You probably know Twain’s story, “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County”—but did you know that, after he wrote the story, he had it translated, word-for-word, into French? He then had it translated, word-for-word, back into English. Just to see what would happen.
Of course, he knew what would happen; the third version story was nothing like the first one. Apparently, Twain was not only an early adopter of the typewriter—he also invented the telephone game.
Twain was no fan of foreign languages. Why would he be?—his command of so many variations of American English made other languages superfluous. He once castigated something-or-other that displeased him this way: “It is un-American... it is un-English... [pausing for dramatic effect] It is FRENCH.” “French” was the worst cuss-word he could think of at the time (and he prided himself on his mastery of cussing).
Today we’re indulging in a specific variety of “un-American” behavior. One of the hallmarks of the so-called American Way (not that anyone would notice, these days, when “political correctness” has become, for many Americans, a pejorative term) is that it’s simply unacceptable to describe—and treat—other folks as stereotypes.
Well… at least that’s the way I was raised to behave.
Being whatever it is that I am (is contrary just another word for maladjusted?), I was curious to see how many offensive stereotypes I could cram into one little story. It’s included below—but I’m giving you fair warning, so you can skip it (and spare yourself an entirely justifiable spasm of outrage).
If you’re feeling magnanimous, please accept my groveling apology, ahead of time.
Twain’s experiment suggested something to try with “La Sforza.” But, instead of translating it into another language, I’d just swap out its ethnic stereotypes. I’d tell the same story, again and again, substituting a Polish version for the Italian. Then Jewish. Then African-American. Then Chinese. Then Greek. Then Native American. Then Muslim. Then Japanese. Then Mexican. And on and on—ad nauseam.
Assuming that we’re all created equal, it would give me a chance to prove that I too can be an equal-opportunity offender. I could assemble a thoroughly repugnant set of theme-and-variations. I suspect that there’s a hate-speech publisher—somewhere under a rock, or heavily-armed bunker—who would simply love to print it.
BTW, I’m especially looking forward to working on a WASP version… because cruelty begins at home.
La Sforza
It was Christmas Eve, and Tony had just one job to do. His wife, Janine, was taking care of everything at home and had assigned him the task of picking up food for the evening’s festivities.
It wasn’t going to be the traditional feast of the seven fishes... just a selection of delicatessen treats: capicola, provolone, both hot and sweet soppressata, scamorza, prosciutto di parma, an assortment of prepared salads, gorgonzola, some good semolina bread, marinated artichokes, pepperoncini, pickled fava beans, olives—maybe some cannoli, pignoli, or sfogliatelle for dessert—you know, good stuff.
He knew he was in trouble when he couldn’t find a parking spot anywhere near La Sforza: The Deli de Destino. The situation, inside, was even worse. The place was packed—as tightly as a tin of anchovies, filetti di alici—with customers who could have been clones of Tony. Their hair looked like it had been combed with olive oil, but it smelled a lot like Brylcreem. Apparently sent on the same assignment as Tony, they milled around, shifting their weight from one imported loafer to the other, impatient with delays that their own numbers were creating.
The counter could only deal with a few customers at a time, so the rest of the crowd was massed, across the shop, near the shelves of imported San Marzano tomatoes. Tony wedged himself into what he took to be the end of the line. It wasn’t easy to tell, what with dozens of slicked-back heads, all craning and stretching, trying to find a spot that opened toward the deli cases, cash register, and merciful escape.
One-by-frustrating-one, a Tony or Alfredo or Luca or Guido emerged from the surging mass and made his way to salumic salvation. At first, Tony was confused by the fact that guys left the line from random positions. In time, he realized that it wasn’t a line at all. It was just a gathering of goombas, and something—other than line order—was determining who was next to be served.
One-by-frustrating-one, the crowd dispersed, until there was just Tony. At last, he reached the counter.
A matriarch in white polyester asked, “What’s your number, honey?”
“Number? Che cosa?”
“Yeah. Number. What’s your number?”
“I don’t have any number.”
“Of course you do. It’s the last three of your phone number.”
“Oh seven four.”
“That’s not on the list.”
“What list?”
“The list.”
“What list?”
“The one you were supposed to sign onto, this morning, at ten.”
“I didn’t know about any list.”
“Everyone knows about the friggin’ list, honey. Sforza has been using it for twenny friggin’ years.”
“How do I get on the list?”
“You don’t. It was filled, and closed, by eleven.”
“You can’t make an exception? It’s the goddam vigilia di natale, fer chrissakes!”
“It wouldn’t be fair to the others, the ones who did sign up.”
“What others? I’m the only one left here.”
“Sorry. No exceptions.”
“Madonn’ ...what the hell am I supposed to do now? What do I tell my wife when I show up with un cavolo... niente?”
“You could try around the corner, at Cucina Cosa Nostra. They always seem to have ways of getting shit done...” flashing a devilish grin, “and can probably take care of you. There’ll be a price, of course.”
Given the alternative of facing Janine—empty-handed—it was an offer he couldn’t refuse. Stepping out of La Sforza, he turned his collar up against the sloppy wet snow that was just beginning to fall and mumbled “Merry friggin’ white Christmas.”
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