A Beta Fish in the Tangerine Sea
The tangerine gelato is slowly melting in its cheap plastic container, with the liquid slightly frothing as I scrape my Italian shovel-spoon around the edges of the disappearing muted orange blob. As it bobs to and fro in its tangerine sea, a cacophony of street noises bursting in from my right: the clank-clank of street construction, the whirring of car engines idling at stop lights, and the myriad, varied sounds of human voices. I am half-covered by a restaurant awning; the shade draws a direct contrast between the dusty sunlight and heat that is taking such an interest in my orange dessert. To my left, stately oaks draw a carpet of darkness over the apartments they watch over; a solitary bird sings, yet a rare silence encloses this area.
This morning, I had a college open house at the University of Chicago at 9:00 am. In order to reach the campus from my brother's apartment and with my parents in tow, we needed to ride the train to downtown and from there take the Metro, which would directly put us on the University of Chicago campus. At 6:30 am, at a Brown-Line station, we were informed that Belmont, a station two stops ahead of us had a blackout and the Chicago Transit Authority (CTA) was unsure when the trains would be moving again. My father insisted on walking a mile to a Red-Line station, only realizing on our arrival that the Red-Line also ran through Belmont. When the first train finally arrived at 8:00 am, the train was packed to such an extent that the conductor was shoving passengers away from the door treads. We still managed to board the train; I had never been in such a crush with strangers pressed against each other, inhaling the same air, and yet showing such consideration toward each other.
There was an elderly man recently moved from Memphis who informed my mother that the trains did "bump and rattle so, it would be better if you held onto the pole," and offered her his spot at the pole to "ensure your safety, ma'am." A female Hispanic lawyer offered me a vacated seat and since my mother was firmly anchored to that pole, I took her offer. When she asked where we were going, and found out that we weren't sure where to get off, she promptly volunteered the correct station to disembark at. There was a wealth of humanity on that one car, a wealth of individuality impossible to describe, beyond trite terms of race and social class.
We barely reached the Metro in time; I sprinted toward the waiting train, my parents lagging behind, bickering about the CTA. After our college visit, my brother and I decided to visit a small, out-of-the-way Italian dessert shop.
I have as much time as this gelato and the heat will allow me, before returning with my brother to his apartment where my parents are most likely napping.
The gelato shop where this tangerine soup originated is my brother's favorite place to take people. Gabe calls the shop, "an Italian hole-in-the-wall," with its most outstanding feature, a list of all 43 types of gelato it carries, hung on the curtained door. It is a narrow, empty restaurant, with five round tables covered in red checkered plastic tablecloths. It is a blaze of red, decorated with glass figurines, a large Italian flag covering a wall, and mirrors reflecting the colors. Sunlight pours in from a large window facing the street and bounces off the myriad mirrors.
The owner greets us, a thin, bronzed man, whose head bobbles on a thin neck.
"You been here before, yes?"
My brother answers, "O yes, this is my second time." He indicates me; "this is my sister."
"Ah, do you want the sorbet or the gelato?" He pronounces these terms with a reverence only capable to the ringing tones of the Italian tongue, and compounds the feeling by bringing the tips of his fingers of one hand together and then opening them up while his palm faces upward.
"Oh, we came for your famous gelato." My brother attempts to mimic his accent.
"Ah, yes, yes, yes. Now, listen closely." He waves us over to a small freezer filled with small plastic containers. "We are the only restaurant in all of America that imports gelato straight from Florence, Italia. Only the best." In a muted tone, he murmurs in Italian to the girl sitting behind the cash register and she answers in the same tones.
I opt for tangerine and my brother chooses pear out of all the assorted varieties. When we leave, we find the owner sitting outside at one of his tables, green plastic lawn chairs stacked neatly next to wilted umbrellas. He is fully in the sunlight and calls out, "You two have your Italian spoons?"
I take my first mouthful a full five steps from the restaurant.
When you try something new especially with food, what do you do? Do you gulp it down, savor it, let it dance on your tongue, grin like an idiot, dance a secret happy dance, or all of the above? When you try authentic, do you never settle for substitutions? Beta fish have a curious habit in their culinary preferences. If you raise them on pellets, they will eat pellets. Yet, once you expose those same pellet-eating fish to something more delectable, like a piece of fresh bloodworm, they refuse to eat pellets, even to the point of death. They are the food snobs of the animal world. Gelato, as I remember it, is not a glucose tolerance test. The tangerine is present throughout the entire first spoonful, but not overpowering, with the taste of milk and eggs spreading smoothly over my tongue. I look down and realize I still have 8 ounces of happiness to finish. This Florentine dessert is overwhelming creamy and the Italian shovel-spoons are sturdily made and don't bend in the slightest manner. I think to myself that unless I travel to Italy, I am never eating gelato anywhere else.
When we announced we were headed to the gelato shop, the first thing my mother said was "Is gelato fattening?" Now, as I look back on this comment, as the sun lights the dust that the workmen have stirred up into glowing particles, I feel like screaming, "Who the hell cares? I'm happy! Unless I'm 55 with blocked arteries, I shouldn't be controlled by such a thing as calories. I shouldn't feel guilty to have found an earth-bound heaven." A diet of denial and guilt brings happiness to no one. I hate them for sitting in that container of an apartment, not taking advantage of what Chicago offers and when they do leave, they complain about the people. I hate them for loving stability, for not taking a risk to try something for fear of an 8 oz. container.
About 2 months ago, they argued with my brother to not take a job as an assistant pastry chef at the Savoy in London, England, because he was the sous chef, (second in command) at his present job and he was making stable money. Trained in the Chicago Hospitality Institute as a pastry chef, Gabe works in the café at a tennis clinic. He knows that there is no future for him there; yet he is happy as a chef. He did not have enough money to travel to London to take up the job offer, yet he is saving up to take a risk to go to London anyway.
I am not saying they do not care about us, far from it. It is a different type of care, a type without risks, grounded in a concrete reality my brother and I cannot fathom yet. I believe that my parents would prefer my brother to have kept his first job at an insurance company, a cubicle job that had free life insurance. Yet, what do you experience in a mass produced container? We can create our own boxes; we ourselves can find our own limits. Let me taste without fear of coronary heart disease and let me love without fearing the world is too big. I wish to discover my own earth-bound heaven within agreeable limits.
Our gelatos finished, my brother and I put our containers in the nearest trash receptacle. I pocket the spoon, an insubstantial reminder, but a reminder nonetheless. We turn toward the shade-enclosed apartments and while I am still in limbo, I look back on the golden street. An Interpol song comes to mind.
Through the aging, the fear, and the strife?/ It's the thought that holds you upwards?/ I spent a lifespan with no cellmate/ A long way back/ Saying me why can't we look the other way? / Why can't we just play the other game?/ Why can't we just look the other way?
I want to look the other way forever.