Green Bread

Green Bread

If you’re like me, you grew up in a traditional, old-fashioned family; one with lots of aunts and uncles and cousins, and one with a rich heritage—be it Polish or Irish or Italian, or any one of a number of other colorful ethnicities. And, if you’re like me, that heritage included beliefs and superstitions that are more commonly referred to as old wives tales.

I grew up listening to little snippets of wisdom that predicted coming into money, or a visitor to the household, or bad luck, or even death, none of which ever actually happened. As I grew older, friends told me that someone loved me because only one side of my cigarette lit with the match. Or a girlfriend said that it was bad luck to put my shoes on the table. And even the occasional stranger felt the need to inform me of some pending event because I dropped a spoon in a restaurant.

Old wives tales. There must be a million of ‘em. They’re not exactly superstitions: like walking under ladders or black cats crossing your path, although some do cross over. The ones I’m talking about are more like signs and omens with their origins in folklore; tales handed down from generation to generation and used to foretell future events in a non-magical, folksy kind of way. They never come true, of course. When my palms itched, I never came into money; when I dropped a knife, no one came to visit, and I don’t ever remember death coming in threes. Believing that parents designed the more foreboding of these tales to scare their children into behaving themselves, I never placed much stock in their credibility. That is to say, not until now.

Several months back, I came home late. I was hungry and decided to make a sandwich. After pulling the tuna salad from the fridge, I untwisted the plastic bag housing the sesame-seed style Italian bread. I reached inside and pulled out two slices located just past the heel. “Aw shit,” I said, spotting green splotches of mold inhabiting the upper left corners of the bread. I reached back into the bag and began fingering back the tops of the slices like someone fanning a giant deck of cards. But the green mold started at the first slice and continued well past the middle of the recently purchased loaf.

I thought back to when I was a kid; back to the time my mother, God rest her soul, happened to walk into the kitchen while I was assembling a ham sandwich. It wasn’t much of a sandwich, just a couple of slices of white bread, too much mayonnaise by today’s standards, and a couple of pieces of ham. She saw the moldy green spots in the middle of the two slices, snatched it away and tossed it—and the rest of the loaf—into the trash.

“You can’t eat that,” she scolded. And it was a scolding, since I was only eight years old and didn’t know shit. “When you see bread with green spots like this, don’t you dare eat it. Throw it away. It’s no good.”

“But, Mom! I’m hungry.”

“I don’t care. Eat the ham without the bread. I’ll go to the store and get some fresh, but if you eat that, it’ll make your insides green. Then you’ll be sorry.”

Another old wives tale. To me, the warning was akin to crossing my eyes and having them get stuck that way if someone were to slap me on the back. It never happened. I remember saying, “What’s the big deal? Can’t I just rip out the green stuff?”

“No!” She was emphatic. “Mold sends its tentacles all through the bread. You can’t see them. Now, stop arguing with me and do what I tell you.”

Moms. They’re like that, aren’t they? Well, at least they used to be, back when they stayed at home and actually raised their kids. They’d tell you not to run out between two parked cars. And like most kids, eventually you would. When you did, they’d beat you to within an inch of your sorry little life because you might’ve gotten hurt. I know. My mom was Italian. But they did it because they loved you, and didn’t want anything happening to you that they didn’t inflict on you themselves. So, now I throw out the green bread like I was told by a woman with whom I dared not argue.

I was pissed because the Italian bread I bought just the day before was bad. It was two in the morning and I had just returned home from a night of drinking and carousing with my rowdy friends. I was starving. None of the late-night pizza delivery places were open and I wasn’t about to go to the convenience store and chew on something that had been under a heat lamp since Nixon was President. So, in spite of my mother’s warning, I found two slices in the back of the bag that looked safe. The mold had stopped two-thirds of the way though the loaf and I figured they would be okay.

The next day, I went to the store to buy another loaf of bread. And, as usual, found myself wandering around the store trying to remember what was on the list I left lying on the counter along side the discount coupons. I didn’t notice it at first, but I became aware that I was scratching my left ear, the one I hear best in. I paid it no mind. As I turned up the canned goods aisle, I spotted two gals that live on my block; the wives of my drinking buddies who had gotten home even later than I did.

“We were just talking about you,” wife #1 said. “We were wondering if you were as hung over as our worthless husbands.”

Not being married, I didn’t have to deal with the slings and arrows wielded by pissed-off wives suffering wayward husbands.

“No,” I lied, “I’m fine.”

“Well, your drinking buddies are paying the price this morning,” said wife #2. “And you look a little green around the gills yourself.”

We were chatting for several minutes about this and that, until they slyly tried to guide the conversation towards last night’s events. Huh! As if I’d tell them. I wouldn’t divulge any information that might contradict what my buddies may have told them, so I changed the conversation.

“Oh, I just remembered … where do they keep the toast?”

I excused myself and continued on my way. The itching subsided as abruptly as it had started.

A couple of days later, while in my office, my boss, Susan, walked in.

“Hi,” I said. “What’s up?”

“Did you hear about Henry?”

“Henry? No, what about him?”

“He died last night … in his sleep.”

The news shocked me. Henry was about the same age as me and a health nut. You know, the kind who worked out at the gym, ate the right things, didn’t smoke, didn’t drink—stuff like that. We weren’t the best of friends, but we did hang out on occasion.

“Jesus,” I said. “He looked in perfect health. What happened?”

“Dunno,” Susan replied. “but as soon as I get the funeral arrangements, I‘ll send an e-mail.” She turned to leave, but stopped when she spied a photo on the wall. “This is you, and Henry, and Rodger at the picnic last year, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Funny thing,” she said, “My mother always told me that in a photo of three people, the one in the middle will die first.”

“And death comes in threes,” I added. “An old wives tale. I heard ‘em from my mother all the time when I was growing up. There’s nothing to them.”

“Me too,” she replied, “but who knows? Hey, have you been painting?”

“No. Why?”

“You’ve got a little spec of green on your ear. Looks like paint. Chalk maybe.”
Within the next week, two more acquaintances died. One in an auto accident and one from an allergy to shellfish. The old wives tale about death coming in threes flashed through my mind, but I dismissed it as a bunch of hooey.

A day or so later, I wasn’t feeling up to par, so I scheduled an appointment with my doctor to see if I caught a bug.

“You have a coating on your tongue that I’ve never seen before. Were you eating something green?”

“Not that I can remember,” I said. “What do you think it is?”

“I can’t be sure. I’ll draw some blood and send it to the lab. I should have the results in a week to ten days. In the meantime, try not to over-exert yourself. You might have a vitamin deficiency.”

He wrote me a prescription for some antibiotics and sent me on my way.

I began feeling worse by the day. I wasn’t running a fever, but about a week later, my nose began running and when I blew it, green came out. Maybe its pollen, I thought. Maybe I’m getting allergic. I decided to take the day off.

That evening I awoke from a nap and my vision was fuzzy. The sun had set and it was quite dark outside, so I turned on the bathroom light and peered into the mirror. Everything had a wispy green tint to it, like looking through loosely woven green cloth. I washed my face and rinsed my eyes and to my relief, my vision cleared up. But, the green coming out of my nose was still there. I decided I’d call the doc again tomorrow to tell him, and see if the blood-work had come back yet.

I got hungry about eleven o’clock, so I went into the kitchen and nuked some leftover fried chicken. Reaching for the napkins, I knocked over the shaker spilling a little salt on the counter. I brushed the wayward grains into the palm of my hand and dumped them into the sink. My mother’s words came roaring back. “Throw some over your left shoulder to blind the devil, or you’ll have bad luck.” I looked at the palm of my hand. There were still a few grains left. “Oh, this is nonsense,” I said, and sent them to join their brothers. I picked up the plate and my glass of soda and started back to the living room to watch TV with my late-night dinner. Rebecca Romijn was a guest on The Tonight Show and I knew they would show a trailer of the latest X-Men movie. Plus, she’s hot. As I rounded the breakfast-bar, I caught the little toe of my left foot on a leg of a stool. The plate, the chicken, and the soda went flying as I howled and cursed in pain. My mother’s I-told-you-so echoed in my ears.

“...or you’ll have bad luck.”

I sat Indian style in my pajama pants on the floor cradling my throbbing foot and consoling the toe I was sure I had broken. When the pain subsided enough for a look, I noticed what seemed to be some kind of green fungus under the nails of all my toes. I found the same condition on my right foot, as well.
“Athlete’s foot? God. What next?”

I woke up the next morning with a dry, hacking cough and I had trouble opening my eyes. Not because I was still sleepy, but because they were sealed shut by something that had seeped out overnight. With a concentrated effort I finally got them open to find that the green tint to my vision was back with a vengeance. I could barely see at all. Plus, I was involuntarily trying to hack up the fuzziness in my throat. I felt my way into the bathroom and I rinsed out my eyes. Once again my vision returned to normal. Then I hacked and coughed and cleared my throat of some green yuck—probably the same stuff that had coated my tongue. By now, I was sure that I was coming down with some kinda flu. I finished my morning ritual of showering and shaving, and pulled the stopper allowing the sink to drain. That’s when I noticed the green ring. Man, this bathroom needs a good scouring, I thought.

I didn’t really feel bad, so I finished dressing and headed to work. The doctor’s office told me the tests hadn’t returned yet, but they would call as soon as they knew something. By the time lunch rolled around, I was feeling like crap again. My foot hurt and my stomach was queasy. I took a half day and went home, but stopped at the pharmacy on the way for some ointment to combat the athlete’s foot.

Walking into the kitchen, I grabbed the antibiotics, drew a glass of water from the faucet and popped the prescribed number of pills according to the label. Placing the glass in the drain rack, I knocked a knife to the floor that I should have returned to the drawer yesterday. I picked it up and tossed it into the sink. I went to change clothes, but before I could get completely undressed, a knock came to the door. Wearing just my pants, I answered.

“Dave!” said the man with the big smile standing at the door.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Dave! Don’t you recognize me? It’s Walter … from college.”

Walter… Walter… Walter who? “Walter! How nice to see you again.” I didn’t know this guy from Adam. “What brings you around after all this time?” I was sure I would remember him—eventually.

“I just moved here. I got a job with—you’ll never guess—the same company you work for. I saw you leaving work today and asked if it was you. Then, when I told them we went to college together, they gave me your address. How the hell have you been?”

It went on like that for a couple of minutes, and the whole time I racked my brain trying to remember who Walter was. I drew blanks.

“Well, aren’t you going to invite me in? We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
“You know, Walt…”

“Walter.”

“You know, Walter, I’d love to reminisce,” I lied, “but actually I was just getting dressed to go to the doctor. I haven’t been feeling all that well. How about a rain check?”

I told him we’d catch up at work, and when I saw him drive away, I finished getting undressed and plopped into bed.

That night I was restless; tossing and turning the whole night through, not quite awake, but not completely asleep, either. When the alarm went off, I felt … odd. As if wrapped in the blanket that I had tossed off somewhere in the middle of the night. I wasn’t wet, but damp. No, more like … moist. My eyes were sealed shut again and the dry hacking had returned. I couldn’t feel anything, almost as if I were wearing gloves and slippers.

It was weird in a scary kind of way. I couldn’t force my eyes open like the last time, so I blindly made my way to the bathroom and felt for the wall-switch. The light that trickled through my eyelids had a disturbingly green texture. My hands padded their way to the spigots and I managed to turn on the water. But when I placed my hands under the flow, they turned a gooey mess. I continued to rub them until sensation returned and I recognized the feel of my own skin. Then, I rinsed my eyes and had the same terrible, gooey, experience. I grabbed the towel I always hung over the shower curtain rod and wiped my eyes and face. The first thing I noticed was green goo on the towel.

That’s when I saw a green kind of fuzz on my arms. I started to panic and wildly began scraping the green stuff off. It floated into the air like dust in a sunbeam. But as quickly as I rubbed it off, it grew back even thicker. Then, I suddenly realized it wasn’t growing back on my hands.

“Water!” I shouted. “The water kills it!”

I turned towards the sink to get to the water that I had left running. That’s when I saw my reflection in the mirror. I loosed a blood-curdling scream that would wake the dead. In horror, I panicked and began ripping at my skin, tearing at my hair. What I saw in the mirror; saw in my mouth, my ears, my nose … it was me, but not me. A green fuzzy mold covered my entire body, and its tentacles continued weaving in all directions at once to entwine me. It was alive! Terror set in and I began screaming, “Green bread! The green bread!”

The next thing I knew, my own screaming woke me. I bolted up arrow straight, frantically rubbing and scratching to expunge the consuming green mold of my nightmare. I was screaming and sweating and kicking and rolling and trying to get away from the deadly dream fungus.

Slowly, I began to understand. My vision was clear and I could feel the things that I should be able to feel. The sheets were soaked from sweat, as was I. I fell back into bed and began to control my terror.

“It was a nightmare,” I said over and over to myself, as if saying it more than once would convince me more quickly. Finally, I went to the bathroom and cautiously peeked in the mirror. All was as it should be. The night hair, the day-old beard, the sandman eyes, and the full bladder. One last shiver and I jumped into the shower to wake up, and to forget.

I arrived at work a little later than usual. As I walked past the picture of me, and Henry, and Rodger, I decided to give Henry a call. I was relieved when he answered his phone.

Now completely sure that all was normal in the great scheme of things, I got down to work. Noon rolled around and I was famished. I decided to take a working lunch and had Chinese delivered. Twenty minutes later, the delivery boy popped in and I paid him for the Hunan beef. I never learned to use chopsticks, so I opened the little bag of plastic utensils the restaurant always sends along for chopstick-challenged diners like me. I dropped the plastic knife on the floor and as I reflexively reached for it, the chill that ran down my spine stopped me mid-reach.

Green bread!

“Oh, this is ridiculous,” I said to myself. I snatched up the knife and began to remove the steamed-up plastic lid from the tin-foil container when a tapping came at the door. Slowly, I looked up.

“Dave!” said the man with the big smile standing at the door.

“Yes?” I replied.

“Dave! Don’t you recognize me? It’s Walter!”

***