The other day I was talking with my buddy Iggy Kowalski about people we knew, and it seemed like he knew everybody. So I said to him, “Iggy, it seems like you know everyone in the world!”
Iggy said, “I do! I know every single person in the world.”
Well, this was ridiculous of course and I told him so, and he gave me three tries to name people he didn’t know. I thought about it for a minute, and then said, “I’ll bet you don’t know my butcher, Stan Marciano.”
“Oh sure,” says Iggy. “Stan used to come over to my house every Saturday for my famous Shish-kabob dinner! How’s his son Ralph? Still getting into trouble with that skateboard of his?”
Foiled, I thought some more. I had to think of someone who lived out of the city, out of the State. My old friend from school on the other coast, Joseph Bakerman, came to mind. “Oh yeah – I met Joe at a shoeshine convention – he does my taxes and his wife Kate sends me the most wonderful fruitcake every Christmas! Great people.”
Finally, in exasperation, I say, “OK, wise-guy, I’ll bet you don’t know the Pope!”
“The Pope!” says Iggy. “We grew up together! Used to play pin-the-tail on the heretic!”
I had never known Iggy to be a liar, but in desperation I said, “Prove it!”
“OK,” he said. “Next week is Easter. Let’s you and me go to the Vatican and I’ll introduce you.” This was a little extreme, but I had to stick to my guns and so I accepted. When our plane arrived at the airport there were huge crowds that just got thicker as we made our way to St. Peter’s Square. We tried to find a way in around the back, but to no avail. Iggy said, “Look, I’m a small guy and can slip through the crowds easily. Will it be enough proof for you if I stand on the balcony with the Pope during his address?”
“If you’re standing with the Pope during his Easter address, I will believe that you know him.”
Iggy slipped off through the masses, and I tried to work my way around to the front of St. Peter’s Basilica. But I just couldn’t get to a spot where I could see the balcony. Way off in the distance I saw a hill from which I could surely have a direct line of sight. It was in the countryside, way out of town, and I barely made it there before the end of the address. But I couldn’t see the balcony well enough; it was too far away! Off in the distance, I saw an old man, herding his goats. I thought to myself, “Surely he must have good eyesight to keep track of all those goats running around everywhere.” I approached him and digging deep for Italian phrases said, “Excuse me, sir, but can you see that big building way over there with all the statues on top?”
Squinting into the distance, he said, “Yes, yes, I believe I can.”
“And can you see a large balcony above the main door in the middle of the building?” He squinted even more, his bushy eyebrows closing in on his eyes.
“Yes, yes, I believe I can.”
“And is there anyone standing on that balcony?”
He squinted even more, which hadn’t seemed possible. “Yes, yes, I believe there is.”
“And,” I said, “can you tell me who is standing on that balcony?”
His face did something I had never seen before, and I could hardly believe that he could see through those bushy eyebrows. He peered into the distance for a long while, and then said, “Well, I don’t know who that guy in the big pointed hat is, but he’s standing next to Iggy Kowalski!”