There’s a young girl, in her 30s, who works for my friend that owns a gourmet store. She’s hefty in girth and strong as a longshoreman, so often she’ll unload a truck as if she were one of the guys.
She was hired to cook, something she loves, but those muscles have made her a handy pack mule my friend takes total advantage of.
“Hey, why not?” Tony says, “look ad’der, she’s like Hercules.”
“She’s also a lady, if you haven’t noticed.”
“A lady? Are you kiddin? And who are you, her lawyer?”
Men, especially Italian men, have dough between their ears, to quote my grandmother.
Jump back to last Friday, the last day the store would be open till after Christmas. I decide to bring Becky, I’ll call her, a little package.
I’ve seen her on the corner, when she gets off work, putting on her lipstick in a random, rearview mirror, so my take on her is no myth.
So I got a little hand mirror that folds up like a hankie you can keep in your pocket, along with Burt’s Bees Hand Salve that comes in a tin, both small and portable. I then found this cool, Che Guevara beret, with a gold trim, wrapping everything the same way, she wraps one of her grilled chickens, penning a card that said...for a lady I know, who works very hard.
As I was leaving Tony said, “How come I didn’t get a beret?”
“You mean to cover that bald spot?”
I heard Becky’s deep laugh, over someone asking for three veal cutlets, thinly sliced.