THE BLUE SUIT
With the mayor’s Blue Suit & Josh Resnek
“I don’t know where to start today, Josh,” the Blue Suit said to me.
We had just finished a huge lunch at Floramo’s in Chelsea where the place is closing this week after something like 30 years.
The Blue Suit began with an anti-pasto salad, two cups of minestrone soup and extra bread and butter before chowing down on a plate of rare steak tips, beef ribs with “meat so tender it falls off the bone,” as well as a large plate of pasta and pomodoro sauce, a side of sausage and vegetables as well as a plate of Floramo’s home made meatballs.
Floramo’s, which is no stranger to the Blue Suit or to Everett people in general, will be sorely missed. I heard they’re moving the operation to Wakefield but I could be wrong about this.
Anyway, I watched with awe as the Blue Suit gorged himself. He looked to me like a bull or a bear devouring a pile of food, shoveling meatballs, pasta, ribs and steak tips into his mouth like an animal eating its last meal and swallowing enormous portions of chewed up food.
Then the burping would begin and grow more noisy, like explosions of flatulence he could not control.
He dropped food all over himself. He slobbered spaghetti on his lapels. Pieces of sausage fell between his legs. Ribs hit his pant legs and fell to the floor. What a mess! He didn’t bother using a napkin. He wiped his face with his sleeve.
“My God! Will you please stop!” I begged the Blue Suit.
“Can you please try to control yourself? You’re a like a one man garbage truck,” I said to him.
The Blue Suit looked up at me.
He reminded me of his boss at that moment.
Then he let out an enormous burp, what we refer to as a “clapper.” That was heard throughout the bar-side dining room. After that, a few people came over to the Blue Suit.
“Man, I’ve never heard a burp like that. God bless, Blue Suit.
What a performance!” said a truck driver who had stopped in for lunch.
“”I wasn’t even trying,” the Blue Suit responded with a wide smile.
“You better step away just a bit. I feel another one coming!” the Blue Suit suggested.
The man stepped away.
It was a good thing he did.
The Blue Suit let out another clapper, this one with several short bursts like a series of cannon shots one after the other. This prompted a group of guys from Everett at the back of the room who heard them to shout at him.
“”Blue Suit yo! Go my man! Like let it all out! We love you!” The Blue Suit rose from his bench. He turned to acknowledge his admirers.
“Thank you guys. I love the praise.”
They got up from their table, and walked over to our table. Five Everett guys gave the Blue Suit high fives.
Truly an incredible, unforgettable seen.
As the Blue went to sit down, he let out another clapper.
The Everett guys applauded.
“That’s my bad-ass Blue Suit,” they all shouted in unison.
Love you guy! Don’t ever change”
Finally he was done with his meal. I paid the bill.
$160 for both of us.
When he tried to stand, he fell back onto his bench.
“I’m really dizzy,” he said to me.
“Jesus, man. You’re going to kill yourself eating like that. Do I need to call an ambulance?” I asked.
“Naw, that’s alright. I’m cool.” His stomach rumbled. He was making with his mouth as though there was going to be an ex- plosion, an atomic explosion. He pursed his lips. He let out air.
He held his head with both hands and then came another clapper – a long, loud, clapper.
“OK,” I said to him. ‘Let’s get out of here, please.”
We walked out of Floramo’s into the day. Admirers tried crowding around him. The Blue Suit waved them off. “Guys. I’m really really full. Don’t get too close,” he warned them.
The rain had finally stopped.
Now he began with flatulence, with incredible blasts like gas explosions that could break windows as we walked toward my car.
Each time he exploded, he lurched forward. He almost fell at one point. I grabbed him in time to keep him from falling over. “You’re not going to be doing that inside my car,” I warned the Blue Suit.
“Yeah. OK. I’ll try to control myself,” he said to me.
We drove back to Everett and took a look around the city on Primary Day. He told me was with Joe McGonagle. I told him I had a preference for Guerline Alcy.
We talked about McGonagle’s perceived power as opposed to Alcy’s belief she would win.
“I am the worst handicapper in the United States so I am making no predictions…but I know this – if Alcy were to somehow come out on top it would be a miracle. I know if Mike Marchese scored a good vote as an independent, this, too, would be the stuff of miracles.
Then I stretched out the thought.
“Can you imagine if Alcy loses and Marchese beats McGonagle in the final? Alcy becomes the councilor at large! What a thing that would be.”
The Blue Suit let out a clapper.
“Keep dreaming Josh. If that should happen, I owe you a dinner at Oliveira’s – and I’m talking a dinner fit for a king – and I’’ get you an interview with the mayor.
We shook hands on that and we parted.
I watched him nearly stumble out of the car as he began walking down Elm Street and turned left onto Abbot Avenue.
That’s when I wondered to myself: What does his boss think about his Blue Suit?”