A few months ago, a dear friend died. His name was Eric Friedland (pictured above with his wife, Alyson Denny). Eric was a brilliant, bright light, a super-nova, a kind soul, and will be greatly missed. A while back, Eric and Alyson had read something I wrote online. Shortly thereafter they had me up to their apartment on the Upper East side for a “spontaneous” gathering and presented me with a gift. “I think this is where you’re headed,” Eric said, handing me a short story collection by P.G. Wodehouse, “Hopefully, this will set you on a path to whimsy.”

Eric and Alyson would often share stories about a friend of theirs, a stellar fellow named Dave Lasagna. I never met him, but the man’s name so intrigued and delighted, I wrote a story using it (I hope he doesn’t mind). I sent the story to Eric, who responded, “You have achieved ‘whimsy.’”

In honor of Eric I present to you the story (which has nothing to do with the restaurant business, I’m afraid); it is dedicated to Eric Friedland…and of course, to Alyson.

I miss you something fierce, Eric.

DAVE LASAGNA, POET

Dave Lasagna, poet, received two emails that morning. First email was from the Little Ladies of the Lackawanna River Poetry Society. It read: “Dear Mr. Lasagna, thank you for submitting your poem, “Shave me, I’m a Werewolf.” We of course will not be including it in our upcoming reading series, as our treasurer, Mrs. Lovallo, is highly allergic to fur…and homosexuals. We had considered including it, well, actually, no we hadn’t. Sincerely yours, Wanda Lupinski, President, Little Ladies of the Lackawanna River Poetry Society. PS: Please please please do not submit to us again.”

Second email was from Random House. It read: “Dear Dave: This email is to verify that, yes, we have received the manuscript of your poetry collection, “Fate Crawled up my Skirt.” However, the answer is still, No! Now go fuck yourself. Sincerely yours, Priscilla P. Pierpont, Poetry Editor. PS: This has got to stop.”

Sometimes when Dave is sad, it feels as if the universe is digging its knuckles into the meaty part of his shoulder. His shoulders hadn’t hurt this bad since the day he received his rejection letter from Clown College. It hurt so bad he suffered reverse vertigo and vomited upside down on his laptop.

Later, after lunch, Dave wiped the sick off his laptop, and stuck it in the same box where he had buried Walt Whiskers’s Santa Claus Suit. Walt Whiskers was Dave’s cat. Walt had died of TB that previous Spring. “I won’t be needing what’s in this box for a very long time,” Dave said to his empty bedroom.

That afternoon, on the bus, on the way to work, Dave was surprised to see Really Blond Steve, sitting right there in front of him. He’d met Really Blond Steve at a party a week earlier. Really Blond Steve was so handsome he made Dave’s toes curl. Dave even wrote a poem about him, called, “Really Blond Steve.” This was better than a coincidence. Dave had run out of deodorant two days ago, so he zipped his windbreaker to his chin, and tapped Steve on the shoulder.

“Steve, what a coincidence. I was just thinking about you.”

Really Blond Steve turned just enough so that Dave was almost in his line of vision, “Who are you?”

“It’s me. Dave. Dave Lasagna. You know…pronounced like the food?”

“Do I know you?”

“Yes. We met at the Scranton Chapter of the Gay Men’s Badminton Club Shuttlecock Showdown and Cocktail party. Remember?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember me asking you to dance?”

“No.”

“You don’t remember saying, ‘Maybe tomorrow’”?

“No.”

“Don’t remember me crying?”

“This is my stop!”

Really Blond shot up like he was being electrocuted, pushed his way through the throng of bus people and banged on the door to get out. Dave’s shoulders throbbed; the universe was pitching a tent on his Deltoids.

Dave was forty-four minutes late for work that afternoon. The Olive Garden looked down on people who are late, especially the employees.

Mrs. Turner, the new district manager, was waiting for him in the kitchen. There was no steam coming out of her ears. Something was wrong.

“What are you doing here, Lasagna?” said Mrs. Turner.

“It wasn’t my fault,” said Dave. “My friend Steve fell off the bus and broke his foot and we had to wait for the ambulance.”

“No, I mean, why are you here? You’re not on the schedule.”

“Yes, I am,” said Dave.

“No, you’re not,” said Mrs. Turner, “I gave your shift to Maggie. Don’t cry. I put you on Monday brunch.”

“We’re closed on Monday,” said Dave.

“Good with the bad, Lasagna. Good with the bad. Go home.”

On his way out, rubbing his shoulder, Dave bumped into Zach. Zach washed dishes deep in the bowels of The Olive Garden kitchen. Zach looked and smelled like a baby rhino and had the IQ of a fork. Zach handed Dave a small notebook. It was Dave’s moleskin notebook. He’d thought he’d lost it.

“Here,” said Zach, “I accidentally found this in your locker when I was looking for money.”

“I thought I lost it,” said Dave.

“You’re welcome,” said Zach, “Them tomato sauce stains there on your notebook is from tomato sauce. I dropped it the tomato sauce pot over there when I was reading it. Some of the pages got stuck together. I read them before they got stuck, though. I hope you don’t mind that I read your poems.”

“No, that’s all right,” said Dave, all resigned, since he’d given up being a poet.

“Good,” said Zach, “Because I really really liked your poems. Specially…specially the one about the really blond vampire who falls in love with the homely gay werewolf and they open up a clothes-optional badminton club in Downtown Scranton. I’m not gay, but it made me cry like I was.”

The pain in Dave’s shoulders subsided. He looked up, pointed at the ceiling, and spoke directly to the Universe.

“Now was that so hard?”

Dave went home, dug out his laptop and wrote a poem. He called it, Ode to a Baby Rhino. “Wanda Lupinski is so going to love this,” he said unto himself.