Personal Yummy #11
Following is the third excerpt that I’m sharing from my coming-of-age novel—set in the nineties—about the inhabitants of an unassuming bar-and-grill in Squirrel Hill, a vibrant neighborhood in the east end of Pittsburgh. The story is told by Jenna, an idealistic, ambitious waitress who is at the center of it all.
May it inspire you to read some of Neruda’s poems (if you haven’t already).
My Friend
He appears in the entranceway and pauses—his right hand resting in the pocket of his khaki pants, his black leather jacket hanging comfortably, and the current issue of The Economist held close to him—looking just as natural as ever, as if that’s exactly where he should be at exactly this moment.
With a nod of his head and a smile he gestures to the front and seats himself at the two-seater closest to the window, opening his magazine to the movie reviews. I greet him with a Beck’s Dark and a short funnel-shaped glass, placing them gently in front of him on a small, square napkin.
“Hey there, Mariano. Nice to see you today.”
“So nice to see you too, Jenna…as always,” he says, pouring some of the dark, rich, creamy-looking beer into his glass. “Say, do you have a second, Jenna? Before you get too busy?”
“You bet,” I answer. I slide halfway onto the seat across from him, placing my little round tray on the small, maroon table and resting my arms on top of it. “I’m all ears.”
“Great. Well, would you be up for dinner and another movie tonight?” he asks in his slightly accented English. “Take a break after working so hard on a Saturday? I just read a great review of Il Postino and can’t wait to see it.”
“Il Postino… Il Postino… Oh, I can’t say I know anything about it. I mean, I don’t recall seeing any previews about it. But it certainly sounds interesting. What’s it about?”
“Well…it’s about Pablo Neruda, about the friendship that develops between him and his Italian postman, and about…about…the intense love of the postman for a village wai—”
“Really!? Your favorite poet! How great!… But oh gosh, Mariano, I’m sorry. I cut you off. You were saying?”
“No, no. That’s just fine, Jenna. That’s just fine. You finish what you were saying.”
“Yeah? No, please…please… You finish.”
He shakes his head.
“Oh, well then. Okay… Well, he’s the one you told me about from Chile…the one who described love as being—how did it go?—something like, ‘Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness…’ That one?”
He tries to hide it, but he looks a bit shocked. “Yes. Yes. That’s the one. Good, good memory, my friend,” he replies, shaking his head.
“Well, it’s a powerful, passionate, thought-provoking quote, you know? Not one that’s easy to forget…”
“Oh, yes, I know. There’s certainly no doubt about that. All of his work is like that. And yes, I’ve been so eager to see the film for weeks now, having read so much of his poetry and so much about him since I can remember… So, what do you think, my friend? Interested?”
“I’ll be ready by seven,” I say, touching his hand softly. He picks up his glass, motions it toward me, and takes a drink as I stand up and walk back to the bar.
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