This short story was posted at Philosopher's Quest. It was damaged beyond repair by N.J.'s hackers. I have reposted it here. I do not know whether readers can reach "Critique" at MSN, where the story is also posted with accompanying images.
I.
BAPTISTA: "Gentlemen, importune me no further,
For how I firmly am resolved you know;
That is, not to bestow my youngest daughter
Before I have a husband for the elder:
If either of you both love Katharina,
because I know you well,
Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure."
William Shakespeare, "The Taming of the Shrew," Act I, sc. I, in The Works of William Shakespeare (New York: Walter J. Black, 1944), p. 318.
My name is Giovanni Petruchio. I'm from the Rego Park section of Queens, New York. I went to Catholic schools there and then St. John's University, where I majored in philosophy. Naturally, when I graduated, I could only get a job in a pizzeria on the upper West Side of Manhattan, which is o.k., with me, I don't really mind. I get to read a lot at night, after I make the dough for the next day and finish cleaning up. Right now I'm reading Gore Vidal's essays, one of my professors suggested it. I also love novels, history, even (don't tell nobody) poetry.
You'd never know it from looking at me, because I look like the young Ray Liotta. I got a little temper, and I lift weights too, but I like the intellectual life. My secret is that I can sing, you know, and I love Opera. When I can, when there's nobody around, I play classical radio or my favorite tapes of famous tenors, great duets and Opera highlights, then my boss starts yelling: "Hey, what's the matter with you? How about Frankie Valli or Sinatra or something? Geez. You play Opera like it's Sunday or something ..."
"Sorry, Sal." I say.
Sal is my boss. He owns the pizzeria. Everybody says he's "connected." But if he's connected, then how come he's living in a single bedroom dump in Inwood? I don't know. Anyway, he likes me. Maybe because I went to college. My dad wanted me to go to college. He died when I was really young. He was a cop. So he never saw me graduate. My mother was a nurse and was always working. She had a few problems, but I love her. I always tell her I'm happy. She's retired now.
All the guys want to hang around with me all the time because I do well with the ladies. They say it's because I'm Italian and the women like that. Or maybe it's the glamor of the pizza business, which is like being a barber in Seville, I guess. I don't know what it is. They're always laughing when they talk to me, women, then they go out with me. Who knows why? Women, you know, they're all crazy. That's what Marcelo Mastroianni said. He's a famous Italian actor, and this woman was interviewing him once, and she asked him why women love him. So he looked up at the ceiling and said: "because women are CRAZY, madam, I don't know!" That's what I say. Anyway, he's dead now.
So anyway, like I say, I got two guys that work with me on the night shift, Grumio and Curtis. They're both Italian too, except Curtis really isn't, but we pretend that he is. And then, he's more Italian than everybody else. He looks like John Travolta, except he's Jewish. He's a Jewish John Travolta, which means that he can't dance and wears a yamulke. That's o.k., though, 'cause he's a good guy. I'm always having to tell them what to do because they're good guys, you know, but they're a few sandwiches short of a picnic, if you know what I mean.
So anyway, I say to them, "What's the deal with Lucentio? He's so fucking depressed all the time. What's he got to be depressed about? His father is loaded. He lives in a big house in Verona, New Jersey." His family owns a cement business and his dad wears nice Armani suits, pinkie rings and everything, drives a new black Cadillac. His dad gets two subscriptions to the MET every year and sometimes he gives me tickets, orchestra tickets and everything.
He says: "Here, kid. You take 'em."
I say, "Hey, thanks Mr. Vincentio. You feeling all right?"
"My son is all depressed and he won't talk to me." He said. "It bothers me. He thinks I don't understand. Like I wasn't young or something. You know me, Johnny, I'm a sensitive guy." Then he takes a puff of his cigar.
My friends call me "Johnny."
"Yeah, no shit." I said. "Don't worry, Mr. V. I'll look into it."
"Yeah," he says. "You help him out, Johnny. You take care of him; I'll take care of you." So he puts a hundred in my pocket. I couldn't believe it! I say: "I'll get to the bottom of this. Don't you worry."
So when I'm back at the pizzeria, I say again to the guys: "What's wrong with Lucentio?" Then Grumio tells me that he's all hot and bothered, big time, for this woman named Bianca, who lives in a really nice building on Central Park West.
"So what's the problem?," I say. It turns out, now get this, her father -- she goes to Barnard -- he won't let her to go out with any guys unless she gets a date for her sister too, at the same time, mind you. The sister goes to NYU. They have to go out together and get married together, they gotta do everything together, or else the old man doesn't pay for college or nothing. It gets better. It turns out that the other sister, the one who's not Bianca, she's a total wacked-out bitch. That's what everybody says anyway. Nobody will go out with her. Everybody's afraid of her and shit. But she's beautiful and not a dog or nothing.
"Is that it? Come on." I'm thinking this situation is made for me. "Somebody got Lucentio's cell phone number? Let's give him a call and get him over here." We finally got a hold of him and he tells me that, basically, he can't get nobody to sweet talk this bitch so he can go out with the woman he loves. I hate people who wreck romance. What's her fucking problem? So I agree to help him out and make sure to have him remind his dad that I'm all over this. I don't know where these guys would be without me.
After work, I showered and changed into my black Armanis, sprinkled a little of my "Carlo Corinto" cologne, which costs $75.00 a bottle. (I better sprinkle some more.) The women, you know, they can't get enough of it. I put on my Italian shoes that give me a little extra height, you know, and I put on my gold crucifix and my charm against the evil eye, which I'm going to need tonight.
We got her phone number and called her place. The old man answers the phone and invites us over, like he can't wait to get "Katharina," that's her name, out of the house so he can watch the game in peace. The father seems like an all-right guy. His name is Saul Baptista. He's both Italian and Jewish. That means he's got the best of both worlds. He owns a bunch of Kosher pizzerias in the U.S. and Israel. He says I have to ask Katharina myself. I say, "no problem. We'll be there around seven."
The step-mother is, like, totally evil, I'm told, her name is Diana, and she is speaking at some convention about how men should all be castrated and shit. No wonder the daughters are all fucked up.
We all got together at my place. I have a one bedroom which is rent-stabilized on 110th Street. I had to do a favor for "Joey the Loop" (they call him that 'cause he always gets out of legal jams) to get the place, but I don't know nothing about where he got those clothes that he kept in the pizzeria for a week. I'm a law abiding guy, normally. I promised that to the memory of my dad before a statue of the Virgin Mary. I lit a candle and everything.
We all looked pretty sharp, I gotta say. Nobody messes with us. Everybody respects us and shit. We only get nervous when we're talking to women. I just don't show it. The other guys, you know, you can see it. Women don't like that. You have to be really cool with them at all times. Like, if you're going to vomit or you have to pee or something, you go, "excuse me." Classy women like that. It shows you have class too. I kind of like women. They have a tough time sometimes. I am nice to them and I try be friendly, even if I don't like one of them personally. They got a lot of pressure. I know about pressure. The pizza business is not easy.
II.
KATHARINA: " ... I am no child, no babe:
Your betters have endur'd me say my mind;
And if you cannot, best you stop your ears.
My tongue will tell the anger of my heart;
or else my heart, concealing it, will break:
And rather than it shall, I will be free
Even to the uttermost, as I please, in words."
"The Taming of the Shrew," Act IV, sc. III., p. 336.
The lobby of this building where these rich people live is so huge that you could play football in it. I'm standing around with my guys and we're all bullshitting about the Yankee game. I can tell that they're nervous. I tell them all the time -- "You have to be relaxed and in control, you know, like the real John Travolta (the one who can dance) in all his movies, especially when he's Chilly Palmer." That's the way to be and the women don't have a chance. Think John Travolta. Think Chilly Palmer.
But not stupid. You can't be stupid. See, women always, in the back of their heads, they're thinking of what having kids with you would be like. If you're stupid, then they think they'll have retard kids. They don't want that -- except if you're really, really rich. Then maybe. Otherwise, you got let them know right away, in a subtle way, that you have the smarts. Like mention a book you read or just talk about Einstein or something. Don't say something wrong, just ... "Hey, how about that Einstein? He was a sloppy dresser, but what a brain, huh?" Something like that. You gotta be subtle. Then drop a little something extra: "You know, he didn't wear no socks?"
Lucentio got there a little late. I was waiting for him to arrive before we went up. He's kind of chubby and he wears these really stupid looking glasses. He likes dumpy suits that make him look like a fucking accountant. He's going to Fordham Law School. He is a nice guy and he'll probably be a good lawyer. Not even criminal law, he likes, where you could still be like Travolta and gets lots of women. He's interested in real estate law. Unbelievable. He wants to be a fucking real estate lawyer. That's almost as bad as being an accountant for real. I thought they had to kidnap people and put a gun to their heads to make them become accountants and real estate lawyers, but it turns out (and I could not fucking believe this!) that some people want to become those things, the way normal people want to be movie stars or gangsters or brain surgeons or something. Amazing.
So anyway, finally, we're all there at the same time. So we go up to the guy who works there and he's got on his uniform. He looks like fucking General Eisenhower with all kinds of ribbons and shit. I had already greased the guy with a twenty. I just dropped another twenty on him and I said: "Hey, amigo. Can you anounce me and my friends here. This is what I want you to say. I want you to call upstairs to the Baptista residence and say that there's a gentleman here who is very good looking and he is talking all about Miss (remember to say 'Miss" or I take the twenty back!) 'Katharina' and how beautiful she is and how E-N-T-R-A-N-C-E-D he is by her. O.K.?"
I had to spell the word for this fucking guy. The guy just looks at me and shakes his head. "What's entranced'?" His English is shaky. Great. I don't want him to say it like she's not going to know what the fuck I'm trying to get across here. So I have him practice it a couple of times first. Finally, he gets it right. They're letting anybody in this country now.
So we all line up and he makes the call and speaks to her and says it right. We're all anounced and shit and we're going up in the elevator. I can tell this is going to be good. The elevator has expensive wood on the walls and flowers in the corner. It doesn't smell like piss or anything, like in my building. The elevator is telling you to straighten up and look right because this place is classy.
When the doors open, we are in this long hallway with a skinny little carpet in the middle of it. There are mirrors in the hallway and little tables on the sides with flowers. Then there are double doors at the end of the hall. Only two apartments on each floor, so the apartments must be huge. I knock on the door. A woman opens the door wearing some kind of uniform. She must be a maid or something. The guys are nervous, so I do the talking: "Hello," I flash my famous smirk, "we're here to see the lovely sisters Bianca and Katharina."
The lady just looks at me like my head is on backwards and she smiles. She says to follow her. So we do. This apartment looks like one of those places you see in magazines with big furniture and really solid looking stuff, lots of wooden tables that are all polished and everything is really clean, like when you go to a hotel or a hospital or something. There are paintings on the walls, not like posters or anything, real paintings, and soft lights. Everything seems color-coordinated, like they had a bunch of people sit around and figure out how the entire place should match up. The apartment felt like a nice suit that you put on, where everything leads to one big impression of money and comfort. This is all supposed to intimidate you, which is what rich people do, they intimidate you -- and it's working on my friends, even on Lucentio, who has money. Who knew?
Not me, I don't give a shit. The lady takes us into a library filled with big leather books and newer books too. There were comfortable leather chairs to sit in and read, a table filled with books, notebooks and stuff. The guys were kind of nervous. Suddenly, they were whispering, like we were at a funeral. So I had to put everybody at ease. "This is nothing. I seen better."
That was bullshit, but everybody laughed and relaxed. The doors opened and these two women walked in who were both gorgeous. One was a brunette, with short hair and little round glasses, like Lucentio's, full lips and soft brown eyes. She was Bianca. Guess what? She was majoring in political science at Barnard because she wanted to go to law school, too. She likes real estate and construction "issues," she says. The two of them were perfect for each other, her and Lucentio. They could have little kids with glasses and pocket protectors. The other one was the one that floored me.
I have never seen anyone who looked like that in real life. In the movies maybe, beautiful actresses like Melanie Griffith or Kate Winslet, or people like that. This woman had sandy blond hair and the greenest eyes that I have ever seen, a heart shaped mouth and a kind of oval face, her hair fell softly to her shoulder. She had super seriously dangerous curves. Bianca wore a nice conservative black dress; but the other one, Katharina, she wore some ragged jeans and a man's shirt, with the first buttons open, no bra (I could tell), and black converse sneakers. Like, she didn't go to no trouble for this.
"Hey, how you doing?" I put my hand out for her to shake. She just looked at me, like I'm something the cat dragged in.
She put her hand on her hip, looked me up and down, smiled and said: "What are you supposed to be?"
I was surprised 'cause this is my best outfit.
"What do you mean? This is Armani."
She just nodded at me. "Sure it is."
"Yeah, it is. I know because I bought it from 'Nicky the Gook.' (No offense to my Asian friends because I say this affectionately.) He's this Italian friend of mine, who's half Vietnamese, but we ignore the Vietnamese half. Nothing personal. They probably feel the same about Italians. He got it from a Cuban friend of his who gets things that 'fall off a truck,' you know, and then sells them from his warehouse in Paterson, New Jersey. I can probably get you an outfit some time."
Then she did something that I'll never forget. She still does it. She stares at me and just laughs, while kind of suppressing the laugh, like a cough. She just lifts an eyebrow and shakes her head at me. "No, I think I'll pass on that offer."
Everybody is just looking at her to see whether she is going to tell us to go fuck ourselves or what. But she is smiling, like I amuse her or something. I feel like an entertainment for her. It's really weird, but I am not in control this time. She is. And I don't know how or why. But I don't mind that somehow. For some reason, she says she'll go out with me. We're going to eat somewhere and then maybe see a movie, but from the first she's totally in charge. Her middle name is "Marilyn," like the movie star.
I don't know how it happened; it just did. She grabs my arm and says: "Come on, asshole."
Everybody is shocked. Me too. When she is around I feel dizzy and weird, like I want to throw up and I'm off balance. She just smiles because I'm "so entertaining." Anyway, that's what she says. I'm "entertaining." But hey, if it works, you know, who cares?
When we head out the door, in about three minutes, she just lost the rest of the people. I'm like "What are you doing?"
"Relax," she says. Next thing I know, we're in this little restaurant. She's pouring wine for me. She's telling me how full of shit I am and laughing at me, but I'm not mad and neither is she. Somehow I feel that she likes me, despite what she's telling me. She likes philosophy too. She's explaining all this femnist shit to me and everything. I'm really interested. I'm learning a lot too. Like it's O.K. for me to be interested in Opera, poetry, art and stuff because all that "tough guy" shit that I learned when I was a little kid is really bullshit and it's hurting me.
I really want to be free, she says, and so do you, everybody, and the feminist writers she's talking about, they're really trying to think about freedom for everyone. Her step-mother is a lunatic, she tells me, and what she talks about is not feminism, but only a kind of hate.
Anyway, she keeps pouring wine for me and she's really fascinating too, better than most of my professors were. I didn't realize that it was late all of a sudden and I'm a little drunk, but she's fine. So she offers to walk me home. I say O.K., and next thing I know, I'm waking up naked in my bed and she's gone. She left me a paperback book called "Fear of Flying." Then it occurs to me that she paid for the meal. This doesn't feel right.
I don't even have her phone number or nothing, but she's got mine. Boy, has she got my number. I never realized that I was so good with the women. I don't know how I pulled this off. In a weird way, I'm feeling kind of used. Like maybe she's the one who pulled it off, if you know what I mean.
So for, like, two weeks she doesn't even call me or nothing. I'm starting to worry that she doesn't respect me. She finally calls to invite me out. We go to the Opera and I tell her how much I like the book and all. I seem to make her laugh a lot, but it's not like I'm trying to do it. I kind of see this tenderness towards me in her eyes.
I also begin to understand how it must be for her. I realize the pressure on her, especially with her looks, to always look and be a certain way. Maybe a lot of women have that pressure. I think about what it would be like for me to have to listen to most of the guys I know -- who are total fucking morons (even worse than me!) -- and have to smile and pretend that they're saying something interesting, even if they're retarded. I start to see what she means by feminism. Feminism is not about hating guys, like we're told all the time. It's really about freedom from all the bullshit for everybody. Freedom for men and women.
So after about a week, I was going to ask her to go out with me steadily, but she asked me first! I didn't know what to say. I was kind of blushing. It was really embarrassing. She smiled so much when she saw that awkwardness and this softness came into her expression again. It was so weird, like she was taking care of me. I felt O.K. about what interested me, even poetry was allowed. I felt that I could say anything to her. I didn't have to hide my real interests or feelings. She liked that side of me. She understands it. Strange.
III.
"I cannot help but wonder how Women's Lib. regards this book of Erica Jong. Here is a liberated woman who tells of her need for men, or, as she sometimes puts it, her need for a lay. She admits to being horny and how! We don't hear enough from women on this subject. With all this, and she goes the limit, this book can scarcely be called 'pornographic.' It is full of obscenity, whatever that means, but underneath it all, there is a most serious purpose. The book is full of meaning and a paean to life. The death-eaters are shrinks, teachers, parents, and so on."
Henry Miller, "On Fear of Flying," Afterword, in Fear of Flying (New York: New American Library, 2003), p. 442. (1st. pub. 1973).
After a few months that Katharina and me were dating, I heard that Lucentio and Bianca were engaged. Now I'm thinking "nobody buys the cow if she gets the milk for free." I'm making Katharina happy as a lark (however happy that is), and maybe she's taking me for granted. So I start dropping little hints about looking for a rock someday, but I'm not getting nothing back from her. Maybe I was just "fun and games" for her. That's very depressing to think about. That would be so typical. Women don't realize that we men make an "emotional investment in these intimate relationships." Dr. Phil said that. I'm going to the gym four nights a week! I buy sexy underwear! (I got the Batman briefs that she likes!) And I am not appreciated! It's all physical for her. All I can say is this is so fucking "TYPICAL!"
There was a party at the Baptista home to celebrate the engagement. Her father is there and he's winking at me, like I did something. So when everybody is sitting around, he's talking about how good his daughter Bianca is and what a good wife she'll be and all. He sighs about how his other daughter, "bookish" Katharina, will never get a man to marry her, so he's going to let Bianca marry Lucentio and forget his vow.
I could tell that Katharina (I call her Marilyn, just to be different) was pissed and hurt. My guess is that she had heard all of this shit before. Most young women, like her, have heard this stuff from parents or authority figures, which has to hurt them. If it was me, it would piss me off.
It was a beautiful night so, as he was speaking, Mr. Baptista opened the window and pulled back the curtain. He called to everyone to look at the beautiful moon. Out of nowhere, Katharina said: "No, I think that's the sun actually." Everyone said she was crazy, but I could tell she was just finding a way to tell her father that he was full of shit.
So I said: "You know, I think that's the sun too." Katharina smiled at me for the first time that night. And I saw a tear in her eye.
Katharina said: "No, actually it's the moon."
I walked over to the window and looked out and said: "Now that I think about it, you're right. It is the moon." There was a major silence. Everybody was in shock. Everybody in the room was staring at me. My friends could not believe it. Suddenly, all the years of being the cool and hard guy went out the window. And it felt so liberating and great. I would not mention the rock again. I realized that she was right about freedom. I would only love her with all my heart, be available, supportive and loyal no matter what, forever. And that's what I've tried to be. I said it loudly, "I am ashamed that we men are so simple-minded. We offer war when we should seek peace. We're so weak compared to women, really. And let's face it, it's not like we've got the smarts. So my feeling is that we should place our hands beneath the foot of the woman we love. ... Like Shakespeare says, ...
'In token of which duty, if [she] please
My hand is ready may it do [her] ease.'
You can't argue with Shakespeare."
There was a silence in the room. And so much tension. I felt unwelcome. I excused myself and headed for the door. But when I got there, Marilyn was waiting for me, smiling, with her hand at her hip -- and she said: "You know, I think that is an Armani that you're wearing."
I said: "Naaa. ..."
The two of us have been living together for a while now. We're both in graduate school. We argue all the time about books and art, movies and music. We laugh a lot together. She says that she "likes it when I make her laugh," so that's what I do. I make her laugh. She makes the big decisions. We share our work and our inner lives. We just love one another with every ounce of energy that we have -- at least, I do -- and we don't think too much more beyond that. We still love our friends and family, accepting that they're not going to get the point to either one of us. Everybody says we're both weird. I guess that's true. Our lives have been a little weird too. So I think that it's O.K. to be who we are.
I'm proud to say that, I think and hope, that I make her happy, even when I don't see her. I hope that's because, she knows, my love is with her and I'm always missing and hurting for her. And that makes me happy. I know that I yearn for her so much when we're not together. I know that it hurts when we're apart and that is a good way of saying that we really do love one another. Then I think about when we will be together and how much I need her, and everything is O.K. again. There is nothing that I want other than to be with her or that I wouldn't give up for her or all of those I love. I think she knows that. I guess the bottom line is: "All's well that ends well!" -- no, wait, that's another story.
