Mezza Luna (short story)

Last Saturday, I had dinner with Yoga Bera, Joe Di Maggio, Catfish Hunter and Jose Canseco. Sat across from me, well, anyway, their portraits did as painted in words by a retired newspaper sportswriter.

A dinner date, we drove to Half Moon Bay in his fresh smelling Lexus, piney scented with smooth leather seats to slide a butt on. The town was the home of his ex-wife. I asked how long since the divorce occurred, thinking from his talk, it was fresh and new. "Oh, back in '80", he said. Pressing on, I asked how long the marriage lasted, "Five years", his answer.

The thought occurred to me his marriage was clinging to him like barnacles on an aged and dry-docked ship. He smiled and told me it was something to get him that far away from home, this grand exploration of a beach 20 miles away. He said he was quite impressed with me.

Politeness permeated the air, our personalities correct and clean all dressed in their Sunday best. We ate our dinner, and talked of years past, the way of baseball, empty bleachers, and orangutans. I mentioned they could be extinct in less than ten years, and how I should like to write a poem about them. His thoughts being we no longer miss mastodons, do we, so in the end, we would hardly miss orangutans, so why bother.

He droned on about the once-upon-a-time wife that could turn heads, and I thought of the beauty pageants past and my refusal to participate and how all my life men seemed to have chased me. It was a relief now, sometimes, to no longer to be looked upon as a trophy for a sportswriter.

Being a writer and all, the word "f**k" was important to him, and it punctuated the air like the smell of fresh crab caught that day in the bay. He spoke of my poems, how clear and incisive they were, insightful and erotic; sometimes, he said, without trying. His voice was forceful, strident and strong. And, he didn't "blow no smoke". In my mind I began to envision being with John Steinbeck, Papa Hemingway, maybe even Jack Kerouac, all with enormous egos and perhaps other things equally as large, and began to want, very badly, to make love to him.

This awesome writer and aspiring poet.

To be in Paris, or Spain, running up rickety old stairs to a bed with thrown over sheets and sun streaming through the window, feeling the passion of words come alive. Strong man with strong feelings, and I, responding with movement rather than words.

I forgot about the '70's world series, a 70 year old man, the lines about his eyes, the backs of hands where the sun had decided to play connect the dots, and in my belly small tingles of lust began to stir. I was glad to to have the feeling of never-ending want, smiled a secret inward smile, and wondered if my face was flushed.

As I sat there, I slid my feet back and forth in loose shoes, and worried whether my antipasto was stuck on my chin. I thought about touching his leg under the table with my bare toes, up under his pant leg, to stroke and gently tug the hair on his leg, as I once would have done, but orangutans, aged men and propriety held me back.

In the end, though, the waiter beamed at the generous tip left, I noticed small stains on the tablecloth, he complained that his hearing was failing, and I slowly slipped my feet back into my shoes.