Licalzi - Adding a little levity: essays to lighten a tough day

PRAISE FOR ADDING A LITTLE LEVITY

In todays world of uncertainty and weighty decisions, Adding A Little Levity, is the perfect bedtime read. A chapter a night will leave you smiling, as you drift off into a peaceful sleep. The problem isyoull be chuckling in your dreams.

Sally Fernandez, Author of the Max Ford Thriller Series.

I see a lot of wit bubbling away here and an eye for the farcical nightmare.

Arthur Plotnik, Best Selling Author of Spunk & Bite

Having a tough day? Adding a Little Levity is just what the doctor ordered. Bobs essays showcase his observational humor and dry wit about a kid from Queens and his escapades (and cringeworthy blunders) in corporate America and beyond. Sure to put a smile on your face and a spring in your step.

Erin Moran McCormick, Author, Year of Action

Copyright 2018 Robert J. Licalzi

Published by Blue Star Press

PO Box 5622, Bend, OR 97708

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieal system, without permission in writing from the publishers.

ISBN 978-1944515553

This book is dedicated to my wife, Diane, and my four children, Roberto, Diana, Daniela, and Carolina, whose laughter at some of the earlier essays spurred me on to compose a few more.

ROBERT J. LICALZI

ADDING A

LITTLE LEVITY

ESSAYS TO LIGHTEN A TOUGH DAY

CONTENTS

PREFACE

Make a person smile and you have done well; but make a person laugh out loud and you have achieved something. This book started as a single, light-hearted essay, Hotel California, which extracted a few spontaneous laughs, causing those who read it in public places to appear batty. After hearing that, how does one not continue? I recognized that real-life experiences and observations, leavened with a helping of hyperbole, often produce the most humorous results.

So, I wrote a few more essays. Not everyone thought they were funny, but enough people did, spurring me on to fill up this book. My goal is a modest one: to have every person, patient enough to read the entire book, experience, at least once, the enjoyment of unintentionally and heartily laughing out loud.

At home, my dad would always look for opportunities to keep things light, kidding, but never wounding all those around him. He had a special skill. He would defend his playful actions saying that he was trying to add a little levity to the situation, and unknowingly provided me with an easy choice for the title to this book. Hopefully, this collection of essays will do what its title promises.

-RJL

SECTION 1

EVERYTHING YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT GROWING UP IN QUEENS VILLAGE, NEW YORK, BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK.

Some people are born on third base and think they hit a triple. I was born in the bleachers and was thrilled I had snuck into the ballpark.

ADVENTURES IN DINING

I grew up in a family of modest means; my brother, sister, and I learned that nothing was to be wasted, particularly food. Even the hungriest dog would be disappointed looking for food scraps in our garbage. For us, leftovers was the name of a meal, no different from a bologna sandwich or a meatloaf (and we all fervently hoped the meat in the loaf was beef). We accepted that our low-priced chopped meat contained 35 percent fillerground bones, cartilage, knuckles generously seasoned with aged offal. It was the 65 percent labeled meat we feared.

I remember that by my early teenage years, the quality of our chopped meat improved, perhaps because my father received a salary increase. Although the meat portion was as mysterious as ever, and the percentage of filler was the same, it was now ground up more finely. After that, we chewed our meat with greater confidence, knowing that those more-than-occasional, pebble-sized, tooth-chipping, bone fragments were no longer lurking.

We had difficulty containing our excitement surrounding the semi-annual trip to a restaurant. We never knew precisely when this momentous occasion would occur, but my brother and I could deduce that it was a couple of weeks away when our meal portions at home were reduced by half. And when the half-portions were replaced by gruel, we knew it was just a matter of days.

Not wishing to waste his hard-earned money, my dad made sure we were sufficiently hungry so as to fully appreciate our dining-out experience. Because my mom and sister never finished their restaurant meals, and my father had a no-leftovers policy, my dad, brother, and I knew we would have to clean their plates as well. For my father, a doggy bag was not an option. As a matter of honor, we had to eat everything we ordered. He would no sooner skip out of the restaurant in a tutu with a tulip in his ear than he would walk out of there with a doggy bag. And besides, my dad would say, putting a finer point on it, We dont own a dog.

Finally, the day arrived. My brother and I were assisted by my mom and younger sister, weakened as we were by the previous period of undernourishment and unable to walk unaided. As we arrived at the restaurant, they helped us to the table, propping us up in our chairs, hoping we wouldnt embarrass them by tipping over. At this point, we followed to the letter, the restaurant routine set by our dad years before. Before any conversation commenced, the first order of business was to consume the entire bread basket. This was perfectly okay for my brother and me, given that we lacked a sufficient amount of stored glycogen to power the mouth and throat muscles required for speech.

Partway through appetizers, though, our ravenous appetites were unleashed. Our pallor was erased, and we gazed covetously at the plates of my mom and sister. Dad ordered a third basket of bread and another family-sized dish of vegetables. Appetizers finished, we were giddy with anticipation as we watched the generous main courses being served to tables around ours. At last, our meals arrived, and we were not disappointed. Huge chunks of fish or meat were accompanied by GMO-sized baked potatoes hidden beneath an improbable amount of butter and sour cream. With a predatory eye on my sisters plate, I told her that she couldnt finish her meal in ten sittings much less one. Dad ordered a fourth basket of bread. We dug in.

About three-quarters through my meal, common sense and a pronounced ache in my stomach told me Id had enough, but not willing to disappoint my dad, I dared not slow down. With the knowledge that I would also have to eat whatever my sister left, I stopped taunting her and instead began to encourage her to eat more. After a few more agonizing bites of my own, I resorted to begging. I offered to carry her book bag to school every day for two weeks.

Feeling like Joey Chestnut at hotdog number sixty, I finished what was left on my plate, my sisters plate, and the remaining rolls in the fourth bread basket. The ensuing state of gluttonous lassitude was not going to be eased by loosening a belt or unbuttoning a button or two. Involuntarily, conversation stopped, movement ceased, and even breathing abated as our brains shut down all bodily functions not directly related to the digestive challenge at hand. When my sister expressed a possible interest in ordering dessert, which she was unlikely to finish, I had just enough energy to whisper to her that such a decision would put her collection of stuffed animals in grave danger. She passed on dessert.