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Hi Friends,
I’d like to share with you a short story I wrote about ten years ago, called Meatball Sandwich. I wrote it while living in Brooklyn, as part of a series of short stories that focused on relationships and food. (I ate really well while living in Brooklyn.) In the original version, the story unfolds between Jeremy and Maggie, but I felt like changing Maggie to Matty and having this particular story involve two men. On that note, Happy Pride to all who are celebrating.
Meatball Sandwich
Jeremy got dumped last night. And it still stung. Of course it did. It was just last night. Stung like only rejection can. Everywhere. Sure, they were only together for two months. He wasn’t in love or anything foolish like that. But he liked Kyle, maybe even a lot. Worse, he thought Kyle liked him. He stopped thinking that when Kyle dumped him, in a text message. Last night.
Tonight, he sat on a bench on the Brooklyn Heights promenade, slow snowflakes dropping everywhere, and thought about Kyle, the dumper. He wondered how he was spending his first night without him. Was he on a date? Was he telling his friends how relieved he felt? He wondered for three seconds if Kyle felt as lonely as he did. Only three seconds, because he knew he didn’t. Most of all, he wondered why he had dumped him. He said he didn’t really feel a deep connection. Whatever that meant. He thought they got along great. It had only been two months. How deep could their connection be? They had fun together. They laughed a lot. Had great sex. Or did they? Had Kyle been faking it?
Jeremy grimaced through the snow at downtown Manhattan across the river. New York was no place for a dumpee. No place for someone as lonely as he felt. The city exaggerated any kind of misery. Looking out at the skyscrapers shining in the darkness, Jeremy didn’t feel just lonely. He felt invisible. Like a nobody for no one. He was ready for something serious in his life. Someone serious. Finally ready to fall in love. Of course, being ready to find love and actually finding it are not the same thing. Not even close.
A happy couple walked by, hand in hand. She leaned up for a kiss as they walked. He gave her a playful peck. Pecked some more. They smiled and giggled themselves down the promenade. They chatted—Jeremy assumed—about how much they adored each other. Maybe making their wedding plans. The man might even propose right then, just ten feet away, reminding Jeremy that happiness was out there. And that he was single, and alone, and dumped, and about as far away from happiness as Pluto from the sun.
Jeremy imagined the couple slipping on the icy walkway. The woman first, pulling the man down with her, maybe even chipping her happy teeth on the cold cement. He imagined an enormous seagull, pterodactyl-size, swooping down and grabbing them both in its claws. Dropping them in the East River. Swooping down again. Grabbing them both in its claws and flying off to its extra-large seagull nest. And eating them. Most likely regurgitating them into its enormous babies’ mouths. F**k you, happy love.
The couple disappeared into the pretty white night, leaving Jeremy alone on the frozen snowy promenade. He shook his head, thinking about the giant seagull. He wasn’t the type of guy to wish bird death on others. But being dumped sucked. It turned him bitter. Or was that the winter wind? He shivered.
“Mind if I join you?” Matty asked, and took a seat beside him before Jeremy could answer.
He motioned with his hand. “You know there’s like ten empty benches right over there?” And there were, at least ten. They were the only two people out on the promenade.
“So you do mind if I join you?”
“I’m just saying.”
“That you mind if I sit here?” Matty pulled his floppy green hat down over his ears.
“Sit wherever you want. It’s fine. I’m heading out anyway.”
“Because I sat down?”
“No, not because....” Jeremy shook his head. “Why do you keep asking me things?”
“I haven’t really asked you that many things.”
The two of them turned toward the river, toward the city. Jeremy could have gotten up right then. Easily just walked away. But his loneliness kept him there. It was hungry for connection. It wanted to feel noticed—to feel anything. Except lonely.
Matty rarely felt lonely, but he always talked to people, strangers even. Whoever, it didn’t matter. In deli lines. On the subway. In public bathrooms. He couldn’t help himself. He was addicted to connection. People were his drug. He chose to sit next to Jeremy, and not on one of the empty benches. Sure, Jeremy looked a little morose, but not dangerous. Definitely not dangerous. This was Brooklyn Heights after all.
Matty reached into his tattered shopping bag. “Do you want a meatball sandwich?” he asked.
“A what?” Jeremy asked, pretty sure Matty couldn’t have just offered him a meatball sandwich.
Matty pulled a large sandwich from his bag, wrapped in tin foil and steaming. “A meatball sandwich. It’s still hot,” he said.
“Why would you give me your meatball sandwich?” Jeremy asked.
“I brought two. But Leon’s not out here. Do you know Leon?”
Jeremy shook his head.
“He’s great. He’s homeless and out here pretty often, especially at night. He’ll make up a poem for you, right on the spot. You just give him a word, whatever word you want, and like five minutes later he hands you a poem. I always make him read them to me. They’re better in his voice, kinda like Tom Waits.” Matty took off his purple mittens and reached into his pockets. “I think I have one of his poems on me, called ‘Goldilocks.’ That’s the word I gave him. I read it sometimes just to smile. I can read it to you,” he said.
“That’s okay,” Jeremy replied.
“I can’t find it. What did I do with it? Here,” Matty said, and set the sandwich on the bench next to Jeremy, “you look like you could use a good meatball sandwich. One hundred percent homemade. Even the bread.”
Jeremy looked at the sandwich but didn’t move. He was hungry though, and he did love meatballs. He wondered if they were straight beef, or if he added pork. Probably pork too, he thought. Nothing about this guy seemed straightforward.
“It won’t be hot for long,” Matty said, as he unwrapped his own sandwich, stretching out the foil on his lap. “Leon’s probably at a shelter. At least I hope. It’s getting too cold out here.” Matty bit into the sandwich and relaxed into a satisfied smile. “Oh God this is good.”
When Matty first sat down, Jeremy imagined some giant radioactive fish, humpback whale-size, jumping out of the river and swallowing Matty whole. At the moment, though, he didn’t wish fish death at all on this strange but kind of cute guy in a goofy green hat, wolfing down a sloppy, steaming meatball sandwich. He eyed the fat foiled square beside him, curious and hungry, and picked it up. “Thanks.” He pulled off his black leather gloves, unwrapped the sandwich, and stretched the foil over his lap.
Matty held up his sandwich like a wine goblet. “Cheers,” he said. “I’m Matty by the way.”
“Jeremy,” he replied.
The two of them sat there, snow falling around them, and devoured their hot meatball sandwiches.
“This is really good,” Jeremy said, his mouth full. And it was, maybe even the best meatball sandwich he had ever tasted. The meat practically melted on his tongue, smoky and delicious. The marinara sauce layered his mouth with oregano and garlic and crushed red pepper. And the dense white bread held it all together perfectly, the floury conductor to a symphony of pure Italian flavors.
“My neighbors are Italian,” Matty said. “The sweetest older couple you’ll ever meet. Grace and Mario. And believe it or not, this is Mario’s recipe. Grace can cook too, though. Best fettuccine Alfredo in the world. The sauce is like, I don’t know, like buttery creamy heaven. And her cookies will make you cry.” Matty gulped down another bite. He didn’t mind speaking with his mouth full. “You look Italian,” he said to Jeremy.
“Half,” Jeremy replied, chewing. “On my mom’s side. But she was never much of a cook.”
“I’m sorry,” Matty said. “When did she die?”
“What are you talking about? She didn’t die.”
“Oh, that’s good. You said ‘she was never’ so I thought she was dead.”
“No,” Jeremy replied. “But they live in Iowa, so I don’t eat her cooking much anymore.”
“Sounds like that’s a good thing,” Matty said, licking marinara sauce off his thumb.
And just like that, without even thinking about it, for the first time since he’d been dumped, Jeremy smiled. “I guess her lasagna isn’t that bad.”
“Olga and Raul, who live below me, they’re Spanish,” Matty said, “and Olga makes Spanish tortilla all the time. Oh my God, I swear you can’t believe how good eggs and potatoes can taste until you try her tortilla.”
“Do you know all your neighbors?” Jeremy asked. This was New York City after all. People maybe, maybe smiled at their neighbors in the hallway on a good day, but they definitely didn’t share recipes and eat with them.
“Sure,” Matty replied. “They’re my neighbors.”
Jeremy caught himself smiling again, and he smiled at that. And then he finished his last bite of the sandwich and balled up the foil, careful not to get any sauce on his pants.
“Sorry, I forgot napkins again,” Matty said.
“No problem.” Jeremy leaned over and wiped his hands off in the snow. “Thanks again, that was a really great sandwich. You done?” he asked, reaching his hand out for Matty’s saucy foil. Matty balled it up. Sauce dripped just past his knees onto the snow.
“Watch it,” Jeremy said.
“I usually get it on me,” Matty replied, handing Jeremy his foil.
Jeremy got up from the bench and skated through the light snow to a nearby garbage can, leaving long streaks on the pavement behind him.
“I found it,” Matty shouted. “I found the poem.” He leapt off the bench and bounced over to Jeremy. “Do you wanna hear it?”
“Do I have to?” Jeremy asked, almost playfully.
“Of course you don’t have to. I’m kind of in the mood to read it though. And it sounds better out loud. But don’t listen if you don’t want to.”
A fourth smile planted itself on Jeremy’s lips. He turned to face the city, as Matty struggled to unfold the crumpled paper with his thick purple mittens.
“‘Goldilocks,’ that’s the title,” Matty began.
“Goldilocks, Goldilocks, where have you been all my days?
Where have you been through this struggle, through my haze?
If I only met you, sweet Goldilocks, sooner in my life,
I swear I would have dropped down and begged you to be my wife.
You are the sweetest mama Goldilocks in the land,
And I’m talking everywhere from Jamaica to Japan.
So Goldilocks, remember, you’re a diamond in the glass.
A true and honest lady, a pure golden lass.”
Matty beamed as he struggled to refold the paper. “A true and honest lady, a pure golden lass...,” he repeated. “I’ve been called worse for sure,” he said.
Jeremy didn’t know much about poetry, but was pretty sure that poem sucked. “That’s nice,” he said.
“So you were listening?” Matty asked.
“A little hard not to.”
Matty shivered.
“You cold?” Jeremy asked.
“All the sudden,” Matty replied.
“Yeah, me too,” Jeremy said.
“I hope poor Leon’s at the shelter tonight,” Matty said, “or indoors somewhere.”
Matty reached out his big mitten to shake Jeremy’s hand. “Well, I’m gonna go back home and get warm. Nice meeting you, Jeremy.”
Jeremy shook Matty’s hand. “Nice meeting you too, Goldilocks. Thanks again for the sandwich.”
Matty walked back to the bench and grabbed his bag. He bent down to draw a smiley face in the snow and then walked off, content with having met another good person and having shared another good meal.
“Hey Goldilocks,” Jeremy called out after him.
Matty turned around. “You don’t remember my name, do you?”
“I’m real bad with names,” Jeremy said.
“It’s Matty,” Matty replied.
“Matty, that’s it. I knew it was an M.” Jeremy rubbed his hands together. “You wanna grab a coffee, Matty?”
“I don’t drink coffee, but I know a place with some really great hot chocolate. It’s like, I don’t know, the creamiest, chocolatiest stuff you’ll ever taste. They have coffee there too.”
“So that’s a yes?” Jeremy asked.
“So that’s a yes,” Matty replied.
And the two of them walked off together, down the promenade and into the snow. Jeremy looked across the river at downtown Manhattan. New York City was the greatest place in the world for possibility. The greatest place in the world for love.
Wishing you all a beautiful weekend, and so much love,
Scott
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