Take Out

Libby waited till Bev and her husband Rob had gone to work and then she got her car keys.  She'd known where Bev hid them.  So predictable, that Bev. Of course she'd hide them in her jewelry box.  Libby had always been able to sniff out Bev's secrets. 
 
And why did she need her car keys?
 
She'd woken that morning with a real hunger for pizza.  She just had to have a few slices of Papa Joe Amato’s pizza.  Bev and Rob never wanted to visit that pizza restaurant  back in the old neighborhood.
 
"So depressing in that part of town, Mom.  Why do you want to go back and eat junk in those places?  You gotta eat healthy at your age."
 
And so Libby ate healthy and could only dream of pizza and pepperoni and pastrami and rich ice cream at Ethan's shop.  She used to drive herself once in a while until Bev and Rob thought she couldn't see good enough to drive.  That's when her car keys disappeared.
 
So after Libby found the keys, she got a bit dressed up – maybe one of her old friends would see her at Amato's – and started up her car.  It ran a little rough for a few miles and then settled down.  Felt good to drive again, although the traffic lights were a little hard to see till she got close to the intersections. And she noted that folks were more impatient these days and blew their horns all the darn time.
 
Luckily, she found a parking place right in front of the restaurant and walked in ahead of the lunchtime crowd.  So far, so good.  She should be able to get served quickly, eat her lunch and get home before three o’clock, when the grand kids came home from school.  She’d park her car in the same place in the garage, and change clothes. No one would ever know that she’d been gone. 

She asked for a table by the window where she could watch folks go by and the light helped her read the menu.  Hmm, she thought, this menu is different. Gluten free pizza crust? Organic veggies in the minestrone soup? Vegetarian pizza?  When I asked where Papa Joe was, the waitress said she didn't know that there'd ever been a Papa Joe.  Imagine that? Never heard of Joe Amato.  And didn’t know about his fantastic homemade Italian sausage. What an ignoramus!

    A half hour later, Libby got into the driver's seat, still angry that the cashier gave her back the wrong change.  And kept saying she was wrong until she started yelling  – called him a dumb wetback who didn't know American money – and then the manager showed up and finally gave her the change she wanted.  She simmered when she thought of the way the waitresses all rolled their eyes at her and acted like she was just a wacky old broad, and not someone who used to be a good customer.

She jammed the car into gear and almost stamped on the gas pedal.  The old Buick careened over the curb, smashed through Riccola's front door and pinned the cashier and a customer against the wall.

As the loud shouting erupted all around her, she focused at the man who stared through her shattered side window.  She beckoned for him to come closer, then hoarsely whispered,     "Would you call Bev for me?  Tell her to bring my Medicare Card. I think it's in her jewelry box."