Canned Spaghetti

Canned Spaghetti

One of the biggest problems working for my father, besides pissing him off on a regular basis, was lunch. Since we only had a half hour for lunch, going out to eat was impractical.  Lunch was strictly a brown bag affair.  Every day my mother made an identical lunch for my father and myself and every day it was the same lunch; two baloney sandwiches, a bag of chips, two pieces of fruit and a thermos filled with milk. Sadly this was a larger version of the lunch I had been eating ever since first grade.  My father had been eating the same boring lunch for even longer.  He never complained.  I guess any lunch was fine with him as long as he didn’t have to make it himself.  Me; I was tired of baloney and ready for a change.  I also knew better then to complain about it to either mom or especially dad.

I knew of two ways to safely deal with my father; either do whatever he told me to do without complaining, or stay as far away from him as possible.  I often chose the latter, not because I was lazy but because my dad was my boss and a proud man.  He was always afraid people would assume I was given special treatment because I was his son.  This was in fact true.  I did get special treatment; every messy, stinky, crappy, awful job my father could think of.  I did everything from scrubbing bathrooms to cleaning greasy bug infested old restaurant fixtures and never complained once; at least not to my dad. 

I was in the shop basement practicing the ancient art of hiding, when I noticed the old boiler used to heat the building was running.  It was at least eighty years old, painted gray and looked like something out of a 1920’s sci-fi serial.  It was pretty warm to the touch, had pipes going out in all directions and a grill that looked like a hungry mouth.  That gave me a wonderful idea.  I could use it to warm canned food or even a TV dinner.  If it worked, I could say goodbye to baloney forever.

The next day I brought a can of spaghetti and meat balls, a can opener and fork to work.  I was not a big fan of canned spaghetti, but it was all I could find in the kitchen pantry.  About two hours before lunch, I snuck off into the basement and placed the can on top of the old boiler.  I was afraid it may get too hot and explode, so I punched a hole in the top of the can with a phillip’s screwdriver.

I went back upstairs and continued sweeping the shop floor.  I have to admit, I was pretty excited.  Just before lunch, my father found me, handed me directions, keys to the company station wagon and told me he needed some tools delivered to a job site. 

I loaded the wagon and hit the road before dad could change his mind.  The job site was way out in Northbrook so it would take a couple hours.  I loved making deliveries;  getting paid to drive around town in a beat up old station wagon, radio blasting, smoking cigarettes; what could be better.  I was so excited, I totally forgot about the can of spaghetti on the old boiler.

When I finally got back to the shop, I was starving.  I grabbed my bag lunch and snuck off to the basement for hot spaghetti and meatballs.  I took the can off the boiler with the sleeve of my shirt just in case it was too hot.  It was pretty hot and surprisingly light.  I opened the can and found about a half inch of burned spaghetti at the bottom and no meat balls.  I looked at the can.  I looked around the basement.  I looked at the can again.  Then a little voice told me to look up at the ceiling.  There it was; a huge sticky blob of red, white and brown goop.  I had created a pasta volcano.

It was the coolest thing I had ever seen.  Picasso could not have done a better job.  I was sorry I wasn’t there to witness its creation.  I sat down and ate my brown bag lunch.  My mind was racing with so many questions.  How did the meat balls get out of the tiny hole on top of the can?  Could I make a spaghetti rocket?  What about chili?   I decided to bring another can of spaghetti the next day.  I could sneak down to the basement periodically and if I was lucky, witness the eruption of Mount Boyardee.  Later I could try other experiments. 

I walked up the basement stairs proud of myself for making such a wonderful discovery. What a great day I was having.  I opened the basement door only to discover my father standing there waiting for me.  He handed me a putty knife, a bucket and pointed to a small step ladder leaning up against the wall.  He never said a word.  He just turned and walked away shaking his head slowly.  I have to admit; this was not the first time I saw the slow head shake.  It meant I would not be punished.  It also meant I had done something so idiotic; my father was giving up on me.  I felt bad for being such a disappointment; but how often do you see a can of spaghetti stuck to the ceiling.   

I stumbled back into the basement with my ladder, putty knife and bucket.  I knew I had no choice but to clean up the mess I had made.  As I stood there admiring my grotesquely beautiful creation, I thought to myself; all in all, it really was a pretty great day.