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Joseph Papaleo 35 Sizes Joseph Papaleo Fiction (1994) ‘‘I don’t care what you heard your girlfriend Mary told you. I don’t think the Escort or the Chevette or the Rabbit or even the Cockroach, and I don’t care what else you call them in Japanese, is not the right size, any of them.’’ ‘‘But I want a small car, Pa. You understand, I want a small car and not a big bazoom—though if you wanted to buy me a Merc, I wouldn’t fight you.’’ ‘‘You, my dear, you think everything is the style and the color. Even the size to you is the style. But I am not talking about what’s in style. I am talking about a chassis, a protection in the car you drive that’s not just the pieces pasted together. Gabeesh?’’ ‘‘Yes, I gabeesh,’’ she said, her voice going down. Her father did not pick up the appeasement in the tone and kept on. ‘‘A small car is like a paper tiger, you know what I mean? Pretty on the outside and tissue paper if you hit a dog.’’ Her father assumed a stance. She knew it was his way of making the mood lighter. Denise examined him. She looked away from the wrinkles around his chin, like small knife cuts—the way a sheet of typing paper makes a cut. She watched the driveway lined with cars, her mother’s large Mercury, Johnny’s Camaro, and, at the end, her father’s big black Mercedes. Her father was pacing before her like the dog when it wanted to go out. She saw his tuxedo jacket pulling at his sides, as if he had two hip guards in place there. But he looked handsome in his white jacket. He had that look. He loved to go formal. ‘‘Where is it you went out today?’’ she asked. ‘‘Today was the first Cotillion at the club.’’ The words were uncomfortable for him. ‘‘Your mother’s vice president this year, so I had ’a look dressy. I didn’t have a choice. It was daylight on the lawn.’’ ‘‘Don’t kid me, you love it,’’ Denise said. He walked across the kitchen to his daughter and leaned down, almost touching her face: ‘‘And how come you know everything, you little peanut?’’ She put her right finger on his nose. ‘‘Because I’m smarter than you, that’s why. Didn’t you know women are the superior breed?’’ ‘‘That’s what they tell me. Except with cars. How long before you all become automotive engineers?’’ He walked to the refrigerator and opened the brown door. ‘‘Will you tell me if your mother still does any shopping around here? I can’t find a glass of mineral water in here.’’ She saw his face lit up, left her chair and pushed him away from the door. ‘‘I knew it would be right in front of your nose. What is this green bottle?’’ 36 sizes ‘‘The San Pellegrino.’’ ‘‘The San Pellegrino.’’ Her repetition made her father smile like a boy, and she continued. ‘‘Listen, you are damn lucky I didn’t ask you for a Mazda RX or a 280Z.’’ Her father sat where she had been sitting and watched her pour a glass full of the water. ‘‘You bet your sweet life,’’ he said. ‘‘And you would get a Jap car over my dead body. This much I’ll tell you right now. Nobody will take me on that trip again.’’ He had the glass in the air and was shaking it for emphasis. ‘‘There’s one mechanic who fixes it, he’s in South Jersey, and the parts—they’re in Poughkeepsie . For ten times the price of what we got here.’’ ‘‘But I still don’t want a big load. I haven’t starting smoking cigars yet, you know.’’ She moved back by instinct and let her weight fall back on the sink. Mr. Polero drank his water slowly and made her sweat. Then he said, ‘‘And now I got another comedian in the family. Listen to me, Joan Rivers. A medium car is not a big load, you know. Take a two-door. Go out and see some Chevvies. Take a look inside. GM is a sensible car.’’ Denise walked to the white archway that led to the dining room and the hallway . ‘‘And some little ones are sensible, too. Didn’t Johnnie have a Fiat Brava a long time?’’ ‘‘Him? Him...

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