Chapter 5 ~ Florida, August 12, 2011

"Now, that's what I call a supermarket," extols Frank loudly, his arms wide-opened in an attempt at embracing the abundance displayed in aisle after aisle of perfectly aligned products.

"They have to live up to their slogan: Where Shopping is a Pleasure," I quip.

The joke is lost on Frank. Our bimonthly shopping trips have turned into a pilgrimage of sort, a nostalgic trip down memory lane where every bump on the road unearths a mountain of buried - and at times painful - memories. I almost feel sorry for shoppers merely running errands; Frank and I are on a crusade!

"So many choices," contemplates Frank for the umpteenth time, "and so little time left," he deplores.

"Come on Frank," I hurry him along, "time's a wastin'," I cheerily add, referencing his favorite singer Johnny Cash.

Standing by the rows of shopping carts, tightly nestled into each other, I probe Frank one more time.

"Where do you want to start today, the produce aisle?"

Frank's stoicism frightens me. He stares off in the distance, in what I believe is a stroke-like stance.

"Frank," I call, putting a hand on his shoulder and shaking him gently, "Frank, are you all right?"

Concerned and curious shoppers glance in our direction. An alert employee proudly wearing the requisite logoed green vest seems ready to dial 9-1-1. I am unaware of the sorry spectacle we are offering our unsuspecting audience: Frank, mouth agape, staring blankly in the distance, being unsuccessfully rattled by a suited-up woman more than half his age perched on stilettos. Nice.

As quickly as he faltered, Frank comes back to his senses.

"Did I ever tell you about the time we got robbed?" he offers as sole explanation.

"Frank," I gently inquire, "are you aware that you just… lost it… for quite a long time? Who got robbed, Frank? Do you even know where we are right now?"

"Oh, shush it! I didn't lose it, young lady," he admonishes, "I'm old, and sometimes it takes me a while to get my thoughts in order. My parents' market was robbed. We are standing in a market," he points out with derision, "and that's what triggered the memory. I'm not the one losing it."

I ignore his reprimand. He called me young, and that alone gives him the right to berate me to his heart's content.

"So, in comes this kid, gangly as they come," he continues without missing a beat, "he seemed so tall to me; heck, I was a wee one, I had to stand on a crate to reach the top shelves, the same exact crate my parents used to keep me in so I wouldn't get underfoot. My parents had no money to waste on one of those fandangle 'Kiddie Koral' that cost over twenty dollars. A crate was good enough for me. They ferried me from the floor, to the kitchen counter, to the porch in that thing. The only time I left that crate was when my dad took me on his bicycle and transferred me in the bike basket."

"What about the robbery?" I interrupt a tad too abruptly.

"The robbery?" Frank squints momentarily in puzzlement, "ha, yes, the robbery," he suddenly remembers. "So this lanky kid is walking up and down the aisles suspiciously, swinging his basket. We didn't have carts yet; they didn't exist, so the kid is swinging his basket, looking suspicious."

I realize that Frank is unnecessarily dragging the story, ineptly trying to build suspense. I decide to play along. We have established a routine those past few weeks: Frank pretends to remember accurately, and I pretend to be interested.

"So, the kid is suspiciously swinging," I encourage, irony rolling off Frank like water off a duck's back.

"Exactly, until my father sees him pick up a can of peaches, and hiding it inside his jacket," he professes with the assurance of a judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one.

Half-expecting a denouement involving a bonfire, or an electric chair at the least; I inquire as to the fate of the poor lad.

"My father screamed Basta!" Frank yells, once again drawing unwelcomed attention to our odd duo.

"Frank, you can't shout 'b*****d' in public," I chide under my breath.

"B*****d?" he repeats, perplexed, "no, no, no," he whispers with a look of remorse painted on his face, 'bastA,' he corrects with a strong emphasis on the last syllable, "it means stop, in Italian."

I laugh. I should have known better. Frank would never use profanity; the mere suggestion that he may have inadvertently uttered an expletive in front of a lady saddens him greatly.

"It's ok, Frank," I reassure him, "I misheard you, that's all, no harm done. So what did the robber do after your dad yelled at him to stop?"

"Ha, ha," Frank's face lights up. He grabs a nearby can - of peas - apparently not resolute on replicating the event exactly, and bounces it from one hand to the other with unexpected dexterity. "The kid grabs the can from under his jacket and pitches it at my father."

"You mean to say that he threw the can at your father?" I interpret, determined not to relive an incident of the 'basta' variety.

"No," replies an exasperated Frank, "he pitched it! That can went whizzing right past my head and barely missed my father's. The scoundrel then took off running faster than anyone I had ever seen run before." Frank pauses for effect.

"And then what?" I press on, readying myself for a major letdown.

"That fellow… was Joe DiMaggio."

"Was not!" I dispute with absolute certainty. I know of DiMaggio the player, both in baseball and with the ladies, but I have never heard of DiMaggio the petty thief or peach aficionado.

"Are you calling me a liar?" Frank protests with great indignation.

"Well, not exactly," I back down, "but are you telling me that the great Yankee Clipper not only tried to rob, but also tried to kill your father."

"Of course not," Frank concedes, "he wouldn't become a Yankee until six years later, but he DID try to steal those peaches."

"Right, Frank," I reluctantly acquiesce, "and how old were you to remember this incident so vividly?"

"Eight or nine. Keep in mind, we were smart back then, not like the cuddled kids of today. I remember very clearly, don't you worry. Joe DiMaggio would have stolen those peaches if my father hadn't stopped him, that's for sure."

"You're probably right Frank," I capitulate, knowing full well that I'll never have the last word with this old man.

"Did you press charges?" I egg him on.

"Charges?"

"Against DiMaggio - the peach pilferer. Did you call the police?"

"How could we? We didn't know who he was then. I recognized him at a ball game a few years later. In fact, Norma Jeane was sitting right behind home plate, watching the game. She winked at me, you know."

"Who's Norma Jeane?" I ask, doing my best to keep up with Frank's convoluted anecdote.

"Well, I still call her Norma Jeane, but she had changed her name to Marilyn by then."

"Hold on, Frank," I'm willing to play the gullible one, but my patience has limits, "you can't mean THE Marilyn, Marilyn Monroe. You're pulling my leg, aren't you?"

Frank's integrity is piqued. "I am ALWAYS telling you the truth," he swears.

This crazy old coot has my mind running in all directions. Is his tale even possible? I guess the numbers could add up… I cannot interrogate him any further or he'll get overly upset. Besides, the green-vest-clad employee seems ready to have me arrested for elderly abuse. I'll let this one slide.

In an effort to create a diversion, I move on to a less incriminating topic.

"Speaking of cuddled kids, ever had any bundle of joy yourself, Frank?" I casually ask.

A dark and ominous cloud casts a shadow over his entire demeanor. I am glad he is no longer holding a can, for I would certainly be his target of choice.

"Children are very precious; too many have broken hearts that need mending. You ask too many questions," he grunts with obvious annoyance, "let's finish this, I'm tired."

His statement invites no answer or objection. We finish Frank's shopping in silence. He sulks the entire ride back to his apartment and jumps out the moment the car comes to a stop in front of his building. I get the impression that Frank is running away… either from me or from his past. (End of sample)

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