The Starving Writer Blog

I went downtown yesterday, something I was determined not to do, but I went anyway. There are things you can get down there, things that just aren’t available out here, and no matter how I try to convince myself that I don’t need those things, the truth is that I do. I can’t live without them. If I go for more than a few days without them, I start to become unfocused, forgetful. I could kick it, I suppose. Go cold turkey. Wait until the cravings pass, and then start anew. But why? Isn’t life without prosciutto — the good kind, not that stuff that comes from Germany — just a little too gray?

And that got me to thinking about Bosco. Does anyone even know what it is anymore? There was a time, a time within my own lifetime, when people had that name. Dogs had that name. Dogs especially, come to think of it. And why? I have no idea. But we all had a jar of Bosco in our pantry, a jar of Bosco with the white pump. It was part of the ritual of coming home from school, of bursting through the front door, fifth-grade energy still bubbling over. And then, once the books were put down, once the overcoat had come off and the shoes were set down on newspaper by the front door, then we set about making our Bosco. One glass of cold milk, a couple of pumps of that thick brown liquid, a few stirs with the spoon, and all was well with the universe.

Once the Bosco was dispensed with, it was time for television. Time for the Million Dollar movie, or time for the Three Stooges, or time for one of those shows hosted by some adult who specialized in being silly. Maybe there was even some homework thrown in, but I don’t remember that part. I remember the Bosco and the television and laying on the rug in front of the television — the black and white television, of course — and that’s about it. And the trouble is that I’m downtown now, thinking about Bosco, and I can’t remember why I’m here.

There has to be a reason, I tell myself. I wouldn’t bother with the 40-minute drive if it wasn’t important unless I was on my way somewhere else, somewhere along this same path, but I know that’s not the case. I know I’m after something, but all I can taste is milk flavored with chocolate syrup. All I can think of wanting right now is the feel of my spoon stirring the drink, the sensation of the varying viscosity as the Bosco slowly mixes with the milk. And I know there is no Bosco down here. The closest I can come is Starbucks, and they’re not going to let me mix the drink myself, so there’s no sense in entertaining that notion.

I linger in my car, the engine off but the radio still on, running the day through my head, trying to pick up the thread that culminated in this moment, but it is lost to me, lost forever, like a fall afternoon far away and long ago. Like a glass of Bosco.