Excerpt from Chapter XIV
Are You Pissing People Off?

I felt dragooned into accepting the offer to lunch, having been refused a loan at my bank and then having my tires slashed. I was a little paranoid, and not without good reason, so I put a small tape recorder in the top left pocket of my shirt to record and document the conversation. I jumped into the old hatchback, my reliable companion of many years. She was faded-brown, the new whitewalls I just bought gave her a smart though perplexing appearance and the door on the driver’s side not only didn’t completely shut but also hadn’t locked for the past two hundred thousand miles. However she still got thirty miles per gallon while blowing blue smoke as she rambled down the snow-packed highway. My chariot rolled up to the small pizzeria; I was proud and ready for action.

When I arrived, it was high noon and I was hungry. It was a rather quaint place with small tables covered with checkered tablecloths. In the middle of each table was an empty bottle of Chianti Classico with a lit candle in it. The wax was pouring down the sides in volcanic fashion. On one side of each bottle was a small peppershaker and on the other side was fresh-grated Parmesan cheese sitting in an open container.

The mixed aroma of pizza and the sawdust on the floor brought forth memories of days gone past. “O Sole Mio” was playing in the distance. On the TV was The Godfather with the sound muted.

I chose a table in the corner with a good view of the front door. I sat down with my back to the wall and watched patiently through the glass door. The light that filtered through the glass door began to darken as if an eclipse had blotted out the sun. A large, lugubrious figure, with arms folded and encircled by sunlight, stood at the portal. He grabbed the door handle and opened the door, and a long shadow was cast from his body onto the wall beside me.

As he approached the table his shadow diminished in size, but he grew taller and taller, until finally his six-foot-five-inch frame towered above me. His dark black greasy hair was parted on the left side and his face was unshaven. He wore a two-piece double-breasted suit that was immaculate. When he sat down, his eyes drifted back and forth as he glanced in both directions. We sized each other up and when he focused his beady little eyes forward our eyes met and we looked at each other for what seemed like an eternity. A moment became a lifetime and a lifetime became a moment. His eyes shifted away from mine and he looked down to the floor.

As he was about to speak I excused myself, allegedly to use the rest room, but I secretly turned on my recorder in the bathroom stall. I returned to the table and sat down facing him.

His voice was raspy and low. He was chewing a tough piece of meat and speaking at the same time, his jaw moving up and down like a jackhammer. He picked at his teeth with the fingernail of his right second digit, scratched his scruffy face with his left hand, and then stated that I needed to come clean about myself.

“Come clean about what?”

“About the house!”

“What about the house?”

“How you got it.”

“I bought it. Besides, it’s not a house. It’s a home.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Of course there is. You buy a house with money. A home is made with love. Anyway what business is it of yours or the medical staff?”

Suddenly my tape recorder clicked off and I excused myself to the restroom. The tape had jammed. When I returned, we started up the conversation again and he stated:

“Because they’re curious.”

“So?”

“Well, as I told you, rumors are circulating about you. People say you really aren’t who you say you are.”

“Really! Who do they think I am?”

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

“Well, you know who I am. I’ve lived here for eleven years. I’m well established. Everybody knows my credentials and my family. I guess I don’t understand the question.”

My tape recorder clicked off again. Damn machine. It was old and kept malfunctioning. I again excused myself to the restroom and returned promptly to finish the conversation.

“I think you do understand the question. You just need to come clean.” In unctuous but negative tones he said, “Look, just tell us where you got the money to buy that fancy house and we can move on. If you did something wrong, we’ll forgive you. If you inherited the money, we’ll understand.”

“I just work hard, that’s all. Good, old-fashioned, honest work.”

“Un huhhhhhhh.”

“You look like you don’t believe me.”

“I don’t.”

“Really! Look, I work my butt off. I go down to the county jail every Tuesday, work the drug alcohol unit daily, the abused women shelter twice a month, run the developmentally disabled house, and see their sick in my office. I do physicals on alcoholics for the halfway house and see twenty-five patients a day in my office. I also take calls for the emergency room. I save. I’m not a big spender. Do you think I’d do all of this if I were rich?”

“We all know that’s a ruse. You’re doing it to deflect from your true background. We’ve already figured it out. We just wanted to give you a chance to tell us the truth. First, you’re French. Also you’re Jewish. So you’re probably a Rothschild or married to one or at least even a distant cousin. Anyway, you should stand up at the next medical staff meeting and explain to everybody about your background and how you can afford such luxury. Next throw a big party with a fancy spread and invite the whole medical staff up so we can see your house.”

Snorting scornfully, I shook my head in numb astonishment and bellowed, “You’re kidding, of course.”

—Reprinted from Foam Reality by Bill Cornish by permission of Desert Bloom Press. Copyright © Bill Cornish, 2007. All rights reserved. This excerpt, or any parts thereof, may not be reproduced without permission.