Chapter 3: “I prefer Hostess”Tommy’s wait turned into hours. He busied himself by studying zip codes from a stack of flashcards that he kept in the back pocket of his JAMS. His mind wandered as he went through the repetitive mental motions of recall.
Linden. 07036. What am I going to do? Manville. 08835. Should I call Uncle Jack? Bound Brook. 08880. When is the doctor going to come? Hoboken. Hoboken.I’m kind of hungry. He realized he hadn’t eaten since morning and a vision of a massive slice of Benny Tudino’s pizza danced in his head.
Tommy walked up to the receptionist’s desk.
“Excuse me, mam,” Tommy said. “Is there a cafeteria here? Somewhere I can get a sangwich?”
“A what?” The receptionist looked up, confused.
“A cafeteria.” Tommy replied.
“No, the other thing you said.”
“A sangwich?” Tommy reluctantly restated.
“You mean a
sand-wich, hon?” she annunciated.
“That’s what I said, a
sang-wich,” Tommy repeated.
“No,” she said and then elongated her syllables, “a
sand-wich.”
“That’s what I said, a
sang-wich,” Tommy repeated, undeterred.
The receptionist huffed, and like Tommy’s teachers, gave up.
“Vending machine’s over there,” she pointed.
Tommy was dismissed.
Tommy pulled out a crumpled dollar bill from his pocket and flattened it out against the corner of the vending machine. He eyed the deliciousness that was in store for him behind coil E4. Through the cellophane wrapper he imagined the delicate moistness, the lustrous brown, the sultry filling, a confectionary delight—the Ho Ho.
Tommy thought to himself, in praise,
Ho-Ho-Kus: 0742—.
“'Nem got any Kandy Kakes in 'der?” a voice interrupted.
Tommy flinched. The nasal voice, more of a whine than a kvetch, came from a gangling and pock faced boy.
Tommy glanced sideways at the boy. “Excuse me?” he asked.
“I said, ‘Dem got any Kandy Kakes in ‘der?” the boy repeated.
His accent was thick. The Philadelphian dialect: unmistakable. He was outfitted in a Flyers cap that pulled back his mangy hair, as well as a green, mesh, Eagles’ practice jersey that barely touched his navel. He had cut the bottoms off of a pair of grey sweat pants. At one point in time they were probably lucky. Now, they showcased the abstract expressionist painting techniques of a Jackson Pollock, except instead of paint it looked as if he used a soluble mixture of Cheese Whiz and Jagermeister. His shorts were clean in comparison to his white, high top, Reeboks, whose rubber soles had seen their fair share of woe from the bathrooms of Veterans Stadium.
“Kandy Kakes? What are those?” Tommy asked.
“Hehehehehehe…” the boy broke out in a fit of laughter. “You Phila-dummy, they’re only the finest of Tastykakes around.”
“Well, I prefer Hostess.”
Tommy tried to keep the conversation short and turned his attention back towards the vending machine.
The boy didn’t get the hint. “Hostess? You mean to tell me you don’t like Juniors?”
“No, again, I like Hostess.” Tommy was becoming impatient, the vending machine repeatedly spit out his dollar bill.
“What does Hostess have that Tastykakes don’t?”
Tommy pursed his lips. “Well, for starters: Twinkies, Ding Dongs, Fruit Pies…” he paused, still thinking.
“I know one thing youse don’t have?”
“Yeah, what’s that?” Tommy asked with suspicion.
“White Lady.”
“White Lady?” Tommy assumed it was a regional cuisine.
The pock faced boy giggled. “Tell me you’ve never heard of White Lady?”
Tommy looked to both sides, unsure how to respond. “I don’t really like coconut, so…”
“Coconut?” The boy squealed with laughter. “Oh, you’re too funny. What about riding the rails? No? A very expensive ski trip?” the boy laughed in hysterics. “Booger sugar?”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m only sixteen.”
“So’s,” the boy taunted, “ I’m nineteen you don’t hears me complaining.”
Tommy was in no mood for games. “Yeah, well, if you don’t mind, I haven’t’ eaten all day, for all I know my dad’s dying of heart attack--”
“A heart attack?” the boy interrupted. “Oh, I knows all about ‘dem,” he said sympathetically. “Had several myself. Like the time I saw Blue Oyster Cult and Foghat at the Spectrum back in ’82, I did so much blow my heart stopped during ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper.’”
“Really?”
“Yea…. ionic, huh?” the boy replied.
“That’s awful…” Tommy stuttered, perplexed, “wait, don’t you mean ironic?”
“That’s what I sad, ionic,” the boy replied, unfazed.
“No, I think you mean
i-ronic, like, 'coincidental,'” Tommy explained.
“Oh no, it wasn’t coincidental. I did a lot of blow.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s what—” Tommy could tell by the boy’s blank expression it was useless, “Never mind.”
“Yea. Just goes to show’s ya, you’re never too young to party.”
Tommy began to laugh but stopped himself. “So that’s why your here?”
“Oh no, not me. It’s Roy Jr.” The boy clenched his jaw. “I’m so mad at him right now. What kind of son takes his dad’s last Kandy Kake? Sure I did it to my dad, but these kids today are supposed to be cool! So I bed slapped him.”
“You what?” Tommy said, aghast. “Define ‘bed slapped.’”
“It’s an old Ziegler family tradition –the parent tucks the child in bed, sings a nice song and then exacts revenge for whatever bullcrap the child did earlier that day by slapping him or her in the face exactly one minute after they fall asleep.”
“That’s horrible! And now he’s in the hospital?” Tommy asked.
“Not ‘cuz of
that. Cuz he drowned his sorrows in ‘da bottle and has to get his stomach pumped.”
“The bottle?” Tommy fumbled for the right words. “You mean like a milk bottle?”
“No. Yuengling.
Why?”
“You gave your child beer?”
“Don’t judge me.” The boy snapped, clearly offended.
“I’m not judging you, but—”
“I judge you.”
“Wait.” Tommy was confused and shook his head. “Hold on a second. Back up. First off:
you have kid?”
“Yea, three of ‘dem, why?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who could responsibly raise a child, let alone three,” Tommy replied.
"Yea. Well, I'm the one and only, but I'm not from Olney! Hehehehehehe."
Clearly he had made a joke. Tommy had no clue what he meant, only through context did he understand it as some obscure reference to PA. “That means you had a kid at my age?”
“No,” the boy said, “my kid
is your age.
Why?”
“What? That doesn’t even make sense. Your kid is sixteen?”
“Yea.
Why?”
“That’s impossible.” Tommy said, confounded.
“That’s what Rhoda said when it happened, but like my grandmother used to say, ‘if you can't run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.’"
Tommy laughed shortly. “And who is Rhoda?”
“She’s my girlfriend.” Roy became distracted. “Oh. Look. You see that girl over ‘der? The one in the sling?”
“Uh-huh.” Tommy nodded.
“I’m going to follow her outside once she’s released and key one of ‘dem doctor’s car.”
“What? Why?”
“Cuz, a hottie sees that kind of damage done to a BMW she knows whoever done its one bad dude."
Tommy was appalled. “I thought you said you had a girlfriend.”
“Well, yea, but it’s not like we’re married.”
“That’s awful.”
“You wanna come watch?”
“No. I don’t want to watch.”
“Oh come on…” the boy pleaded.
“No, I’m waiting here until my Dad gets out and then we’re going to the movies.”
“Oh yea? What youse going to see?” the boy asked.
“Cannonball Run II.”
“Heehehhehe…” the boy snorted. “Don’t you know Rocky IV comes out this weekend?”
“Rocky IV?” Tommy rolled his eyes. “I feel like I’ve already seen it.”
“Why? You got a bootleg or something?”
“No, I don’t have a bootleg.” Tommy looked offended. Sometimes he surprised even himself with his staunch morality.
“You want one? Cuz, me and Roy Jr. are supposed to make one at the theater tonight. We got the tape recorder and everything.”
Tommy scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you need more than a tape recorder to make a bootleg of a movie.”
“No youse don’t, that’s all Rerun, Raj and Dwayne had when they bootlegged the Doobie Brothers.”
“Yeah, well that was a concert, this is a movie. I’m pretty sure people are going to want to see Rocky taking the beating.”
“Wait, whuuuuuuuuuuut? Rocky ain’t taking a beating. What are you, some kind of Commie?”
“No. I’m just saying that it’s kind of predictable by now: Rocky takes the beating, then Rocky gives the beating. Besides, how is
that communist?”
“Youse just prejudice against Philadelphians.
“No I’m not.” Tommy said.
“Yeah-ya are. What has New Jersey ever given us?” the boy asked and turned his nose in the air. “All ‘nem smokestacks?"
Tommy was sick of New Jersey jokes, more for their hackneyed disposition than sequitur, and blasted back, “You do know that the real Rocky isn’t even from Philadelphia? He’s from New Jersey, Bayonne, to be exact. So I guess you could say, we gave you Rocky.”
"Now you just trying to get me mad. I'm proud of my city, ain't youse proud of your cities?"
“Yeah, I am, I love Newbridge.”
“Where’s
that?” the boy said.
Tommy laughed, “That’s where you are, right now.”
“No it’s not.”
“I’m pretty sure it is.” Tommy said sarcastically.
“Are you sure?”
“I was born here.”
“Huh.” The boy paused, thinking. “Cuz we were on our way to the Jacksink Hole.”
“Jacksink Hole?” Tommy said, puzzled.
“Oh, there she goes.” Roy focused his attention on the girl in the sling. “I’ll see you later then.”
“Wait. Where’s Jacksink Hole?” Tommy thought he had misheard him. The boy’s vowels and consonants were entrenched in a coarticulated tug-of-war—the equivalent of being caught in the middle of a Pat vs. Geno’s debate, but worse.
Tommy tried to run after him but the vending machine had finally accepted his dollar.
Flustered, Tommy pressed the button for E5. He turned back to the waiting room but it was too late. The boy had already sprinted through the automatic doors and into the parking lot.
Jacksink Hole? Tommy repeated to himself.
That isn’t on the zip code list. He shrugged and reached into the machine for his bounty.
“Funyuns?”