Norman Rabbatini is a guy who owns a market in my neighborhood. I’ve known Norman I’d say a good thirty years. 6 foot 2, built like a half back with hair that though once was black and lustrous, now lies like strands of linguine across an enormous head the shape of a football.
Amid his tomatoes and renowned mozzarella collection, are women in all shapes and sizes not to mention various states of status: married, widowed, taking their SATS, vying for his undivided attention.
One could easily call Norman the Casanova of cheese.
In tight jeans featuring a rear end the width of a barn, he flirts in the most practical manner…sneaking a complimentary orange in someone’s shopping bag…offering to carry it to the door or a waiting cab…saying, “Wait a minute, I have a new red I want you to try…just came in from a guy I know in Rome.”
He once told me with a covert wink, it pays to have your liquor license.
All I know is, he could lecture on how to lasso women who follow him around like demented disciples.
Now if I had five strands of hair on my head combed over to resemble sweaty thread, I’d be put away…whisked to a padded cell without a belt.
But Norman’s harem, despite him visibly aging, just keeps getting bigger.
Occasionally this is a tad inconvenient since not all women are comfy learning they’re not the only one. Tina, a Hispanic beauty with an ass like a pogo stick, chased Phoebe, one of Norman’s older interests, right into dairy through to the deli counter clear out the front door. I was just walking in when Phoebe, her mink coat waving in her wake, was wildly exiting.
“Phoebe, what’s the big hurry?” I said, feeling her wind, but she didn’t seem to hear me as she dove headfirst into a taxi.
I noticed the workers, trying not to laugh, had their heads buried in their white work jackets.
Tina, nostrils flaring like a bull, was demanding an explanation from Norman who was serenely slicing London broil.
“Here, taste this,” he said, offering her a piece of flesh appropriately blood rare.
We all watched to see if he could calm her down with a little snack, but to her credit, she didn’t bite…him or the meat.
“Norman,” I said later on when I popped in for milk, “aren’t you afraid one of these days one of your ladies will stab you at the register?”
He scratched those 6 greasy hairs clinging to his head and said, “No, not really…that would put me out of commission, and then what would they all do?”
“Hmm…beats me, donate your ego to science maybe..sell you for parts?”
“Hey, comere for a second Susannah…I have a new red I want you to try….just came in…
As Margo Channing said in All About Eve…
|I’ll admit I may have seen better days, but I’m still not to be had for the price of a cocktail like a salted peanut.