Free on Kindle Unlimited
Audio Book Available on Audible
Book Summary
After a bitter divorce and years of corporate burnout, Francis Marino books a spontaneous trip to Italy, hoping to reconnect with the stories his grandfather once told him. He’s calculated, studied, and organized.
But fate has other plans. A simple act of kindness serendipitously upgrades Francis to first class, and a seat beside Carrie McCall, a sharp-witted punky bartender with ivy tattoos, a tragic past, and a ticket won in a prosecco sales contest. What begins as idle airplane banter evolves into something much deeper as the two wander through the alleys and piazzas of Venice, Florence, and Rome.
As the week unfolds and secrets emerge, Francis realizes Carrie is far more than her punky self-image suggests. Beneath her self-deprecating exterior lies a deeply artistic, thoughtful, and intelligent woman. Childhood trauma has left her believing she is unworthy and unwanted, pushing her to retreat into the misfit art community. There, she clings to the hope of finding the stability, love, and appreciation she was denied in her youth.
Carrie discovers Francis is unlike any man she’s ever known. She’s amused by his knowledge, organization, and stability. He is a considerate gentleman who makes her feel safe, cherished, and truly seen. As the week draws to a close, Francis and Carrie must decide whether this chance connection is just a flicker of amber light or the beginning of something neither saw coming.
Told with warmth, wit, and emotional nuance, The Amber Light in Venice is a character-driven, literary-leaning upmarket travel romance about second chances, emotional rescue, and the ways love can find us when we stop looking.
Sample Chapter 1
Chapter 1 – A Ticket to Somewhere
The bed shifted as the young man slid out and stood. Damp from sweat and heavy breathing, the sheets clung to her bare skin as she rolled onto her back. Her head throbbed from the four vodkas she’d downed the night before, and marijuana still clouded her thoughts. She peeked out from beneath the covers and squinted at the alarm clock.
Almost ten.
Her eyes slowly scanned the tiny bedroom that held her worldly possessions. She fixated on a small, worn stuffed bear sitting forlorn on a shelf in the corner, a birthday gift from her mother long ago. She imagined her mother’s eyes watching her—quietly bearing witness to the mess she’d made of her life.
The young man was already pulling on his jeans, dressing quickly, as though he had somewhere else to be. Maybe he did. Carrie didn’t ask.
She sat up, draping her arms loosely around her knees.
“You don’t have to sneak out.”
“I’m not sneaking,” he said, slinging his shirt over one shoulder. “I just… I think we need to cool off. That’s all. It’s starting to feel like a thing.”
Her laugh came out bitter and reflexive.
“A thing? You mean talking over drinks at the bar a couple of nights a week? … Then coming back here to get high and fuck?”
He didn’t answer.
He just swept his keys off the table, then turned and gave her a vague, apologetic nod. The door clicked behind him, and she was alone again, wrapped in silence and the echo of his departure.
She reached for her cigarettes, snapped her lighter, and drew deeply. Smoke filled her lungs before she slowly exhaled toward the ceiling.
How many times had this scene played out?
How many men?
She couldn’t even remember most of their names.
What she remembered vividly, however, was the feeling of emptiness and worthlessness she felt on the mornings they left, … or said it was over. Each departure peeled away another layer of her self-worth, leaving her feeling more alone than she had the night before.
She stood beneath the shower for a long time, watching the water spiral down the drain. The sting of the hot water on her shoulders felt like penance. Like purification.
She scrubbed her skin until it reddened, trying to erase every trace of him—his cologne, his breath, and his essence.
When she stepped onto the sidewalk, her hair was still damp, but every trace of the previous night had been washed away.
The morning light over Atlanta’s Candler Park was soft and forgiving. Warm September sunshine shimmered in puddles along the street and bathed the clapboard homes and old brick buildings in a golden glow.
Carrie tucked her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket and headed west along McLendon Avenue, head down, watching her black Converse sneakers heel-toe on the pavement.
She didn’t mind walking. It cleared her head and gave her time to think. She was stuck. She longed for something different. Something had to change. The bar was a dead end, and she knew it. But what else was there for a punk girl with blue hair, tattoos, a nose ring, and no college degree?
Her shift didn’t start for another hour.
Her path detoured, as it had so many times before, into the small park with the crooked iron fence and cracked pavement, where mothers and nannies opened juice boxes for children playing tag around playground equipment, picnic tables, and a tired old oak.
It reminded her of better days, days long ago when she felt loved, safe, and wanted. She recalled her mother smiling, watching her play, letting her take chances on monkey bars and swings, then nursing her scrapes and scratches when things went too far. Her eyes glazed over as she thought of it. She missed her and felt lost.
She leaned on the low chain-link fence surrounding the soccer field, watching a group of young boys kick a soccer ball. One of them—a skinny boy of about eight with curly hair and a gap-toothed smile—looked up.
His face lit up.
“Hey, Carrie! … Carrie!” he called, jogging over.
“Do that thing! The thing you did before. The thing with the ball?”
Carrie blinked, then smiled.
“You remember that?”
“Yeah!” he bounced in place, eyes wide. “With the ball, and your foot, and your head. Do it again!”
One of the other boys rolled the ball toward her.
She tapped the ball with the rubber toe of her sneaker, popping it up in the air, then catching it on the top of her foot. With a flick, it rose upward. She bounced it off her knee once, twice, then harder to her forehead. She balanced it there for a moment before letting it roll forward, catching it neatly on the bridge of her foot.
With one final flick, she sent it sailing back to the boys.
The children erupted in cheers. Several immediately tried to imitate the trick. The curly-haired boy clapped as though he’d just watched a magician perform.
Carrie laughed.
She lifted both arms overhead, twirled in an exaggerated ballerina finish, then froze in a theatrical pose.
“Thank you,” she said with a grin.
“I’ll be here all week.”
The boys laughed and ran back into their game.
Carrie lingered at the fence for another moment, watching them chase each other, laughing and kicking the ball. The scene carried her back to afternoons spent playing kickball and soccer in the backyard next door. Back to a time when she felt loved, safe, and wanted—a time when happiness had come without effort.
The club was dark when Carrie arrived.
Her keys jingled as she unlocked the front door. She flipped on the lights, slipped behind the bar, and hung her leather jacket and daypack on a hook in the corner.
The room smelled of disinfectant mixed with stale cigarette smoke and the lingering traces of spilled beer, liquor, and fried food.
She began her routine.
Glasses clinked as she stacked them, polished each one with a clean towel, and lined them neatly on the shelves. She straightened the whiskey bottles behind the bar, turning every label until it faced perfectly forward.
She paused, studying her reflection in the mirror. She studied her face, her black glasses, the blue streaks in her hair, the ivy tattoos winding along her arms, and the small silver ring through her septum. After a long moment, she reached for the towel and slowly wiped the mirror clean.
By the time the first regular wandered in, she’d buried the morning beneath the clink of bottles, humming coolers, buzzing neon signs, and familiar routines. The sadness had dulled, but it hadn’t disappeared.
She was stocking the reach-in cooler when the bell above the front door jingled.
She looked up.
“Are you open yet?” a neatly dressed young man in a sport coat asked.
“Yes,” she said. “The kitchen won’t be open for twenty minutes, though.”
He smiled.
“That’s okay. I’m actually looking for Carrie McCall. Is that you?”
“Yes, I’m Carrie.”
“I’m John Noble. I’m the La Marca Prosecco representative. You probably don’t remember, but you met me six months ago, … when we launched the Prosecco sales contest?”
She nodded. “I remember you.”
His smile widened. “Well… I’m happy to tell you that you won.”
She blinked. “I won?”
“You sold more La Marca Prosecco than any other bartender or server in the country over the last six months.” He laughed. “More than four cases. It wasn’t even close.”
Carrie stared at him.
“What did I win?”
“A first-class, round-trip ticket to Venice, Italy.”
He handed her a large orange envelope.
“It’s worth about three thousand dollars.”
“Whenever you’re ready to travel, just call the Delta number inside, give them your prize number, and they’ll make your reservation.”
He pointed to another document inside the envelope.
“And here’s a train pass between Marco Polo Airport and Venice.”
“Don’t lose that.”
Carrie slowly accepted the envelope.
“Venice… Italy?”
She looked at him.
“Where’s that?”
John blinked.
“It’s in northern Italy.”
“On the Adriatic Sea.”
“One of the most beautiful cities in the world.”
He smiled.
“History… canals… gondolas… amazing architecture.”
“You’ll love it.”
“Thank you,” Carrie said quietly, then hesitated.
“Why Venice?”
“Because that’s where La Marca Prosecco comes from.”
“The winery is just across the lagoon on the mainland.”
He smiled again.
“If you’d like, I could probably arrange a tour.”
“They’d love to have you.”
Carrie shook her head.
“No. … No, that’s okay. But thank you.”
John waited a moment, as though expecting more excitement. When none came, he handed her a business card.
“If you have any questions, call me … and congratulations.”
“I hope you have an amazing trip.”
With that, he left, leaving Carrie in stunned silence.
The envelope rested silently on the bar.
One of the regulars raised his beer. “Hey! … Congratulations!”
“That sounded like a pretty big deal.”
He grinned.
“Italy, huh? Very cool!”
Carrie looked down at the large orange envelope. “Where’s Venice?” She said, swiping it off the bar, then stuffing it into her daypack.
The man shrugged. “Beats me. But it sounded nice. Let’s celebrate! … Give me another beer.”
The day dragged.
Carrie occupied herself mixing drinks, pouring beers, serving food, and cleaning her station, but the thought of the trip lingered.
Do I really want to go? she wondered. I don’t care about Venice. Can I even afford it? Maybe I could just sell the ticket.
Late that afternoon, just before the shift change, the bar was nearly empty. Two couples watched the Braves game on the television across the room.
The bell above the front door jingled.
A distinguished-looking older man with neatly trimmed gray hair, a short beard, and a blue sport coat walked in and took his usual stool at the far end of the bar.
“Hey,” she called out. “The usual?”
“Yeah. Dewars. … I need to talk to you.”
She poured his scotch, walked to the end of the bar, and placed it carefully in the middle of a coaster.
“What’s up?”
He pushed a small box toward her. “I want you to have this.”
Carrie smiled. “What?… What’s this?”
“I want you to have it,” he said.
She opened it. Inside was a heavy gold chain bracelet.
“It’s beautiful,” she said. “But I can’t accept that.”
“Listen. … My wife is out of town for a week. Let me take you to dinner tomorrow night? We’ll go someplace really nice this time.”
Carrie looked down at the little box and shook her head.
“We’ve been over this. You’re married. We had a few laughs. We had a few drinks. But there’s no future in it. … Please. I don’t want to keep going over this.”
“My marriage is over. We’re done. It’s only a matter of time. I told you that… I want you.”
“What about your kids? Are you going to leave them too?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
She laughed. “You’re crazy. It was a Cobb salad and a couple of drinks, and now you’re giving me jewelry? Come on. This is ridiculous. Besides, you’re too old for me. What are you like, sixty?”
“Fifty Seven,” he said indignantly, stirring his drink.
“Seriously… It was one silly date.” She said, sliding the box back across the bar. “Besides, I don’t trust you. I thought you were a solid guy. But you conveniently omitted the fact that you were married. Had I known, I would never have gone out with you.”
He slid the box back across the bar. “Think about it… please.”
“I have. And no.” She shoved the box back toward him. “You’re being pathetic. Go home to your family.”
He threw down the scotch, slapped a ten-dollar bill on the bar. “Please think about it.” He said, turning toward the door.
“Take this!” she said as he walked away. “I don’t want it!”
“It’s yours, he muttered, loud enough to be heard by the others. I bought it for you. If you won’t go out with me, think of it as payment for a good time.”
He glanced over his shoulder.
“It’s worth over three hundred dollars.”
The bell above the door jingled as he left.
Carrie shook her head in disgust and watched through the window as he walked down the street. She looked down at the tiny box. After clearing his glass and wiping away all evidence, she threw the box into her daypack.
At six o’clock, the evening shift arrived and took over the bar. Carrie counted her tips, settled onto a stool beside the server station, and lit a cigarette.
“What’ll you have?” her replacement asked.
“Double Absolut on the rocks with a lime,” she mumbled, exhaling a stream of smoke.
She sat quietly, reflecting on the day, as several coworkers gathered nearby before starting their shifts.
“Does anybody want to go to Venice?” she asked. “I won that Prosecco contest, and I’ll sell my first-class round-trip ticket for five hundred dollars.”
The three servers stared at her.
“You won the Prosecco contest?” one finally said. “That’s amazing, Carrie! You deserve it. Why don’t you go? I’ve heard Venice is beautiful… really romantic.”
Carrie shrugged.
“I don’t have the money. Even with a free ticket, it’ll cost another thousand bucks for a passport, food, and a hotel. I don’t even know where Venice is. I’d rather have the cash. It’s a three-thousand-dollar ticket. I’ll let it go for five hundred.”
“Carrie… use it,” another coworker said. “Go. … Fly over there and wander around for a week. Eat the food. Watch the people.”
“It won’t cost as much as you think,” another added. “Besides, it might give you a fresh perspective.”
Before Carrie could answer, a tall, good-looking young man in a leather jacket slid onto the stool beside her.
“What are you up to?” he asked.
“You’re off early,” Carrie said, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “Things slow at Marlow’s?”
“A little. Slow lunch.” He smiled. “What are you doing later? Want to hang out at your place? I’ve got some really good weed.”
Carrie laughed dryly.
“You’ve got good weed? What an offer. How could any girl turn that down?”
“It’s really good weed, Carrie.”
The cigarette bobbed between her lips. “Is it beyond you to ask me on a real date?” she asked quietly. “All you ever want to do is come over, get stoned, and have sex.”
He shrugged.
“What’s wrong with that? It’s fun. You never seemed to mind before. It’s not exactly our first time.”
He slapped a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter onto the bar.
Carrie crushed out her cigarette.
“It’s getting old. I’m tired of it.” She looked at him. “I’m off Saturday. Why don’t we go to dinner? Or a movie?”
His cigarette bounced on his lip as the Zippo clinked open.
“Can’t. My sister’s getting married. I’ll be tied up all day.”
“Then take me to the wedding.”
He looked away, lit his cigarette, and drew deeply before answering.
“I don’t know.”
“Come on. It’d be fun. We could dance.”
“Carrie… seriously,” he said as he exhaled upward. “What do you think my mother would say if I showed up with a tattooed girl with blue hair and a nose ring? She’d have a fucking nervous breakdown.”
“Fuck you,” Carrie snapped, almost shoving him off the stool. She tipped her drink high in the air to let the last few drops of vodka and an ice cube fall into her mouth. As she slid off her stool, she punched him hard in the arm.
“Goddamn it, Carrie! That hurt.”
“Fuck you. Don’t call me anymore,” she said, bolting toward the door.
Outside, she walked to the common area in the center of Five Points. Several people sat on benches in the square. A homeless man snored, a street musician noodled on a guitar, and a couple of old men threw peanuts to squirrels.
She walked to a vacant bench on the opposite side and sat watching a small bird peck at crumbs. Her thoughts drifted back to life before her mother died—dance lessons, gymnastics, clean clothes, home-cooked meals, laughter, love, safety.
She wrapped her arms tightly around chest and bent over. She shuttered. Tears streamed down her cheeks and dripped onto the bricks beside her feet.
How did I become such an unworthy, unwanted mess?
She pulled a napkin from her pocket to wipe her tears, then dug her checkbook from her daypack and did the math. The $547 in her checking account, plus the $63 she had just earned in tips, was all she was worth.
She wiped her eyes and nose as she watched the little bird, all alone under the opposite bench, pecking at crumbs.
Fuck it.
I’m going.
She gathered herself and began the slow walk home.
The sun had already slipped below the horizon. She passed graffiti-covered storefronts and weathered posters advertising local bands, lost pets, and neighborhood events stapled to telephone poles throughout the district. As she neared her apartment, she glanced up through the canopy of trees at the blue-white glow of the streetlamps filtering through the branches.
She stepped inside, closed the apartment door behind her, and leaned against it for a moment, motionless.
“Carol… can I borrow the blue suitcase from the front closet?”
“Sure,” Carol shouted. “Where are you going?”
“Venice… It’s in Italy.”
Carol laughed. “I know where Venice is. That’s incredible! How’d you pull that off?”
“I won a contest at work.”
“When are you leaving?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe in a couple of weeks. I have to call and confirm the flight… and get a passport.”
“You’re going alone?”
“Yep.”
“Come here,” Carol shouted. “I’m already looking it up.”
Carrie walked into her roommate’s bedroom and leaned over her shoulder.
“Look.” Carol pointed at the monitor. “Here’s Venice.”
She zoomed out on the map.
“Wow,” Carrie murmured. “That’s a long flight.”
“Will it be cold?”
Carol clicked to the weather information.
“Not really. Venice is warmer than you’d expect because of the Adriatic and Mediterranean Seas. It’ll be cool, but not cold.” She scanned the screen. “Looks like highs around sixty-five and lows around fifty-one this time of year. Your leather jacket should be perfect.”
Carrie nodded and quietly walked back to her room.
She flopped onto the bed, wrapped her arms around her pillow, and pulled it tightly against her chest. Her eyes drifted to the worn little teddy bear sitting alone on the shelf in the corner.
A tear rolled slowly down her cheek.
“I’m trying, Mom,” she whispered. “I’m not sure what to do, but…”
“…I’m really trying.”
Three weeks later, the afternoon before her departure, Carrie wheeled the borrowed blue suitcase into her bedroom and set it on the bed.
She stood over the empty case for a long moment.
What the fuck do you pack for Venice, Italy?
She stuffed it with everything she thought she might need, then sat on the bulging lid and strained to pull the zipper closed. After wrestling the suitcase to the front door, she leaned it against the wall, ready for the next day’s trip.
“Carol, can you take me to the train station tomorrow?” she called.
“Sure. What time?”
“Around four.”
“You don’t have to take the train,” Carol replied. “I’ll drive you straight to the airport.”
Carrie smiled. “Really? Thanks.”
She was scheduled to work the evening shift, so she headed to the bathroom to get ready. As she undressed for her shower, she paused in front of the mirror.
The blue dye had finally washed from her hair, revealing its natural, rich dark brown. She studied herself for a moment, then carefully removed the small silver ring from her septum and set it beside the sink.
“Sorry,” she murmured to it. “You’re not coming.”
Sample Chapter 2
Chapter 2 – A Simple Plan
“That’ll be $12.49 with tax,” the cashier said, slipping a bottle of Advil into a small plastic bag.
Ahead of me, a Delta flight attendant rummaged frantically through her purse. Behind us, the line lengthened as anxious travelers, dragging carry-ons, queued to buy water, snacks, and magazines before their international flights.
“Oh… no.” She bit her lip. “I left my wallet in my carry-on. All I have is $9.50 in cash.”
Shielding her mouth so the others in line wouldn’t hear, she leaned toward the cashier.
“Will you take that? I’ll make up the difference when I get back,” she whispered. “You know me… right? I’m here all the time. I work over there.” She pointed toward a gate across the concourse.
The young cashier glanced around, then stepped away from the register, stretching to see if a manager was nearby.
Three more people joined the line.
The impatience of travelers racing to make their flights was becoming palpable.
“Here,” I said, tossing three dollars onto the counter. “I’ve got it.”
The flight attendant spun toward me.
I smiled. “Delta’s been good to me. It’s no big deal.”
“That is so kind. Thank you!”
She handed her cash to the cashier, tucked the Advil into her purse, and waited while I paid for my bottle of water.
Before hurrying away, she touched my arm.
“God bless you. My back is killing me,” she said with a grateful smile. “I’m sorry—I have to get back to work—but thank you. That was incredibly kind of you.”
Then she turned and hurried toward her gate.
I looked at my watch.
Thirty minutes until boarding.
I spotted an empty seat by the window near my gate and headed toward it.
I’d accumulated plenty of vacation time and frequent-flyer miles, but since my divorce two years earlier, I hadn’t used either. I had no desire to travel and had avoided taking vacations altogether. Friends at work were constantly trying to cheer me up and convince me to get away.
“Why don’t you take a trip to Italy and visit your grandfather’s hometown?” one coworker suggested. “You’re always talking about him. It might do you some good.”
The idea stuck with me.
My father’s family had immigrated from Italy. My grandmother was an Esposito from Naples—loud, animated, expressive, and impossible to ignore. Her maiden name, Esposito, originated from a term used for orphaned children left at Italian convents, so her family’s earlier roots were uncertain.
My grandfather, however, was from northern Italy, from a region north of Venice, near the Austrian border. His family eventually settled in the small town of Felonica Po along the Po River. He immigrated to the United States in 1898 at the age of nine and later worked in the underground coal mines of western Pennsylvania.
As a child, I listened intently to his stories about Italy, his journey to America, and the life he left behind. He was quiet, intelligent, artistic, and serious, with a dry sense of humor and an extraordinary gift for storytelling. I’d always wanted to see the places he described.
I’d traveled to Europe many times for business, but never for pleasure. Those trips were always meticulously planned. I hauled business clothes, photography equipment, and a rigid itinerary. Nothing was left to chance. I booked flights months in advance, always choosing an aisle seat for the extra elbow room and easy access to the restroom.
This trip was different.
Because I’d booked at the last minute using frequent-flyer miles, my options were limited.
I looked down at my boarding pass.
Economy cabin.
Middle section.
Middle seat.
About the worst seat on the airplane.
I took a sip of water and considered my situation.
One of my biggest fears is being a sucker—getting taken because I don’t know the rules or understand the proper procedures. Travel was no different. There were principles. Someone had already figured out the best way to do it and written it down. Done properly, travel could be enlightening and enjoyable. Done poorly, it could become an expensive disaster.
I thought about the advice I’d absorbed from binge-watching travel shows: pack light, stay flexible, carry one bag, avoid rigid itineraries, don’t overbook your trip.
Everything about that philosophy contradicted my instincts. I smiled despite myself.
After weeks of deliberation, I’d settled on a compromise: travel through Italy, immerse myself in the local culture, try to decompress… and forget.
My only non-negotiable goal was visiting Felonica Po to see where my grandfather had grown up.
I checked my watch again. Ten minutes until boarding.
I looked out the window at the polished Boeing 777 sitting at the gate. It appeared solid, clean, and well-maintained. No obvious cracks in the wings or fuselage.
Check.
Although I hadn’t booked hotels in advance, I’d compiled detailed notes on the best neighborhoods in every city I planned to visit. I unzipped the front pocket of my carry-on, pulled out the highly rated guidebook I’d bought for the trip, removed the pocket-sized reference card I’d made, and slipped both the card and a pen into my jacket pocket.
“Oh… could I borrow your pen for a second?” the woman beside me asked.
“Sure.”
She scribbled a note on the back of her boarding pass and handed it back.
“Thank you.” She glanced at my luggage. “That’s a nice carry-on. Are those backpack straps on the back?”
“Yeah. I just bought it.” I unzipped the rear panel to reveal the padded shoulder straps. “It converts into a backpack. I kept hearing it’s difficult to roll suitcases over cobblestone streets.”
“That’s clever,” she said. “I never would’ve thought of that.” She looked at the bag again. “Is that really all you’re taking?”
“Yep. I’ll be walking a lot, so I decided to travel light.”
She laughed.
“You have more courage than I do.”
I winced.
“Well… I’m trying something new.”
I rested my feet on my suitcase and took another sip of water.
Her comment made me just a little more nervous.
The seating area in front of the gate was full. Across the aisle from me, two parents stuffed crackers into the mouths of a pair of toddlers. The crumbs dribbled onto the carpet beneath them, creating an unsightly mess. I wondered in which culture this was acceptable.
I studied the other travelers waiting to board. Like me, some seemed organized and efficient. Others burdened themselves like pack mules, hauling not only carry-ons, but also purses, packages, strollers, food, children, and toys. As I watched them, I tried to imagine the stories behind their journeys.
One girl looked to be in her mid-to late 20s and fiddled with an Apple iPod. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, she leaned against her blue carry-on as if it were a beanbag chair. Her suitcase seemed stuffed to the bursting point. All the exterior pockets bulged. Next to her suitcase was a large bag-purse, also packed to capacity. Protruding from her purse was a Chick-fil-A bag. A leather jacket, a large orange envelope, and a soda bottle lay strewn on the floor beside her.
She was about 5’5” tall, with full-bodied dark brown hair that extended just past her shoulders. Torn blue jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a loose T-shirt with an image of the performer ‘P!nk,” and a caption reading “Get the party started!” completed her look. She was petite, but curvy and sturdy. Tattoos that looked like ivy peeked out from under her T-shirt sleeves on both her arms. Her most distinguishing feature, however, was her librarian-style black glasses. The dark glass frames contrasted with her clear, light skin and obscured what appeared to be better than average good looks. I fixated on her. She appeared relaxed and oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
As I continued scanning the crowd, I caught myself coming back to her, watching her instead of the departure board. There was something about her that curiously held my attention.
“Good afternoon, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for Delta Flight 5011 to Venice, Italy. We now invite passengers with small children and those needing special assistance to board.”
The crowd stirred. Loose items disappeared into bags. A queue stretched from the gate into the concourse. I checked my boarding pass again—Zone 8—and waited as the early groups filed in. The parents with the two toddlers—the same two dribbling cracker crumbs all over the floor—were at the front of the line. My first reaction was, Figures.
Then I stopped myself.
Why was I so quick to judge strangers? I hadn’t always been this bitter. When had cynicism become my default? What good had all my judgments ever brought me—except isolation and regret? What was I even doing here?
I looked away and reflected.
“Now boarding all first-class passengers. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready.”
As the first-class passengers queued at the gate, the girl with the ivy tattoos and black glasses gathered her things and prepared to board. She slung her heavy purse over her shoulder and towed her overstuffed suitcase toward the gate. Sure enough, she presented her boarding pass to the attendant and disappeared down the jetway. I watched her struggle with the two heavy bags until she vanished from view.
A few minutes later, my zone was called. I joined the line, presented my boarding pass, and entered the jetway. The line moved slowly. The flight appeared to be full.
I stepped aboard and turned right. The Boeing 777 economy cabin was arranged in a 3-3-3 configuration—three seats on each side and three in the center. I checked my boarding pass again and sighed. It still read: middle seat, center section. Nothing had changed.
As I approached my row, I saw that the woman seated to my right was wearing a Muslim burqa and comforting a crying baby. The baby’s head was hidden beneath her garment, searching for her breast.
Great. I get to endure a crying baby for the next nine hours. That’ll be fun. She’s probably a great conversationalist, though.
I shook my head.
Stop it.
I stowed my carry-on in the overhead compartment and settled into my seat beside the woman and her baby.
Moments later, an elderly woman took the seat to my left. She tucked her purse beneath the seat, then hoisted a medium-sized “service dog” onto her lap. The dog looked like a schnauzer-beagle mix, and its odor suggested it hadn’t been bathed recently. She positioned the animal so its head faced the aisle and its tail faced me.
The high-strung animal immediately began to whimper and wag its tail vigorously. With each wag, its tail slapped against my left arm. Worse, the woman seemed completely unaware of the animal’s encroachment. She stared blankly ahead, absentmindedly stroking the dog in an effort to calm it. As I watched, I couldn’t help wondering which one was actually the service animal.
The scene was like something out of a comedy sketch and might have been funny if it hadn’t been so irritating. To my right, a crying baby beneath a burqa. To my left, a confused old woman with an anxious service dog.
After weighing my situation—and my nonexistent options—I resolved to make the best of it. I distracted myself by scrolling through the movie selections on the tiny screen embedded in the seatback ahead of me while questioning the series of impulsive decisions that had delivered me to this bizarre situation.
The jet backed away from the gate, and the captain’s voice buzzed over the speaker.
“Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.”
As the flight attendants demonstrated the seat belts, oxygen masks, and emergency procedures, I noticed that the attendant checking seat belts was the same one who had bought the Advil just ahead of me in the airport convenience store. As she reached my row, she smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, Yikes, then continued toward the front of the aircraft.
The plane taxied onto the runway and took its place in line for departure. As I fumbled with my earbuds, preparing to start a movie, the familiar attendant walked briskly down the left aisle toward my row. As she approached, we locked eyes. She curled her finger in a silent gesture.
Come.
I pointed to my chest and mouthed, “Me?”
She smiled, nodded, and beckoned again.
I squeezed past the elderly woman and her dog, reached for my carry-on, and looked back at the attendant.
“This too?” I mouthed, lifting the bag.
She laughed and nodded.
I slung my carry-on over my shoulder and followed her toward the front of the plane.
Sample Chapter 3
Chapter 3 – A Change of Fate
We passed through a blue curtain, and the attendant paused outside the restroom. As I approached, she pointed to an aisle seat about halfway through the first-class cabin.
“We were saving that seat for one of our senior pilots who was relocating to Italy, but he canceled at the last minute. You’re welcome to take it.”
I was stunned by the sudden change of fortune.
“Wow… first class? Are you sure?” I asked.
The attendant laughed. “I’m the lead flight attendant. Once the plane leaves the gate, I can do anything I want. What did you say at the counter?… It’s no big deal?”
I smiled. “Well, thank you so much. That’s the cheapest upgrade I’ve ever gotten. What’s your name?”
She smirked, lifted her lapel, and pointed to her name tag.
“Jenny… Jenny Rice.”
“Oh… yeah. I guess it’s right there,” I mumbled.
“Now go get strapped in. We’re taking off in a few minutes.”
Compared with economy, first class on a Boeing 777 was luxurious. The 2-4-2 seating configuration meant wider seats, generous legroom, and actual comfort.
As I reached my aisle seat, I did a double take.
The woman I had noticed earlier—the one with the ivy tattoos and black glasses—was sitting in the window seat beside mine. She was leaning against the window and appeared to be asleep. Her Chick-fil-A bag rested on my seat.
I stowed my carry-on in the overhead compartment and started to sit. When she didn’t move the bag, I picked it up.
“Excuse me, miss. Is this yours?”
She stirred, rubbed her eyes, and slowly opened them.
“Yeah… sorry.”
She took the bag and placed it on top of her oversized purse against the wall of the aircraft.
“Not a fan of airplane food?”
She eyed me cautiously.
“Well… you never know what you’re going to get.”
Her low alto voice caught me by surprise. I had expected something much higher and almost childlike from such a petite woman.
“First-class food is usually pretty good, though… right?”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s my first time flying. I didn’t even know they’d feed us.”
“Oh, yeah. Delta’s first-class meals are usually pretty good,” I said, pulling the menu card from the seatback pocket. “Wow—they’re even serving steak on this flight.”
She studied the menu.
“I’m not paying for high-priced airplane food.”
I leaned closer and lowered my voice.
“It’s included.”
She stared at me for a moment.
“You can order anything on this card… for free?”
“Well… after we reach cruising altitude. But yes, the fare includes food… and drinks too.”
“Drinks too?” she said suspiciously.
“Yes,” I said, looking at her. “Even alcoholic drinks.”
At first I thought she might have been playing with me, but it quickly became clear she was completely serious.
“So this is your very first flight—and it’s in first class?”
“That’s right. I’ve never really had the opportunity to fly. I’ve always wanted to travel, but it’s just so expensive.”
“So… what made you choose Venice?”
She shrugged.
“It probably wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I won a contest. The prize was a free ticket.”
“Seriously? That’s fantastic. You won a first-class ticket? How did you do that?”
“I’m a bartender, and I sold the most La Marca Prosecco over the last six months. I think I was the top seller in the whole country. The prize was a first-class trip to Venice. That’s where they make La Marca Prosecco… I guess.”
“You must be good at what you do.”
“I’m good, but that’s not why I won.”
“Okay, so how did you win?”
“I just served La Marca Prosecco to anyone who ordered champagne. Most people don’t know the difference.”
She smirked.
I laughed and shook my head.
“Where are you from?”
“Originally Walnut Grove. But I work in Atlanta now, at a bar in Little Five Points called the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club. Ever heard of it?”
“Yes. I’ve been there. Great bar—all that junk hanging from the walls and ceiling. I love Little Five Points. It’s got a great bohemian vibe.”
I paused.
“I’m just a little afraid to park my car down there… all the graffiti… street people?”
Carrie raised an eyebrow and winced.
The jet made a sharp left turn, and the engines roared. The aircraft accelerated, and the runway markings flashed past beneath us. Moments later, the nose lifted into the air.
No matter how many times I flew, the power of jet engines always amazed me. I would think about the weight of my body and suitcase, multiply it by the hundreds of passengers aboard, then try to imagine how much thrust it would take to just lift that weight, let alone accelerate.
As the aircraft climbed steeply, I glanced at the young woman beside me. She was gripping the armrest so tightly her knuckles had turned white.
She caught me looking.
“This is fucking scary,” she whispered.
I smiled.
“You’ll get used to it. Think of it as a technology trap, like an elevator or a roller coaster. The moment you step inside, you’ve already decided to trust your life to a machine. There’s nothing you can do now, so you might as well relax.”
Just then, the jet lurched violently as it hit a pocket of heavy turbulence.
Her face drained of color. She closed her eyes and silently moved her lips—praying, or maybe cursing.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “These big jets almost always get where they’re going. Nothing usually happens. Everybody usually makes it… usually. I don’t think they’ve had an accident… recently.”
“Will you stop it!” she hissed.
“Sorry,” I laughed. “You’re fine. The pilot looked a little young, but we’ll probably be okay. They usually know what they’re doing. Delta’s training program is pretty good… as far as it goes. There have been a few cutbacks, though…”
“Stop it!”
She made a fist and punched me in the thigh.
The giant aircraft climbed above the clouds and leveled off. The turbulence ceased, and a collective sigh of relief swept through the cabin. A minute later, the seatbelt sign chimed off.
I caught Jenny’s eye.
“Jenny, can we get drinks yet? I think we need one over here.”
“Sure. What can I get you?”
I looked at the young woman.
“What does a bartender drink?”
“Anything?”
“Anything on the menu.” I flipped the drink list over and handed it to her.
“Hmm… okay. I’ll have a double Absolut on the rocks, with a lime if you have one.”
“Maker’s on the rocks with a splash of soda water for me, please, Jenny.”
When the drinks arrived, I lifted my glass, then paused.
“By the way… what’s your name?”
“Carrie… Carrie McCall. You?”
“Francis… Francis Marino.”
I raised my glass.
“It’s nice to meet you, Carrie McCall. Here’s to a wonderful visit to Venice.”
We clinked glasses and took our first sip.
The nonstop flight to Venice pushed back from the gate at about 8:45 p.m. With the time difference, it would arrive at Marco Polo Airport around noon the following day. Night passes quickly when you fly east, usually only 4-5 hours. It’s odd.
Shortly after takeoff, the cabin assumed its nighttime atmosphere. The overhead lights dimmed until only the aisle markers, seatback screens, and an occasional reading lamp remained. Many travelers tried to get a jump on the time change by sleeping.
I never could.
The anticipation of arriving in Europe always made transatlantic flights too exciting to waste asleep.
Carrie and I finished our drinks and ordered another. She mentioned that she hadn’t slept much after closing the bar.
“So what’s involved in closing a bar?” I asked.
“Last call. Sweep the floors. Throw out the lingering customers. Wipe everything down. Wash the glassware. Restock—pretty basic.” She shrugged. “After cleanup we usually sit around, have a drink, smoke, and talk about the shift. My friends knew I was leaving today, so they threw me a little after-hours going-away party. It was nice. We had fun… got high.”
She smiled sleepily.
“It was after four when we finally locked up. Then we went to breakfast. I tried to sleep for a couple of hours after I got home, but I was too anxious about the trip.” She yawned. “Honestly, I don’t think I slept at all.”
The anxiety of the airport and her first takeoff had taken their toll. Shortly after finishing her second drink, she curled up against the window and fell fast asleep.
I, however, couldn’t sleep, even after two drinks.
I watched a movie, then sat quietly, gazing across the darkened cabin. I loved flying at night. The stillness and soft, indirect lighting contrasted sharply with the bustle of daytime flights. It was peaceful—almost like traveling by candlelight.
I scanned the glowing seatback screens, curious what everyone else was watching. Some of the movies and programs I recognized; many I did not.
Eventually, I got up to use the restroom.
Airplane restrooms are strange little places. You lock yourself inside a tiny compartment with a mirror, a sink, and a toilet, completely isolated from the rest of the aircraft. For a few moments, you’re utterly alone.
Then you remember you’re forty thousand feet above the Atlantic Ocean, traveling more than five hundred miles an hour. Without turbulence, neither the altitude nor the speed is perceptible. It’s odd.
Curiously, the first-class restroom had a small window above the toilet. I raised the shade and looked out. Moonlight shimmered faintly across the endless ocean.
Never seen that before, I thought.
I lowered the shade and flushed the toilet. Its contents disappeared with an explosive roar that sounded as though everything had been blasted straight out of the airplane.
That can’t be right, I thought. Somebody has to empty those tanks at the airport… don’t they?
The restroom was at the rear of the first-class cabin. I stepped out, passed through the blue curtain, and paused for a moment, looking over the sea of sleeping economy passengers.
As I walked down the right aisle to stretch my legs, I passed my former seat. The elderly woman was asleep with her mouth open, a black eye mask covering her face. She snored softly. Her dog lay sprawled across her lap, its tail dangling into what had once been my seat.
On the other side, the baby was finally sleeping, nestled under the mother’s burqa.
I continued to the flight attendant station near the rear of the aircraft. Three attendants sat on their jump seats, chatting quietly.
“Hi,” I said. “Could I get a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” one replied, standing. “You’re in luck. We just made a fresh pot.”
“Thanks.”
Coffee in hand, I walked through the small galley, rounded the archway, and stopped in front of the rear emergency exit. I looked down at my shoes. They rested on the threshold of the exit door. Leaning forward, I peered through the window. The night was perfectly clear. In every direction lay nothing but the black Atlantic.
I found it curious that I suffered vertigo standing on the balcony of a tall building, yet standing beside a door separating me from a forty-thousand-foot drop into the ocean didn’t bother me in the slightest.
It all felt strangely surreal.
The aircraft was still and peaceful. The whine of the engines was the only clue you were in motion.
As I stared blankly at the ocean below, my thoughts drifted back to that summer evening almost two years ago. I’d come home in a good mood. Work was going well. Our finances were good. I was optimistic. Then I walked down the hall, and there she was, standing in the kitchen with a big envelope.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“Divorce papers,” she said. “I want a divorce. You need to move out.”
Just like that.
I stood in silence, looking out on the vast but peaceful ocean below, reflecting on the emptiness and pain of the past two years.
I shook off the memory.
Not tonight.
Not on this trip.
I returned to my seat, put on my headphones, and started another movie.
Sample Chapter 4
Chapter 4 – Breakfast In the Sky
Five hours into the flight, the cabin lights came up. Dawn edged over the horizon. Somewhere below, it was morning, and the attendants were already syncing to local time. They handed out warm towels in lieu of showers, then began breakfast service.
Carrie opened her eyes and squirmed into an upright position. Smacking her lips, she whispered, “My head hurts. I think I need a Bloody Mary.”
She stared blankly ahead for a moment, then said, “Can you let me out? I have to use the restroom.”
I watched her walk down the aisle. She disappeared into the restroom and returned a few minutes later. She slid into her seat and buckled in.
“Did you look out the window before you flushed?” I asked.
She rubbed her eyes and blinked. “What?”
“Before you flushed the toilet, did you look out that little window to check for ships passing underneath us? … Where do you think that stuff goes?”
Carrie stared blankly. “You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“On transoceanic flights, they usually evacuate the sewage to keep the weight down. We’re so high it freezes solid before it reaches the ocean. If it hits someone on a boat below, it can cause serious injury. You’re supposed to look out the window before you flush, just to make sure. Didn’t you see the sign on the mirror?”
She stared at me in silent disbelief. Across the aisle, a man bit his lip, clearly trying not to laugh.
Carrie shook her head slowly. “You have to look out the window before you flush the airplane toilet?”
I nodded solemnly.
Just then, Jenny walked up to take our breakfast order. She overheard my instructions and laughed. Looking at Carrie, she smiled, closed her eyes, and slowly shook her head in a silent no.
Carrie crossed her arms and glared at me. “You’re an asshole,” she whispered, shaking her head, pretending to be mad while holding back a smile.
“I had you for a second.” I laughed. “I saw that window above the toilet last night and thought of it. The flushing sound—that rush—it sounds like it could be shooting everything outside the plane, right?”
She continued staring at me, feigning indignation.
We chose breakfast items from the menu and ordered drinks. A Bloody Mary sounded right, and I ordered one for each of us.
“So,” I said, “what’s with the tattoos?”
She stared at me for a second, then smirked. “Don’t you like tattoos?”
“I don’t know. I’m still thinking about it. Usually no, but I’m curious about yours. I’ve never seen ivy like that. It’s pretty. How far does it go?”
“It’s the same tattoo. It just extends over my shoulders and down the other arm,” she said, pulling up her sleeves to expose more ink.
“I’ve always wondered. Are tattoos ornamentation or deprecation?”
She smiled and shook her head. “That’s a good question. I think mine started out as ornamentation, but sometimes I wonder. Almost everyone around Five Points has one, and I was always curious; I thought they were kind of cool. Bad girls had them. I wanted one. … I guess I wanted to be a bad girl. But honestly, … when I think about it, I was in a bad place when I finally went for it.”
“Why was that?”
“I was having trouble at home with my father. We weren’t getting along at all. At the time, I thought it was normal, but looking back, he was verbally abusive. He basically kicked me out of the house. I guess I wanted to make a statement.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “It’s fine. He wanted me to go to college, but he didn’t want to pay for it. He hated that I smoked, drank, and hung out with my bar friends. He wanted me to live a ‘normal’ life.”
“What does he do?”
“I don’t know anymore. He was a salesman when I was young, but we don’t speak anymore. I haven’t talked to him in three years. We didn’t talk much when he was around. … What do you do?”
“Mr. Corporate America,” I said. “A marketing manager.”
Our drinks and breakfast arrived. Carrie squeezed her lime into her drink, then pushed the olives and lime to the bottom of the glass with her straw and stirred. I did the same.
“So you like P!nk?” I asked, nodding at her T-shirt. “Get the Party Started!”
She laughed. “You talking about this?” she said, looking down at her T-shirt. “Yeah, I like her. I like her lyrics. She speaks to me. A lot of her songs are about young women’s issues. I got this shirt at a concert. It was great. Do you know her music?”
“Just that one song.”
“Who do you listen to?”
“These days? Mostly audiobooks, ‘how to’ books. I’m listening to ‘The Power of Now’ by Eckhart Tolle. Have you heard of it?”
“No… I mean, I’ve heard of him. I’ve seen him on TV, but I haven’t read the book. That’s pretty heavy stuff for a corporate guy… Zen Buddhism, right?”
“Yeah… mostly. He also draws from other religions too. He quotes Christianity, Islam, Hinduism. I’ve been trying to live more ‘in the moment’… but it doesn’t come easily to me.”
I looked down at her feet. “I used to wear sneakers like that when I played basketball in junior high school,” I said, nodding at her black Converse low-tops. “At the time, they were the best on hardwood. The traction was so good, the soles chirped when you stopped quickly. … I guess they’re a fashion statement now?”
“I just like the old-school look,” she said, looking down at her feet and wiggling her toes.
After breakfast, I queued up a movie but drifted off a few minutes into it. I woke to a PA announcement: seat backs up, trays away, prepare for landing. I smacked my lips and rubbed my eyes. Carrie was looking out the window at the lagoon below.
I leaned toward her, as if to look out the window, and whispered. “This is the scary part.”
She turned toward me and scanned my face for clues. Pushing her black glasses higher up her nose, she said, “What are you talking about?”
“Well, … when you take off, the aircraft is under full power. Pilots have control. But landings? That’s when they cut the power. The plane is more at the mercy of the elements. That’s when things can get dicey. You know, … wind shears?”
She stared blankly. “What’s a wind shear?”
“A sudden downdraft. Statistically, that’s when most of the bad accidents happen. They’re not usually too bad, though. … Not usually. … at least not in the summer months.”
As we descended, the aircraft’s wings vacillated; the plane rocked slowly from side to side. Carrie looked at me, her face serious and pale.
“Don’t worry. Experienced pilots usually handle them pretty well. Usually. But this young guy…” I said, shaking my head. “They’ve had cutbacks.”
She shook her head and glared. “Will you stop it!” she whispered. “I’m onto you. You’re taking advantage of me.”
I laughed. “Yeah, we’ll probably be okay. …Statistically, crashes are pretty rare. …The odds are definitely in our favor. There hasn’t been a bad wind shear accident since that time in Dallas. …August 1985. … That was a bad one…”
“Will. You. Shut. Up!” she whispered furiously, punching me in the thigh.
“Ouch! Okay, okay.” I laughed.
When the chime sounded, I stood, retrieved my carry-on, and let Carrie into the aisle. She wrangled her purse onto her shoulder and reached for her carry-on in the overhead compartment. It was wedged in tightly. She tugged several times, but the overstuffed case wouldn’t budge.
“Let me help,” I said.
She stepped back, and I tugged at the case repeatedly. It finally gave, nearly dropping.
“My God,” I muttered, laughing. “What’s in here—cement blocks?”
She smiled sheepishly, hunched her shoulders, and looked off to the side.
With her suitcase finally in the aisle, I watched her struggle with the heavy purse and carry-on. It might have been comical watching her bump and tug her luggage down the aisle and onto the jetway if I hadn’t felt a growing sense of concern. After talking with her on the plane, it was obvious she was a novice traveler. Navigating a foreign country where she didn’t speak the language would only make things harder. As I watched her wrestle with her bags, I felt a wave of compassion. We’ve all been there, I thought—not knowing what we don’t know.
As we entered the busy concourse, Carrie seemed confused. Many of the signs were in Italian, with English and sometimes Chinese translations beneath them. Even knowing a little Italian, I found the signage somewhat bewildering. You had to understand airport terminology and study the signs carefully. Worse, Americans often call European cities by different names than Europeans do. Venice, for example, is Venezia in Italian.
“This way,” I said, pointing to the sign that read ‘trasporto via terra’, or ground transportation.
Landing in Europe is a mixture of excitement and exhaustion. A short night’s sleep on the plane and the time-zone change are the culprits. Adrenaline keeps you going until you inevitably crash, and the long walk through the terminal with your luggage always seems to remind you of it.
As Carrie and I reached the ground transportation area, I asked her if she was going to take the vaporetto to the island.
“What’s a vaporetto?”
“It’s a water bus. It crosses the lagoon and stops at several places around Venice. It’s supposed to be a great way to see the city for the first time. The guidebook recommends it.”
She fished an orange envelope from her purse and flipped through the papers. “No… no. I have a free train pass that came with my ticket.”
“Okay. The train station looks like it’s that way,” I said, pointing toward a sign reading Stazione Ferroviaria.
She turned toward me and stood silently for a few seconds, studying me as though waiting for me to say something.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, tilting her head to one side. “I hope you find your grandfather’s house.”
“You too, Carrie. Have fun. Be safe—and be careful.” I smiled. “Hey… I’m sorry about teasing you on the plane. Think of it as your initiation, your rite of passage? You’re a seasoned flyer now. You’re one of us.”
She nodded and smiled, then pivoted and dragged her suitcase toward the train station. As I watched to make sure she was heading in the right direction, I noticed she had a nice, strong walk, coordinated and confident. Then I remembered she was a bartender, accustomed to standing and walking for long hours. As she crossed the threshold, she turned back, smiled, and waved.
I was surprised by how disappointed I felt watching her go. She was cute, and beneath her defensive sass I sensed a sweetness she didn’t seem to want others to see. I smiled and waved back.
I should have gotten her contact information, I thought, shaking my head before turning toward the vaporetto departure dock.
I purchased a ticket and stood in line to board. It was late October, and although the weather was mild, the breeze off the lagoon made the dock chilly. I pulled my black jacket from my suitcase and slipped it on.
For efficiency and simplicity, I had packed only black-and-white clothing. As I stood on the dock, however, I noticed that many of the local Italians were dressed almost entirely in black. With my black pants and jacket, I got the feeling people assumed I was Italian. At one point, an English-speaking couple greeted me with “Buongiorno” and asked if I knew a good place for lunch. I laughed and explained that I was from Atlanta, but it was flattering to be mistaken for a local.
The vaporetto was a sturdy, yellow-hulled water bus about forty feet long with covered seating. Around seventy passengers boarded. I studied the route map. It followed the northern shore of Venice before turning east and south toward Piazza San Marco. I decided to get off there and then walk north in search of a hotel.
Although the Venice skyline was clearly visible from the vaporetto terminal, the crossing took longer than I expected. So many boats traveled the lagoon that speed limits were kept low to minimize wakes. The vaporetto puttered along at only five to seven knots. The sky was partly cloudy, but enough sunlight filtered through to cast dramatic shadows across Murano and Venice proper. We made three brief stops along the way, picking up and dropping off passengers at each one.
I felt struck by how vibrant Venice felt. I had been so focused on simply getting there that I hadn’t thought much beyond the flight itself. Now, just before one o’clock, thousands of tourists from around the world filled the streets, shops, cafés, and famous landmarks. The contrast between the elegant Renaissance architecture and the casually dressed modern crowds was almost surreal. The city brimmed with energy and excitement. It felt wonderfully festive.
When we docked at Piazza San Marco, I hoisted my carry-on onto my shoulder and stepped off the boat. The Pillars of St. Mark and St. Theodore guarded the entrance to the city. Atop one stood the Winged Lion of St. Mark; atop the other, St. Theodore held a spear over a dragon. To the right loomed the Doge’s Palace—a Gothic masterpiece that had once housed Venice’s highest official. To my left rose the Campanile di San Marco, the city’s most recognizable landmark. The twelfth-century bell tower soared 323 feet into the sky.
I stood in awe. It’s difficult to explain, but seeing something in person that you’ve encountered countless times in photographs, movies, and on television is always a revelation. You notice details no camera can truly capture. The intricate stonework, the ornate craftsmanship, the sheer scale and grandeur far surpassed anything I had imagined.
As I entered the piazza, tourists lined up patiently outside St. Mark’s Basilica, eager to glimpse its treasures—frescoes, sculptures, paintings, and, supposedly, the remains of St. Mark himself.
Hundreds of tourists and thousands of pigeons swarmed the vast piazza in front of the Basilica. It was as big as a football field and framed by elegant buildings. In the center, a vendor sold bags of pigeon feed. Tourists scattered it on the ground or even held it in their hands to feed the birds. The pigeons were so brazen that they would land on tourists to eat the feed. One man held seeds in both outstretched palms while his girlfriend sprinkled more on his arms. Within seconds, pigeons covered his limbs, shoulders, and head. She snapped photos of the ridiculous spectacle.
I remembered a trick I’d seen on TV: if you throw your jacket in the air; it spooks the birds. I talked a young boy into trying it. He tossed his jacket as high as he could. Thousands of pigeons, mistaking the jacket for a predator, exploded into flight. Gasps and laughter from unsuspecting tourists followed. It was beautiful chaos.
My adrenaline reserves were dwindling. I was exhausted. I had to find a hotel and crash.
My guidebook said that most of the inexpensive hotels were near the train station on the northwestern side of the island, so I headed that way. It also noted that hotels with fewer than three stars usually lacked private bathrooms, while anything above three stars would probably be more luxurious—and expensive—than I needed. Since I planned to spend very little time in my room, a modest three-star hotel seemed like the perfect target.
One of Venice’s more interesting quirks is that, although there are no roads, there are main pedestrian routes. Small signs and arrows mounted on the corners of centuries-old buildings point the way to major landmarks. Fortunately, the route to the train station was clearly marked.
As I followed the signs past Renaissance buildings, over tiny arched bridges, and through twisting alleys, I was surprised by the amount of graffiti covering some of the walls. In a city so rich in history, who would do such a thing? I couldn’t imagine.
At one point, I crossed a bridge over a canal and noticed gondoliers staged underneath, waiting for customers. I had a misconception that gondoliers would be grizzled old men poling old-fashioned, worn-out boats. I was completely wrong. The gondoliers were actually very cool, buffed-out guys, handsome and well-groomed. The gondolas they poled through the canals were beautiful, with shiny black finishes reminiscent of “high-end” Cadillacs.
After walking a few minutes, I arrived at yet another iconic Venetian landmark, the Rialto Bridge. According to my map, only three bridges crossed the Grand Canal. Of the three, the Rialto was the most famous. Again, I was awestruck. The ornate stone arch bridge appeared much more magnificent that any image I had ever seen. On either side of the center portico, rows of shops selling street food and souvenirs to tourists crowded the bridge. I crossed and began looking for hotels. The first few I encountered were luxury, 4 and 5 star. I continued on.
The walk from St. Mark’s to the train station took about thirty minutes. Roughly halfway there, I found my first three-star hotel. I asked about a room, but they were full. Three more hotels gave me the same answer.
I began to worry. What if every hotel is full? Am I going to spend the night on the street?
Finally, with the train station in sight, I spotted an arrow-shaped sign for a three-star hotel pointing down a narrow alley. At the end of it, a small office displayed a glowing neon VACANCY sign in the window.
As I entered the office, the bell above the door jangled. Through a curtain-obscured archway, an elderly Italian man sat watching television. He rose and came out to greet me.
“Hi, I’m Francis Marino. Your sign says you have a room?”
To my relief, he spoke broken English.
“Yes. One just became available.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, handing him my credit card.
As he swiped it, I noticed a holder full of business cards beside the cash register and picked one up.
“You’re Geno?”
“Yes. Geno… Geno Clemenza.” He handed back my credit card along with a key attached to an enormous tassel—far too large to fit in a pocket. “This is my place. Welcome.”
“Wow. That’s a big tassel.”
He smiled. “Yes. When you go out, you leave the key here. When you come back, you pick it up again.”
“How late are you open?”
“Until one o’clock.” He pointed toward the courtyard. “Your room is down the outside passage, on the right.”
The room was small and cramped, with a tiny bathroom containing a toilet, sink, and shower. The shower was so narrow that once the sliding doors were closed, it was impossible to bend over and retrieve a dropped bar of soap. The bed was barely larger than a narrow full-size bed back home. A small closet, a tiny desk, and a dresser completed the furnishings.
I stowed my suitcase in the closet, stripped off my clothes, and climbed into bed. Within seconds, I was asleep.
Sample Chapter 5
Chapter 5 – Crying in the Rain
I rubbed my eyes and looked at my watch—7:00 p.m. I had slept for five hours and felt somewhat refreshed. I was excited to be in Venice. It was Saturday evening, and I didn’t want to waste it.
But what now?
The tiny shower was a challenge for an American. Twice I had to slide open the doors just to bend over and retrieve the soap. Somehow, I managed. After toweling off and getting dressed, I returned to the hotel office to leave my room key—the one with the giant tassel. I confirmed that the office would remain open until 1:00 a.m. so I could retrieve it later. Geno assured me it would.
I walked down the narrow alley to the street in front of the train station, then turned left toward the center of the island and the Rialto Bridge. After consulting my reference card and considering a few attractions, I settled on a simpler plan: wander toward Piazza San Marco, explore whatever caught my eye, and see where the evening led.
I desperately needed caffeine. A few yards from the hotel, I spotted a coffee shop and ordered an espresso and two pastries to shake off the grogginess and hunger before continuing my walk. The streets were still busy, but the flow of foot traffic was gradually moving northwest, back toward the train station and the inexpensive mainland hotels. Venice was beginning to empty for the night.
A few hundred yards later, a sign above a double door read Disco Venezia.
A disco in Venice? How odd? I opened the door to peek inside.
The club had just opened. The staff were stocking the bar and getting organized. There was no music yet, only the sound of two televisions mounted above the bottles behind the bar. It was still too early for dancing. There weren’t even any stools, which made me suspect the place became so crowded later in the evening that they needed every inch of floor space.
I ordered a glass of red wine.
“Un vino rosso, per favore.”
“Va bene,” the bartender replied.
“Lei parla inglese?”
“Only a little,” he answered, sliding the wine across the counter.
“What time does it get busy?”
“Oh… tonight, about ten o’clock. Then it gets very busy.”
The club was otherwise empty except for the staff. Two young men sat across the island bar, and three attractive women stood a few feet away. They appeared to be in their mid-twenties and were dressed for a night of dancing—short skirts and high heels.
I sipped my drink and listened to their banter. They were chatting and laughing in what sounded like Cockney English, an accent similar to that of the Beatles. I assumed they were tourists, like me. All three seemed tipsy and ready to party.
At one point, one of them laughed and asked, “I wonder how you say, ‘Do you want to fuck?’ in Italian?”
The three erupted in laughter.
Their brazenness surprised me, especially since they were standing only a few feet away. Then it dawned on me that I was dressed almost entirely in black—black pants, black shoes, black jacket. Only the white collar of my shirt broke up the dark color scheme. They must have assumed I was Italian and couldn’t understand a word they were saying.
The girls were attractive, if a bit shallow, but lonely as I was, I had no desire to spend my first night in Venice trying to separate one of them from the group in a cheesy disco. It simply sounded like too much work.
I finished my wine and headed back into the Venetian night.
Back on the street, the sky was dark and overcast, and raindrops spattered the cobblestones. I headed southeast toward the Rialto Bridge. The crowds were thinning, and the alleys had grown quiet. The drizzle steadily intensified. I hugged the building walls, slipping beneath shallow eaves whenever I could to stay dry.
It was an interesting walk. I noticed many things I had missed while anxiously searching for a hotel. Window boxes overflowing with red geraniums adorned many of the buildings. Until then, the only geraniums I associated with were the Memorial Day flowers decorating graves in our Catholic cemetery back home. In Venice, however, they seemed to be everywhere. Their brilliant red blossoms provided a striking contrast to the weathered stone and faded plaster.
The alleys twisted between ancient buildings, shops, churches, apartments, and hotels. Tiny arched bridges spanning the canals punctuated the walk. Despite the rain, I paused on nearly every bridge to admire the architecture and peer down the quiet waterways.
As I lingered, I tried to stay in the moment and quiet my mind. But the stillness invited loneliness to creep in. The canals were beautiful, yet as I stood in the drizzle, staring at the aging buildings haunted by the ghosts of ancient merchants and mariners, I couldn’t help but wonder: What was I doing here? Why had I come? What did I hope to find?
Melancholy settled over me. I pushed it aside and kept walking.
When I finally arrived at the Rialto, the precipitation had intensified into a light rain. I zipped my jacket to the collar and looked for cover. It was late October; the days were short. Amber street lamps and indirect lighting on the bridge struggled to cast a warm glow and long shadows on the masonry. The overcast sky, rain-slicked cobblestones, and minimal ambient light made the evening feel dark and lonely—almost spooky. The narrow alleys looked ghostly and haunted.
I descended the bridge and looked down a narrow alley for cover. About a hundred yards away, a warm amber light glowed invitingly from a window. Above the door hung a small sign that read Bacaro—a traditional Venetian wine bar.
I quickened my pace and headed toward the light.
Inside, the bacaro was small, warm, crowded, and smelled of drying overcoats. I guessed there were about thirty patrons laughing, drinking, and talking over one another. Every seat was taken except for one lonely stool in the middle of the bar. I slid onto it and ordered a glass of red wine.
As the bartender slid my wine toward me, I heard someone call out.
“Francis!”
I turned to see three women seated at a tiny high-top table against the wall. The woman waving at me was Jenny Rice, the flight attendant who had upgraded me on the Delta flight.
“Jenny! What are you doing here?
“Layover,” she said. “Delta put us up in a cheap hotel by the airport. Boring. So we took the vaporetto into Venice for the evening. What are you up to?”
“I found a hotel close to the train station, slept for about five hours, and now I’m out on the town. It’s Saturday night. Right? I didn’t want to waste it.”
“I hear that. Isn’t this a cool little place? We found it last year and we’ve been coming back ever since. … It’s very local.”
“Can I buy you girls a drink?”
“No, we’ve already had too many.” She laughed. “We’re leaving soon. We’ve been here since about five. We had cicchetti for dinner. I think they’ve put it away by now, but you should come back tomorrow. It’s very good.”
“Maybe I’ll stop by for happy hour. How long are you here?”
“We fly out tomorrow morning at ten.”
I hadn’t realized how attractive Jenny was. On the plane, her uniform and tightly wound hair had made her seem formal. Now, in fitted jeans and a loose sweater, with her hair falling past her shoulders, she looked playful and relaxed. Late thirties, maybe—older than me—but very attractive.
“Are you here alone?” she asked.
“Until now. Why don’t you come home with me?” I teased.
“I’m married, silly boy. Besides, I’m too old for you.”
“I’m thirty-three.”
“Well, you don’t look it,” she said, laughing. “What about the little girl you were teasing on the plane? She was cute.”
“She was interesting, but I’m not sure she’s my type. You thought she was cute?”
“Yes. She was adorable. I talked with her for a few minutes before I came to get you. She was sweet and very polite. I helped her lift that suitcase into the overhead compartment. Did you notice how heavy it was?”
I nodded.
“She reminded me of myself at that age. I was a rebel before I joined the establishment. Did you see those tattoos on her arms? She probably has daddy issues.”
“Why do you say that?”
Jenny stood, turned around, and lifted her sweater just enough to reveal several Chinese symbols tattooed across her lower back.
“I know what I’m talking about,” she said with a laugh. “When are you flying home?”
“Next Saturday.”
“At ten in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll probably see you then. We’re all working the Atlanta flight.”
The Delta attendants paid their tab and stood to leave.
“Safe travels,” I said. “And, Jenny, thanks again for the upgrade. That was very kind of you.
She smiled, pulled her jacket over her head, and followed the others into the drizzle. They waved through the window as they passed.
I turned back toward the bar and ordered another glass of red wine.
“You’re American?” a well-dressed gentleman seated to my right asked.
“Yes. Atlanta, Georgia. How did you know?”
“Your accent gives you away,” he said. “It’s unmistakable.”
“You’re German?” I asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“Your accent is unmistakable.”
We both laughed.
“What would your second guess have been?” he asked.
“Probably Austrian.”
“That’s very good. I’m actually from Bavaria, very close to Austria.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a member of the German parliament. Hinrich Schmidt,” he said, extending his hand.
“Francis Marino.” I shook it. “Wow. I’ve never met a congressman—not even in the United States. It’s an honor. What brings you to Venice?”
“I’m attending an economics conference at Ca’ Foscari University. And you?”
“I’m a tourist. I wanted to see Venice before visiting my grandfather’s hometown.”
“Where is that?”
“On the Po River. It’s called Felonica Po. I don’t know much about it, but I wanted to see where he… where I came from.”
“You must have loved your grandfather.”
“I did. What made you ask?”
“You’re spending a great deal of time and effort to find his hometown. You must have been very close.”
I paused.
“Yes, I suppose we were. I only wish I’d known him better. He died while I was still in high school. I never really had the chance to ask him the deeper questions.”
Hinrich smiled.
“I think we all feel that way. By the time we’re old enough to understand the questions, the people with the answers are already gone.”
By now, the bacaro was loud and crowded. Patrons kept reaching between those seated at the bar to retrieve their drinks. As a man lifted two draft beers to my left, the gentleman on the stool beside me said, “Careful with those, laddie. I don’t want to get wet.”
Our eyes met.
“How you doin’ tonight, Francis?” he asked.
“I’m okay. How’d you know my name?”
“Oh, I heard you talkin’ to your German friend over there,” he said, nodding toward Hinrich.
“Killian Conley,” he said, extending his hand.
As I shook it, I noticed it was rough and calloused. His clothes were worn and dusty.
“What do you do?” I asked.
Killian threw back his head and laughed.
“Why do so many Americans ask, ‘What do you do?’ Why don’t you just come out with it and ask, ‘How much money do you make?’ It’s so American.”
Hinrich laughed so hard he had to wipe wine from his chin.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant no offense. Your hands are strong and rough. I thought you might be a tradesman. That interests me. I come from a long line of tradesmen.”
“I’m an Irish stonemason—and yes, I make a lot of money.” He laughed again. “There aren’t many of us left.”
Hinrich leaned forward.
“Are you working on St. Mark’s? I noticed the scaffolding.”
Killian nodded.
“Yes. I’m with the crew restoring the north wall.”
“You must be very good. They don’t let just anyone work on a masterpiece like that,” Hinrich said.
“Thank you.” Killian raised his glass. “See, Francis? If Hinrich had introduced himself first, he’d have asked, ‘Where did you go to school?’ That’s what Germans do.”
Hinrich chuckled. “I was actually going to ask how much money you made.”
“Okay,” I laughed. “Where did you go to school?”
“Cambridge.”
“Oh, come on. You’re joking.”
“No, I’m not. Full scholarship. Don’t you believe me, Francis?”
“I never would have guessed Cambridge.”
“Are you implying I don’t look smart? Do you think I’m stupid?”
I laughed.
“No! Stop it. You said you were a stonemason. Stonemasons don’t usually have degrees from Cambridge. Right?”
“I was the goalkeeper for the Falcons football club my junior and senior years—and I graduated, too. Of course, that was about eighty pounds ago,” he said with a laugh.
“Then why are you a stonemason if you have a degree from Cambridge?”
“Philosophy majors aren’t the most sought-after graduates. Besides, it’s the family business. My father was getting old, so I started helping out. Here I am.”
“Why philosophy?” Hinrich asked.
“I had to choose something to keep the scholarship. It sounded interesting.” He shrugged. “Turns out, I really enjoyed it.”
“Can I buy you both a drink?” Killian asked. “Come on, lads. It’s Saturday night. Let’s get pissed!”
We thanked him and ordered another round.
Over the next hour, we all became pleasantly drunk. We argued cheerfully about soccer versus American football, politics, food, and which countries had the prettiest women. Hinrich and I bought the next two rounds.
“I can’t believe how nice people are over here,” I said.
“Do you make friends easily at home?” Killian asked.
“I guess so.”
“Well, there you are.” He pointed at me with his glass. “You’re the same fellow here as you are at home. You make friends there, and you make friends here. I like you—and I only met you an hour ago.”
I smiled.
“Thank you.”
Hinrich leaned against the bar.
“People say travel is transformative,” he said. “I think it simply clarifies who we already are.”
As midnight approached, I glanced at my watch.
“Gentlemen, this has been an education, but I’ve got to get going. My hotel lobby closes at one.”
“Aw, come on, Francis,” Killian protested. “Don’t bug out now. It’s Saturday night. Just pound on the door. The innkeeper will let you in.”
“Buddy, I woke up in Atlanta this morning. I’m drunk and exhausted. I need some sleep,” I said, sliding off my stool and steadying myself.
“Ah, you’re weak, Francis!” Killian laughed.
“Good luck with the basilica.” I gave him a quick man-hug and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the drinks. I’ll check out your work the next time I’m in town.”
“You’re welcome, Francis. Safe travels.” He raised his glass. “Keep an open mind when you visit your grandfather’s hometown. A lot can change in a hundred years.”
I smiled and nodded before turning to Hinrich.
“Good luck at your conference. Learn something about economics. Enjoy your stay.”
“You as well, Francis.” He smiled. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
We shook hands.
I paid my tab and stepped back out into the rain.
I was exhausted and drunk. I stood beneath the bacaro’s awning for a moment to steady myself, zip my jacket, and contemplate the walk back to my hotel. The drizzle fell continuously in front of the amber street lamps. The alley was silent, dark, cold, and wet. I pulled my jacket tight around my neck and set off. Small puddles dotted the narrow passageway. I was glad I’d followed the travel advice and worn waterproof shoes. I quickened my pace.
As I climbed the Rialto Bridge, one of the amber street lamps on the far side of the Grand Canal caught my attention. It glowed brighter than the others and flickered intensely, as though the bulb were about to burn out.
That’s odd, I thought.
As I reached the crest of the bridge, I stopped to gaze over the deserted canal and the rain-soaked buildings lining its banks. Leaning against the heavy stone railing, I found myself staring at the flickering lamp. It was oddly hypnotic.
The black sky and eerie silence stirred the same hollow loneliness I’d felt earlier.
What did I hope to find? What was I doing here? Who was I?
The tinkling of rain in the downspouts and the soft lapping of water against the canal walls were the only sounds breaking the stillness. My head was spinning. Raindrops streamed down my face and dripped from my nose, finally reminding me it was time to move on.
As I descended the north side of the bridge, I glanced once more at the strange amber beacon, then at the café beneath it.
I froze.
Under a canvas awning, about forty yards away, sat a lone figure. Two chairs faced one another. She occupied one and had her feet propped on the other, as though trying to sleep.
I recognized the shoes. Black Converse sneakers.
That’s Carrie.
As I approached, she looked up. Her eyes were red behind her fogged glasses, and tears streamed down her cheeks.
“Carrie? What are you doing here?”
She sniffled.
“Someone stole my suitcase.”
“What?”
“The restroom on the train wasn’t big enough for me and my suitcase, so I left it outside on the luggage rack. While I was in the restroom, the train stopped on the mainland.” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “When I came back out, the train was moving again… and my suitcase was gone.”
Her head dropped, and she began crying again.
I pulled another chair beside her and sat down.
“I’m so sorry. Were you able to get a room?”
She shook her head.
“My clothes, my money, and my debit card were all in my suitcase. Except for the thirty dollars in my pocket, my passport, and my ticket home… I lost everything.”
She broke down again.
I sat quietly for a moment, trying to think through the haze of wine and exhaustion.
I liked Carrie. She was cute. But I hardly knew her. She seemed genuine, but what if she was just another flaky bartender? I had come to Italy looking for simplicity, for peace, for a chance to decompress after two difficult years. The last thing I wanted was a vacation consumed by someone else’s drama.
I looked up at the raindrops falling in front of the flickering amber lamp, then back at Carrie.
She was shivering.
Sniffling.
Completely alone.
I felt my resolve begin to melt.
It was after midnight. The hotels were either full or closed. Lending her money wouldn’t solve anything.
I pulled a cocktail napkin from my pocket and handed it to her.
“Well… you can’t stay out here.” I offered a small smile. “Come on. You can stay in my room tonight, and we’ll figure everything out in the morning. You’ll be safe. It’ll be okay.”
She wiped the moisture from her glasses, slipped them back on, and looked up at me, tears still glistening in her eyes.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah… sure.” I held out my hand. “My room isn’t much. It’s small and cheap because I never planned to spend much time there, but I think there are extra blankets in the closet. We’ll make it work. You’ll be warm. You’ll be safe. I promise.”
She grabbed her oversized purse and took my hand. We hurried along the building fronts, ducking beneath the eaves whenever we could to avoid the rain.
“Did you get anything to eat?” I asked.
“Yes. I ate that Chick-fil-A sandwich I brought.”
“Was it enough? There’s a convenience store near the train station if you’re still hungry. They might have something.”
“That’s kind of you, Francis, but I’m okay. Thank you.”
When we reached the hotel lobby, I rang the bell. Through the archway, I could see a soccer match playing on the television. Geno rose from an easy chair and rounded the corner. He paused, studying the two of us as rainwater dripped from our clothes onto his spotless tile floor.
“Numero dodici?” he asked.
“Sí, numero dodici.”
He turned to the wall of pigeonholes, searched for a moment, and handed me the key with its enormous tassel.
Carrie gave a tired laugh.
“How are you supposed to fit that in your pocket?”
“You’re not,” I said. “That’s the point.”
We hurried down the narrow alley to my room. I unlocked the door, let her inside, and switched on the lamp.
She was soaked. Her hair dripped onto her shoulders, and her jeans and shoes were saturated. I had forgotten how small the room was. With both of us inside, it suddenly felt much smaller.
“Do you have another change of clothes?” I asked.
“No. I think I’ve got some clean underwear buried somewhere in my purse. You can never have enough underwear, right?”
I laughed.
“Okay, here’s what we’ll do.”
I opened my suitcase and pulled out an elastic travel clothesline. Stretching it across the warm radiator beneath the window, I secured the suction cups at each end.
“You brought a clothesline?” Carrie mumbled.
“Yeah. Camp soap, too. You know… just in case I needed to wash clothes. The guidebook recommended it.”
I reached into my suitcase and pulled out a large white T-shirt.
“I’m going to disappear for about thirty minutes. Hang your clothes on the line to dry. Take a hot shower if you want. Then put on your clean underwear and this T-shirt. You can sleep on the floor with the extra blankets in the closet, or we can share the bed—your choice. If you choose the bed, I promise I’ll be a perfect gentleman.”
I held out the shirt.
“You’re safe here.”
She looked toward the rain-streaked window.
“It’s raining. Where are you going?”
“I’ll walk over to the train station. It’s only a block away, and it’s probably open all night.”
“Francis… I feel terrible making you leave your own room.”
“It’s okay, Carrie. You’ve had a rough day. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back in thirty minutes.”
I walked to the train station to give her some privacy. There wasn’t much happening at one-thirty in the morning. A handful of travelers waited for an early train to Milan. While I was there, I wandered over to an open service counter and asked to speak with the station manager.
When I returned to the hotel, I opened the room door quietly.
Carrie was asleep on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. She had taken one pillow from the bed and curled up between the desk and the wall. The day had finally caught up with her.
She was sound asleep.
I brushed my teeth in the tiny bathroom, then quietly crawled into the narrow bed.
Free on Kindle Unlimited
Audio Book Available on Audible
Book Summary
Last Call is a reflective coming-of-age novel set in the early 1980s, told through the introspective, confessional voice of Tommy Costa—a self-made, emotionally observant college senior who balances his DJ business with existential searching, romantic encounters, and a final reckless caper that forces him to confront the cost of his ambition.
The novel opens in present time—December 7, 1982—as Tommy drives across the George Washington Bridge, shaken, hungover, and emotionally reeling from a failed escapade in New York City. Accompanied by his lifelong friend Kurt and a powerlifting enforcer named Chester, Tommy is returning from a botched plan they had convinced themselves would elevate them to success. The outcome is unclear, but the damage—emotional, legal, and moral—is significant. With the skyline shrinking in his rearview mirror, Tommy reflects on the choices that brought him here.
The story then flashes back two years to a pivotal night in Tommy’s college life. He is working as the DJ at a massive fraternity party at Penn State, cloaked behind his elaborate light panel setup—more technician and emotional manipulator than performer. When two bold young women, Shelly and Amanda, crash the party and request a song, Tommy is caught off guard. Shelly’s playful, mysterious energy pierces his emotional armor, and what begins as a song request evolves into an invitation to follow them to an afterparty.
This impulsive decision propels Tommy into a long, winding, intimate night with Shelly—a University of Pittsburgh pre-med student visiting her friends. Over the course of the night and morning, they share weed, beer, literary conversation (bonding over The Sun Also Rises), flirtation, and a tender yet unresolved romantic connection. Shelly is intelligent, emotionally layered, and hauntingly self-aware. Tommy is drawn in, surprised by her depth, and left yearning for more.
Over the next chapters, we witness Tommy’s inner world: his struggle to fit into the corporate college culture, his contempt for shallow academic exercises, and his affection for fellow outsiders like Joey Parisi, a dropout turned entrepreneur. Tommy is acutely self-aware—proud of his business hustle yet burdened by his sense of emotional detachment, the pressures of adulthood, and a persistent loneliness he can’t quite shake.
The book’s narrative is rich with vignettes of college life: Thursday nights at Mr. C’s disco, hungover Sundays, the tedious grind of coursework, and the dissonance between surface-level success and deeper yearning. Throughout, Tommy seeks meaning, validation, and connection—especially with Shelly, who remains a ghostly emotional imprint, symbolizing what could have been if he had made different choices.
The novel gradually loops back toward the present-day fallout of the NYC scheme, hinting at what Tommy risked and lost in pursuit of a shortcut to success. Yet the core of the novel is not the failed caper—it’s Tommy’s reckoning with the arrogance, choices, and missed emotional opportunities that defined his youth.
Last Call is both a love letter to youthful ambition and a eulogy for innocence lost. With vivid prose, deep introspection, and emotional authenticity, it captures the exquisite ache of being young, hungry, and not yet wise.
Sample Chapter 1
Tuesday, December 7, 1982
The clinking of beer bottles rolling under my seat awakened me from my trance. I was now as alert as I could be after a night of short sleep and aimless wandering. Overhead, a huge green sign read: Interstate 80 West — The George Washington Bridge. The traffic light turned green, and I stomped on the gas. The rear tires of the massive Chrysler chirped as I accelerated up the on-ramp. Bright morning sunlight framed the blue-green bridge masts and heavy cables, but it was irritating my eyes. I was tired and despondent, but this ordeal was over, and I was going home.
As far as I could see, pleasure boats speckled the surface of the Hudson River. It was a pleasant Tuesday morning. People were out and having fun. I wondered if any of the occupants of the boats below the bridge were as anxious or as distraught. The car’s tires thumped rhythmically over the expansion cracks in the bridge decking, amplifying the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I watched as each support cable flashed by at regular intervals, as if to mock my anxiety.
My attention drifted again as I contemplated the previous day’s events. Emotion welled, and a single tear rolled down my cheek as I contemplated my alternatives. Was there any recovery from this? I tried to recall the excitement I felt two days earlier when I saw the beautiful aqua bridge for the first time. I recalled how giddy we were to see the skyline of the magnificent city, then shook my head in disgust. What the fuck were we thinking? Two days ago, the future seemed bright, and my life stretched out in front of me like … the highway that brought us. We ate in expensive restaurants, drank good liquor, and reveled in our cleverness. Nothing could go wrong. The bottles under my seat clinked again, and my consciousness returned.
I deluded myself into thinking this crazy move would put me over the top. Everything seemed perfect, and we had carefully prepared. We had rehearsed the plan and convinced ourselves that we had covered every contingency; nothing could go wrong.
My most trusted friend was covering my back. Kurt and I had been like brothers since we could walk. Who better to ask for counsel? But I convinced him so completely that it tainted his judgment as well, and we both fell into the same delusional trap. We wanted to believe it, and it became real.
The third member of the crew was the muscle. On a mission like this, you never knew what you’d run into. So we brought Chester along, just in case. A state power-lifting champion, Chester could handle anybody.
And if things really got hot, we were packing heat. We had armed ourselves with concealed automatics and extra clips in a city where the simple possession of a firearm was a felony and could land you in jail for years. Why not? It seemed logical. They did it on TV. But twenty-four hours later, I felt lucky not to be in jail, … or worse.
The last two years were amazing, almost magical, … too good. I was bristling with hubris when I entered the city. But now, I wondered whether I was smart or just lucky. Had I outsmarted everyone? … or just stumbled into success? Did my insight and intuition serve me, … or ruin me? When I left Pennsylvania, I was solid. I was popular; I had more friends and lovers than I’d ever dreamed of. It was an unbelievable ride, and I felt invincible. I took it for granted. How foolish I had been.
I recalled a time picking dandelions with my Great Aunt for salad. We were in a huge field. The woman who owned the land looked at me and said, “What a beautiful boy.” My Aunt nodded politely. But when the woman left, she turned to me and said, “Quick, do this with your hand behind your back.”
The old Italians believed that whenever you received a compliment or encountered good fortune, you should always touch your middle two fingers to your thumb and extend your little finger and index finger toward the ground in secret. It was called the “mano cornuta”, or the “sign of the horns”. The gesture was a defense against the “malocchio”, the evil eye. It drained the sin of pride from your body and protected you from the curse. It was a reminder that pride was the root of all sins, and all success and good fortune are fleeting. But for all the good fortune and compliments I’d received in the last two years, I hadn’t remembered to practice this simple ritual even once. I had forgotten to remind myself that pride obscures rational thinking. I didn’t recognize those evil eyes.
I looked over at Kurt. From the shotgun seat, he stared out over the Hudson in the opposite direction. I knew what he was thinking.
“Well …,” said Chester from the back seat, “it’s a beautiful morning.”
“Yes,” I muttered, forcing a sarcastic laugh, “it’s a beautiful fucking morning.”
As I turned toward Chester to see his reaction, my eyes caught Kurt’s, and we began laughing at Chester’s simple but truthful comment. “What else could we do?”
“Yeah,” said Kurt, “it’s a beautiful fucking day all right.”
The bottles under my seat clinked again. “Those fucking beer bottles are driving me nuts; are any of them full?”
Chester grunted as he struggled to contort his massive frame to feel under the seat for the loose bottles. He fished three out and passed two forward, exclaiming, “… and they’re still cold! How about that?”
We twisted the caps off in near unison and tossed them on the floor. It was 10:00 AM, too early to drink on most days, but today it seemed appropriate. We needed something to kill the depression and erase the memory of our joint stupidity.
I sipped the beer, and then Chester broke the silence. “Hey, all we can do is make the best of it. What’s done is done, and there ain’t nothin’ we can do about it today.”
I tipped the bottle and took a long drink. The cold beer tasted good. For at least a moment, it drove away the fear and despair. I took another long drink and focused on the image in the rearview mirror. I wanted one last look at Manhattan, the city that symbolized the pinnacle of my success and the naiveté that brought me down. The magnificent skyline faded into the distant horizon and, with it, at least for today, my hopes and dreams. My name is Tommy Costa, and this is my confession.
Sample Chapter 2
Saturday, December 13, 1980—Two Years Earlier
The mass of humanity undulated to rhythms generated by two giant speaker stacks. Towering over the dance floor, the obelisks paid homage to the gods of decadence. Ultra-low thumps from the bass bins coursed through the floors and walls, pounding the occupants in the room. Between the speakers stretched a light panel facade forty feet wide by four feet high. Blobs of colored light danced inside it, creating a hypnotic effect like something from a 60s sci-fi movie. Thirty-two feet of black light tubing made teeth, eye whites, and white cotton garments glow with an eerie fluorescence. Sixteen color flood lights flashed to the beat, creating a surreal oscillation between vibrant color and a mysterious black-lit darkness. On the ceiling, over the center of the dance floor, a twenty-two-inch mirrored ball slowly rotated, reflecting sharp splinters of colored light in all directions. Tobacco smoke and airborne dust made the rays look as solid as lasers slicing through the dank air of the cavernous ballroom. Snow melt from damp garments piled on tables and slung over chairs made the room uncomfortably thick and humid, while the vague scent of human sweat, mixed with hints of cologne and spilled beer mingled to create the unmistakable aroma of a keg party. Confident scholars groped and clung on the dance floor, while the timid and disinterested crowded the periphery. Tall drinks in hand, they bore witness to the orgy of human interaction, seething with sexual energy and testosterone-fueled tension. The late November mixer at the Penn State Chapter of Lambda Chi was reaching its crescendo.
Sound Odyssey, my massive DJ show, turned the huge frat hall into a high-energy disco tech. The show’s centerpiece was a wall of light panels that hid me from the crowd. From my vantage point behind the panels, behind the turntables, surrounded by amp racks, controllers, and record stock, I could see everything. It was safe behind the facade, and I liked it that way. I preferred to stay out of sight and instead manipulate the crowd through music selection and atmospheric lighting. Seeing all, without being seen, I was a curious voyeur looking in on a party I did not wish to attend.
Most disc jockeys considered themselves the entertainment, the “Master of Ceremony,” shouting over song intros to stimulate the audience. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t a performer; I was the “wizard behind the curtain,” a technologist and event puppeteer pulling the strings of emotion. I was the caretaker of energy and the architect of excitement. The crowd seemed to like it. The jobs kept coming, and the money kept rolling in. I could do it; that’s why I continued. But I didn’t enjoy it. How many times had I woken from sleep, sure that the music was running out and no song was in the cue? That was my nightmare.
Tonight was just another gig. I would work the event, ensure everyone had fun, bring the excitement to a crescendo, and then let the crowd down easy. The room would fade to black. I would pack up my gear, load my van, get my check, and get away before anything or anyone got seriously damaged or hurt.
The ignorance of the crowd amused me. Most were unaware of the emotional manipulation and assumed certain parties just blossomed into spectacles. Some unseen force or serendipitous mix of people, music, and atmosphere magically came together. If you were lucky enough to be there, you experienced it.
But I knew differently. It was no accident that the parties I “played” always built to maximum attainable excitement. My technical ability, artistic sensibilities, musical ear, and most of all, my empathy for the crowd were my superpowers.
My father gave me the technical skills that empowered me to build and maintain the equipment necessary to accommodate an event of this magnitude. He taught me to wire HO-scale railroad layouts at nine years old. He was a craftsman, an artist, and a musician, a creative Renaissance man, and I was part of him. But my essential ability, my feelings, came from my Mother’s side. A pronounced sense of empathy empowered me to imagine, long before anyone entered a hall, what was required to put people at ease, and what was necessary to inspire a great party. It was a gift, and I realized it.
But knowing and doing were different things. Knowing was intuitive, but doing was a lot of work. It was all so predictable. How many gigs had I performed over the last five years? It seemed like a thousand. Maintaining the gear, driving to gigs, finding the hall, meeting the client, unpacking the van, setting up the show, answering the questions, mixing the music, building the party, surviving the crazy late hours, packing the gear, loading the van, and getting paid was a necessary sequence that had to be honored.
The physical exertion was taxing. Even when I hired a helper, lifting and moving the heavy equipment was strenuous. But the real exhaustion came from dealing with the people. There were always fools to be suffered. How many times had I answered the same questions? Questions from audiophiles, would-be entrepreneurs, music buffs, trivia questions, and personal questions all sapped energy.
The worst interactions, however, were the song requests. There was always someone who thought they knew better, always some amateur who was going to show the pro. Once in a while, someone would surprise me with a cut or song that I hadn’t considered. But the vast majority of the time, requesters were boors pushing personal agendas with no consideration for the group or the party as a controlled event. I minimized the energy drain by hiding out of sight behind the impregnable wall of light panels and equipment. Forcing dancers to walk around the forty-foot-wide veneer of flashing light blobs prevented the worst of the boors from gaining access.
The party was rolling. I pressed the button on my Casio Databank to illuminate the dial. Shit, I thought, … midnight, … two more hours. The last two hours of a four-hour show, usually midnight to 2:00 AM, were the “crazy hours.” The alcohol and drugs were running strong, and anything could happen. Accidents and fights were always a possibility. Equipment damage was my primary concern. I had to pay attention and broaden the radar. I had to heighten my awareness at the very moment boredom and mental fatigue were setting in. I segue into a slow dance. Better take the energy down a notch and let them pair up, I thought; leave no doubt who is with whom.
As I cued the next cut, a loud, melodious, “Excuse me!” gave me a start. I whirled around to see two comely females standing in the shadows behind the record cases. My preoccupation with the crowd on the dance floor allowed them to slink around the facade unnoticed.
“Yes,” I replied, scanning the clothing and body type of each. Both girls were attractive, but one was slightly taller and seemed to be the protagonist. The shorter coed appeared to be her “wing gal,” lending support and “watching her back.”
“What can I do for you?”
Bracing herself with both hands over the record cases, the taller girl leaned forward such that her white silk blouse fell open in front, slightly exposing her small, firm breasts. Her lips edged so close to my ear that I could smell the alcohol on her breath and sense the fragrant mix of her perfume and perspiration. Her breath tickled my ear as she asked, “Can you play Funky Town?”
I pulled back to observe the girl again in her entirety. She radiated a playful energy that caused me to hesitate. She scanned my full height with her level blue-gray eyes. Time seemed to stand still. I noticed tiny beads of sweat glistening on the bridge of her nose. She had been dancing hard. Her skin-tight designer jeans accentuated the re-curve between her butt and her thigh. She wore leather, low-heeled, black dress boots. Her sandy brown hair cascaded over her shoulders and around her face. I usually handled requests with polite disinterest, but there was something about this woman that moved me. I struggled to compose myself and remain professional.
“What’s your name?”
“Shelly,” she shouted with a playful smile.
“What are you doing here?”
“We crashed the party!” The two girls looked at each other and broke into laughter.
“Okay,” I said, smiling and eyeing each curiously.
“Will you play it next?” she asked with a hint of flirtatious insistence.
I glanced at the turntable. I subtracted the time needed to find her request from the remaining playing time of the current song and decided it was possible. “Okay,” I replied with a smile. “But you owe me.”
She smiled and her face flushed, then she looked away and raked her hair over her ear. The two girls backed away and then turned into the shadows. In the dim light, I could see the shorter girl whisper something in her ear. Then Shelly turned back for one last glance before disappearing into the darkness.
I cued her request and clicked the start button on the turntable. Taking care to match the 4/4 beat, I cross-faded the mix. Shelly’s request was a popular selection and drew an immediate and energetic reaction from the crowd. The dance floor filled even more tightly. I watched to see if the two girls would dance.
As I scanned the crowd, my right hand reached toward the color organ. Without looking, I ran my fingers over each toggle until I reached the large sensitivity knob on the far end, then rotated it right to increase the luminance of the room. It only took a few seconds to fixate on the woman. She was dancing with her friend toward the back of the dance floor. Both girls had their hands over their heads, moving them back and forth, palm up, palm down, reminiscent of an Egyptian princess. The two gracefully swayed to the music and burst into laughter at brief intervals. They looked into each other’s eyes and laughed as if they were the only two on the dance floor.
The request was winding down. I again cross-faded into the next song and watched to see if the girls would continue dancing. But they seemed to lose interest and disappeared into the crowd. That was fun while it lasted. I looked at my watch again at 12:45 PM. Another hour and a half, and I’m out of here. I cued the next record with disinterest.
Suddenly, a disturbance in the far back corner of the ballroom captured my attention. In the distant corner of the hall, two huge guys wearing football jerseys locked up in a Sumo wrestling hold. A small woman shouted and tried to push the two giants apart. Drinks flew, and a chair tipped over, making a loud wooden clap as it hit the floor. The ruckus, however, was barely audible over the ambient noise of the room. Beer splash sprayed a few brothers standing close by as several plastic cups exploded on the hardwood floor. Several others joined in to help quell the disturbance. The two men continued to shout, barely audible, if ugly epithets, at each other as they were separated and moved outside. From my high vantage point on the stage, I followed the action. Interestingly, most others in the hall seemed oblivious.
A half hour crawled by. I was thumbing through the record stock to ensure I hadn’t missed anything when I again sensed a presence within feet of my bowed head. I looked up to see Shelly and her friend once again moving through the shadows toward me. The shorter girl leaned forward and inquired loud enough to be heard over the music, “Will you play another song for us?”
“What’s your name?”
“Amanda.”
“Sure. What do you want to hear?”
Amanda glanced at Shelly. Shelly stepped forward and leaned over the record case. Again, she leaned so close that her lips nearly touched my ear. “We want to hear Donna Summer.”
I looked into her eyes and said, “Sure, … no problem.”
“Will you play it next?” she pleaded.
“I’m finished in fifteen minutes. How about if I play Donna Summer’s Last Dance, for the last dance?”
The two girls smiled and bounced with apparent glee and approval. Shelly then grabbed my arm and pulled me close enough to whisper in my ear and said, “I know. I owe you.”
I turned and caught her eyes only inches from my own and said, “I think I like you.”
Amanda reached out and grabbed Shelly’s arm, then pulled her toward the dance floor. Shelly resisted, turning one last time to smile, then disappeared again into the shadows behind the light wall.
After about fifteen minutes, I cued the girl’s request. As I cross-mixed the selection, I made my customary announcement to the crowd, indicating this would be the last song of the evening, and then thanked everyone for coming. By this point, it was well after 2:00 AM, and the crowd seemed tired, drunk, and ready for the dancing to end. No one shouted any objections, and I breathed a sigh of relief. Tonight, there would be no paid overtime. After the current song, I could pack up and go home.
“Last Dance” is a disco song, but it starts as a slow dance, then, after a few minutes, “bursts” into a driving disco beat. The dancers paired up and slow danced during the opening portion of the song. Once again, I scanned the crowd to see if the two girls would dance. It was standard procedure during slow dances to turn off all lights except for the black lights and the pin spots focused on the mirrored ball. Stars then flew around the darkened room, painting the glowing garments on the dancers and giving the couples privacy to make out without being seen. After a few minutes, I spotted the two girls slow dancing together theatrically as if to say, “We’re just having fun”.
As if in love, the two took turns dipping each other, dramatically pirouetting and singing the lyrics into each other’s eyes. When the song burst into the driving disco portion, the girls slung each other back and forth like swing dancers. They were quite good, and the scene was fun to watch, but after a few minutes, the reality of the impending “tear-down” consumed my full attention. I began packing everything possible without interrupting the music. As the last song wound down, I opened the mic and bid the crowd one last thanks and good night. The music ended, and the house lights came up.
The tear-down procedure was so ingrained in my mind that I flew through the motions in a zombie-like trance. First, the music was “potted” down, then the power switches were snapped off. Next, I disconnected all the power cords from the wall sockets. Then I disconnected every cable and cord, coiling and storing each in a large trunk. Next, the turntables, the amp rack, and the effects racks were covered and locked down. Then I folded the floodlights, black lights, and strobe lights into “suitcase-like” crates and readied them for transport. I removed the large mirrored ball from the ceiling and packed it in its hard case. Last, I stored and secured the pin spots, light panels, stands, and ‘Sound Odyssey’ sign for transport.
With the equipment crated, I backed my van up to the loading area. I opened the two rear doors and removed a hand dolly and a pair of leather gloves. I then dollied each piece of equipment from the dance floor to the van. The largest pieces first, the heavy speaker cabinets, then the folded light panels, then the trunks, the stands, and the record stock. When I finally replaced the dolly and gloves on top of the stacked equipment, I heard my favorite “song” of the evening. The song I had been waiting to hear all night was the sound of the slamming rear doors of the van. That sound was sweet music. It was the signal that the gig was over. Only one last detail – get my check.
Sample Chapter 3
I stood for a moment. The air was cold, and light snow was falling. I was struck by how beautiful the bushes, the shrubs, the trees, and the lawn appeared. The blanket of snow reflected the blue-white light from the street lamps. I paused for a few seconds to enjoy the view. The frosty night air was clearing my head. It was quiet now. Only the faint voices from lingering party guests and conversations from occasional passersby broke the night’s silence — a silence made more so by the noise-dampening effect of the snow.
I resented it when the party host made me track him or her down for payment after the gig. It was extra work and unnecessary. What did they think I would do if they gave me the check during the party, shut everything down, and leave? I turned away from the quiet beauty of the yard and made my way back into the house. I inadvertently kicked empty bottles and plastic cups as I walked across the vacant dance floor. Most of the crowd had filed out through the front door by now, but enough guests remained to make the house feel busy. I made my way to the bar in the basement, excusing myself as I slipped around others on the tight, dimly lit staircase. The party in the basement was still going strong. The stereo over the bar was blasting, and the room was about half full of drunken brothers and guests.
As I looked around at the foolishness, it occurred to me how easy the college experience was for many people. The occupants in the room were well dressed, sporting expensive designer clothes and shoes, but, for the most part, disheveled. I wondered if many of them had worked a day in their life. I unzipped my worn leather bomber jacket to let some moist heat escape, then moved toward the bar.
“Excuse me,” I addressed the bartender. “Who do I see about my check?”
“That would be the Social Chairman, Miles, second floor, first room on the right. I think he’s up there now.”
“Thanks.”
As I turned toward the steps, I noticed the two girls, Shelly and Amanda, standing behind me.
“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” Shelly inquired with a drunken slur as she wrapped her arm around my neck.
“I’m surprised to see you here. I thought you had left.”
“We’re just leaving for another party. Do you want to come?”
I hesitated for a moment, eyeing each girl. They were drunk and seemed a little flaky. It was three in the morning. I was tired and sober, and this could be a tremendous waste of time. Worse, it might diminish any chance of productivity on the following day. But I liked Shelly; there was something about her. She was attractive and playful. I was lonely, and she was asking. That didn’t happen often. The hand was begging to be played.
“I’ve got to get my check upstairs from the Social Chairman.”
“Alright, mister DJ,” Shelly said. “We’ll wait for you here; then you can follow us to the party?”
I hesitated for a second. Looking at her smile, I noticed her teeth were perfect, clean, white, and straight. “Okay,” I said, whispering in her ear, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. Wait here.”
I then made my way back up the stairs to the main floor, then up another flight to the second floor, all the while passing drunken house members and guests in the dark staircase and hallway. The first door on the right was partially open. Through the opening, the room appeared to take on a hellish orange-red glow. I knocked on the door with my right hand while pushing it open a little with my left. “Miles?” I called out.
“Yeah, … come on in,” came the reply from the other side of the door.
As I pushed the door open, the sweet smell of marijuana smoke wafted from the room. The red-orange glow emanated from a large lava lamp on an end table and a buzzing Pabst Blue Ribbon beer neon sign over a desk on my immediate right. The room was small and cluttered with books, sports equipment, records, and clothing. Against the near wall was a couch. Beside the couch was an end table supporting the lava lamp. Over the lamp, a poster of Cheryl Tiegs hung next to a tattered poster of Bruce Lee. A college-age male lounged on the couch with a sleeping girl in his lap. Her sheer dress had climbed to her panty line, exposing her bare legs to the top. Across from the entrance was a window looking out on the snow-covered roof portico and back yard. Next to the window was an overstuffed chair. Another apparent brother with bloodshot eyes sat in the chair and toked deeply on a large yellow bong. The water in the bong gurgled as he drew the smoke into his lungs. A homemade bunk bed arrangement covered the left end of the room. On the bottom bed sat two more guys with bloodshot eyes sorting through some LPs. The guy with the bong looked up, exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling, and said, “I’m Miles. What can I do for you?
“The bartender in the basement said you were the one to see about my check.”
“Shit, … that’s right, you’re the DJ. Hey man, so sorry; I forgot. Hey, great show tonight; it was an epic party. Listen; … I’ve gotta write your check. Wanna hit this while you’re waiting?”
I was tired, and the girls were waiting, but the pot smelled good. Maybe just one would take the edge off, I thought. Plus, being seen as “cool” with this Social Chairman could be good for future business.
“Sure, … one for the road,” I murmured.
Miles handed the bong to one of the brothers lounging on the lower bunk and said, “Pack a good one for the DJ.”
Turning toward the desk, he slid onto the accompanying straight-backed wooden chair. He opened the lower right drawer, removed a large ledger-style checkbook, and proceeded to write the check.
“$400?” he asked.
“Yes.”
The guy on the lower bunk handed me a loaded bong and a Bic lighter. “Straight back, man,” he said.
I sat down on the edge of the overstuffed chair, took the bong, and struck the lighter. I covered the carburetor hole with my index finger and pulled the flame hard through the moist reefer. The bong gurgled, and the pot crackled. The fragrant smoke filled my lungs. This is good dope, I thought, as I held the smoke in for as long as I could stand it. After a few seconds, I released it with a gentle whoosh in the direction of the Pabst neon sign, then hit it again. After exhaling the second time, I handed the bong back to its owners. It only took seconds for the “high” to creep in. It was good pot.
The room was still for a few long seconds. It seemed like an eternity. I didn’t realize until this moment how much energy I had expended and how much tension I had accumulated in my head and shoulders. It was a long day, and it felt good to relax. As the pot took hold, I could feel the tension draining away as if a giant valve opened, allowing all the anxiety and negative energy to pour out on the floor. A relaxed, silly feeling covered me like a warm blanket.
The sound of the check ripping from the ledger page awakened me from my stupor. Miles turned and handed it over. “Here you go bud, good job. What’s your calendar looking like for January?”
“I’ve got some dates,” I murmured from inside the encroaching buzz.
“Call me on Monday. Let’s compare calendars.”
“I will, Miles; … thanks. It is nice to finally meet you.
“Cool; … how do you like that dope?”
“Awesome. … I’m stoned already,” I said as I noticed the girl on the couch beginning to regain consciousness. Struggling to sit up, she noticed me sitting across from her and began to feign modesty by pulling her dress down to a more socially appropriate length. Her glazed eyes scanned me from head to toe, as if wondering what the hell I was doing next to her.
Just then, the guy looking through records said, “You gotta hear Mile’s stereo, man, it’s killer. These Polk Audio speakers kick ass.”
In an instant, he placed an LP on a turntable next to the bed. My eyes followed the speaker wire around the edge of the room to a pair of small Polk Audio speaker towers wedged into the dark corners on either side of the desk. The brother placed the needle on the LP. A loud crackle from the dust and scratches suggested the volume was cranked. The woofers lurched forward as the first notes of the song blasted from the paper cones. I recognized the cut as “Der Komimissar” by a band named “After the Fire.”
Don’t turn around, wa-uh-oh (yeah-yeah)
Der Kommissar’s in town, wa-uh-oh
You’re in his eye and you’ll know why
The more you live, the faster you will die
Alles klar, Herr Kommissar?
The speakers were very good, but the song was giving me wicked flashbacks of the evening’s gig, and I felt the sudden urge to flee the room. My business was music, and good stereos didn’t impress me much. It always amused me how most people assumed I enjoyed the music I played. The opposite was actually true. I was burned out on it. I played music, loud music, over and over to make a living. Quiet was what I yearned for most of the time, especially after gigs.
“They’re great, right?” the brother yelled.
“Yes, they’re awesome; you were right,” I reassured the well-meaning brother. I assumed he was looking for validation, and I wasn’t above giving it.
“Guys, thanks a lot, but I’ve got to go. I’ve got some people waiting for me.”
The occupants in the room made faint attempts at goodbye salutes and gestures. Miles said, “Take care, man. Call me Monday?”
“Yes, we’ll talk on Monday; thanks again,” I said as I backed through the door into the dim hallway.
I made my way back downstairs, again passing and bumping into party zombies on the way. As I clomped down the basement steps toward the bar, I could hear the girls laughing. I spotted them sitting on an overstuffed chair in the corner across the room. Both girls had their coats on as if ready to leave. Their laughter seemed to result from their toying with a couple of inebriated brothers. The drunken males looked at me suspiciously as I approached.
“Here’s our boyfriend,” Shelly exclaimed. “Are you ready, baby?”
“Yeah, all set; let’s go,” I replied, smiling at her theatrical address.
The three of us made our way through the crowded room toward the steps. Once upstairs, we made our way across the trashed dance floor and out into the night air. The girls parked on the opposite side of the house. “What do you drive?” I asked.
“Amanda is driving a red AMC Pacer with a white roof,” Shelly replied.
“I’ll pull around front and look for you,” I said. With that, I headed back through the ballroom toward the back door and my waiting van. It was snowing harder now. I unlocked the door and slid onto the cold seat. I pulled the manual choke out as far as it would go. Then, pumping the gas twice, I turned the key, and the starter churned. Come on, baby, I mumbled as the engine strained to start. Then, with one more pump of the gas peddle, the engine roared to life. I depressed the clutch, shifted into first, and eased forward. The heavily loaded vehicle bumped down off the curb onto the snow-covered driveway, and I pulled around to the front street.
A couple of inches of fresh snow now covered the roads except for the thin channels where tires from other vehicles had churned the snow into a light gray mush. I spotted the Pacer’s tail lights and flashed my headlights to indicate I was following. The Pacer lurched forward. The girls seemed uncertain. They drove slowly and paused at every intersection as if to confirm the directions.
Shit, I thought. These chicks are drunk and lost. They’ll never find this party in their condition. They’ll be lucky to avoid an accident. Fuck, … this is going to end badly.
Turning south on South Atherton Street, the little car headed toward the outskirts of town, finally turning on a secondary road. I followed at a safe distance. The streetlights ended, and the darkness of the countryside enveloped the vehicles.
They’re driving too fast for these conditions, I murmured to myself. Where the fuck is this party, anyway? Where are these flaky chicks taking me? Who is still partying at this hour, and why do we want to be there?
ts of the distant Pacer and the myriad of snowflakes blowing into the windshield. The view out of the windshield was like the bridge screen of the Starship Enterprise. Thousands of snowflakes, brightly lit by the headlights, were like the stars flying past the spaceship at warp speed. Get a grip, I told myself. Pay attention. I strained to focus once again on the taillights of the Pacer.
About three hundred yards in front of me, I saw the taillights of the little car veer off onto a side road. I bumped my turn signal up and followed. As I made the turn, I saw the headlights from the distant Pacer sweep wildly across the field on the left side of the road and disappear. They’ve spun out, I thought.
As I drew closer, it became apparent the girls had indeed lost control and spun the car in a circle on the slippery road. The front passenger wheel of the car was off the right side of the road in a drainage ditch. The snow was falling heavier now as I pulled up and rolled down my window. I couldn’t see any damage to the vehicle. The driver’s window of the Pacer opened, revealing the two girls inside engaged in wild laughter. A driving disco beat emanated from the car, breaking the silence.
“We’re lost!” the two girls shouted in near-comic unison. Shelly leaned across Amanda to better see out the driver’s window and shouted, “We’re going back to our place; follow us.”
I hesitated for a moment to digest the new information. Go back to their place? I’m being invited back to their place? It’s fucking four in the morning. I considered for a moment the toll the pot had taken on my judgment. Is this smart? I wondered. You know how this will turn out. “What the fuck?” I muttered.
“OK,” I announced over the music and drone of the engines, “but give me a minute to turn this beast around or you’ll lose me.”
“Come on!” Shelly hollered over the loud music as the Pacer spun its rear wheels, attempting to escape the ditch.
I did my best to make a quick, three-point turn on the narrow, snow-covered road. As I slammed the van into first and popped the clutch, I saw the rear wheels of the Pacer attempt to accelerate, broadcasting snow in high “rooster tails”. Once again, I followed the taillights, this time back toward State College.
Once in town, the girls maneuvered east on Beaver, north on Allen, then west on College Avenue, finally parking on the left side of the one-way street in front of a dark retail store. At this hour, there was no problem finding a parking space on the usually congested avenue. My van drifted up silently behind the Pacer and parked. The usually noisy street was silent.
The sound of jingling keys and slamming doors broke the silence. Amanda locked the Pacer and started across the sidewalk with purpose, leaving deep tracks in the snow. Shelly pulled her coat tight around her neck and motioned with her head, nodding toward Amanda and the storefront. I watched as Amanda walked through the stone arch between the retail stores and inserted a key into the lock on a heavy wooden door. Curiously, I had walked by here many times but had never noticed this door before. The girls entered.
The door led to a staircase that ascended to the second floor of the building. We all clomped up the steps to a hallway on the second floor, leaving a trail of snow and water droplets in our wake. Amanda approached another large, solid-core wooden door and once again inserted a key from her cluttered, jingling keyring into the lock.
“Let’s be quiet,” she said. “They may be sleeping.”
They may be sleeping? I thought. Who is “they”?
Sample Chapter 4
The large wooden door creaked as Amanda opened it, revealing a long, dark hallway. I closed it behind us as quietly as I could. At the far end of the hall, I could barely make out a bathroom entrance. To the left, three wooden doors presumably led to bedrooms. A large archway on the right seemed to lead to a dimly lit living area. As we approached the archway, I heard the faint sound of voices in the room beyond.
I looked at my watch again. It was almost 4:00 AM. I’m tired and stoned. Do I have to meet somebody? It’s probably Shelly’s husband, I thought.
A large brick fireplace dominated the far side of the living space. A low fire crackled, supplying a comforting amount of heat and the only ambient light in the room. In front of the fire hearth, a large Persian rug loaded with throw pillows covered the hardwood floor. I could make out the faint silhouettes of three figures sprawled on the pillows in front of the flickering flames. They lounged on the pillows like Arab merchants. On the left, a couple, unaware of our entrance, embraced, nuzzling and exchanging brief kisses. Then, as if startled, they broke apart and looked up as we approached. Sitting opposite the couple was another young woman. As Amanda approached, the woman exclaimed, “Hey girl! There you are.”
“Julie, this is our new friend Tommy; he was the DJ at the party tonight,” Amanda explained as I came into the light of the fire.
“Come on in; make yourself comfortable,” she said as she flopped back into the deep pillow arrangement.
“Thanks,” I said as I slipped off my wet shoes and stepped on the carpet.
In the middle of the seating area was a low Asian-style table. On the table were two spent red wine bottles and a large ashtray. In the tray were several roaches, leading me to believe the group here was even more stoned than I was.
The girls and I peeled off our wet coats and hung them over a chair in the corner. We sat on the carpet and squirmed into the pillow mass, attempting to find a comfortable position. I slid close to Shelly and leaned back on a pillow, stretching my feet under the low table toward the warmth of the fire. Shelly turned toward me, smiled, and leaned into me.
“So Shelly, … how do you like Penn State so far?” Julie asked.
“We had a great time,” she said in a sleepy tone.
As the conversation progressed, Julie revealed Shelly was visiting for the weekend. Shelly, Julie, and Amanda were close high school friends. They grew up together in Altoona, a railroad town about halfway between State College and Pittsburgh. Amanda and Julie enrolled in Penn State, but Shelly decided to enroll in the University of Pittsburgh to major in pre-med. The apartment’s paying residents were Amanda, Julie, and Candice. Candice’s boyfriend Terry, visiting from St. Francis, made up the sixth member of the group.
“You guys want to get stoned?” Julie asked as she reached for one of the larger roaches in the ashtray.
“Yes!” Amanda said. “I want to get very stoned, then I’m going to bed.”
Terry and Candice sat up to join in. Terry said, “We don’t have any more wine, but we have a couple of cold beers in the fridge, if anybody’s interested.”
I hesitated to impose, but I was thirsty after loading my equipment and smoking. “One beer would be really great,” I said.
Terry left the room briefly, then returned with three cold cans of Rolling Rock. He handed one to Shelly, Amanda, and me. Julie lit the roach, hit it, then passed it left. Amanda pinched it between her index finger and thumb. Then, holding it so it just barely touched her lips, she drew deeply. The roach glowed in the dim light as she pulled the smoke into her lungs. She bumped the ashes into the tray and passed it to Shelly. Struggling to sit up, Shelly repeated the ritual. I snapped the pop top on the beer and took a long drink. It was cold and good. I hadn’t taken a drink of anything since loading the van and hadn’t realized how thirsty I had become. This isn’t so bad, I thought, as my attention fixed on the warm fire. For a long moment, I stared at the crackling flames. I was relaxed now and at peace. A sharp bump against my shoulder broke my focus. I turned to see Shelly looking straight into my eyes. She handed me the roach, and I took it. Then she playfully blew smoke in my face and smiled mischievously. I reached for her and pulled her closer with my right arm as I hit the roach with my left, then I passed it to Terry.
At one point, Terry mumbled to Candice, “I can’t believe I lost $300.”
“How’d that happen?” Amanda asked.
Staring blankly at the fire, Shelly whispered, “Gradually, … then suddenly.”
The reference was from my favorite novel, “The Sun Also Rises” by Ernest Hemingway. Mike Campbell, a main character, speaks the line when someone asks him how he went bankrupt. Terry went on to describe a poker game he had played in that evening and lost the money.
I turned toward Shelly and asked, “Did you read the book?”
She turned toward me and said, “It’s my favorite book. I’ve read it three times.”
“What do you like about it?”
“I love that period in France and Spain. I love trains and travel. Most of all, I like the way Hemingway builds the relationship between Jake and Brett. They loved each other, even though they couldn’t consummate the relationship because of his war injury. That’s love,” she said, staring into the fire. “Have you read it?”
“It’s my favorite book too,” I said.
“Seriously?” she said with a smile. “You’re kidding, … right?”
“No. I’ve read it at least three times.”
“Okay, smart guy, … Who’s Lady Ashley going to marry?”
“Mike Campbell, … the same guy you just quoted,” I said, looking her straight in the eye.
“Wow, … I’m impressed,” she whispered, looking me over with interest.
“When did you first read it?” I asked, looking away into the fire.
She moved closer, hooking her arm through mine, and whispered, “My father collects old classic books. He found a first edition at a rummage sale and bought it for $5.00. I think it’s worth like, around $6,000 now. I was curious when I heard about the find. I was only in the seventh grade, but I read the first few pages, and I couldn’t put it down.”
“So, you think it’s love when a woman runs off with another man, … say, a bullfighter?” I needled.
“She was just trying to forget the man she really loved, but couldn’t have. It was too painful to be close to Jake and not be able to express her love physically,” she whispered as she again looked into the fire.
We sat for a few minutes, then Shelly looked at me and said, “You don’t remember me, do you?”
I looked at her in shock. “Remember you? Have we met before? … Where have we met?”
She laughed and turned again to face the fire. “You played The Fall Formal at my high school in Altoona, four years ago, and I requested a song, … just like tonight.”
“Seriously? I remember the dance, but I don’t remember that.”
“Amanda and I were there alone, just like tonight. We approached you and asked you to play Night Fever from Saturday Night Fever.
I laughed, “Wow, maybe I do remember that. You looked different then, right? You were shorter and skinny?”
“Yeah, I was thinner then and had short hair, and no breasts to speak of,” she laughed.
“Yes! I do remember you,” I laughed. “Wow, … did you recognize me tonight?”
“I developed a little crush on you at that dance,” she said, staring into the fire with a smile. “Amanda bet you wouldn’t remember.” She looked back at me again, and we studied each other.
“Amanda,” Shelly shouted, still looking into my eyes, “Where did we first meet Tommy?”
“He played the High School Formal,” she said. “You thought he was cute.”
Shelly smiled and looked back toward the fire.
When I first met the girls, I thought they were party girls – attractive, but drunk, flaky, and shallow. As I continued talking with Shelly, however, I realized she was deep and introspective. She was smart, and her biting sense of humor came from her observations. We discussed science and her love of medicine. She was aware, interesting, and engaging. But most of all, she was playful and easy to be with. She had a relaxing effect on me.
After about a half hour, Candice and Terry excused themselves and headed for one of the large doors in the hallway. Julie was next to rise from the pillows. “I gotta get some sleep,” she murmured. “Nice meeting you,” she said as she shuffled across the wooden floor in her slippers and disappeared behind the middle bedroom door.
I looked at my watch. It was almost five o’clock in the morning. The sun would be up soon, I thought. What should I do? Shelly invited me here for what reason? I wondered. I was tired and very stoned. My thoughts were foggy. What the fuck should I do now?
Just then, Amanda looked at Shelly and said, “What are you guys going to do? I think I’m going to bed.”
I looked at Shelly. “Do you want me to go?”
She looked at me and said, “No, you can stay a little while.”
“Why don’t you two take the alcove?” said Amanda.
“Yeah, … come on,” Shelly mumbled as she rose and took me by the hand. “Let’s go to the alcove.”
We entered the last door in the hallway next to the bathroom. It led to a large bedroom. On the right was a full-size bed. On the left was a large dresser. At the far end of the room, a large bay window looked out on College Avenue and the campus beyond. The large, three-section window was about four feet deep. Two pillows and a heavy quilt sat on the padded bench. The alcove apparently served as an auxiliary bed. A heavy curtain rod spanned the entire opening. Amanda crashed into the full-size bed while Shelly pulled me by the arm into the bay window alcove. She pulled the heavy curtain across the opening, taking care to overlap it for maximum privacy.
“Come on,” she said as she stretched out on the padded bench. She lay her head on the pillow and pulled the large quilt over her.
I sat for a moment on the edge of the alcove and surveyed the view outside. The scene was beautiful. The newly fallen snow now formed a thick blanket covering everything: the parked cars, the wires, the lawn, the bushes, and the majestic elm trees on the Penn State campus across the street. For the moment, the snow was virgin, untouched by tire tracks or footprints.
Shelly lay under the quilt in front of me, eyes shut. I slid under the heavy blanket and moved close to her, placing my head on the pillow next to hers. It was warm and quite comfortable. I put my arm over her and pulled her closer. She was barely awake. I kissed her to see if she would respond. She opened her mouth slightly and gently bit my lip. I turned my head to the side and pressed my mouth hard against hers. Her lips were soft but firmed as we kissed. My heart and mind raced as I contemplated the moment. Should I try to make love to her? I wondered. I was tired; it was almost morning; we were both on the edge of passing out from fatigue and intoxication. But the kiss had rejuvenated me somewhat, and my desire for her was increasing by the second. I began unfastening her belt.
“What do you think you’re doing, mister?” she lazily whispered in my ear.
“I want to make love to you,” I whispered as I unzipped her fly and slid my hand slowly into her jeans.
She grabbed my wrist to impede my progress and feign resistance. “I’m a good girl,” she said with a tired giggle. I kissed her hard again on the lips and rolled on top of her. Her grip tightened as I pushed my hand even deeper into her panties. She was ready, and my heart was racing.
“No, I can’t,” she whispered, in a firmer tone. “Amanda is over there. She’ll hear.”
“She’s sleeping by now,” I countered in a whisper.
“Can we just kiss?” she pleaded. “I’ll be gone tomorrow, and you’ll forget all about me.”
“I really doubt that,” I whispered in her ear as I lay my head back on the pillow. I closed my eyes for a second. The lazy high of the pot and the fatigue of the evening were closing in fast. It was warm next to Shelly, and her body felt good. The night was beautiful, the gig was over, and I had money in my pocket. Life was good.
When I next opened my eyes, an hour had gone by. Shelly was asleep, and the view out the window was brighter. The sun was beginning to brighten the overcast sky. I lay still for a second to allow my eyes to acclimate to the light in the strange little room. It looked different now, messier. I realized the walls were green. Through the crack in the curtain, I could see an ironing board with clothes draped over it. An unpacked suitcase lay on the floor in the corner; clothing was strewn all around. I carefully unwound from her and sat up. I squinted painfully to survey the view outside. A few cars glided by intermittently on the snowy street below, making faint sounds as they passed. It was time to go, I thought. Yes, … time to go.
I leaned over and gently kissed her on the lips. She smacked her dry lips, made some slight noise, then struggled to open her eyes.
“I’ve gotta go,” I whispered so as not to wake Amanda.
“You going to be okay?” she asked sleepily.
“Yes,” I responded. Then I took a business card from my wallet and slipped it into her jean hip pocket. “Here’s my contact information; call me with your information and let me know when you’re in town. I’d like to see you again. Maybe we can go on a proper date?”
“Fancy that,” she murmured, half asleep.
With that, I kissed her once more on the cheek and slipped through the curtain. I made my way out of the apartment, taking care to lock the door quietly behind me. I made my way down the steps and pushed the crash bar to exit the building. The snow made the morning light brighter. I squinted painfully as I crossed the sidewalk toward my waiting van. I felt for the key in my pocket.
Once again, I slid onto the cold seat and executed the ignition procedure. The engine roared to life. A weird mixture of pot hangover and sexual frustration, mixed with extreme fatigue, fogged my brain. I was very tired, and the cold and bright morning light was agitating. Get a grip, I told myself. Gotta get home safe; get the van back in the lot; secure the business; get to bed.
I drove west on College Avenue, then north on Atherton, then east on Beaver. My mind strained to obey the traffic laws while fighting the recollection of the evening’s events. Gotta stay focused, I thought as I slapped my thigh to stay awake. I took a left on McAllister, then another left on Calder Way. The short drive seemed to take forever. I slowed down to a crawl to avoid the pedestrians walking in the tight alley. My mind was beginning to shut down now; I was very tired. Make sure to lock the van, I murmured to myself. Yes, I mentally exclaimed, an open parking space. I whipped the heavy vehicle into an opening in the pay lot where I rented a space. I pulled the emergency brake on, shut down the engine, grabbed my calendar, and locked the door.
I trudged down the alley, trying not to look anyone in the eye for fear I’d recognize someone and have to speak. I looked up at the clatter of delivery men slamming empty cases of green Rolling Rock beer bottles into a parked beer truck.
The streets were busier now. The town was coming alive. I crossed the street and passed between the beer men at the entrance of the Rathskeller. I climbed a short series of concrete steps, unlocked the steel door of the apartment building, then labored to climb the two flights leading to the third floor. I shuffled down the hallway to the steel door of my apartment. In a few seconds, I was kicking off my snow-covered shoes and disrobing. I flopped into my bed, and the room went dark.
Sample Chapter 5
Sunday morning, as I had predicted, was unproductive and slothful. Hungover and fatigued, I didn’t have the mental energy to read my homework. I rested, watching the Steelers game for most of the afternoon, then ate a slice of pizza from a joint across the street and went to bed early. I thought of Shelly and wondered if I would ever see her again. As I closed my eyes, the scent of her was still a vivid memory. As I drifted off, I could almost feel her next to me.
Monday morning was overcast, but slightly warmer. I rose, showered, and dressed in my usual uniform – blue jeans, a polo shirt, and Docksides. I opened the sliding door and leaned over the iron rail of my tiny third-floor apartment balcony. It was 7:45 AM, but already the town below was coming to life. I stood for a few moments and watched the pedestrians and morning traffic splashing through the slush on the street below. The snow was melting. Big chunks fell from the tall elms, smacking the sidewalk and sometimes hitting pedestrians. The run-off from the wet snow formed small streams in the pack ice between the street and the sidewalk. I watched the pedestrians, with amusement, try to cross the busy street. Each one hopping and jumping over the small streams of snowmelt in a futile attempt to keep from getting their shoes, socks, and feet soaking wet. I gathered my mental energy and my books, then left the apartment.
Outside, I stood for a moment at the foot of the steps in front of the Rathskeller. The ‘Skeller was a legendary Penn State basement bar. It was a popular place for value-minded beer drinkers, and there was always activity outside. The bar’s unique value proposition was that you could buy an entire case of green, 8-ounce, heavy returnable bottles of Rolling Rock beer over the bar, then carry the case to your table and drink it communally with your friends. This practice led to the delivery and pickup of hundreds of cases of beer. Each morning, grizzled men with hand trucks delivered huge stacks of fresh cases, then reclaimed the empties and loaded them into delivery trucks parked by the curb.
I passed between the truck and another parked car and looked both ways. As gingerly as a cat, I leaped between the streams of water to cross Pugh Street.
Across the street from my apartment building was the best breakfast joint in town. The Pancake Cottage was usually crowded, but somehow, they always seemed to seat me quickly. As I entered, I grabbed a Daily Collegian from a wire rack next to the door. I smiled at the familiar hostess, who pointed me to my regular table, then slipped off my leather bomber jacket and sat with my back against the wall. I studied the other patrons in the restaurant, paying particular attention to their interaction with the servers. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they treat servers. I pushed my silverware out of the way to read the paper. In a few minutes, a comely young waitress appeared with a coffeepot and filled my mug.
“The two by four?” she asked with a smile.
I looked up from my paper, “Yes, please, Doris, scrambled with Swiss.” I smiled and studied her body language for a moment as she scribbled down the order. She looked up, smiled, and whirled toward the kitchen.
I lifted the coffee and sipped without looking away from the paper. The coffee was always good, hot, and full-bodied. This is another thing they do right here, I thought. What a simple pleasure it is to sip a good cup of coffee in the morning. I scanned the headlines until my breakfast arrived. Doris slid the oblong plate just in front of my paper – two scrambled eggs with melted Swiss cheese and four sourdough pancakes. Wonderful.
For as long as I could remember, I loved pancakes. I considered myself a pancake aficionado, if not an outright pancake snob. On every birthday as a child, my mother would make me anything, within reason, that I wanted to eat. I always choose pancakes. As an adult, I only ate the good ones, and these pancakes were very good, real buttermilk sourdough made from scratch.
As I ate, I reflected on the luxury of eating breakfast at such a quality place. I worked hard at my business. While most students were partying Friday and Saturday night, I was busting my ass to entertain them. Breakfast out was one of the little luxuries I could afford. I pushed the plate aside and looked at my watch: twenty-five minutes until class. Doris refilled my cup. I relaxed, reading the paper for another ten minutes to let my food settle. Then I stood, put on my jacket, and paid the check, taking care to leave a generous tip. I then stepped out onto the wet, slushy sidewalk and started for class.
Marketing 302 was in the Boucke Building, in the center of campus. It was a good fifteen-minute walk from my apartment. I usually enjoyed the brisk morning walk under the majestic elm arbors, but on this morning, the slush and many streams of ice melt were making the jaunt a miserable slog. Docksides were not the ideal shoe for trekking through ankle-deep slush. Despite my best efforts, the slush soaked my white tube socks and feet. I quickened my pace to limit the misery.
The classroom was warm and humid. Small puddles of water speckled the floor, and the room smelled of musty drying overcoats. I stomped off as much water and snow as possible before entering and took the last seat at the back of the room. I continued scanning the headlines in the Daily Collegian until the professor entered a few minutes later.
Boredom always made me think of sex, and I thought of sex a lot in Marketing 302. The professor was an attractive but haughty lady in her late twenties. Her name was Ann Downing. She had long, jet-black, straight hair that extended to the middle of her back. She wore it casually; in fact, she wore everything casually. She dressed somewhat like a tomboy, and for some reason, that turned me on. She wore low-waisted, “hip hugger” blue jeans, a white cotton shirt unbuttoned to her bra line, and rolled her sleeves up to her elbows. Her skin was light and clear. Her blue eyes were beautiful, but always seemed to carry a judgmental gaze. Her slim body and flat stomach sizzled with sexual innuendo. As usual, she was late and hurried. She dropped her class materials on her desk, draped her parka over her chair, and “cracked” open her trademark can of Diet Pepsi. Without breaking stride, she began her lecture.
“Here are the results of the networking experiment your class participated in last week,” she said, passing copies of an intricate chart to the first person in each row.
The “experiment” demanded that everyone list any and every person in the class whom they had asked for any advice or guidance. The professor then charted the results on a graphic printout. Each dot on the chart represented a person in the class. Lines then radiated from the dots representing any “connections” each person had made with other classmates. The overall “web” of connections indicated which people in the class were considered “influencers” or “group leaders”. They were supposed to be the cool people, or the people who influenced others. At the bottom left corner was a lone dot with no connections. Slouching down in my chair, I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I realized the lone, isolated dot at the bottom of the graph was me.
“The results were typical of a group this size,” the professor proclaimed. “There is one person in the class who didn’t ask anyone for advice or guidance. That’s odd, … and unusual,” she dryly announced as she passed out the remaining results of the networking experiment.
What the fuck? I thought. Who knew that this seemingly trivial exercise would publicly embarrass me, … in front of the whole fucking marketing 302 class? Shit, if I had known what she was up to, I’d have lied about at least one connection just to be part of the group.
The professor went on about how interesting the graph was and how powerful this kind of analysis was to marketers, blah, blah, blah.
Fuck her, I thought.
The more she spoke, the more I felt a growing contempt for this woman who had never met me, but thought she knew me.
Day after day, my eyes glazed over, listening to her ramblings regarding basic marketing concepts. She quoted the book and reiterated what others had written. I wondered more than once if she had ever held any job outside of the University. I didn’t dislike her, but I wasn’t impressed with her either. I regarded wisdom as knowledge plus experience. She had knowledge, but nothing gave me any indication she had any experience implementing the concepts she was teaching.
As she continued to pontificate on the test results, my contempt swelled. Had she trudged door to door in bad weather, selling all occasion cards at the age of eight to earn enough money to buy a gas-powered airplane? I wondered. Had she hawked hundreds of packs of vegetable seeds to raise enough dough to buy a bow and arrow at ten? Shoveled snow for movie money or cut grass to buy a ring for her sweetheart? How many holes had she dug? How many trees had she planted? Did she leave school early to bus tables at the local Holiday Inn or work summers shoveling molten glass cullet in the glass plant “hot end”? Fuck her.
What practical marketing experience did this woman have? Did she risk her capital to build a business at fifteen, pulling in over $1,000 a month? Did she wrestle with a real marketing decision, like choosing between an expensive ad campaign or a physical sign at sixteen? She had reduced me to a statistic. She thinks she knows me and that’s pissing me off. Why is that pissing me off? I wondered. She was sure her little experiment and graphic indicated that I was the class loser, utterly “unconnected,” influencing no one, absolutely unimportant, and destined for the trash bin of life! Fuck her! Last Friday and Saturday night, I influenced about 1000 people.
I regarded my classmates as nice people and deserving of respect, but they were students. I was already a businessman, an entrepreneur. I’m sure they were fine people, for the most part; I just didn’t have time to socialize.
I had been putting marketing concepts, including identifying and targeting group leaders, into practice for years. Didn’t I know who the “influencers” were at Lambda Chi? Didn’t I just smoke dope with Miles, the social chairman, last weekend?
The people I wanted advice from were not the kind of people who sat through marketing 302 classes or, for that matter, had the luxury of wasting time on formal education. My heroes were dropouts. Guys who realized early on that college was pretty much a waste of time, a way-station for earning a certificate that they wouldn’t need. They were guys too busy making money to indulge in a college vacation. They were guys that “made their bones” by risking capital and “busting ass” to make or lose a buck. Guys who lived life on their own terms. Guys who collected their information firsthand from the street.
As the professor’s voice droned on, my mind continued to wander, reflecting on events that led to meeting one of my best friends and drinking companions. I met Joey Parisi as a freshman in Pennsylvania history. Joey would usually walk into class ten minutes late, wearing a disheveled navy peacoat. Although sometimes stoned or a little drunk, he always maintained his composure. Joey was tall and athletic – a starting quarterback on his high school football team. His strong jawline and striking good looks made his casual, sometimes disheveled dress seem chic. His strong, casual, understated tone always reminded me of the actor Mickey Rourke. I had known of Joey for some time. His father was a doctor in the emergency room at the local hospital and had treated my sports injuries several times. But I hadn’t met Joey until college. I immediately liked him and found his opinions insightful and intelligent. I always made it a point to sit close to him in class whenever I could.
At the beginning of the semester, the professor would try to ridicule him for being late for class by asking him a difficult question from the homework assignment as he entered the room. Joey was never shaken. He would cooly “make up” some lucid explanation to the professor’s inquiry, not because he had read the material, he was just street smart and aware. After a while, I sensed the professor gained a grudging respect for Joey, and his questions for him became a source of entertainment for the entire class. Everyone knew Joey was “bullshitting” the professor, but everyone enjoyed the coolness with which he would “weasel” out a plausible answer.
Joey would have been a “lone dot” on the chart. He surely didn’t need to ask anyone in that class for advice. But I give you ten to one; he was one of the most influential students in the room, if only for his cool confidence. He dropped out of Penn State in his junior year to start his own construction company in State College and was doing well. I stayed in touch, and we became good friends.
Thank God this hell is almost over, I thought, waking from my daydream. Graduation is only a few months away, … if my grade point average and my patience hold out. Then, fuck them. I’m out, I thought, free from the time and money-consuming drudgery of formal education.