Page 25 of By A Thread

“You absolutely need to join us,” Ruth insisted, patting the chair next to her.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’m Buddy, by the way.” He held out a beefy hand that Ruth and Gola took turns shaking.

“I’m Ally,” I told him.

Gola wiggled in her chair. “Okay, spill it, kids. What was Dalessandra Russo doing at a bus stop?”

Buddy unrolled his paper bag and pulled out a cute little sub, a bag of chips, and a Fresca. “Well, I don’t know what Ms. Russo was doing there. But I’d just finished one of those under-the-table painting jobs in the Village. And I’m sitting there at the bus stop, and I see Ally here talking to Ms. Russo. Ms. Russo is apologizing about something and then hands her a business card and is all ‘come see me Monday for a job,’” he said, theatrically producing an invisible card.

Ruth and Gola were enthralled, so I dug into my chicken.

“I’m thinking, this is my chance. One of those once-in-a-lifetime jobbies. I gotta say something. If I don’t, I’m gonna regret it forever. So I pipe up, and I say, ‘You got any more of those jobs?’ And when she looks at me, she’s isn’t all hoity-toity. She says to me, ‘What can you do?’ I say, ‘Whatever you need me to do.’ So here I am. The newest clerk in the mailroom. I have a desk. I don’t gotta paint anything. And once the health insurance kicks in, I’m taking my wife straight to physical therapy.”

“Why does your wife need PT?” Gola asked. Another point in my book. They were now more invested in Buddy’s story than juicy office gossip.

“Got hurt on the job a year ago. She was one of those linemen—line lady, she liked to say. Anyway, she fell on the job. Seventeen feet and landed on her back on concrete.”

I winced.

“Bad spinal injury. She’s in a wheelchair. She couldn’t work anymore. Company fought the workers’ comp claim. I lost my job for missing so many days after the accident. Without good health insurance, we couldn’t swing PT appointments anymore. And that was the only thing that made her feel like she had hope, you know.”

“Buddy, that’s awful,” I said.

“It’s been a tough time,” he agreed. “But I always knew there was light at the end of the tunnel, and now look at me. Sitting here with three beautiful ladies with a job in a big-time office and brand-new health insurance.”

I wanted to hug the guy and was deeply moved when Ruth actually did it.

“You’re a great guy, Buddy,” Gola said, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

He hooted with laughter. “Wait’ll I tell my wife!”

9

Ally

Buddy inhaled his lunch and raced back to the mail room, eager to prove his worth on the first day.

“That was like the most inspiring thing I’ve heard in my life,” Ruth sighed. “I think I love him.”

“Get in line,” I said in unison with Gola.

“Okay, girl,” Gola said. “Let’s getyourstory. What was Dalessandra Russo doing with you at a bus stop?”

“She was apologizing for her son—who I thought was her date at the time—getting me fired,” I said.

Gola knocked the remains of her green juice over.

“Mr. Ice Statue of Perfection did what now?” Ruth demanded, handing over a stack of napkins.

“Charming—I mean, Dominic—met Dalessandra for dinner at the pizza place I was working at. He was being rude, so I returned his rudeness, and I spelled out an immature message in toppings on his pizza. As one does.”

Gola was gaping at me like I’d just turned into Tina Turner in front of her.

“Yeah, I’m going to need the immature message in its entirety,” Ruth decided.

“FU.”