Day 66 - They still knew my name

 They still knew my name 

Matthew Ryan Fischer

 

Traffic was bad and I couldn’t look at my phone while I was driving, but I was pretty sure they were still open. DiMaggio’s was a family-owned Italian restaurant, but they took a lot of time off. Like way too much time off. Half days and Tuesdays and sometimes Thursdays and there was that one year they took the entire month of August off. God bless the family restaurant I suppose. If you don’t need the money, you don’t need to work. I would be too scared that customers would find another place to go.

It was after ten, but I was fairly certain this was a night they stayed open. As long as they had gone back to a six night a week schedule. I knew better than to ever try a Tuesday. But Thursdays I felt pretty safe.

I was hoping Tony was working, but I would settle for Don. Either might slip me a free drink, but Tony was the only one who had ever given me a free slice of pizza. Not that that was the reason to go there. I appreciated the family feel. A smile when you walked in the door and casual conversation, and somehow, they remembered details of you and your friends lives a decade later. I could afford a slice of pizza. Feeling like family was priceless.

A dozen years ago I had lived mere blocks away and could walk there. It wasn’t the sort of place you would hang out for hours, but it was a great stop for dinner on your way to the local shops that filled the neighborhood. Everything was small and most of it was locally owned, single store shops. Vintage clothes, knickknacks, rare books, a single screen movie theater. There were no chain stores or nationally known brands there. It felt like your nook in a sprawling metropolis.

Parking was a bitch and there were always beggars in the lots and on the corners. Not to be callous, but I was already going out of my way, wasting time, energy and too much money to park while chasing nostalgia. I didn’t need to be accosted when there was very little that my couple of dollars was really going to change.

A wave of heat swept across my face, and it was Don behind the counter when I walked through the door. His hair had gone grey and he had shaved his goatee. I couldn’t remember the last time I had been here. Probably before the pandemic. Years, if that were the case. I probably had dark hair myself back then. Or at least more of it.

I was happy they survived the lock-downs and were still here on the other side. I was happy Don smiled and recognized me even though the years had flown by. We talked about family and friends and the nights where I used to stop in with a crowd of ten or twelve people. He remembered my mother, which was sad because I had to break the bad news to him. I asked about Tony, hoping he was still healthy and around. He was, just not tonight.

We probably talked for half an hour before I realized they were closed and most of the workers were one foot out the door. He was a gentlemen and didn’t say a word to make me feel bad or to push me out the door. Above and beyond and far too kind when all I was doing was spending five dollars on pizza.

As it turned out, single slices had run out for the night and their five dollar personal pie was now ten dollars, a victim of years of inflation. I ordered one to go, and apologized for keeping him late.

My very dear friend Rick never understood our fascination with DiMaggio’s. He didn’t like the pizza, and he wasn’t impressed by a counter worker that could remember a few details. As I ate my pizza sitting in my car, I was disappointed to find that the price increase was not the only thing that time had ruined. Maybe it was the end of the night, and I got bad leftovers. Maybe costs had risen and they were cutting something from their recipe. Maybe my memory was better than the pie could ever be. But I realized the next time I talked to Rick, I would have to tell him he was finally right, and that DiMaggio’s was off the list. He probably wouldn’t care or might make some snide joke. He’d never appreciate that which I felt was lost.