Chapter Two- When Life Gives You Lemons

  Alan was in his small, mundane bedroom inside his family’s apartment when a train passed right outside of his window. Urszula Lisiewicz was in the kitchen putting together a meal of pulled pork perogies and knackwurst while Ludamir Lisiewicz sat in a big leather chair reading the newspaper.

        “Alan!” shouted Urszula knocking on Alan’s door loudly, “Time for dinner! It’s your favorite, perogies and knackwurst!”

        The smell of the food wafted throughout the house, and once Alan opened the door he could smell it. The kitchen was full of bronze pots and pans as well as rolling pins and ladles hanging on the wall. The room had cracks in the walls as well as chips of concrete missing from the floor.

        Alan sat down at the table with a used paper towel as a napkin and a chipped porcelain plate for holding his food. A big fat woman with curly ginger hair and chicken oven mittens was spooning sausages and perogies onto a huge old plate.

        “I made this just for you!” shouted the fat woman, Mrs. Lisiewicz in a heavy Polish accent, “Plus, it’s what your father and I had for wedding dinner! Now, remember, your brother, Walt, is coming over tomorrow, so you’re room better be as tidy as a train station floor,”

        “I understand,” said Alan, his mouth stuffed with sausage, “Walt’s only coming for one day though, right?”

        “Yes,” said Mr. Lisiewicz, finally putting his newspaper down, “He’s coming all the way from Boston just to see us, isn’t that nice?” Mr. Lisiewicz was a tall man with a fedora and a brown suit jacket. He also had a thin handlebar mustache that was pretty neatly kept, unlike Mrs. Lisiewicz. In fact, Mr. Lisiewicz was far tidier than most people.

        “I guess so,” murmured Alan, “He’s still not the most pleasant to be around, though,”

        “We know,” said Mrs. Lisiewicz sitting down at the table, “He’s the only successful one in the family, so I expected it. All we need to do is persuade him to let us borrow some of his money because we desperately need it. More than him after all,”

        “Well, I think he’s quite the man to be proud of!” defended Mr. Lisiewicz, “He had all A’s in school and was quite the polite boy. Now he’s running a large corporation, what has Alan done?”

        “For your information, I just started a shoe shining business and meet a couple of nice people along the way,” Alan said in an annoyed tone, looking at his father.

        “Oh really?” asked Mrs. Lisiewicz, “How did you meet? Any future girlfriends, eh?”

        “I guess you could count Adelaide if you want to. She was nice but dreadfully sarcastic. She was really pretty too, long brown hair tied in a bun, a Victorian parasol, and a really pretty dress,”

        “Sounds like you want her to be your girlfriend, Alan,” stated Mr. Lisiewicz taking off his fedora, “The way you describe her makes her sound like she has the beauty of an Egyptian queen,”

        “In a way, she does,” said Alan, “I left the chance to ask her out, though. Dang, it! I could’ve had a girlfriend by the time Walt arrives!”

        “Did you hear about Walt’s girlfriend? Elizabeth Stockley? She’s also quite the pretty gem!” shouted Mr. Lisiewicz.

        “What’s with you and talking about Walt? You seem to be so proud of him! Alan’s a great guy, too!” shouted Mrs. Lisiewicz standing up from the table.

        Alan snuck past the fighting Lisiewicz parents into his bedroom where he sat down at his desk. “OK,” he said to himself looking at his pigsty of a bedroom, “When life gives you lemons, you make poetry! Wait, that doesn’t make sense. Whatever, let’s think about it. The Life Of An Immigrant!” Alan looked around his dirty room for inspiration. He looked out his window to the crowded streets of New York City and all sorts of billboards and advertisements on top of buildings.

        “Do you suffer from acid mouth? Try Dr. Fallinger’s new Acid Mouth Mouthwash!” Advertisements for Broadway productions that Alan could never afford and brand new automobiles from the country’s biggest producers like Ford. That sparked an idea, the life of a poor person, perhaps. Maybe that was too stark or grim. Alan decided to take his mind out of it and go to bed instead of writing poetry.