🍝 Marinara, Marinara

by Stuart Docherty

Listen officer, have you ever met another Gary? Know any famous ones? No, right. There’s not many of us. I know, I know, it sounds like I’m rambling, but it’s important. The thing is, I’ve never been special, you know? Gary is like the beige of names. But at lunch, something special happened to me.

Look, first things first, I’m not a slob. I’m no bloody creep either, if you think that’s how I got mixed up in all this. It wasn’t intentional. Besides, everyone spills some spaghetti sauce on their shirt from time to time. Don’t look at me like that, like you’re different, like you’re special. I’m telling you. Everyone makes a stain.

So, here’s what happened. I was at work, on my lunch break and I dropped some of it. It missed my tie and just left this orange, blotchy mess on my white shirt. What can I do? I had a meeting with HR in the afternoon and Debbie called about little Phil—said I had to pick him up at four. Bunch of little savages down there at the primary school. Anyway, we only get like forty minutes—tops—to get some food down, you know? I did the thing with the wet napkin, dabbed at the stain, but that only made it worse. This thing starts looking like a face on the outside of my gut.

But get this, I’m walking back to the office and I get a couple of nods. 

Not just normal nods, but the type where they lift their head up and to the left, like they’re in on something. All of them saw the stain first, too. They were smiling—but not laughing—it was out of respect.

Next thing I know, I’m coming up to the office and this guy comes up to me, his eyes on the stain the whole time. Puts his hand out for a handshake or a fistbump, I couldn’t tell. Looked kinda like that thing they do on surfboards with the pinky out and the thumb up. 

Maybe it's muscle memory, maybe it’s something deep inside me, you know? Something I’d repressed. But my hand starts to copy him and we meet. We bump fists, my right to his right, his pinky stroking the base of my palm, mine his. Then our thumbs touch. 

He looks at me all proud, like I’m his kid or something.

Then we release, but I must have messed it up. I think I was meant to hook my little finger onto his, make some sort of link. But I missed it!

Suddenly, he’s all pissed. Just snorts and storms off. I watched him go up to this postal worker and whisper something to her. She, I kid you not, walked past and spat on the ground in front of me. Can you believe it?

Next thing I know, I’m running past the office and around the back of the soup kitchen. They do a spaghetti lunch there on Tuesdays and I walked in the back door. The chefs are looking the other way so I grab the big bowl of spaghetti—luckily it’s pretty cool—and pour it over my head. 

I know, I know, crazy, right? But, what can I say? I just had to find out what I missed. I’m smearing it all over, really rubbing it in when the chefs realized what was going on.

I grabbed the sprayer from the dishwasher and gave them a quick blast—blam!—before turning it on myself.

I was never good at art in school, but let me tell you, my shirt was beautiful. Like a perfect rendition, in spaghetti sauce, of the Mona Lisa or something. Just beautiful.

I’m outta’ there quick and walking down the street.

This time I don’t even need to do the handshake. One lady comes up—she's beautiful, absolutely beautiful, a supermodel, a real worldie—and just guides me by the hand, takes me down this back alley and knocks on a door. This little panel opens up and some dude glares at me. Then another panel—near the waist—slides back and his hand pops out. It’s doing the fistbump-y thing.

I’m prepared for the first part and do the little pinky hook this time. But you know how sometimes people say that life’s unfair? Well, this was one of those moments.

There was another part to the secret handshake! How was I supposed to know?

Well, that’s when they got mad. This woman kicked me right in the nuts and the guy behind the door pulled her off of me. 

That’s when you guys found me.

Look, officer, I know it’s weird, but I just wanted to be part of something bigger. I read the other day that us Gary’s are dying out. Nobody’s called their kid Gary for thirty years. I’m the last of a dying breed. Maybe I’m the last one! 

I’ll pay for the spaghetti and even do some service down at the kitchen if they let me, just, please, don’t tell my wife. She’ll be raging about the shirt I’ve ruined and I really need to pick up my son. Those kids will kick the living tar out of him.

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