I stood in front of a steam table and watched an old Greek pile a pound of corned beef on a thin slice of rye bread...when the question came up.

"Why does Biggie call me Virus?" Iris asked.

"That's enough meat," I said. The lineman smashed the top half of the rye bread down on my sandwich. It teetered, momentarily, and fell next to my pickle spear.

Manny's is one of the best deli's in Chicago. A great place for lunch, if you don't mind standing in line and having hairy men throw meat at you.

"Well?" she asked.

"What?" I asked.

I might be able to dodge this conversation, if I can only holdout until she starts stuffing her face with food.

I slid my tray to the end of the line and waited for Iris. The cashier rang up my sandwich and soda.

"Wait, please," I said. "I'm paying for my friends meal, as well."

Iris weighs somewhere in the neighborhood of one-hundred and twenty-five pounds. The twenty-five pounds being the last meal she consumed.

The cashier took a deep breath and began the tally: One bowl of matzo ball soup, one pastrami on rye, one side of potato pancake, one cole slaw, one rice pudding, and a "Big Gulp" diet soda.

"Will that be all?" the cashier asked Iris.

"Yes," I answered, before Iris spotted the double chocolate cake in the dessert display.

"Where on earth do you put all that food? Do you hail from a family of squirrels and you're stocking up for the winter?"

She ignored this remark, as she does most of the catty things I say, thus our long standing friendship.

Iris and I have been friends since the mid-seventies when disco was king. We met in a dance club on Halsted. She was tossing her cookies in the ladies room and I was stealing her wallet. She ended up puking on my shoes, I ended up giving her a ride home.

Those were the days when Iris would screw anyone wearing a peace sign. I would screw anyone who'd pop for dinner and drinks.

She and I were an unlikely duo, but in those days anyone with an apartment and a steady income was "Best Friend" material.

So, I moved in with Iris. We were roomies, except she paid all the bills while I continued to search for the true meaning of life on Rush Street.

She got up early, went to work, and came home in need of friendship. I slept till noon, watched TV until five, then left the house before Iris got home.

Iris was an empty vessel with a crack in the bottom. With Iris, there was never enough. Never enough love or attention. She was the walking-wounded with a bullhorn and a banner that read "poor me".

Our roomie arrangement lasted until I met Harvey. Then, I left her couch and moved on up to the 55th floor of the Hancock building. But that's another story.

When she called wanting to "do lunch" I hesitated accepting. What new catastrophe could have fallen upon her weary shoulders? Pray tell? And, I'm sure she will.

"How's the new job?" I asked.

"Over," she answered spewing corned beef on my new silk blazer.

"What this time?"

"I can't work for women. They are impossible."

"You're a woman, last time I looked."

Iris spoke with a pickle spear hanging out of her mouth. "She said I take too many sick days."

"Are you sick again?"

Iris took a giant swig of her diet soda and changed the subject. "Why doesn't Biggie like me?"

"Who said she doesn't like you?"

"She calls me Virus."

"She has a speech impediment."

"She typed the name Virus in her text message."

Rats! She got me there. And, she is correct. Biggie doesn't like Iris. Biggie is a germaphobe. Iris is continually sick, or at least claims to be.

Iris never has a cold. She has the flu or pneumonia. She never has an upset stomach from eating too much, she food poisoning or stomach cancer.

A night out for Iris is a trip to the emergency room. She's on a first name basis with most of the EMT's assigned to her neighborhood and sends them Christmas cards.

"It's most likely a Spell check issue?" I said, sounding more like a question than an answer. (Well, you have to admit, it is a reasonable assumption!)

"No one likes me. Not even my own mother. Did I ever tell you about the time she left me in the hosiery department at Marshal Fields?"

"Once or twice, Iris."

"I was just a little baby!"

I pushed back my half-eaten sandwich and wished we were in a bar. Sob stories are better heard whilst numbing the brain with alcohol.

"Well, here's something you don't know. Jerry dumped me and went back to his wife."

"Jerry never left his wife."

"You never like my boyfriends."

"Men who ring your door bell in the middle of the night to have sex are not boyfriends."

She dropped her sandwich onto the plate and held her head in her hands. Tears dripped down onto her potato pancake.

"Here, take these." I handed her a stack of flimsy napkins from the dispenser. "And you're getting mustard in your hair."

"You hate me. Biggie hates me."

"No one hates you, Iris. We love you."

And with that, we resume our "Love Affirmation" ritual. My penance for using Iris, oh so many years ago.

Softly, soothingly, I begin...