Sam Nitzkowski
ENGC 3027 sec.8-Jewell
Graded paper #1: Due week #5 10/6/00
The Number
by Sam Nitzkowski
Scene I: Introduction
I was sitting with Doug Chini on
the porch of a restaurant in Florence, Italy on an autumn day at 4:30 in the
afternoon. Doug was my roommate at the hotel down the street. Our college had
put us up in the hotel for a week to allow us to find an apartment for the year.
"What are you hungry for?" I asked Doug as I skimmed the menu.
Doug looked up at me and said with
a slight hint of irony, "I think I’ll try the pizza." That was a
logical choice, I thought. After all, we had just arrived in Italy and were
anxious to taste "real" pizza.
While deciding what kind of pizza
I wanted, out of the corner of my eye I saw her. She was the only person working
at the time. God she was beautiful—tall, thin, and full figured. She detected
my gaze and approached us to take our order. After taking our order, she quickly
interrupted, "I’m sorry, we’re not serving food now, but you guys can
get drinks if you want."
"I’ll have a
Guinness," I said.
"And I’ll have a
Beck’s," Doug chimed in.
Then she disappeared behind the
bar. As she left, her perfume lingered in the air behind her. I could not
identify what it was, but it smelled good. When she came back with our drinks, I
said to her, "We’re both students here for the year. If I could have your
phone number, maybe we could go out and do something sometime."
Insulted, she quickly retorted,
"Italian girls aren’t like American girls. We don’t just give out our
phone numbers." Then she turned and marched back into the restaurant. While
her words rang in my ear, a determination to get a date with this girl built up
inside me. Feeling a little disappointed, I took a sip of my beer. It tasted
unusually acidic for Guinness, but then again, maybe that was due to my
depressed mood. Doug and I promptly finished our beers, paid and walked out.
Scene II: Café Decò
Two days later I returned
to the restaurant to get a drink. It was late evening, about 9:00. As I grabbed
a seat at the bar, I realized that the mysterious girl from the other day was
the bartender. I also recognized the smell of her perfume, barely
detectable amidst the cloud of cigarette smoke that hovered over the bar.
"Hi," I said smiling cheerfully.
"Oh," she sighed,
rolling her eyes, "it's you again."
I noticed a faint smile flash
across her face. That half smile encouraged me to initiate a conversation, so I
said casually, "At least you remembered me"; then in a more worried
tone, I continued, "Is that good or bad?"
She smirked and replied,
"It’s neither. I just have a good memory for faces."
"Do you work here a
lot?" I asked. This was a crucial point in our interaction. Either she
would answer the question, indicating an interest to
talk with me, or she would blow it off and go back to work. As I waited to see
if she would answer, I felt my heart drop to the pit of my stomach.
I must admit that I was somewhat
surprised when she went with the former, answering in a tone that was friendlier
than expected: "My family owns the restaurant, so I get stuck working a lot
to help out when it’s busy. In the fall, Florence is packed with tourists, so
I have to work about ten hours a day."
At that moment an impatient client
blurted out, "What the hell do I have to do to get a drink around
here?"
While she scurried off to the
other end of the bar, she murmured over her shoulder, "Be back in a
second." When she returned she said, "It’s really busy tonight; I
should probably get back to work."
Feeling a little defeated, I
asked, "Can I at least get your name?"
She smiled again and replied,
"My name is Anna"; then appearing slightly interested, she asked,
"What is your name?"
I said, full of confidence,
"My name is Sam."
"Well, Sam, I get off work
tomorrow at 10:00. If you want to do something, meet me here."
Delighted, I said, "Okay, see
you tomorrow." As I finished my drink, I patted myself on the back and
thought, "Well, you still don’t have her number, but at least you’ve
made some progress." As I returned to the hotel, I kept thinking about Anna
and wondering what we would do on our first "date."
Scene III: The Walk
The next day I returned to the
restaurant at 10:00 p.m. sharp to meet Anna. Upon seeing me enter, Anna rushed
over to me and whispered, "I’ll be done in a few minutes: wait for me
outside."
It seemed a little strange that
she wanted me to wait outside, but I said to myself, "You’ve got nothing
to lose; maybe she’ll take off while you’re standing outside like an idiot
by yourself, but at least you’ll know then if she’s sincerely
interested."
About ten minutes after I had
left, I saw Anna walk out. "Sorry to make you wait outside," she said.
"It’s just that I don’t want everyone to see that I’m leaving with a
guy. Then they’ll all give me a hard time about it tomorrow at work."
"Okay," I said not
really knowing what else to say. "What do you want to do?"
Anna, immediately revealing
herself to be fairly intelligent, replied, "Well, we don’t really know
each other that well. Why don’t we just go for a walk?"
That was better than nothing, so I
agreed and we started walking. As we walked, I slipped my hand into her hand. It
felt pleasantly warm and reassured me that Anna was happy to be in my company.
The night air was filled with the sound of traffic and the strange stench, which
by now I had gotten used to, which so distinguishes Florence from any other city
in Europe. While we walked Anna told me that her family owned not only the
restaurant but a hotel as well. She explained that she had gone to college for a
couple of years to study chemistry, but then she had felt obligated to help out
with the family businesses.
At the end of our walk, I asked
again, "Now that you know me, can I have your phone number?"
Somewhat alarmed, Anna asked me,
"Why do you want my number so bad? I’m always at work." Then
she said in a more friendly tone, "If you ever want to talk to me, just
come to the restaurant." She could see my disappointment and added,
"Look, I have to work for the rest of the week until close, but I get off
early on Saturday night. If you want, we can go out."
I quickly nodded, and she
continued, "Alright, meet me outside Decò at 10:00 Saturday night and
we’ll go out."
Having said this, she jumped on
her motorino and took off. Once again another encounter had come to an end, and
I still didn’t have a number. I did have another date to look forward to and
so, as I returned to the hotel. The only thing I could think of was our next
meeting and I thought to myself, "Good God, I hope she doesn’t want to go
on another walk Saturday."
Scene IV: Café Torino
By the time Saturday night had
rolled around, I had convinced myself that Anna wouldn’t make me go on
another walk with her, so I had taken the liberty to dress more for the club
scene that night. Again I waited outside Decò, and again at about ten
minutes after 10:00, I saw Anna walk out.
"Ciaò Anna," I said.
"Ciaò Sam," she
responded.
"What do you want to
do?" I asked.
"There’s this cool
disco-pub up the street; let's go hang out there," she replied.
That was fine with me, so we
walked up the street, away from piazza della Libertà for about fifteen minutes.
Then we stopped in front of building with the words "Café Torino"
written over the door. I looked around: just like Decò, the restaurant/bar that
Anna’s family owned, Café Torino had a patio area crowded with people. Inside
there was music, a dance floor, and tables around the perimeter of the main room
where people could sit down and sip cocktails. We walked in and sat at a table.
Being a gentleman, I asked,
"What do you want to drink?"
"I’ll have a Campari,"
Anna said coolly.
When a waitress came to take our
order, I said, "She’ll have a Campari soda, and I’ll have a martini
with Bombay Sapphire gin."
"Olives with the
martini?" the waitress asked.
"Yes," I said,
"I’ll take olives."
While we drank our cocktails, we
exchanged novelties of the week and talked more about what was going on in our
lives. It was a little difficult to hear each other over the loud music, but I
could tell that she was enjoying herself. Everything was going well. Even the
martini tasted unusually good. It had just the right amount of vermouth in it.
After we had each had a few drinks, I inquired, "What do you want to do
now?"
Anna said, "I don’t know;
this is getting kind of boring, though."
I tried to think quickly, and then
I got an idea. During the week, I had found an apartment; my roommate,
Christina, an Italian in her late twenties, was having a party at our apartment
that night. "My roommate is having a little party tonight. Do you want to
go there and see what’s going on?"
"Sure," Anna answered.
Having decided, we got on her motorino and headed for my apartment on the other
side of Florence. As I sat on the back of her scooter, our bodies pressed
together momentarily when she took off. The warmth of her touch shot through my
body, and it felt wonderful.
Scene V: Viale Redì 37
It was about a ten-minute ride to
my apartment. When we got there, everyone was hanging out and having drinks. It
seemed like a pretty nice party. We walked in, and I introduced Anna to
everyone.
"What did you guys do
tonight?" Christina asked us.
"We went to Café Torino,"
I said, "but that got old, so we decided to come back here and hang
out." Her little party had grown into a full-fledged bash. Loud music and
the smell of cigarette smoke filled the room, overwhelming my senses.
"Great!" Christina
exclaimed, "What do you want to drink?"
"We’ll just have some red
wine," I said. The question made me chuckle because I knew for a fact that
we didn’t have any other alcoholic drinks in the house. Although it was cheap,
the wine tasted surprisingly good, but then again, just about any wine tastes
good when it’s not contaminated with sulfites, like all of the wine sold in
the U.S.
"Do you want to dance?"
Anna asked.
"Sure," I yelled over
the music.
As we danced, our bodies pressed
together the same way that they had when we were on Anna’s scooter. We were so
close that I thought I could feel her heart beat.
"Are you glad that we came
here?" I asked her.
"Yes," She replied. Then
she added, "Now I know where you live."
"What do you think of the
apartment?" I asked her.
"Its pretty nice, not really
what I expected for a college student’s apartment," she answered.
We continued to dance and chat
idly until late into the night, or early into the morning, depending on how you
look at it. All good things must come to an end, however, and unfortunately,
that included our date.
Scene VI: Conclusion
By 4:00 a.m. my apartment was
almost empty. The smell of red wine and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air.
Anna turned to me and said, "I had a really nice time tonight, but it’s
late and I should probably get going."
I shrugged and gulped down the
last bit of wine in my cup with difficulty. At some point in the evening,
someone had lost the cork for the bottle, so the wine had acquired a strong
acidic taste that made me shudder as I swallowed it. While she was getting
ready to go, I saw her grab the pen and pad that was by our phone. "What
are you doing?" I asked, surprised.
"I’m writing my
number," she said with a smile. "Why, don’t you want it
anymore?"
"Of course I do," I
said. I felt my face get warm as I blushed. "I’ve never had to work so
hard in my life just to get a number. Do you think that I don’t want it
now?"
We laughed and said good night to
each other. Another date had come to an end, but this time I had actually got
her number, and I felt content that I had succeeded in my personal struggle.
Now, two years later, looking back at this makes me smile. Anna is my wife, now,
and she is living with me in my country. In my case, perseverance paid off. Not
only did I get the number in the end, but I also met the woman who became my
wife. Both would have passed me by if I had given up.
---
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Sample Three: Fanciful Short Fiction about Using the 5
Senses |
Describing
What You've Always Been Afraid To, or What You Love:
Is there someone or something you've always wanted
to describe but were afraid to? Is there something or someone you like or
love very much? Describe every last detail of it, him, or her, top to
bottom, inside out, or however you wish. If you have a favorite event, a
favorite dialogue, or some other favorite moment in time, describe it in detail
and/or remember what was said and done in detail as best you can. Go to
the best part right away, or even start in the middle, so you won't get bogged
down.
The
five senses are a primary element of writing good descriptions. Here is a humorous story about using them.
Anoka Ramsey Community College
© by Peggy Sorrell.
What
Sense
by
Peggy Sorrell
“Fill
out these forms, and bring them to me when you are done.”
Harold
took the clipboard from the
receptionist’s hand and settled down in a corner chair near the
ceiling-mounted television. He
glanced at the top form, then at the television.
A soap opera. His eyes
wandered to the occupants of the waiting room.
An old man with a hacking cough was leaning over his chair while his wife
(Harold assumed it was his wife) patted his backside.
Three toddlers were in the corner play area.
One was sliding down a plastic slide while the other two were fighting
over a book.
Brats,
he thought, as he noticed a woman, obviously their mother, so engrossed in
a magazine that she wasn’t aware of how vocally disruptive her children were.
He looked at the title of the magazine she was reading--Working Mother.
Figures,
too busy with a career to raise her kids right.... Well, nothing he could do
about it. Harold’s attention went back to the medical forms.
He hated changing clinics, hated filling out new forms.
Hated doctors, period.
He’d
been healthy most of his 43 years until
Sadie died four years ago. God,
how he missed his wife.
Every day when he came home from his road construction job, he was guaranteed a
home-cooked meal, and more often than not, a lot of loving in bed.
Even when Sadie wasn’t in the mood for the latter, she still curled her
warm body up next to his at night and let him fall asleep with a hand on her
breast.
And
her cooking. He leaned back in his
chair, closed his eyes, and savored the tastes. Chili
with chunks of venison steak, ham and navy bean soup cooked slowly in a crock
pot for 24 hours, pork roast so tender that when he tried to pick up a big piece
with his fork, it fell apart and dropped onto his plate.
And always homemade bread, never store bought.
Harold
didn’t know a thing about cooking, so now that Sadie was gone, he lived on
canned stew, Kraft macaroni & cheese , and peanut butter spread on soft
un-Wonder-ful bread. His new eating
habits had wrecked havoc on his bowels ever since, so once again, back to the
clinic, and once again a new clinic. After
Sadie died, he didn’t see any reason to stay put in the same place, since he
had only stayed put because Sadie wanted to.
He could make more money moving where the work paid best.
Back
to the form. Harold filled out the
first two pages, the typical stuff like address, home and work number, medical
insurance provider, the list of previous health problems and allergies to
medication that one checked with a “yes” or “no.”
Harold quickly checked “no” through all of them until he got to the
“bowel problems.”
He
put a fat X on the bowel problem yes-square, then turned the page.
More on medical insurance. He
scanned the bold heading at the top of the page, and what followed:
Pick
4 of the 5 major senses you wish to be covered for under your medical policy:
1
Sight
1
Taste
1
Hearing
1
Touch
1
Smell
What
the hell is this? Harold had
never seen anything like this on a medical form.
He walked over to the receptionist desk.
“Excuse me, miss . . .”
The woman who had handed him the form was on the phone, so motioned him
with her hand that she’d be with him in a minute.
Harold stood at the desk, tapping his foot with impatience, and wishing
he could close his ears to the children in the corner who were now becoming even
louder.
The receptionist finally
hung up the receiver. “Yes, how
can I help you?”
“This form, about the four
senses, I don’t get it.”
“Oh.
You must not be aware of the recent legislative reforms.
The bill was passed last month for medical insurance across the board.”
“I still don’t get it,
what bill?”
“Too many people with bad
eyesight complaining how eye exams and eyeglass prescriptions weren’t covered
under general insurance. Complained
that eyesight was as important as hearing, and the latter was covered, so why
not the former? Don’t remember all
the details of how the bill passed, but
supposedly a powerful senator who was close to becoming blind was the instigator
in getting the bill passed.
The compromise with the health insurance companies is what you see above.
So, pick the senses you want covered.”
Harold scratched his balding
head, then went back to his corner chair. He
stared at the five boxes:
Touch.
Well, he didn’t know quite what he wanted to touch, now that Sadie
along with her soft breasts was buried deep under the ground.
But it was a useful sense, in case one got burnt, or broke a bone, or had
a painful bowel movement . . . to feel the pain and know that one was not in the
right way.
Smell.
Harold could no longer smell Sadie’s wonderful cooking, but he did like
the smell of fresh cut grass, the smell of fresh tar laid on the road while
working his job, the smell of home cooking wafting from the apartments next to
his as he walked down the hallway.
Taste.
Harold could only think of the tastes of Sadie’s cooking.
Losing his taste might not be that bad, since what he ate nowadays was
mostly to fill his belly. But then
again, he often dreamed of meeting another woman someday that could cook like
her.
Sight.
Sight was definitely necessary, but Harold wasn’t worried about that
because of the family genes. No one
in his family, that he knew of, had worn eyeglasses except for reading, and
well, once people got to a certain old-age, they all needed reading glasses.
Hearing.
Harold thought of his job, the constant noise of the vehicles creating
new roads, laying tar and cement, the pounding of the cement chopper, the
yelling between fellow employees that was a worthless effort above the
continuous din. His hearing mind was
abruptly brought back to the corner of the waiting room.
The Working Mother had set her magazine aside and was now yelling at her
children to shut up.
Harold made up his mind real
quick. He X’d Touch,
Smell, Taste, and Sight, then
walked once again to the receptionist desk and handed over the clipboard.
“Are you sure of your
selection?” the receptionist asked. “The Plan allows you to change your
sense options, but only on a yearly basis. So,
let’s see . . . it is September 17, so you have to wait until next year at
this time to change your options.”
Harold hesitated for a
moment, until he once again heard the Working Mother
This time she was using foul language to shut up her brats.
He could live without that, forever.
“I’m sure.”
“Okay.
Sign the bottom of the form. The
doctor will be with you shortly.”
As usual, the doctor told Harold his bowel problems were due to wrong
eating habits and stress. Once
again, Harold had wasted his money with the fifteen dollar co-pay.
No prescription, just a suggestion to take Metamucil for a few weeks, eat
more fiber, learn to relax. Harold
headed toward the outside clinic door, so frustrated with doctors and clinics
that he did not even notice the silence in the waiting room, even
though Working Mother was yelling louder than everat
her brat kids. When he walked across
the parking lot, self-absorbed in indignation, he also didn’t hear the honking
of the car horn.
*
* *
“I’m not sure this 5-senses policy is working,” the receptionist
said to her fellow co-worker. “Like that last guy, and those before them.
They keep ending up dead.”
Her fellow co-worker
shrugged. “Medical insurance is no
different than any other. It all has
the fine print, and most people don’t bother to read it . . .when will they
learn?” She filed Harold’s form
into the dead-file, the form that had the fine print at the bottom:
"*Once
you choose the sense not to be covered under medical insurance, you will no
longer have that sense."
