Pins: A Novel by Jim Provenzano Page B

week that Joey realized they were talking about people on a soap opera.

 
    12
    “You don’ know what goes into makin’ a toilet. They gotta do a lot of work to make a pot to piss in.”
    Joey did not want to hear about the wonderful world of plumbing. He was set to wrestle a junior with a 27-8 record and wanted to keep cool for the next night’s match. He’d looked the guy up in a copy of Amateur Wrestling News in the Cadet section. He thought it would be a good idea to get more information on his competition. It made him more nervous, with facts.
    His father sat opposite him, his mother hovering, so she could be closer to the counter, since there was always something to get, more water, more cheese, the pepper, another fork. Sophia kept dropping hers.
    “What, no plumbing?” his father grabbed another piece of garlic bread. “Plumbing paid for the food you’re eating.”
    “We know, Dad.” Joey sliced a piece of romaine lettuce, trying to make his salad at least seem like a full meal, but the smell of his mother’s sauce made his stomach rumble.
    “It’s like sculpture. Those fancy ones? They make ‘em one at a time.” Joey tried to show his disinterest, looking over at Sophia, who pulled a string of pasta, holding it high above her open mouth. “Sophia, stop that.” His father turned back to his oldest son. “It’s good work. You’ll like it. You don’t gotta wear a shirt, it’s so warm in there. I’ll take you out to the plant.”
    “Dad, I don’t wanna make toilets.”
    “It starts at seven bucks an hour. That’s good pay for an apprentice. You got better?”
    His mother tried to change the subject. “Lets’ talk about this later. Joseph, eat.”
    “Ma, I tole ya, I’m up in my weight. I gotta float a pound.”
    “Why this craziness, this diet thing? The boys on football don’t do this. Irene told me.”
    “Football season’s over. Besides, they train them like bulls. They just have a trough for them in the cafeteria.”
    Mike snorted a laugh.   Joey felt better.
    “What about basketball?”
    His father dropped his fork against his plate. “Marie, the kid’s five-foot-four. He’s a midget.”
    “That’s because he don’t eat!” She shoveled a glop of steaming pasta onto his plate. Sophia and Mike giggled, repeating, “Midget, midget.”
    Joey ignored them, looked down at the swirl of noodles, the blood red sauce tempting him. A pang of hunger flamed up from his belly.
    He wanted to eat it all, but reached for the glass, gulped milk instead. “Ma, I gotta float a pound or I gotta change weight class. And I can’t change my weight class ‘cause I’m already ranked this season in this weight class.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “If you came to a match.”
    “I can’t watch that. See you get beat up by some other boy, just like that time. . .”
    Instead of listening for the fourteenth time about some kid in California who broke his neck, Joey decided to talk over her. “We don’t beat each other up. It’s a world-renowned sport.”
    He pushed his plate toward himself, picked up his fork. “Look, one big mouthful, okay?” Shoving it in his mouth, he savored it like an entire meal. He chewed. Everyone watched, until Sophia, bored more than full, squirmed out of her seat with an “I’m done.” Dinner seemed to have been adjourned, or dismantled.
    Joey sat at the table watching his parents take the dishes. “Save some for tomorrow, okay? Then I’ll pig out.” The look in her eye wavered somewhere between suspicion and flirtation. “You coming, Dad?”
    As his father hesitated, Joey shook his foot nervously under the table, making a piece of glassware ching against a bowl. He glanced up at the clock on the wall. Five-thirty. He would have half an hour to get there. If his dad drove, he could make it early. If not, he had to jog. The gulp of pasta burned in his stomach, warm, delicious. He wanted so much more.
    “I think I might make it.”   He