PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Your host: PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

Recently I came across a fellow blogger’s post, wherein she created her own version of the trending “I Am” poem template. You’ll find more of her lovely posts at The Spectacled Bean.

The basic poem is Adapted by Levi Romero Inspired by “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon.

Here’s mine…

I am from books from museum shops, thrift stores and left over from the library

I am from coffee from Aldi and afghan throws knitted by my mother

I am from a duplex surrounded by an arbor of pine trees

A house filled with so many plants, that I typically forget to water one or two

I am from the brilliant yellow forsythia and creamy pink magnolias

That bloomed in the spring around my childhood home

Whose long-gone blossoms I remember as if they were my own

I’m from Lithuanian sausage and potato pancakes from Grandma Martha and Aunt Elvira — Now it’s up to my mom to make them

I’m from years-long arguments and shutting each other out from my aunts

Sister

And others

I’m from “finish what’s on your plate” and “you’ll never be a dancer“

And singing Sloop John B to my dad’s banjo

I’m from Thanksgiving dinners around a long rectangular table in family basements

 I’m from Roseland Community Hospital and Chicago and cakes from “Jewel’s“

I’m from learning one of my aunts died from ovarian cancer before I ever came along

She had four children and had to leave three of them with her parents after her death

The fourth child — who moved away with her father — we finally found after years of searching

I’m from spending summers at Indiana Dunes national lakeshore

From trick-or-treating in hand-sewn Halloween costumes, courtesy of Mom

I’m from dusty hat boxes filled with mementos – under my bed, in my closet, in my heart

I come across funny poems, haikus and musings from my daughter… written when she was 11 years old

At now at 29 years of age, she refuses to let me post them here

By: H. Van Howe / Date: November 2023

Now it’s your turn. Go ahead and create your own poems.

Distribute before the holidays and let your guests read their own at the dinner table.

Share with your book club buddies and host an “I Am” party.

Trade essays with your dearest friend and read aloud to each other over a glass of wine.

Or a Diet Pepsi. Whatever works for you.

Here’s your link: I AM

Let’s hear your versions. I’m sure they will all be A+.

Thank you for reading — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

• Lighthouse Keepers ~ Day 3
• Lighthouse Keeper ~ Day 2. Do you believe in ghosts???
• Summer Resident Lighthouse Keeper ~ Day 1
• This Is How Old I Am
• The Soggy Suitcase

shorthand – noun
1. a method of rapid handwriting using simple strokes, abbreviations, or symbols that designate letters, words or phrases (distinguished from longhand)
http://www.dictionary.com

It was the end of my sophomore year in high school when I registered for my junior year of classes. For a number of reasons, Shorthand and Typing seemed to be useful electives for me. Taken together, the two classes would merit one full major credit.

Other students I spoke with felt those business skills would become valuable in the future — not only for stable office jobs but also for typing up school term papers.

In the end, shorthand did become a beneficial tool for me. For example, I’m impatient by nature, so being able to quickly take notes in Gregg Shorthand makes me very happy indeed.

By the following Fall, I sat in my first Gregg Shorthand class and was already feeling intimidated. For starters, due to the seating chart being designed in alphabetical order, I was placed in the second seat from the front row. This was new to me, since I typically sat in the back of the class — either my height dictated that choice, or the fact that my last name starts with the letter V. Up at the front of the class, I felt exposed. A bit vulnerable. What if I was put on the spot and couldn’t provide an acceptable answer? There I’d sit for the entire class to see my ignorance.

Except the first day of class proved to be both challenging and exciting, since our teacher — Mrs. Lynn Sanders — ensured our class that we’d be writing words in shorthand by the end of that very first session. She explained that Gregg Shorthand replaces letters with symbols for actual sounds. That very morning, we learned the symbols for S, F, V and A.

With those four symbols, we could already write the words: save; as; save; safe; face; and vase.

I immediately fell in love with the system!

I excelled at shorthand.

Three months later, I was beginning to feel like Teacher’s Pet, as Mrs. Sanders took a liking to me. And why not? I always handed in my homework. I could read and transcribe my shorthand notes with ease. My speed that first year were over 80 words per minute… an easy grade A for me.

There was one caveat… The only fault Mrs. Sanders found with me was that I was routinely late to her class, walking in the door 4-5 minutes after her session started.

I didn’t like to be penned in with restrictions. It all started way back in grade school when we lived kitty-corner from our grade school. My siblings and I would wait for the first bell to ring before we burst out our back door and ran across the street to line up with our respective classmates. It drove our mother nuts, but we didn’t see the logic in waiting around any longer than we needed to. Rules, schmules.

By the time I started high school, my bad habits were already in place. For the most part, Mrs. Sanders and I got along quite well, and I thought I had her eating out of the palm of my hand.

Until that one afternoon when Mrs. Sanders made a telephone call home to my mother. She asked my mom to ensure that I start arriving on time to my morning class. Naturally, my mother agreed with her.

The next morning, my mom insisted that I catch an earlier bus to school — an outrageous idea to me. Yet there I found myself walking to the bus stop 30 minutes earlier than my usual practice. I mumbled and grumbled to myself the entire way in.

That morning I was one of the first students at the classroom door. When our teacher approached with keys to unlock the door, she slyly winked at me. “Good morning everyone,” she smiled.

“Good Morning Mrs. Sanders,” we chorused together.

I rolled my eyes and headed toward my seat. Truth is, though, I still liked her.

Mrs. Sanders always believed in me.

“You can do it!” was her favorite phrase. And I believed her. She had so much faith in my abilities that she sent me downtown to participate in a shorthand contest hosted by the City Colleges of Chicago. And, of course, I couldn’t let her down.

A couple weeks later I hopped onto the Dan Ryan Flyer (CTA’s Red Line to you younger readers) to make my way downtown for the shorthand transcription competition. Not entirely sure of where the Loop College was located, I got off the El when I saw a sign for the Marshall Field’s building. At my age, I had no clue where I was going. I asked several strangers on the street for directions, but no one could assist. Finally, a police officer pointed me in the right direction.

I ran toward the college and entered its lobby filled with unease. Out of breath from running, I stopped at the front desk. “Do you know where the shorthand competition is?” I asked in a trembling voice. My shyness certainly had the best of me that morning.

Ninety minutes later, I walked out of that school holding a plaque for taking third place. I couldn’t wait to tell Mrs. Sanders!

My shorthand skills stayed strong while I was in school. Mrs. Sanders even arranged for a reporter on our school newspaper to write a short column about my experience at the contest. I blushed. Yet I still keep that winning plaque today.

Big dreams soon dashed…

One year later, I graduated and set my sights on landing a super-duper secretarial post in downtown Chicago, where I could utilize my extraordinary shorthand skills.

One of the first real jobs I had was working for the oldest law firm in the city: Winston & Strawn. Winston had impressive partners and political connections. I felt confident that I could be successful in its demanding legal environment. After all, didn’t I once win a shorthand contest?

During the first week of employment at Winston & Strawn, I found myself filling in for a partner while his secretary was on vacation. He called me in his office to dictate a letter. “Here’s my chance to shine,” I told myself. Unfortunately, once I started transcribing my notes, I became stuck on a couple of words. (Please understand, dear readers, that the faster a stenographer writes, the sloppier their work becomes.)

I didn’t have anyone nearby to ask for help. It was all on me, and I couldn’t figure out those two darned words. Mrs. Sanders had taught us to rely on our memory when we ran into this type of situation. But since I was a novice in the legal industry, I wasn’t having any luck with typical legal jargon.

I thought I’d be a bit silly and lighten the mood in that austere office environment. I went ahead and typed what I thought my notes read: shop class. There! I handed him the draft letter, hoping he’d get a good chuckle and handwrite in the correct words.

He was not amused.

That’s supposed to be “separate correspondence,” the attorney barked at me.

Clearly, he wasn’t in a joking mood.

Even today’s notes gave me trouble

Fifteen or so years went by. I was successful in my job. And (most) of my shorthand was transcribed with positive results. That’s when I ran into a friend from high school, who sadly informed me that our Mrs. Sanders had passed away.

I was surprised to hear that depressing news. Mrs. Sanders was only in her 50’s. What happened? Was she ill? Except there were no more details available.

Mrs. Sanders was a wonderful and inspiring teacher. I know she also taught English, where some of her pupils didn’t view her with the same rose-colored glasses. To me, however, she was strict for a reason. She wanted her students to push themselves beyond their limits and excel.

Therefore, today’s post is dedicated to you, Lynn Sanders. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for pushing me to do my best. Thanks (a lot!) for calling my mother and putting an end to my lateness.

I’m so glad you did so.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

This is a passage about a man named Norman. Let me re-phrase that… Our Dear Friend Norm.

Norm started out as a friend of my father’s — they met when they both worked as pressman at R.R. Donnelley’s — The Lakeside Press. Donnelley’s was once a giant in the printing industry, churning out Chicagoland phone books, Sears catalogs, Sears Wish Books, magazines, sales circulars, and more.

Norm and Dad eventually began to carpool to work together. Norm lived just one Chicago neighborhood west of ours — in Mt. Greenwood. On countless weekday (and weekend) mornings, Norm drove toward our home in Beverly, where he picked up Dad before they drove together to work.

Like most carpools, the fellas shared the driving duties. Sometimes Norm drove his car, with Dad in the passenger seat. Sometimes Dad drove his car. For the most part though, Dad’s cars left a lot to be desired since they weren’t the least bit luxurious. I remember one winter in the early ’80s when Norm had had enough of driving in Dad’s dingy yellow beater with no working heater.

Norm didn’t mince words with his cohort: “I’ll drive myself to Donnelley’s until you work out your car situation.”

I once had the fortunate opportunity to join Norm and Dad’s carpool, for about three weeks back in ’82. I had just graduated high school and landed a temporary job downtown on south Michigan Avenue. Dad told me I could ride with him and Norm… they left at 6:40 a.m. sharp, since their shifts started at eight.

For three weeks, I sat in the backseat, while Dad and Norm took turns driving. They had their routine down… take Halsted north to 87th Street, head east and hop onto the Dan Ryan. Keep in the local lanes, since their exit was at 22nd Street.

The two men didn’t talk too much during the car rides. I remember Norm read from a huge book he brought along, while Dad navigated the side streets. “I don’t think that old guy ever sold one newspaper,” Norm remarked, watching an elderly gentleman standing in the middle of 87th and State, holding a stack of Chicago Tribune newspapers in one arm — the Sun Times in the other.

“Hmm,” Dad replied, looking from the paper vendor and eyes back on the road.

That was about the extent of their morning conversations.

Norm was pretty hip, though. Cooler than Dad — or so I thought at the callow age of 18. For music on our car rides, Dad chose classical music on WFMT radio, which I found quite dull. One morning I tried listening to WLS — Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger was playing. Except Dad promptly turned the dial back to his favorite channel.

“Howard, what are you doing?” Norm cried, winking back at me in the back seat. “That’s the number one song this summer!”

“Achh!” Dad replied. The radio stayed tuned to Dad’s favorite station.

And that was the gist of our morning drives.

Eventually, I reached the end of my short stint at my downtown job. That night I indulged one too many times in plates of brie and crackers being passed throughout the office party room. Glasses of champagne were available. LOTS of champagne.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know how to say No to the cocktails. The next morning, as I joined Dad and Norm in our daily carpool, Dad warned Norm. “Don’t mind Heidi this morning. She’s a little off her game since last night.” I simply groaned in the backseat, as it seemed Dad hit every pothole on the way in. Norm chuckled at my plight. “Next time invite us along,” he advised me with a grin.

I should stop for a minute and describe Norm. My dad was tall. Norm was even taller. I’d peg him at somewhere near six foot, four inches. Imagine a cross between Tom Selleck and Hal Linden. I’m sure you can picture it. Yessiree, the females took notice when Norm walked into a room. I was no exception.

Norm was a great friend to Dad. They worked together, joked together and drank together. It was Norm who convinced Dad he wasn’t crazy when my father announced he wanted to purchase a 1939 Mack fire truck.

“Howard, you need that fire truck,” Norm counseled him.

“Dorothy will wring my neck if I come home with a fire engine,” Dad returned.

“C’mon,” Norm urged, grabbing his keys off the bar. “I’m drivin’.”

The next afternoon, Dad drove home his fire truck, with Norm in the co-pilot seat, working the siren button on the truck’s floorboard. They were a sight to behold, as my younger brother and I watched, dumbfounded, as the two of them drove down our street in Dad’s newest purchase. Siren blaring, neighbors staring. Dad and Norm happy as a couple of eight-year-old boys.

Norm was a generous soul. So generous, that he and another buddy managed to drop off a 12-foot replica of the Eiffel Tower in our backyard. They didn’t ask for permission, since the donation came about about 1:30 in the morning. The two had been out and about when they “found” the metal tower and were certain that it belonged in Dad’s backyard. This time, free flowing beer may have been involved.

Mom found the statute the next morning, when she came down at 6:00 AM to make the morning coffee. There the giant statute sat, in the middle of our yard, bold as could be. “Howard!” she called upstairs. “I think someone left a package for you.”

Dad couldn’t be more tickled. So much so, he kept the Eiffel Tower right where it was and went so far as to wrap it in colorful Christmas lights in December. It made a for a festive beacon in the winter season.

Eventually, Dad retired from Donnelley’s, and their carpooling days ended. He and Norm managed to continue their friendship outside of work, even going so far as to buy a boat together so they could enjoy the waters of Lake Michigan.

Several years later, Donnelley’s shut down its Chicago operations. Norm (and hundreds of others) were left without jobs. Norm was struck hard, since he had a family to support: a wife, son and two daughters. He took a bold step and changed careers. He went back to school and earned his realtor’s license, and foraged a successful path for himself.

I was one of the lucky ones to call Norm my realtor. When the time came for me to find a new home for myself and my six-year-old daughter, I called on Norm. It was an honor to have him escort me through different homes, as he was patient and took the time to determine my housing needs: good schools, close to transportation, parks, shopping.

There was a particular condo he showed me that still sticks out in my mind, 20 years later. My daughter and I met Norm at a residential building, where he brought the keys to the condo unit for sale. We entered the front door of the home and stepped from the foyer into the living room.

Across the length of one entire wall was a mural. This wasn’t a run-of-the-mill painting of a bucolic country scene. Instead, it was a full blown rendering of the owner, as she lay completely naked on a fur throw. I can definitely say the woman wasn’t the least bit modest. And the fur throw did nothing to shield certain images.

Out of the three of us standing in that steamy room, I wasn’t sure which one of us felt most uncomfortable. It was rather strange, standing there with my father’s handsome friend, along with my young daughter.

Norm was the first to blush. “Umm, let’s check out the kitchen area,” he suggested, as he walked away. “I’m outta here,” my daughter announced, and she followed Norm into the kitchen. I took one more glance at the womanly figure before me. The artist didn’t miss a thing. Not a single thing.

I turned and joined the others in the kitchen, where I found Norm and my daughter opening and closing cabinets, turning on and off the faucets and even discussing the finer details of upgrading to granite countertops.

It is now 20 years later. Unfortunately, my mother called with the sad news this week: Norm had passed away. I was struck dumb when I heard the news about a vibrant, hardworking and caring individual. It was as if a final chapter had closed. First my dad. Now Norm. Two friends together once more.

There are so many ways in which to describe this wonderful person. Handsome, funny, intelligent.

Practical joker. Boater. Proud Union member. Family man.

These are my stories of Norm. Friend to my dad. My family. And myself. My family will never forget him.

Thanks Norm. Rest in peace. And say hello to Dad for me.

Thank you for reading – PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST

OVERHEARD IN CHICAGO

Me:  “I’m not sure how I feel about taking a “girls only” trip.”

My Daughter: “It’s not like anyone’s asking you to, Mom.”

GIRLS’ WEEKEND IN ATLANTIC CITY

I first mentioned my friend Anita (a/k/a The Goddess) a couple weeks back in an earlier post. Anita is my go-to, my mentor, my friend, my partner in crime. Although we come from different cultures, we became fast friends. As a matter of fact, our differences intrigued us, since at times we made assumptions about one another. We had alternating religious views, our own unique foods at holiday celebrations, different outlooks on life. Heck, we even had vastly different hair but still managed to share hairstyling tips with each other.

But for all our differences, Anita and I also knew how to have fun together.  In other words, if she came up with an idea, I was immediately on board.

And that’s exactly how it all started, back when we worked together at Winston & Strawn, the oldest Chicago law firm.  We were both secretaries, working for litigators.  That meant busy days and overtime into the late evening hours.  Heck, a few times we pulled all-nighters in order to meet court deadlines. 

When it was all said and done, though, we enjoyed the work.  As well as the overtime pay.  Some weeks we worked so many overtime hours, our payroll department was obligated to give us two checks on payday.  It was those extra dollars in our pockets that led Anita and me to consider a mini vacation for ourselves.  A treat for all the hard work we’d been putting in through the winter months.  April was just around the corner, and thoughts of spring entered our minds. 

“There’s an ad here in The Defender for a coach bus trip to Atlantic City for the weekend,” Anita mentioned, as she perused her daily newspaper at her desk. “If I go, do you wanna come with me?”

“Sure, I will,” my 21-year-old self said, all too eagerly.  After all, what was there to think about?  Mention a road trip, and I jumped at the opportunity.  “Um, where exactly is Atlantic City?” I naïvely asked.

“Hmm, I’m not sure myself,” Anita admitted.  “Let’s look it up in the law library.  They have an Atlas map there.”

Always willing, I followed my friend down the corridor of our law firm. As always, men’s eyes followed her down the hall, since she has as many curves as Lake Shore Drive. I still didn’t know why she hung around with me. For one thing, she was eight years older than I and clearly more mature. Plus, for the life of me, I couldn’t compare with her engaging beauty. Everywhere we went, people stopped to catch a glimpse of her – yes, she is that striking.

We stopped at the law library’s reference desk. “Excuse me, José,” Anita said softly, her eyes tender and innocent. “We need to take a peek at your Atlas.”

José’s own eyes lit up at the sight of Anita before him. “Sure, here you go,” he grinned. “Anything else I can do for you today?” he suggested, as he handed the catalog to her.

He held it tighter as she tried to take the book from her hands.  “C’mon, now, let go,” she giggled.  Jose’s smile great broader as he flirted with Anita, while I stood watching, mentally shaking my head.  How does she do it?

The next Friday evening my father drove me to Anita’s apartment; we were picking her up before heading to Goldblatt’s parking lot, where we were scheduled to board the charter bus to take us on an overnight trip to Atlantic City. 

“Thanks for driving, Mr. Van Howe,” Anita said kindly, as she slid out of the front seat. 

My dad held the door for her as she alighted.  “Please, it’s Howard,” he insisted.  As I struggled removing my own heavy bag from the back seat, Dad went on to lift Anita’s luggage from the car trunk.  Anita stood by sweetly, allowing him to do the gentlemanly thing.  If my father had worn a hat that night, I think he would have tipped it at her.

“Bye, Dad,” I called back, as Anita and I headed toward the bus.  The coach was already half loaded with suitcases.  Scores of passengers milled about, wishing good-byes to family and friends.  Their excitement was contagious, as I grew more thrilled about getting away for a fun-filled weekend with my good friend. 

Dad stood at his car, watching us as we waited our turn to board the bus. I turned around once more to give him a wave. “Bye, Dad!” I called over to him. Dad, standing taller than most folks, cupped his hands around his mouth, getting ready to shout to me from across the parking lot.

“Don’t get pregnant!” he bellowed, before ducking back into his vehicle.

I stood there, suitcase in hand, mouth wide open, and was at a loss for words. Anita chuckled, while several others in line peered over at me to see what all the fuss was about.

Thanks, Dad.

Finally, we were inside the crowded bus, bumping into others’ luggage, impatiently waiting for the standing passengers while they debated over the best seats. As quick as she could, Anita squeezed past others in order to snag a pair of empty seats toward the rear of the bus, so we could sit together. I scooted in first, leaving her the aisle seat. Our bags stored securely overhead, we settled in for our adventure, talking excitedly with other passengers, until we heard our tour leader’s voice on the overhead.

“Thank you, thank you everyone,” he announced, as he waited for us to settle in.

He held the driver’s microphone, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “I want to thank you all for joining us on a fun-filled weekend trip to beautiful Atlantic City, New Jersey!” We clapped politely, waiting to hear more.

“We promise you all a weekend to remember. Atlantic City has everything: casinos, nightclubs, the ocean-side boardwalk,” he went on. “In a few minutes I’ll pass out $10 in casino chips to everyone on board.” A small cheer came up from the crowd. “That’s right, these chips I’m about to hand out are part of your get-away package.”

We clapped again, encouraging him. “Finally, let’s all give a huge thank you to Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Pettigrew for making tonight’s on-board refreshments,” he went on. “Can we give them all a big hand?” He motioned toward two petite women in the front seats. The two ladies stood up, each wearing a wool coat with matching hat, complete with hatpins. They turned, smiling and nodding, while we passengers politely clapped a third time, showing our appreciation for our gracious hosts.

“Anita, what kind of trip are we going on, anyway?” I whispered. 

“Knock it off, girl,” Anita whispered, elbowing my side. She clapped louder and gave a whistle for the two refreshment hostesses.

We heard the start of the engine and the driver shut the front door. We smiled at one another, as he cleared the parking lot and headed down 87^th Street toward the Dan Ryan Expressway, toward the east coast. The ocean. Our weekend away.

The mood on our bus was lively, as folks happily chatted in anticipation of our destination.  Anita and I talked together, imaging what our hotel room would look like, the sights we’d see in Atlantic City, and the fun we’d have.  Things were going smoothly for the next 30 minutes or so, while the bus headed out of the city, heading east to head down Interstate 80. 

Suddenly, a strong voice broke above the general din of the passengers. “Well, I’m all about believin’ everyone’s the same!”

It was a male voice which popped out from the darkened vehicle. Anita and I looked at one another, wondering what that was all about.

“Yep, I’m all for love one another and don’t believe we’re different,” the vehement voice continued.

This time there was no mistaking where it came from – directly across the aisle from Anita. Anita nudged my arm, wanting to break the tension. “What did you bring to wear Saturday night?” she asked me.

“Um, my blue silk dress,” I answered.  Except I spoke quietly, because my heart had starting beating quicker.  I didn’t know what more to say.  That is, I wasn’t sure what to do.  In an instant, I felt cornered in my uncomfortable seat wedged next to the window. 

But this man was not to be ignored. “You ask me, everyone’s got a right to be here,” he said louder than before. Several others on the bus turned around, looking at him, then Anita, before resting their eyes on me. “You see, I’m just fine with that,” he ranted.

“Girl, we’ll just overlook him,” Anita advised. She opened a magazine and started flipping through the pages, browsing for anything to turn her attention to milder attractions. I reached down into my carry-on and pulled out a novel I had picked up from the library. I flipped on the overhead reading lights for the two of us, so we could better see our reading material.

Unfortunately, the fella across from us wasn’t satisfied and clearly wanted our attention. “Ebony and ivory, “ he started singing. “Live together in perfect harmony,” he sang, taunting us for a reaction.

I was getting nervous. Who was this guy? He was big, for one. And sitting way too close to us for comfort. Plus, Anita and I had nowhere else to go, as we were packed into a small bus, that barely accommodated 45 passengers. And from the looks of it, the seats were booked full. There were no other open seats that could accommodate us.

“Side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don’t weeeeeeeee?” he went on. “Yep, I’m cool with whatever’s goin’ on in this here bus.”

I sat back in my seat, hoping to make myself smaller. I realized my body had tensed during the episode. I flipped through my book, quickly scanning the pages, but not truly reading. I was uneasy but wasn’t sure of how to handle the situation. Did I need to say something to him? I couldn’t think of anything that would appease him. I certainly couldn’t walk away at that point. We were on an interstate in Indiana, and any escape was futile.

At that point Anita had had enough of it.  Her face went solemn – a rare thing, but when it happened, you’d better stay out of her way.  She leaned over towards my left ear.  I could feel her long hair brush my neck.  “Let me take care of this fella,” she whispered. 

Anita turned toward the gentleman. She crossed her legs and turned her torso toward him, folding her arms in front of her. “You wanna say something to me?” she challenged the provocateur.

Her expression said it all – Anita meant business. She gave it right back to him, daring the fella to go on with his rhetoric.

Except he avoided her gaze. Instead, he stopped singing and simply stared forward at the seat in front of him. As if nothing ever happened. Anita watched him another half minute, waiting to see if he was going to continue his taunting.

I gripped the edges of my worn book, rubbing my thumb along the spine, I could feel the soft threads of the binding. My eyes darted to Anita, who wasn’t giving in, and back toward the window, worried that the bus wasn’t going stop for several more hours.

I’m not sure if it was Anita’s stance, or perhaps the wiseguy’s wife, who sat next to him and possibly gave him a hard side jab. But that guy shut up just as quick as he started. He settled into his seat more, and I caught a side glimpse of him, and saw his hands relax, while his fingers played with the edge of the arm rest.

Anita unfolded her arms and turned back toward me. She leaned back, resting her head against the pillow-top headrest. She slowly closed and opened her eyes, giving me a reassuring gaze. It was the smile from my friend that I was now long familiar with. I felt safe. Reassured.

I gave her a small smile back, and she went back to her magazine. I turned to the right, gazing out the bus window. The evening was dark, without much light from the summer moon. I watched the car taillights, as they sped along the highway alongside us. The bus engine made a steady hum and I could feel the vibrations of the vehicle, its wheels steadily rolling toward our destination.

The soft din of other passengers continued, as I heard muted conversations, a couple laughs, a cough from a few rows back, and the sound of the crisp pages of Anita’s magazine, as she used her index finger to swipe through the pages, searching for an interesting article.

I settled deeper into my seat and pulled my denim jacket over my chest for warmth. Our bags were packed with our favorite dresses for that Saturday night. We each had our $10 worth of red chips for gambling in the casinos.

So there it was — me and my friend, Anita. The two of us were on our way to Atlantic City.

Different.  But still together. 

“I TOOK A QUIZ the other day,” my friend Anita commented, as we sat at our favorite bar, each of us lost in our own thoughts.  When she spoke, her intrinsic low voice always made me smile.  I was slowly swirling the mini plastic skewer in my drink, while Anita mindlessly folded her paper cocktail napkin, making tiny accordion folds. 

We had met after work that autumn evening, catching up after not seeing each other for well over a year. The time and separation didn’t matter.  We picked right back up where we left off.  It was as though we were still co-workers, from years back when we worked side by side five days a week, churning out the work as legal assistants.  

We sat together each enjoying our drinks, listening to the small jazz ensemble, provided with no cover charge at the downtown bar we haunted years earlier.  Tonight, we chose it again for old times’ sake – that and for its proximity between our workplaces.  The prices were kept low, leading to a tavern with poor lighting and mediocre booze.  The grunge was authentic – brought on by years of neglect, with a steady patronage of drinkers who appreciated its understated qualities, which included attentive barkeepers and cheap drinks. 

Anita and I didn’t mind one bit.  At least the restrooms were kept clean, and we were always guaranteed there’d be available seating.  That was all we needed.

“A quiz?” I repeated back to my pal, watching her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles of liquor at the bar.  “Tell me,” I begged. “What was that all about?”

She turned towards me, and I saw what I always knew:  Anita added class to the joint.  Her classic curves lent beauty to the otherwise worn-out establishment.  The place had been a fine lounge at one time, evidenced by its corner banquettes covered in worn midnight-blue velvet, while the small wooden stage in the corner was decorated with the names of musicians from years past, as they autographed the walls with their names, eventually covering other old, faded signatures. 

Still, it remained a place where we liked to meet for a drink after work, especially since the bartender, Spiro, kept an eye on us, ensuring we were never hassled by overzealous patrons.  Of course, Spiro’s manly physique wasn’t lost on the two of us either.  The proverbial tall, dark and handsome gentleman appeared in both my and Anita’s daydreams more than once. 

All that, and as a pro, our barkeeper knew exactly when to make a joke, when to mind his own business, and when to replenish our glasses.  What’s not to love?

I looked around the room, and saw the usual favorable glances from gentlemen, as they admired my friend next to me.  Always, always, always, Anita stole the show, her dancer’s legs seductively crossed as she leaned back into the bar stool.  Still, she paused before answering my question. 

“So, go on,” I goaded her.  “I’d like to hear this.”  I tipped my glass to my lips, draining the last of its contents. 

Anita picked up her drink and carelessly shrugged.  “Well” she began. “The quiz was titled called ‘Ten Ways to Tell If You’re a Goddess.”   Letting out a coy sigh, she shrugged her shoulders and used one hand to flip her long hair back behind her shoulders.  She looked around the room, scanning to see if any new faces had arrived, while also waiting for my reaction.

“A goddess?” I said with a small laugh.  “Go on, I want to hear this,” I urged, as I kept one eye on Spiro, watching him carefully squeeze cut limes into two tall glasses of tonic water. 

“Well, it turns out that I checked all ten items,”  Anita went on, matter-of-factly.  She shrugged her shoulders, hesitating continuing.  “So,” she paused, “I guess that makes me a goddess.”  

As she admitted this, her lips curved upward, growing into a smug smile.  A modest blush shown in her cheeks. 

My friend’s smile grew, evidencing her self satisfaction. She let her eyes move around the lounge area, taking in the old memories we had of the place.  It was clear she was pleased with the results of the game. 

Heck, she had every right to be.

I immediately chuckled, something I did often while in her presence.  “Yep, I’ll grant you that one,” I answered her, nodding my head in agreement.   

Looking back at my long-time chum, I admired her self-confidence, style and charm.  As always, she looked irresistible, her allure never fading.  Besides the glamorous exterior, though, was a woman who was genuine. 

She’s devoted to her family, her work, and her passion for dance.  Anita always remained truthful with me, telling me exactly what I needed to hear – whether I liked it or not.  Years before, we worked together and vacationed together, She stood up as my maid of honor for my first wedding. She was always there for me, letting me lean on her shoulder if need be.

She’s a stunning gem -- inside and out. 

I looked my companion straight in the eye then.  I needed to let her know exactly what I thought.  “You know very well you didn’t need to take some silly magazine survey to tell you you’re a goddess,” I started.  “You see, Anita, I’ve known that about you all along.”

I tipped my glass to hers in mid-air, offering a toast to my long-time friend.  Our glasses kissed one another, signaling an understood commemoration between the two of us. 

We each emptied our glasses, as we enjoyed the scene before up. Our handsome bartender was putting the finishing touches on a couple of martinis.  His professional fingers quickly twisted the lemon peels into curls before placing one on each glass.  He picked them up by their stems and set them down before me and my friend.

“These are compliments of the gentleman at the other end,” Spiro winked, tipping his head toward the left.  

Anita and I both paused, caught off guard by the unexpected drinks.  Then, in unison, we reached for the cocktails and raised our glasses in the direction of the generous patron.  The kind stranger tipped his glass back toward the two of us, as we smiled our practiced feminine smiles, demonstrating our appreciation. 

Suddenly, we felt a burst of fresh air rush in, uncharacteristically upsetting the mustiness of our favorite watering hole.  Looking toward the front door, we each took a sip of our fresh martinis, watching as a small group of eager hipsters entered the lounge, their eyes eagerly taking in the genuine, no-frills aura of our saloon.

In search of their own festive libations.  

Celebrating their own friendships. 

Or possibly exposing and commandeering our authentic hideaway.

On a cool October evening. 

In Chicago.

THANK YOU FOR READING — PIZZA FOR BREAKFAST