His name was Lou, and he smelled like an Italian hoagie. It was only fitting, though, since he was indeed Eye-talian and his last name was the same as that of a very popular restaurant (although he claimed no association with it, like the good mobster he no doubt was).
So Lou smelled. Any activity that required even a minimum of exertion would result in Lou’s body emitting an odor that would have me wondering if indeed he was secreting a miniature salumeria somewhere on his rather muscular person and if there were some sort of specially cured meat hidden in the slight roll around his waist.
It was July. He was 25, and I would be 20 in October. A man of experience, he was. A man of great wisdom. A man who bought new underwear instead of washing the old. (But really, I should applaud him for his ingenuity. Have you ever tried to get salami oil out of silk?) A man who had more money strewn around his bedroom than unwashed underwear. I never asked why.
“I will have to stop seeing you when you turn 20,” he said. “When girls turn 20, they get all fucked up.”
I stopped seeing him around Labor Day. I didn’t wait around for the cold cut.