everyone called him Moe, and not just his friends.  Moe, he didn't believe in beginnings, but his wife would tell people when it started.  it started, she would say, when he stopped eating his lunches.  and he guessed that was about right, as right as a wife can be.  he'd come home from work with his pail and set it heavy in his wife's right arm as the baby, the youngest, would be in her left.  he'd say, no I didn't, maybe tomorrow.  then he'd go out to smoke but he wouldn't smoke.  he'd leave the cigarettes in their pack and walk out to the yard and think about putting his fat neck in the tire swing.  he'd come back to the house and put his fat hands on his daughter's shoulders and say he was home and he would be home tomorrow to eat with her and her brothers.  he wouldn't be, though.  not right away.  on the weekends he'd sit on the step with his oldest son and watch little men die.  such a small drop, from that step, not enough to **** a man.  his son would just look at him and take the man from Moe's hands and place him on his back again.  soon the day came that he left work on his lunch hour.  his daughter said thanks and poked his belly.  he could hardly move in his pants anymore but he managed to sit down.  he asked his wife for the special and pinched her leg.  coming right up was a plate of canned ravioli.  **** ravioli he said.  but he didn't say it mean.  he said it as if he'd just asked for permission to hate ravioli.  he said it again.  he said a lot of things just then, his mouth full, his wife opening cans in the kitchen.  he addressed god directly.  after these many years, he addressed god head on.  he made for his truck.  god, Moses here.  it's the ravioli, we have too much.