(Continued from Friday’s post…)
I was having dinner with George Nazi. He was trying to impress me with his shots of Don Julio; I was trying to impress him with my Sambuca with flames. The conversation took a turn for the worse. He was probing into my claim to have grown up on the South Side of Chicago. George had just met Marty, my buddy from 4th grade and, incidentally, still a Level 3 ops guy.
“Yeah, Marty’s Italian too,” cleverly I tried to change the topic. “How is that WDM upgrade between LA and San Fran going?”
George ignored the shop talk, “He said both of you are part Polish.”
“He’s half. I’m only a quarter.” I felt it necessary to explain.
“He introduced me to your friends Mark and Michelle.”
Not good, I thought. ”High school friends of mine. Did you see that new router that Cisco just rolled out?”
“Did they know Al Capone too?” George chuckled.
“I never said I met Big Al. I only said he drove through Chicago Heights, the town my parents grew up in.”
“Drove through?” George sarcastically clarified. ”I thought he vacationed with your parents.” I looked over my shoulder, hoping to see the waitress with the bill. No luck.
George continued his inquisition: “Michelle said she grew up in Flossmoor. She said she lived across the street from a country club.”
“Yeah. I caddied there. Often I schlepped four bags at a time.” This was true—though I only carried the four bags between the carport and the clubhouse. I switched gears, “How big did you say those rocks were that you threw at tanks?”
George ignored my question. ”Marty said you guys walked together to your 5th grade school. Was it dangerous?”
“It got better as we got older,” I replied, proud of the mis-direction.
“South Side of Chicago?” George yelped triumphantly. “The Baddest Part of Town?”
“Well, technically it was the south suburbs of Chicago.” I muttered.
“Marty described your neighborhood as a nice middle-class suburb. He said the only thing you guys did in the street was play kick-the-can.” Now George was practically shouting. ”Marty said you had a two car garage.”
“The garage was unattached,” I defended myself. “We didn’t even have an automatic garage door opener until I was in college.”
I lit my Sambuca. He swallowed his worm.
Congratulations George on the success you are having in your career.
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