The Evening News by Tony Ardizzone Page B

kick in your ass.” She’d wave her big spoon at me and wipe her hands on her apron when she’d say that. Now that I think, she’s told me that countless times.
    But neither my father nor my mother, nor my Uncle Karl, nor Marsha, for that matter, has anything to do with this story. This story will be about the rain. You should know that my father is no longer with us; he pulled the cord and got off this bus blocks ago. That my mother is a maker of soup. I dislike soup. That my uncle is my uncle. That Marsha is a writer. These are the facts.
    I’ll tell you this: this is lie. You be my judge. I’m writingthis to get into Marsha’s underpants. That’s the truth, my reader.
    Marsha is the kind of girl who likes—how shall I put it? Marsha likes the kind of boy who does things with seriousness, with direction, as she puts it, adding that the world already has more than its share of buffoons like me. Obviously, I disagree. Thaddeus Alexander Cooper III is no buffoon, and if you’d like to compare philosophies, Horatio, I’ll tell you now that mine is the one that best enables me to survive. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? I pound these drab green dormitory walls and argue; I make suggestive comments and pray that Marsha will understand. I quote to her the wisdom of my father: “If you wanted to be let off in front of your house, my pretty, why the hell didn’t you take a taxi?” I hope you, reader, can catch my drift. “I’m not here delivering pizzas,” I tell her. “Marsha, you’ll get only what I have to give.”
    Which isn’t pizza, seriousness, or direction, though I do badly want to direct something between her legs. I know what I know; I have what I need. I am the son of my father, the son of a bus driver, the son of fixed routes and scheduled stops. I have what I need.
    With the exception of the story that will save me. That my dead father failed to leave me, and I’ve looked for it in soup bowls and not found it. My uncle offers me only the back of his hand. And Marsha? Marsha claims to be saving herself.
    â€œFor what?” I ask.
    She shrugs. Her nipples brush against her blouse as she does this.
    â€œThe world could end tomorrow,” I tell her.
    She shakes her silly head.
    And I shake mine. These students, you realize, haven’t yet learned how to live. Sometimes they make me feel like a wolf in their midst. I’m not a student, you see. I attend no classes. I pay no tuition. I don’t have an I.D.
    Though you’ve seen me around. I’m the guy who holds up the line trying to explain how I left my I.D. in my other pants. I’m the guy who sits in the frantic cafeteria during finals week sipping water and doing double acrostics. I’m the guy leaning against the tree on the first day of spring. I smile. I nod. I wink as you walk by.
    You too shake your head.
    But Marsha didn’t the night I met her, though I can’t be entirely certain since it happened over the phone. I have a friend named Stuart who has a friend named Jo who was Marsha’s roommate until very recently, and I first heard from them that Marsha was a wonderful and beautiful girl.
    â€œIntroduce me,” I said.
    They said they would but didn’t. I realized they were a dead-end street. So I put my proverbial noodle in the sauce pan and waited one fine evening for Jo to leave the dormitory. Then I sauntered to the corner pay phone.
    â€œHello,” I said, “is Jo there?”
    Marsha said no and asked if there was a message. I liked her voice and carefully explained that I had an exam the following day and was calling to see if Jo could take me to the dormitory library. Admission required a resident I.D. Marsha repeated that Jo was out. I thanked her for the information. Then Marsha sighed and offered to take me to the library herself.
    â€œNo,” I said. “That would be too much to ask of