(Originally published 12/17/16)
Witnessing
a dutiful son lovingly caring for his aging and ailing mother is often
uplifting, but it was not in this case. In fact, it was downright deflating,
even a bit creepy. You see, very, very, very old Mama was the embodiment of
mean—looked it, sounded it, and acted it. She scolded her septuagenarian son as
if he were a five-year-old. But this was all going down in 1997—not the Roaring
Twenties. Son Charlie, however, merited little sympathy and understanding
because he was an incredibly fussy, inconsiderate, and annoying man. Mother and
son were frequently spotted walking the streets arm-and-arm, with antiquated
Mama looking like she was a light pat away from crumbling into the dust from
whence she came.
Suffice it
to say, the entrepreneurial-minded Nick did not acclimate very well to the
diner milieu and its colorful cast of characters, which included bothersome
eccentrics like old Mama and her insufferable son. Charlie regularly ordered a
burger for his beloved mother sans the bun. Despite saving him a hamburger
roll, this request really got under Nick’s skin. But it was the three or four
French fries that Charlie wanted for his mother that irked him to no end. When
Charlie informed the diner's put-upon proprietor that old Mama could not eat a
regular order of fries, he did not say it nicely and, too, expected the
sparrow’s portion to be on the house.
Eventually,
the mere sight of the approaching Charlie and Mama sent Nick into spasms of
rage. They came to embody everything he hated about diner irregulars, if you
will. Nick desperately wanted his place to be a bona fide restaurant and not a
neighborhood greasy spoon. And Charlie and Mama with their bunless burgers and
three or four French fries just did not fit into his grand plan. Then one day,
Nick overheard Mama’s anything but dulcet century-old tones saying aloud, “He’s
not going to make it.” His body furiously shook, but the man uttered not a word
to them. Instead, he beamed hate—the genuine article—their way.
Come
Christmastime, I spied a row of cards taped atop the refrigerator accommodating
the Jell-O, rice pudding, and apple pie—from various food suppliers and even a
handful of customers, I supposed—even though Nick was the epitome of ineptness,
irascibility, and miserliness all rolled into one disagreeable package. The guy
had raised all the prices and reduced all the portions in one fell swoop. The
formerly considerable and otherworldly hamburgers of the previous ownership had
become McDonald's-sized, flavorless, and much pricier.
While I was
not about to send Nick a Christmas card, I nevertheless thought it would be
warm and fuzzy if he received one from his worst tormentors—Charlie and Mama.
And so, he did. The miracle—the Christmas miracle, actually—was that I was
present when the postman delivered the card, when Nick opened it, and when he
read it. I witnessed the expression on his face as he came upon the sender’s
names: “Charlie and Mama.” Nick expressed uncharacteristic glee, immediately
showing it to his staff. He just could not believe he had received this holiday
goodwill from such a sinister duo. I heard him repeat several times—to no one
in particular—these two words: “Charlie and Mama.” And, I can honestly say, he
had a big smile on his face the entire time.
I have
long believed that my being privy to the fruits of this endeavor was divine
intervention, or maybe it was because I often had breakfast there at around the
time the postman knocked. Still, I would rather believe that miracles do happen
on occasion. And, as things turned out, old Mama was prescient concerning
Nick’s fate. He did not make it.
(Photo
from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)
