her back. She jumps and hits her head on the underside of the counter.

"When are you going to let me fix you up with my son?" His voice sounds substantially more gravelly than it did on the old 45...

"Look who it is—hail to the chief!" Janet says, as Veronica hastily restores herself upright, her face filling with the heat of her awkwardness.

Francisco gives Veronica a quick peck on each cheek, temporarily masking the diner's oily air with his cologne.

"You okay?" he says. "You just smacked your head on the counter."

"I'm fine."

"Good."

He clips his sunglasses onto his linen shirt pocket.

"Coffee and grilled provolone, my love."

"You got it, darling," Janet says.

Veronica smooths down her hair and leans in warmly, her confidence renewed as she recalls her red lipstick. "So tell me," she says, "Is it Francisco—or Frankie Checkers?"

"It's Francisco," he says, in that slightly salty, unsmiling way of his that she'd forgotten about until now.

"Janet, you been telling tales out of school?"

"Who me?" she says. "Never."

He winks at Veronica.

His grilled cheese arrives and he rips into it fiercely, stopping only to greet another old friend—a bald man with a raspy voice wearing a pink polo shirt with food stains all over it and high-waisted blue jeans. He sits down next to Francisco on the other side, and the two get to talking like it's only them there.

Veronica has managed to memorize the first two lines of her monologue, when the friend starts complaining to Janet in a loud, whining tone that his soup lacks the normal amount of matzo balls. Veronica pretends to study for a few strained moments before leaning back in.

"I really like 'Wonderland in Central Park,'" she says in a flirty whisper.

"You're too young for that song," he replies, without flinching.

"That's because I was born in the wrong time."

"Alright," he says, shrugging and looks away.

Before she can settle into the coldness of his response, he turns back to her, takes her in with intensity, and almost smiles. "Alright," he says. "Alright then—"

But the sentence was not to be finished in this life, as he receives an elbow to the arm from his friend, and has to steady himself on the stool.

"Get this Frankie," says the friend, "So the guy says 'You always get one big matzo ball,' I says 'Like hell I get one big matzo ball!' How many years I been coming here? I'm gonna get full off one matzo ball? Never mind it's big, it's one matzo ball!"

"Who says you get one matzo ball?"

"The cook! The new guy! I says 'Maybe you get one matzo ball with the cup of soup but I ordered the bowl of soup!' He says 'We do them bigger now.' And I'm lookin' at this matzo ball and I'm goin' 'It don't look no bigger to me!' They're bringing more out, but I had to raise a stink."

"Times are tough," Francisco says, glancing back at Veronica and elbowing her gently. "We are in the Great Matzo Ball Crisis of the Twenty-First Century."

Veronica stifles a giggle.

"You want tough," the friend continues. "You see that construction over on 110th Street by the subway? They got the pavement like this!" He makes crazy motions with his arms.

This seems to truly interest Francisco, who turns away from Veronica completely.

"You have to watch your footing," he says with gravitas, poking his friend in the arm. "One fall; you're done! You fall down, next thing you know, you got cancer!"

"I'll be in the hospital for a year," the friend says, "And who's gonna pay for it? The insurance companies?"

"Listen," Francisco says. "Shit happens all the time and when it does, there's not a damn thing you can do about it."

"I can watch my footing."

"That's right! Be preemptive."

"Preventative medicine—they don't wanna talk about it!"

"Then you talk about it!"

"I am talking about it!"

Veronica throws her head back and sighs loudly up at the ceiling, though it's lost in the general din and Dean Martin crooning through the speakers.

Francisco's friend announces that he has to get home to take his pills. After providing sullen reassurances to an apologetic Janet that he'll be back tomorrow in spite of today's matzo ball fiasco ("Hey, where else am I gonna go?"), he's out the door and on his way.

"Francisco," Veronica finally says, not hiding her exasperation.

"Yes doll? What's a matter? You bored?"

"Yes."

"I'd do a tap dance for you on the counter but I've got bad knees."

"Tell me about Della Marie," she says, smiling playfully and pointing up at the photograph.

He locks his eyes on hers. They are penetrating.

"Tell you what about Della Marie?" he says, like it's the stupidest question he's ever heard.

Veronica feels herself shrinking. "Um...just, I don't know, is she still...in New York?"

Francisco pulls his coffee cup toward him with both hands, shakes his head, and looks solemnly down at the counter.

"Della Marie's in a better place," he says.

He drops his head for a beat and looks back at her—"Florida."

For the first time, they share a laugh. His smile illuminates a face more reminiscent of the one in the photograph. He returns his gaze to the counter, lowering his voice.

"Yeah Della Marie... she's good. She... lost a leg a couple years back—diabetes. I'd been telling her for years 'You gotta lose weight, you gotta lose weight.' At one point, she hit two hundred pounds! Imagine, she was—" he points up at the photograph—"well you saw! A tiny little thing... I think she was depressed."

"Why was she depressed?"

"How the hell should I know? Shit happens!"

"Alright!" Veronica says. "I feel bad for her, that she's depressed...She was so pretty..."

"Don't feel bad for her," he says, his tone softening. "She's a good person, Della Marie—gave me two of my sons. And in the old days, forget it! A president once made a pass at her—true story!"

Veronica stirs her empty glass with her straw and stares up at Della Marie...

Nimbly and without warning, Francisco hops down off the stool and gives her a slap on the back.

"Do me a favor Ronnie, while I think of it." He licks his thumb and pulls a business card from his wallet. "Send a note to my son, will you? That's got his email."

"Oh, I'd... rather just give you mine, then if he wants to, he can just—"

"No," Francisco says, shaking his head. "You do it. I lose things." He twirls his forefinger near his temple and whistles.

"Yeah but I don't feel—"

"He's expecting you to write him! I already told him all about you. He's excited to hear from you. He can't wait to meet you! He's handsome and talented and very intelligent, like you."

"Fine," she says and smiles; he almost-smiles.

She looks down at the card ("Thomas Peccalino, Web Design").

"That's my youngest son Tommy," he says, pointing to the card. "He does things with computers."

Veronica nods, her mind returning to the photograph.

"Is his mom...Della Marie?"

His almost-smile vanishes.

"No."

He leaves a twenty on the counter and calls out to the kitchen, "Keep the change, Janet dear! That's for me and the gal."

Abruptly, he turns to leave.

"Bye Francisco," Veronica says, a hint of scolding in her tone. She swivels around to watch him leave.

Halfway to the exit, he turns back around as if shaken from a dream.

"Goodbye my darling!" he says with refreshed enthusiasm, his eyes sparkling. "I've been meaning to tell you—you've got a beautiful nose!"

"What?" she calls out, covering it with her hand.

"That's a nose from the Old Country," he declares. "It's marvelous! And that red dress looks great on you."

With a smile and a casual salute, he exits.

 Veronica swivels back around, exhales deeply, and stares up at Frankie Checkers with that now familiar, ridiculous longing.