Rusty Nailed
Page 33
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He was so nervous.
The night before we left he had a nightmare, and today on the plane he barely spoke. When he did speak, he was curt and quick. When the plane touched down, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to apologize right now for being a dick this weekend, in case I am. I’m not planning on it, but if it does happen, I’m sorry.”
I patted his hand, and kissed his nose. “Apology preaccepted. Now show me your hometown— I can’t wait to see your Liberty Bell.”
He half smiled, and took my hand as we left the plane.
• • •
Philadelphia was a city I’d never been to, and I wished I had even more time to explore. But this weekend wasn’t about indulging my reenactment of the Rocky Run up the steps of the art museum, but more about me being wherever and whatever Simon needed. Besides, apparently they moved the Rocky statue from the top of the stairs off to the side anyway. Pffft.
We picked up the rental car, threw our bags into the back, and headed to the hotel. With the trip cross country, it was already dark by the time we got to the part of town Simon grew up, but he lit up when he began to call out places he recognized. And places he didn’t.
“When did that bike shop close down? Oh man, this was the place I got my first bike without training wheels. Why is a minimall there; when did that go up?”
“When’s the last time you were here, Simon?” I asked.
“Um, a few weeks after graduation, I think,” he said distractedly, his eyes going back and forth on both sides of the street.
“You really haven’t been here since you were eighteen?” I asked, astonished.
“Why would I have been back?” he asked, making a turn and taking us right into the middle of the town square.
When Simon said he grew up in Philadelphia, that wasn’t technically true. He grew up in one of the many feeder communities, the smaller townships that made up the outlying areas. I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know he came from Moneyville, USA.
His hometown was plush. And darling in the way all northeastern towns looked to anyone who grew up in California. There was something to be said for growing up in a town that was almost three hundred years older than the one I grew up in. Most of the houses we passed could only be described as estates.
The town square was quaint, with tidy little shops framing City Hall in the center. Two story mostly, with a few turreted three stories on each corner. People were shopping as the lightest dusting of snow fell, sparkling on the wrought-iron railings and—oh my God—honest to goodness real iron horse head hitching posts! Like, where people used to tie their horses to! Like, in olden times!
“Simon, we have to walk around a little, look how cute your town is! Look at all the shops, and, oh, look at the Christmas tree in the middle!” I cried, pointing. In front of City Hall was a large tree, bedecked with red bows, gold ornaments, and white lights.
“Babe, they put up a Christmas tree in front of City Hall in San Francisco every year.”
“This is different; this is so stinking cute! Everything is so old! What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an old Gothic house with a plaque outside. Each window had a wreath; the windows upstairs even had candles too. It was so pretty, it must be of some historical significance.
“It used to be . . . Yep, it’s still a Subway.”
“Station?” I asked, confused.
“No, like the sandwich shop,” he replied, laughing at my fallen expression. “I can’t believe it’s still open; no one eats there. Not when there’s Little Luigi’s. You still want a cheesesteak?”
“Am I breathing?”
“One cheesesteak coming up,” he said, turning the car down the last corner of the town square. “You gotta understand, everything here is old. Every building used to be something else; every building gets reused for something else,” he explained, pulling into one of the parking spots that was diagonal along the square. “Except for that stupid strip mall where my bike shop used to be.”
He turned off the car and walked around to my side. Stepping out, I breathed in the snowy air, feeling it prickle in my lungs. The cold felt good after the long plane ride, and it was nice to stretch my legs a bit as we walked down the block.
As we walked, he pointed out the different shops: the bakery where they made the best sugar cookies, the place where he got his new shoes every year for school, and as we walked and he talked, he seemed less and less nervous.
“Thank God, it’s still here. Little Luigi’s,” he said, where there was a line out the door into the cold night. It moved fast though, and soon we were inside. It was a hole in the wall, with only three tables and a counter. They were grilling the steaks on a big black griddle, peppers and onions sizzling. People were barking out orders, wrapping sandwiches, and the smell was heavenly.
When it was our turn, Simon ordered for both of us. Two steaks, cheese, onions, mushrooms, with both sweet and hot peppers on the side. And the funniest thing happened. When he ordered? This accent came out of nowhere. I’d never heard it before. Not New York or New Jersey; this was very specific. As I listened to everyone around me, they all had it. Some thicker than others, and Simon’s was fairly light, but it had definitely popped up. Huh.
Grabbing a handful of napkins, he spied a family leaving one of the tables and was able to nab it. Leaving me with the table, he went back up for the sandwiches. I’d seen Simon order from a man with ten baskets of spring rolls on his head in Saigon. I’d seen him order sausages from a giant woman in an apron in Salzburg. And nowhere had I ever seen him more at home than he was in this sandwich shop in suburban Philadelphia.
With a wide grin, he returned to the table. He showed me how to spread out the paper to catch the drips, added salt and pepper, then how to hold it so it didn’t spill out over the sides. Then he bit down, and pure bliss came over his face. And he made a sound I’d only ever heard him make once. And he was very happy when he made it.
• • •
“Simon Parker?” a voice said from behind, and he turned with a mouthful of cheesesteak. He quickly swallowed, and stood. An older woman with a sleek silver chignon and a strand of pearls that could choke a horse was looking at him in amazement.
“Mrs. White?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.
“Oh my goodness, it is you! I never thought we’d see you around here again!” She pulled him into a hug. “Where in the world have you been? Last I heard, you were off to Stanford.”
The night before we left he had a nightmare, and today on the plane he barely spoke. When he did speak, he was curt and quick. When the plane touched down, he turned to me and said, “I’m going to apologize right now for being a dick this weekend, in case I am. I’m not planning on it, but if it does happen, I’m sorry.”
I patted his hand, and kissed his nose. “Apology preaccepted. Now show me your hometown— I can’t wait to see your Liberty Bell.”
He half smiled, and took my hand as we left the plane.
• • •
Philadelphia was a city I’d never been to, and I wished I had even more time to explore. But this weekend wasn’t about indulging my reenactment of the Rocky Run up the steps of the art museum, but more about me being wherever and whatever Simon needed. Besides, apparently they moved the Rocky statue from the top of the stairs off to the side anyway. Pffft.
We picked up the rental car, threw our bags into the back, and headed to the hotel. With the trip cross country, it was already dark by the time we got to the part of town Simon grew up, but he lit up when he began to call out places he recognized. And places he didn’t.
“When did that bike shop close down? Oh man, this was the place I got my first bike without training wheels. Why is a minimall there; when did that go up?”
“When’s the last time you were here, Simon?” I asked.
“Um, a few weeks after graduation, I think,” he said distractedly, his eyes going back and forth on both sides of the street.
“You really haven’t been here since you were eighteen?” I asked, astonished.
“Why would I have been back?” he asked, making a turn and taking us right into the middle of the town square.
When Simon said he grew up in Philadelphia, that wasn’t technically true. He grew up in one of the many feeder communities, the smaller townships that made up the outlying areas. I knew he came from money, but I didn’t know he came from Moneyville, USA.
His hometown was plush. And darling in the way all northeastern towns looked to anyone who grew up in California. There was something to be said for growing up in a town that was almost three hundred years older than the one I grew up in. Most of the houses we passed could only be described as estates.
The town square was quaint, with tidy little shops framing City Hall in the center. Two story mostly, with a few turreted three stories on each corner. People were shopping as the lightest dusting of snow fell, sparkling on the wrought-iron railings and—oh my God—honest to goodness real iron horse head hitching posts! Like, where people used to tie their horses to! Like, in olden times!
“Simon, we have to walk around a little, look how cute your town is! Look at all the shops, and, oh, look at the Christmas tree in the middle!” I cried, pointing. In front of City Hall was a large tree, bedecked with red bows, gold ornaments, and white lights.
“Babe, they put up a Christmas tree in front of City Hall in San Francisco every year.”
“This is different; this is so stinking cute! Everything is so old! What’s that?” I asked, pointing to an old Gothic house with a plaque outside. Each window had a wreath; the windows upstairs even had candles too. It was so pretty, it must be of some historical significance.
“It used to be . . . Yep, it’s still a Subway.”
“Station?” I asked, confused.
“No, like the sandwich shop,” he replied, laughing at my fallen expression. “I can’t believe it’s still open; no one eats there. Not when there’s Little Luigi’s. You still want a cheesesteak?”
“Am I breathing?”
“One cheesesteak coming up,” he said, turning the car down the last corner of the town square. “You gotta understand, everything here is old. Every building used to be something else; every building gets reused for something else,” he explained, pulling into one of the parking spots that was diagonal along the square. “Except for that stupid strip mall where my bike shop used to be.”
He turned off the car and walked around to my side. Stepping out, I breathed in the snowy air, feeling it prickle in my lungs. The cold felt good after the long plane ride, and it was nice to stretch my legs a bit as we walked down the block.
As we walked, he pointed out the different shops: the bakery where they made the best sugar cookies, the place where he got his new shoes every year for school, and as we walked and he talked, he seemed less and less nervous.
“Thank God, it’s still here. Little Luigi’s,” he said, where there was a line out the door into the cold night. It moved fast though, and soon we were inside. It was a hole in the wall, with only three tables and a counter. They were grilling the steaks on a big black griddle, peppers and onions sizzling. People were barking out orders, wrapping sandwiches, and the smell was heavenly.
When it was our turn, Simon ordered for both of us. Two steaks, cheese, onions, mushrooms, with both sweet and hot peppers on the side. And the funniest thing happened. When he ordered? This accent came out of nowhere. I’d never heard it before. Not New York or New Jersey; this was very specific. As I listened to everyone around me, they all had it. Some thicker than others, and Simon’s was fairly light, but it had definitely popped up. Huh.
Grabbing a handful of napkins, he spied a family leaving one of the tables and was able to nab it. Leaving me with the table, he went back up for the sandwiches. I’d seen Simon order from a man with ten baskets of spring rolls on his head in Saigon. I’d seen him order sausages from a giant woman in an apron in Salzburg. And nowhere had I ever seen him more at home than he was in this sandwich shop in suburban Philadelphia.
With a wide grin, he returned to the table. He showed me how to spread out the paper to catch the drips, added salt and pepper, then how to hold it so it didn’t spill out over the sides. Then he bit down, and pure bliss came over his face. And he made a sound I’d only ever heard him make once. And he was very happy when he made it.
• • •
“Simon Parker?” a voice said from behind, and he turned with a mouthful of cheesesteak. He quickly swallowed, and stood. An older woman with a sleek silver chignon and a strand of pearls that could choke a horse was looking at him in amazement.
“Mrs. White?” he asked, running a hand through his hair.
“Oh my goodness, it is you! I never thought we’d see you around here again!” She pulled him into a hug. “Where in the world have you been? Last I heard, you were off to Stanford.”
