#1GF!’s Mom has a standing request for canolis from Mike’s Pastry in the North End for special occasions. I prefer anything from Montilio’s to Mike’s, but as she lives pretty far from town and that’s what she prefers, I try to go and get them whenever possible. It’s a small deal to me, but a big deal to her. It’s a win-win situation.

Every time I go to Mike’s, the place is mobbed. This time, there must’ve been 75 people jammed in there waiting for pastry. One thing that I’ve learned in my short lifetime is that if you are in a crowded amorphous line and the counter help asks, “Who’s next?” even if you are 4 people back, if no one answers within 15 seconds, you are free to cut the morons. They should’ve been paying better attention.

I did just that. Maybe they were all from the Midwest, and were trying to be polite, or maybe they were all a little afraid of Bostonians and were too busy guarding their “Boston” sweatshirts lest someone whip them off of their back while they ordered a canoli, but that was not my problem.

As I was ordering there was a definite non-tourist next to me. It was very likely that I had spotted a member of the new breed of North End residents. Now, I have to check my Encyclopedia, but I think he was of the genus Yuppyus, class Assholus. Wearing a black wool coat, pudgy face, slick hair, leather gloves, and accessorizing with a cell phone, Yuppyus Assholus was not only barely paying attention to the girl asking who’s next, but was talking so loudly that he must’ve thought the rest of us wanted to hear his play by play of what he thought was going on around him…

Huh? Yea. Huh? Yea. What? Yea. I dunno. Huh? Yea. Hahahaha. Riiiiiiiiiiiiight. Yea. Huh?

This went on until the counter lady looked directly at him and said, “Who’s next?” To which he replied, phone still to ear…

“Huh? Yea. Um. Yea. No not you. Huh? She’s trying to help me. Huh? Sure. I know. I know, really. Hold on. Uh, give me six canolis. Whatever. Yea, uh… (pointing with a gloved pinky vaguely at some pastry) Three of those and um three of those. Yea. Huh? Whatever. What? Yea right. She’ll probably spit in my canolis or something.

The look on the girl’s face summed up what I was feeling. It was a mixture of disbelief, hatred, and a little “if I only had a cake knife, I would slowly saw your head off while these kind people applauded.”

I was helped at about the same time as Yuppyus Assholus, and right as I got my order he hung up his phone, turned to me as if I gave a fuck and said, “It was my brother. He wanted to know if I wanted beer.” No way. No way are these people going to think that I am with you, Assholus. He was right next to me, and I didn’t even fire the neurons to turn my head to acknowledge. You’ll hang alone when this canoli starved crowd decides to turn on someone. 15 minutes and 18 canolis (they call me “Big Brownie”) later, I jumped into the getaway car and sped off…

Ok, I didn’t actually leap into the car like Starsky or Jim Rockford, but I was would’ve. Like a bad getaway driver in a good movie, my driver had unfortunately locked the doors, and was on the phone (possibly with 911) just in case someone tried to steal her from the car as she waited. In the North End. In broad daylight. So, I stood there dumbly for a few seconds, avoiding looking cool yet again while she did a fingerprint scan to make sure it was me before letting me in.

Old School
Then, not twelve feet from Mike’s, I saw the old breed of the North end standing on a corner looking like he wanted to cross the street. Like the new school North Ender, he also had a top coat, but he also had a black hat, scarf, and big glasses on. Unlike the New Schooler, the Old Schooler was either hard into his seventies, or gently into his eighties. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across. He waved us on. We waved him across, and he smiled, gave up, walked over to my window, and motioned for me to roll it down.

He reached in the window, shook my hand, and in a thick Italian accent said, How are you a doing today?” I said that I was great, while remaining thoroughly amused by the situation. “Ah, I see a you went to visit a my friend a Mike. You see a him inna there?” I replied that I didn’t think so, but I really wasn’t sure what he looked like. “I just a kidding you. He’s in a the Florida.” Then we talked about the weather in Florida for a bit, and how cold it was here. Then he looks over at my driver and squints a little and looks at my a little funny. In a lower voice he said, “How come a you let a her drive?” I then assured him that it was ok, because she was a very good driver. He looked at me, looked at her, and after a pause said, “You a very lucky a man,” Then we shook hands once again and he was off.

He has no idea how right he is. I am a the very a lucky a man.

Posted in #1GF!, Anger, Food