Dino Was A Liar

by Joe Zucchiatti

Salvatore was very excited. He was so excited, he knocked his hat off as he came through the door, and for the first time, I saw his gray and yellow comb-over unfurled. Jesus, it was grotesque. The hair on the left side of his head was trimmed short, but on the right side it hung a full ten inches long.

"All dees time, I go alla way downtown for a massadge. Now I find out I getta masadge joost down-a street."

Salvatore was a tightwad, but that didn’t stop him from periodically shelling out forty-five bucks to have a naked woman massage him. When he really felt like treating himself, he paid for extras.

He called me out to have a look at what he’d discovered. I wiped my hands on my apron and walked out from behind the counter. I was the sole employee working the night shift, but the pizzeria could live without me for a few minutes. The last customer had come in twenty minutes ago, and he sat there still, nursing the same cup of coffee, working on the newspaper. When he finished that paper, he’d pick up another, sipping the same cup of coffee. He came here every day. I wondered how he did it.

I picked up Sal’s hat as we walked out the door. He was too preoccupied to notice it was missing. He was at least forty years older than me, but in his fervor, I had a hard time keeping up to him. "I saw a sign," he beamed. "It say MASSADGE." I hadn’t seen him this excited since the Canucks played the Rangers in the Stanley Cup Finals. He was so zealous you’d have to look twice to pick him out of a line of Old Testament prophets. But his ridiculous haircut gave him away.

Salvatore was trembling. He presented the sign to me like it was the Lost City of Atlantis. It was a pink cardboard sign, about two feet by three feet, and with a black magic marker someone had scrawled the words "FULL-BODY MASSAGE".

"Jesus Christ, Salvatore, it’s a fucking hair salon."

"It say MASSADGE."

"Sal, they cut hair here. Look, there’s another sign that says they do manicures. They’re not going to give you the kind of massage you want."

"It say FULL-BODY MASSADGE!"

We argued about it on the way back to the restaurant, but he was convinced. This, alone among hair salons (and there were four on the block), not only cut hair, but also held a selection of glorified hookers who slipped out of their drawers and rubbed oil on a man’s body, massaging away his disappointments, refueling his dreams, prodding him into the promised land he’d imagined when he was still a boy. All this for a paltry forty-five bucks.

And you could always pay for extras.

He noticed his reflection in the window as we entered the pizzeria. I handed him his hat, and he retreated to the washroom to mat the strands of his fading vanity back into place. He reemerged, pate camouflaged, like a man fully in charge of his destiny. The pangs in his groin would soon be relieved. Now it was time to take care of the pangs in his stomach. He dialed the number of my boss, Pietro.

"Pietro, it’s me, Salvatore. You comma down soon? When? I’m hungry. I want to eat! Okay, bye."

He hung up the phone. Pietro would be down soon.

Salvatore didn’t work there, but he showed up for dinner almost every night. He and Pietro would go wild in the kitchen, preparing pasta, peppers and sausage, bread, grilled chicken, artichokes, and veal chops.

Oh, the veal chops!

I had been told I was supposed to be morally opposed to eating veal, that they tortured the poor calves and kept them in deplorable conditions, that to feast on one was to be all that was vile, evil and reprehensible in the world. Until I’d met Pietro though, I’d never encountered veal. Like when I was nineteen, someone asked me if I was anti-Semitic. I didn’t even know what a Jew was. And I’m still not sure. The people who were violently opposed to veal all ate chicken. I once worked at a chicken farm, and if you’d ever like to see deplorable conditions, the chicken farm is the place to go. Three chickens stuffed in each tiny cell, pecking the living Christ out of each other, shit on by those above them, shitting on those below. And beneath them all, the continuously rising stench of thirty years of chicken shit. When the job was completed, it took three days for the smell to leave my nostrils. We passed the hens in a relay line, three in each hand, from the cages to the truck that’d transport them to the slaughterhouse. One would occasionally get loose. She’d fall off the narrow plank that separated us from decades of manure. We’d watch her fall forty feet and then flat-out disappear in the ocean of feces, as if she’d never existed at all.

By the time they got to the slaughterhouse, they didn’t even look like chickens.

My first mouthful of veal had me groaning with pleasure. It was seasoned with salt and pepper, and had been swimming with a clove of garlic in a plateful of olive oil. It had been pan-fried, and cooked rare. It was unbelievably tender. Never had I imagined such communion between a piece of flesh and the way it was prepared. Pietro noticed me groaning. He grinned.

"You like it like that?"

I could not contain my pleasure. "This is absolutely fucking marvelous."

At that moment, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the baby cow had been raised in an outhouse and stung to death by bees. Morality, shit. You do what feels good at the time. If you worried about who you were exploiting or who you might offend, you’d never do anything at all. You couldn’t drink a cup of coffee, you couldn’t stare at a girl’s ass, you couldn’t brush your goddamned teeth.

While waiting for Pietro, Salvatore went out to his van and grabbed a bag of vegetables he’d picked from his greenhouse. Tomatoes, basil and garlic. People who buy tomatoes from grocery stores have no idea what they taste like. Fresh tomatoes, ripened naturally, taste as if they have the sun itself inside them somewhere. When transformed into Pietro’s spaghetti sauce, they were simply magical. It was a recipe stolen from the gods, passed on secretly through the eons. The ancient Romans had discovered it on a scorched piece of parchment, crumpled up in Icarus’ back pocket. Which explains why throughout history, there has never been a Greek who could cook spaghetti fit for a dog.

Whatever Christian deeds Pietro performed on earth, he would still go to Hell. You simply could not get into Heaven making sauce like that.

It was not long before Pietro showed up. The pleasantries were few.

"Same-a fuckin’ bullshit, Johnny."

Pietro poured himself a glass of wine, washed his hands, and got to work.

It was one of my favorite things in the world, watching Pietro prepare our dinner. He came to the restaurant each night looking defeated. Tired. Pudgy. Hair-plugs that didn’t even fool some of the people some of the time. Once he began cooking, though, he became what men are supposed to be. Kind. Brave. Magnificent. His nose would twitch like a bloodhound’s, as if he were forever chasing something, a flavor, somewhere in the air or in the shadows, and this flavor would speak to him, breathing magic into these simple foods. He sharpened his knives with the grace of the greatest Italian juggler. He sang, and his voice sounded finer and sweeter than the voices of Pavarotti, Lanza, Caruso. I joined him, and my voice was beautiful too. Our voices bounced off the walls and slipped into harmony, and we conjured up words to songs that I couldn’t remember ever hearing.

"If she’ll be-a, my cara mia, then I’ll join in matrimony with a girl who serves spumoni, and Angelina will be mine!"

To Salvatore, it sounded like a haunted house. He slipped out the front door with a pad and paper and wrote down the name and telephone number of the hair salon. He came back and told Pietro all that he’d seen, and all that he’d learned. Pietro was intrigued. "This I gotta see." He and Salvatore were turning to leave, but Pietro paused, looked straight at me, and in his dark, warm, rolling voice commanded, "Watch that fucking sauce. Make sure it doesn’t stick. If you put anything else in there, I’ll kill you."

I was honored. Pietro had never before trusted me with his sauce.

I am one-quarter Italian. My gene pool is polluted with the blood of Scots and Micks, but I’m a Dago nonetheless. Pietro had realized this when he saw my name at the top of my resume, and for this reason I had been hired. He quickly realized that something was amiss. I couldn’t speak Italian. I couldn’t peel roasted peppers. I had asked if Mario Lanza was still alive. "What kind of an Italian are you?" he would admonish.

"A watered down one."

Pietro would pause in thought, and his voice would deepen. "That’s okay. You can still learn."

I would not fuck up this sauce.

It was simmering on the stove in a frying pan. I had learned from Pietro that you didn’t stir this sauce with a spoon like it was wet cement. You grabbed the pan by the handle, and rocked it back and forth, so that the sauce performed somersaults, essentially stirring itself. Our shortage of customers allowed me to watch the sauce like a hawk

When Pietro and Salvatore returned, the olive oil was just separating from the tomatoes and garlic, rising to the top, forming a luminous, golden layer.

Pietro made a beeline for the sauce. He grabbed the pan by the handle and shook it gently. Then he brought his nostrils within a foot of the pan and inhaled deeply. With two fingers, he scooped up some sauce from the pan, and brought his fingers to his mouth. He looked at me and nodded. No words were necessary. The echoes in my blood were getting louder.

Pietro thought Salvatore was out of his mind, that there was no way in Hell there was a naked woman inside that hair salon who’d give Salvatore a rubdown. Not to mention extras. But he didn’t exactly discourage him, for he too wanted to find out. After all, he had also been going all the way downtown. About a month after he hired me, he had felt the call. He came back to the pizzeria looking relaxed and refreshed. I asked him what exactly went on at those massage parlors. "They give you a nice massage." He grinned.

"Boom Boom?" I asked.

"Johnny! They charge you an arm and a leg for that."

While Pietro put the water on to boil for the pasta, Salvatore came to me with the telephone number. "Johnny," he said, "you phone-a for me."

"I don’t think so."

"Joost say, ‘Hello, this is Johnny from Pietro Pizza Place."

Pietro pointed a giant cooking fork at my throat. "You leave my good name outta this!"

"An’ joost ask what kind massadge I’m-a gonna get."

"Sorry, Sal."

"Compatriota, for me. Please. Your friend, Salvatore, who make-a pesto for you."

Italian guilt. If a guy had cooked for you, and put his heart and soul into the meal, you were indebted forever.

But I couldn’t do it. There are certain things a man’s got to do for himself. Besides, what if it didn’t work out? What if Salvatore parted with his money and didn’t see an inch of female flesh? I would not be held responsible.

"Compatriota, you’re on your own."

He was disappointed, but he understood. And he would not be deterred. He picked up the phone and dialed.

"Hallo. This is Salvatore from Pietro Pizza Place."

Pietro started yelling in Italian.

"Pietro Pizza Place, joost down-a street. I wanna make appointment for massadge…Wait! I wanna know, what kind massadge I’m gonna get? Full-body massadge. How much?"

He’d heard enough. He made the appointment for Thursday, two days from now, at 5:30 p.m.

"She say full-body massadge. Forty-five bucks."

Soon we sat down to eat. It was unbelievable. Pietro glanced up at me and smiled. "You fuckin’ asshole, you never had it so good."

I was emaciated when I started working there, but I’d since put on weight. I hadn’t eaten so well since I left home.

We sat with full bellies, and Dean Martin’s smoky voice poured out of the sound system. It took us back to another time, before the sexual revolution and the rise of feminism. Back to when women wore skirts, and a guy could stare at a broad’s legs without being sentenced to six weeks in a sensitivity training course. Back, before the infernal sports bra had transformed all womanhood into gangs of schoolboys smuggling frogs into the classroom under their T-shirts. It was an era that Pietro barely remembered and that I had only imagined. Only Salvatore, who had lived through it, was unaffected.

For him, this was no time for nostalgia. When it was only good for pissing, he would reminisce. In the meantime, he had itches to scratch, hooters to squeeze, urges to satisfy.

As I did the supper dishes, Pietro and Salvatore left me to close the restaurant by myself. Business was bad. We were closing early again. But both the boys were excited as they left. The lewd anticipation of his impending massage had knocked ten years off Salvatore’s age. He told us, "I am strong. Like a bull. I can go all night."

Pietro’s anticipation was of another sort. He was tired, as he said, of the same fuckin’ bullshit. He welcomed any action, any newness that might break the monotony of running a dying pizzeria. It was why he fed Salvatore every night. He told me once, "Salvatore’s a funny duck. But I’ve got to hand it to him. He keeps things interesting."

"Ciao, boys."

"Ciao, Johnny"

"Ciao."

I loved mopping the floor of that place. The tiles got extremely slippery. If I had a running start, I could slide across the entire seating area by keeping the wet mop just ahead of my shoes. I’d learned to do tricks—360-degree turns, one-foot glides, even some Bruce Lee karate shit. Tonight, there were some girls who stopped to watch. Beautiful girls, and they were laughing and applauding. I did all of my tricks, and added some new ones that I could never repeat. The beautiful girls were screaming for me. I was Buster Keaton, I was Wayne Gretzky, I was Pinocchio—a real live boy at last!

They were gone by the time I finished cleaning the restaurant.

Pietro was right. Every day, the same fuckin’ bullshit. I needed some adventure, something that would distinguish one day from the next. Maybe I could sneak downtown for a massage. Forty-five bucks.

I made seven dollars an hour. After taxes, it took me close to eight hours to earn forty-five bucks. Imagine—working a whole day to pay a naked woman to be nice to you for twenty minutes. Not including extras. I’d feel like an idiot, and that wouldn’t be any different from the way I usually felt. It wouldn’t be much of an adventure after all.

I couldn’t bring myself to go home just yet. There was no chance of anything happening there besides me sitting in my shorts alone, staring at the walls. Besides, it was Tuesday. The neighbors would be at it tonight. Every second night since they moved in two months ago, I’d heard them doing the deed. Previous neighbors had played electric guitars, held parties, probably even screwed. I never heard a peep. These people were loud, the woman especially. She sounded like she was being drawn and quartered the way she carried on. I hoped the guy wore earplugs. At first, I’d found it kind of exciting, but the novelty wore off quickly. Nothing makes you lonelier than hearing other people riding the springs.

So I walked around, looking in the windows of restaurants and bars. There were people in there, having a good time, but I could tell at a glance that I didn’t belong. I kept walking. I was hoping, of course, that some bright-eyed girl would spot me looking in, recognize me for a sensitive and poetic soul, take me home and ride me like a rented mule. It wasn’t going to happen. I went home when I figured the neighbors had finished. I wondered what they did on their nights off.

Pathetic as it sounds, the only thing that got me out of bed the next morning was the thought of Salvatore and his massage. And it was still a day away. Some champion, that Salvatore, but he was keeping the dream alive for all of us.

Walking to work, I pictured Salvatore slapping down his forty-five bucks and getting his money’s worth and more. She’d give him extras for free, then she’d come to the pizzeria for dinner. Afterwards, she’d rub the three of us down with olive oil! What a guy, that Salvatore! Our buddy, who shares his tomatoes and good fortune with us!

Our hero was not so hopeful when he showed up at the restaurant. Sometime overnight, doubts had crept into his mind. After all, it was a hair salon. And he’d had to make an appointment two days in advance. His regular massage parlors worked on a first come, first serve basis.

He decided to phone again.

"Hallo, this is Salvatore from Pietro Pizza Place."

"Salvatore, you son a-ma beetch!" Pietro grabbed the cooking fork again.

"I wanna know—what kind massadge I’m gonna get?"

The answer had not changed. He hung up the phone and turned to me. "She say ‘full-body massadge.’ What does it mean?"

"Compatriota, I don’t know."

"Minga! Whose body? My body? Her body?"

Pietro and I had no idea. Salvatore asked me to phone and find out. "What am I supposed to ask? You want me to ask her if she’s going to take off her clothes and rub oil on your parts?"

The boys agreed. There was no tactful way to ask the question.

Salvatore outlined the standards he expected in a massage. "She give massadge to me—that’s good. I give massadge to her—that’s good. I sucka the teats." It was clear from the look on his face that that was something he’d enjoy. "Maybe…" He was making lewd hand gestures now—Salvatore would not be averse to paying extra for a handjob.

He’d worked himself into a froth. But he was still worried. As he devoured his dinner, he kept repeating the same question. "Full-body massadge. What does it mean?"

We wanted to answer him, but we couldn’t. It was the sound of one hand clapping, the smell of a frog’s fart, the color of a penguin’s testicles.

Only one man could find out what it meant. And he would have to wait until tomorrow.

I started work at three o’clock the next day. Salvatore was there already, pacing like a madman and muttering the same question, "What does it mean?" over and over again. He had gotten his haircut at a barbershop and was wearing a dress shirt that I’d never seen before. Between three and five o’clock, Salvatore made six trips to the hair salon, staring intently at the hand-written sign to see if there was something he’d missed. But the sign had not changed, and he had not missed a thing. The same black letters on the same pink cardboard said the same damned thing: "FULL-BODY MASSAGE". What did it mean?

Pietro arrived at five o’clock and was ready to eat. He poured himself a glass of wine, washed his hands, and was interrupted by Salvatore. "I gotta have my massadge first." Pietro groaned but let him have his way. Salvatore was too anxious to eat now. "And besides, maybe massadge give me appetite." He made some more lewd hand gestures and laughed.

But his laughter was uneasy. "Minga, forty-five bucks is a lot of money," he said. I knew he always kept about a grand wrapped in a rubber band in his front pocket, but he was right. Dropping forty-five bucks on a massage was one thing. Just wasting it was another.

The half-hour between five and five-thirty was tense and filled with questions. "You think I’m a get a nice massadge?"

"Why they charge same price if is no a sex massadge?"

"She say full-body massadge. WHAT DOES IT MEAN?"

As the minutes ticked by Salvatore got more and more panicky. He undid two buttons on his shirt and began talking to me in Italian, as if I’d understand him. He was hard enough to understand in English.

At five-thirty, he was still pacing. Pietro hollered at him. "Salvatore, you’re gonna be late." Salvatore went into the washroom, buttoned his shirt, and wet down his hair. He reemerged and stood before us as if for inspection. "Go get her, Compatriota," I said. He turned and rushed out the door.

Pietro and I were killing ourselves laughing. He looked like a teenager going to the prom instead of a senior citizen going to a hooker. Pietro was gasping. I thought he was going to choke.

We were still fighting for air when he returned. He stole past us and grabbed the telephone. We had the salon’s number beside the phone for easy reference.

"Hallo, this is Salvatore from Pietro Pizza Place."

Pietro was silent.

"I know I’m late. Leesten, what kind massadge I’m gonna get? …I know full-body massadge…What does it mean? …Nice, relax…Hmmmn…"

He finally blurted it out. "Is a sex massadge? …No? I no want." And he hung up the phone.

He had not worked up an appetite, but we ate anyway. The food didn’t taste as good tonight. It was fine, but the gods had not breathed their magic into the sauce. We ate without talking or laughing. And it started to rain.

It was soon time to close. The customers were few. We sold pizza by the slice, and there were two pizzas, freshly baked, that had not sold.

"I take-a one home," Salvatore said. I grabbed a box for him and placed the pizza inside. It was the least I could do.

The boys went home. There were no tricks and no screaming girls as I mopped the floor. Again, Dean Martin’s voice poured out of the speakers, but tonight his words seemed false. And I sensed that Dino knew that they were false, that he was just selling us dreams to keep us going until the next disappointment. Dino was a liar.

I found out later that Salvatore had taken the pizza to the woman who rented his basement. As they sat and ate the pizza together, he offered her a hundred bucks. For that $100, and the remaining pizza slices, she slipped out of her drawers and rode the old bugger topside until she damned near killed him.

I went home and listened to the neighbors. What the fuck—it was better than watching television.