And The Winner Is…

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• August 18, 2024

There are very few instances I didn’t feel safe in my neighborhood, where I’ve lived for a decade. One of these instances happened recently. My friend, Greg, and I had just seen ‘Back to the Future’ on Broadway. I was walking home from the subway, which is a bit of a walk. It was late. This guy on a Vespa scooter catcalled me driving by. I ignored him. But then, he turned around at the corner to drive next to me and continued to catcall me. Despite me ignoring him, he continued to drive off and circle back to harass me.

Usually, I have a knife on me, but Broadway theaters now have metal detectors, so I had taken my knife out of my bag. Eventually, I escaped down a side street and lost him, calling my friend Greg to stay on the phone with me until I was home. I’ll be damned if how I die is by someone on a Vespa.

My good childhood friend, Brittany, found it perturbing that I once brought a knife to a party with all our friends. I used it to open a stubborn cookie display. Brittany is often perturbed by my jokes. She laughs and winces at the same time. It’s adorable. Brittany is a fun person to fuck with because she’s so sweet and her face is priceless.

The annual Long Island clams chucking contest used to take place at Kismet in Fire Island. My friends and I, like everyone, would go party and root on the shuckers. As for me, well I love seafood, so I’d buy a couple dozen on the half shell and slurp them down. The proceeds go to breast cancer research. Cancer, particularly breast cancer, runs rampant on Long Island.

Some years ago, they stopped doing it on Fire Island. This year it was in Bayshore. Brittany’s cousin was in the clam shucking contest, like he has been years prior. He usually disqualified himself by cutting his hand. If you drew blood while shucking you get disqualified. That’s the rules. It’s quite easy to cut yourself shucking clams or oysters, as you have to quickly knife through the clams muscles to half the shell. Though this year, Brittany’s cousin would win the contest.

The whole contest was much more tame than years prior on Fire Island. There were a lot more kids and old people. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. Slightly less interesting, if one considers drunkards interesting. There were tons of raffles, which I don’t do because I don’t really like raffles. For years and years of doing comedy fundraisers, I’ve had to draw tickets for raffle baskets and I consider it some sort of level of Hell. Most raffle baskets are things I don’t even want, and I’m poor! But still, the money goes to a great cause, so I’m not against it. I just prefer to spend my tickets on food and drink.

Anyway. Chapey & Son’s Funeral home had a booth and a giant spin wheel. One could step up and spin the wheel, which was decorated with smiling suns, and win a prize. I was staring at this game, while eating clams on the half shell and sipping a beer waiting for Brittany to arrive. Being a young woman by myself, a portly man struck up conversation. Although I was cordial, I couldn’t wait for my friends to arrive so I could get out of this conversation. As soon she did show up, I promptly ditched the man and embraced her. “Thank god you’r ehere,” I said, squeezing her, like she had just returned from war.

I pointed out Chapey’s wheel game. “Isn’t it weird,” I said.

“It looks kind of cute,” Brittany said.

“Look closer. It’s Chapey’s. Kind of morbid at a cancer benefit, isn’t it? Like, hey, when your family member finally dies of cancer, bring their body to Chapey’s!”

Brittany laughed. Then frowned. Classic Brittany.

There was also a church booth, which, despite their good nature, I mocked. “They should have made shirts that said, ‘Jesus Shucks’ with a picture of Jesus walking on water and clams at his feet. On the back, it could say, ‘pearly gates indeed.’ I’m sure they’d make a killing. I’d buy one.”

When I was in Hawaii earlier this year, my “housemate” who has the AirBnB I stayed in, had a red Vespa scooter he said I was free to use anytime I’d like. In the three weeks I stayed there, I didn’t use it once. I feared a fall on that thing would mean I couldn’t surf, which, was slightly worse than dying to me. Goodness knows, I didn’t want to die in any Vespa related incident.

The sun was hot that day in Bayshore, like it was in Hawaii. My half Italian skin had a nice tan. Though in the past I had a suspicious mole surgically removed. My skin doctor often berates me for getting too much sun. Playing with fire— literally. Not too long ago, I had a suspicious breast lump which turned out to be a false alarm. These little scares don’t seem so little in the moment. And a scare is the best thing it could be. C is for clam. C is for cancer. C is for the calamity cells can cause when they’re abnormal.

It always seems so random, doesn’t it? Who cancer seems to strike, and who beats it and who doesn’t. Like drawing a raffle. A slightly worse draw than a basket full of pasta and Ragu sauce. When all you wanted was a TV. Or a Vespa.