This Is My Brain in Love - I. W. Gregorio Page 0,116
meet with Mr. Berger, the landlord who owns a number of the businesses on the street. It turns out that he wasn’t aware of A-Plus’s anniversary, either, so I was able to share this video with him as well.”
It took me five cold calls and twenty minutes of waiting on hold, but I finally got to sit down in the same room with the man. He wasn’t really thrilled about sitting through the video—in fact, he sent at least two text messages while “watching” it on my laptop—but was super interested in a report that I put together on the three brothers who were hoping to take over the A-Plus lease from the Wus.
It turns out that exposure therapy is easier when you’re motivated by the threat of someone you love having to move away forever. I lost count of how many cold calls I made to public records and former associates and clients of the Brennan brothers. Near the end of my investigation, I barely broke a sweat when I made a phone call. More importantly, I discovered that the Brennan brothers have been involved with some shady deals, to put it mildly.
“After watching the video and reflecting on how A-Plus has become a Utica institution, Mr. Berger told me that he is thrilled to extend our current lease for another six months,” I tell the crowd at A-Plus, clicking through our PowerPoint and bringing up a PDF of the new contract. “It’ll give us time to grow the catering business and further our ties with the local colleges, so maybe we’ll be in a better place to negotiate next February.”
“Yussss!” Alan gets up and repeats his earlier victory lap twice, high-fiving Jin-Jin and Miss Zhou along the way. Mrs. Wu gasps and puts her hand to her mouth in disbelief, while Jocelyn’s grandmother beams and leans over to clasp my hand in hers, chattering away in Mandarin.
Mr. Wu is the only one who doesn’t say anything, and the silence might be because he’s almost stopped breathing. I watch as Jocelyn walks over to him. She hovers for a second when he doesn’t seem to see her, as if she’s unsure whether to talk, or make a move, or make a strategic retreat. And then slowly, tentatively, like she’s reaching out to pet a shelter dog, she puts a hand on his forearm. He starts, as if seeing her for the first time. He closes his eyes. And slowly, tentatively, he hugs her.
That afternoon, I finally get my interview with Rebecca Ross. After I showed Mr. Berger how narrowly he dodged the bullet of the Brennan brothers, he was more than happy to put a word in for me.
Ms. Ross, it turns out, is an incredibly nice woman. I probably didn’t need to rehearse my pitch quite as much as I did, but I know she responds to the part where I say I want to “shine a spotlight not only on stores that succeed, but on those that have failed. If I write about these losses to the community, it might prompt readers to get out there more to support local businesses instead of just buying stuff online.” She’s more than happy to put me in contact with businesses in the plaza that have closed down, as she’s still in touch with a lot of the owners.
On my way home, I realize it’s the first time I’ve had a list of phone numbers that I’m actually looking forward to calling.
I’ve just gotten back and am plugging in my car when my mom pulls in the driveway. It’s starting to drizzle so I run out with an umbrella to cover her as she unloads her laptop bag, white coat, and a few bags of groceries. Because she’s always the first one out in the morning, she never parks in the garage.
“Bless you, William,” she says as we unload the bags in our mudroom. “The weather report this morning did not mention rain. I bought some yeast at the market. We have not made puff puff in some time, no? It used to be your favorite.”
My mouth waters at the mention of the Nigerian fried dough balls. My mom used to make puff puff every year for my birthday, until I turned nine and begged for a “real” birthday cake to serve at my party. “I still love them, Mom. Can I make them with you? Learn the recipe myself?”
“That would be lovely, William. Why don’t you get the flour