Primo

by Paul Teodo and Tom Myers

“I’m gonna do the dago hop on my 80th birthday. I’ll be good by then.” Primo struggled to slide off Dr. Anthony Choy’s exam table.

“The Dago hop?” Dr. Choy asked.

“It’s an Italian folk dance.” Romolo, Primo’s son, answered. 

“When, Mr. Lanzari, is your birthday?” Choy, a young orthopedic surgeon, had a voice that bounced off the concrete walls in his tiny office.

“What?” Primo couldn’t hear the kid. “Speak up, for Chrissake.” His voice boomed in the tight space. He took great care to hide the pain in his arthritic knee.

“He’s hard of hearing.” Romolo again answered for his father.

Primo crammed a gnarled finger into his ear; his hearing aid battery was low. It squealed like a defective smoke detector.

Choy winced. He pointed to Primo’s ear. “They’ll fix that while you’re here.”

“It’s fine.” He brushed aside the doctor’s recommendation.

Choy raised his voice, sounding odd, as if he was cheering for his kid at a t-ball game, straining for the tyke to hear him over the crowd. “When’s your birthday?”

Primo looked at the doctor without expression.

Choy took a deep breath. He began again, then decided against it, shaking his head. 

“Two months.” Primo said over the squeal filling the room. “These fucking things.” He smacked his ear as if a spider had crawled into its canal.

“Pops, let’s get the knee taken care of first and then we’ll see about the party.”

Primo, ready to pounce, limped like an angry stalker towards his son, his hearing aid still alarming, thrust his jaw into Romolo’s face, and poked his son’s chest. “I’m dancin’.”

“Pops.” Romolo pleaded. “C’mon.”

“Sonofabitch.” Primo yanked out the hearing aid. “Fuck it.”

“Mr. Lanzari,” Choy, looking uncomfortable trying to assert himself with an elder, “recovery from knee replacement takes at least three months, and for a man of your age….”

“Of my what?” Primo, a short, thick-armed WWII staff sergeant with bushy eyebrows, an ugly purple scar snaking down his cheek, and wire-like hair flaring from his ears, nose, and head, glared at the young surgeon and screamed. “You sayin’ I’m old, Doc?”

“Pops, calm down. Relax. We’ll see.”

“See nothin’.” The old man’s face turned crimson, his scar deepened, his hands trembled, tears clouding his eyes. “See nothing.” His voice trailed off. 

“Mr. Lanzari,” Choy placed his hand on Primo’s shoulder, “you need your knee replaced. You will feel better afterwards.”

Primo, his hearing aid clasped between his weathered fingers, did not acknowledge the doctor. 

“C’mon Pops, let’s go. We’ll eat, get a sandwich. It’s Lent. Pepper and eggs; from Tony’s.”

“Shall we schedule his surgery?” Choy asked.

Romolo looked at the old warrior, who said nothing, just a blank stare. He turned back to Choy. “Yes, please. And thank you, Doctor.”

The two shuffled slowly down the hall, his son guiding his unsteady father to the front door of the VA Hospital. “I’ll bring the car around.”

“I’ll go with.” Primo wiped his face with a yellow stained handkerchief. 

“Pops, it’s a long freakin’ way. And it’s raining. C’mon.”

“Let’s go.”

They moved gingerly through the poorly-marked lot, searching for the car. Romolo’s hand on his father’s arm, steadying him on the crumbling wet blacktop. Few lot signs were intact, most were crooked, cracked, or unreadable.

“It’s in R-2 something, right?” Primo said squinting. “The Chevy, right?” His father’s eyes searched the never-ending rows of cars haphazardly parked in the massive lot.

“No, Pops, that’s Gina’s car. We came in mine. Remember? The Nissan.”

Primo gave him a look, frustrated, confused, embarrassed. “Yeah, the Nissan. I remember.”

His son knew he didn’t. He raised the fob and started pressing. Nothing. He pressed again. Still nothing. He pointed and pressed. Still not a goddamn thing.

Primo slowed; his limp more pronounced. 

“Pops, look, stay here. I’ll find the car.”

“Bullshit.”

His son knew arguing would only make it worse. He stood scanning the infinite rows of cars. Pressing and pointing in every direction. “Jesus Christ.”

A security van slowed to a stop.The driver stuck his head out the window. “Need help?”

“Yeah, we’re looking for….”

“We’re fine.” Primo barked over his son at the driver, motioning for him to leave, pulling rank as the guard offered to help. “Hear me? We’re fine.”

“Pops, he was just trying to help.”

“Let’s go.” His father trudged on, not knowing what he was looking for, but determined to find it.

Romolo cinched his jacket and led the way.

“Sonofabitch!” Primo let out a scream.

His son spun around. The old man was on the ground, his face twisted in pain, his foot submerged in a puddle concealing the hole that had swallowed his ankle.

“Medic!” A command voice rose from his father that his son had not heard before. “Medic!” he shouted again. Primo covered his head with his hand and curled up in a ball. His eyes scanned the sky for something that wasn’t there. “I’m hit!” He looked with terror at his son. “I’m hit.”

“Pops. Are you all right?” He rushed to help. ”Pops.”

“Stepped on it.” His voice trembled. His eyes locked in pain. “Goddamn Krauts.”

“Pops. You’re here, with me.”

The old man’s vacant stare gazed past his son. “They got me.”

The security van pulled to a stop. “Looks bad. Let me help.”

“Get down!,” his father ordered. “We’re trapped. Cover! I’ll call for help.”

Romolo held his father’s frightened face in his hands. “Pops. We’re here. The hospital. The VA.”

Primo’s body stiffened. His terrified eyes focused on his son, his jaw clenched. Pellets of rain blew sideways across the lot. “Yeah, VA, hospital. My knee. Yeah.”

“You guys okay?” the driver asked again.

“Fine.” Primo struggled to stand. “Good, we’re good. Sorry. I thought….”

“You sure, Pops?

“Sure, yeah. Peppers and eggs. Let’s go. Tony’s. I’m hungry.”

“We should get you checked out.”

“Let’s go.” Primo’s glare slammed the door on his son’s plea.

Romolo raised his hand and clicked again. Lights flashed and the horn beeped. “I see it. You stay here.” He left his father leaning against a dilapidated pick-up truck, breathing hard, mumbling embarrassment to himself.

Romolo swung open the door to the car and Primo stumbled in. “You should get checked out.”

His father pointed ahead. “Drive.”

“You yelled ‘medic.’”

“Yeah.”

“I worry about you.”

“Don’t.”

“This is serious.”

“The war was fucking serious.”

“I mean you.”

He turned to his son, sighed. “You know kid, I got a lot more yesterdays than I got tomorrows.”

“Dad, don’t talk like that.”

Primo placed his hand on his son’s shoulder. He leaned in and spoke, lowering his voice. “Son, I’m doing the dago hop at my 80th. Now let’s go get that sandwich.”