I went to see my boxing trainer, to fetch the empty cake tray from the birthday gathering the night before; the night on which I got so motherless. I parked my bike at the back, where a guy was standing in the court yard; thick glasses, smoking a cigarette, waiting, I guess, for Godot.

My trainer lives on the first floor; the windows were wide open. It really had to make me think of LA, as I stood there, shouting up to the window for him to throw me the key, so I wouldn’t have to walk all the way around to the main entrance. But, he did not hear when I called his name, once, twice. I was being watched closely by four-eyes, who was curious about how I was going to solve it.  I eyed him playfully. “I guess I’ll have to sing then,” I announced. Then I really had his attention. I put down my things, and prepared my chest just like Liberacci, or whatever his name is. I took a deep breath, and started out on a slow baritone:  “Ooooooo, solo mio……!!” As my quavering voice filled the concrete courtyard the guy almost swallowed his cigarette. “Figaro Figaro Figaro !!!! Sono QUI!!!” I rumbled along, really getting into it. His eyes behind the thick spectacles were getting larger and larger. Whatever.

Later, after I’de played 3 matches of table billiards, and watched half a fight between La Tigra and some other heavy boxer chick in South America,  I came back downstairs with my pie tray, and the guy was still there, smoking a new cigarette. He wanted a date. I told him I only sing in public.

August 25, 2010.

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