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Book Summary
A structured, recently divorced man seeking to decompress on an unplanned trip to Italy has his world turned upside down by a chance encounter with a free-spirited, punky bartender. Thrown together by a mix of kindness and misfortune, they journey through Venice, Florence, and Rome, discovering not only the beauty of Italy but the transformative power of letting go, trusting another person, and finding love in the most unexpected of places.
Sample Chapter 1
Friday, October 25, 2002
“That will 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 through her purse. The line behind us lengthened with anxious travelers pulling carry-ons, queuing to pay for water and snacks before long international flights.
“Oh, … no. I left my wallet in my carry-on. All I have is $9.50 in cash. Will you accept that? … I’ll make it up when I get back. … You know me. … Right? I come here all the time.”
The young cashier stepped away from the counter and stood as tall as possible to look for a manager. Three more people joined the line. By now, the restlessness of those rushing to make their flights was becoming palpable.
“Here, I got it,” I said, tossing three dollars on the counter.
She whirled to look at me.
I smiled. “Delta’s been good to me. … It’s no big deal.”
“You are so kind. … Thank you.” She handed the cashier the money and stuffed the Advil into her purse, then turned toward me and paused. “God bless you. My back is killing me.” She touched my arm. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to run, but thank you so much.” She turned and rushed away.
I paid for my water and wheeled my carry-on into the concourse. Thirty minutes until boarding. I spotted an open seat by the window near my gate and headed in that direction.
I’d racked up plenty of time off and frequent flyer miles, but since my divorce two years ago, I hadn’t used them. I had no desire to travel and had been avoiding vacations. Friends at work were constantly trying to cheer me up and urge me to take some time off.
“Why don’t you take a trip to Italy to see your grandfather’s hometown?” A colleague suggested. “You’re always talking about him. That might be fun, right?”
The idea resonated with me. My father’s side was Italian. My grandmother was an Esposito from Naples — loud, animated, and expressive. Her maiden name, “Esposito,” came from a term for orphaned children left at Italian convents, so her roots were uncertain.
My grandfather, however, was Northern Italian, north of Venice, close to the Austrian border. His family eventually settled in a little town along the Po River called Felonica Po. He’d immigrated in 1898 and worked in the underground coal mines in western Pennsylvania. As a child, I listened intently to his many stories about his childhood and heritage. He was quiet, smart, artistic, and serious. He had a dry sense of humor and was a great storyteller. I wanted to see the places he spoke of.
I’d been to Europe many times for business, but never for leisure. On those trips, I always prepared a rigid itinerary and usually hauled loads of business clothes and photography gear. I left nothing to chance. On this trip, however, I decided to try something new. I wanted to lighten the load and move freely — one carry-on, no itinerary, and no hotel reservations. My plan was simple: travel through Italy, immerse myself in the local culture, and try to decompress. My only firm objective was to visit Felonica Po to see where my grandfather lived.
One of my biggest fears is being a sucker — getting taken because I don’t know the rules or understand the directions. Travel is no different. There are ways and principles. Someone has done it before and documented the best procedures. If done correctly, traveling can be enlightening and enjoyable. If done incorrectly, a miserable mess.
Once I decided to go, I prepared the only way I know how — thoroughly. I binge-watched travel shows, bought the best guidebook I could find, and jotted down every tip, attraction, and neighborhood worth exploring. I even made a pocket-sized reference card to carry with me. While I skipped booking hotels in advance, I kept detailed notes on the best lodging areas in each city.
When traveling on business, I always booked aisle seats for elbow room and easy bathroom access. On long flights, you can even stretch your legs by walking the aisles. On this flight, however, my short-notice and use of frequent flyer miles limited my seat selections. I looked at my boarding pass: middle seat, middle section. I sighed, put my feet up on my suitcase, and sipped my water. I didn’t know what to expect, and I was a little nervous.
I looked at my watch; five minutes till boarding. I turned to look out the window. The body of the Boeing 777 seemed solid, clean, and well-maintained — no visible cracks in the wings or fuselage. Check that off the list.
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 myriad of travelers waiting to board. Like me, some seemed organized, tight, and efficient. Others burdened themselves like pack mules, hauling not only carry-ons, but loose purses, packages, strollers, food, children, and toys. As I examined the other travelers, I tried to imagine what their backstories might be.
One girl stood out. She 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 overstuffed 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 stuffed to capacity. Protruding from her purse was a Chick-fil-A bag.
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 watched her. She appeared relaxed and oblivious to the surrounding chaos.
“Good afternoon, passengers. This is the pre-boarding announcement for Delta Flight 5011 to Venice, Italy. We are now inviting 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 to the concourse. I checked my boarding pass again — zone eight — and waited as the early zones filed in. I noticed the parents with the two toddlers — the two dribbling cracker crumbs on 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?
“Now boarding all first-class passengers; please have your boarding pass and identification ready.”
As the first-class passengers queued in front of the gate, I noticed the girl with the ivy tattoos and black glasses gather her things and prepare to board. She hung her heavy purse on her shoulder and towed her overstuffed case toward the gate. Sure enough, she showed the attendant her boarding pass and moved onto the jetway. I watched her wrestle with her two heavy bags until she disappeared from view.
A few minutes later, my zone was called. I lined up, presented my boarding pass, and entered the jetway. The line moved slowly. The flight appeared to be full. I entered the aircraft and took a right turn toward the economy cabin.
The Boeing 777 has a 3-3-3 layout in the economy cabin — three seats on each side and three in the middle. I checked my boarding pass again: middle seat, center section — one of the worst seats on the plane. As I approached my seat, I noticed a woman in the right aisle seat, dressed in a Middle Eastern Muslim burqa. She was attempting to feed a crying baby. The baby’s head was under the woman’s garment, attempting to attach itself to her breast. Great. I get to endure a crying baby for the next nine hours. I stowed my carry-on in the overhead compartment and attempted to get comfortable next to the woman and baby.
Moments later, an elderly woman took the seat to my left. She stashed her purse, 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. The woman situated the dog so that its head faced the aisle and its tail faced me. The high-strung animal began to whimper and wag its tail vigorously. With each wag, the tail batted my left arm. Worse, the woman appeared unaware of the animal’s encroachment. She stared blankly into space and softly petted the animal to pacify it. As I watched, I wondered which was the service animal.
The scene was like a comedy sketch, and might have been funny if it weren’t so annoying. To my right, a crying baby under a burqa. To my left, a senile old woman with a hyperactive service dog. After contemplating my situation and options, I resolved to make the best of it. I distracted myself by scanning the movie selections on the tiny screen embedded in the seat back ahead of me while questioning the impromptu 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 attendants began demonstrating seat belts, oxygen masks, and evacuation procedures, I noticed the attendant checking seat belts was the same attendant who had purchased the Advil just ahead of me in the concourse convenience store. As she approached my row, she smiled and rolled her eyes as if to say, “Yikes!”, then continued on until she disappeared into the front of the plane.
The plane taxied onto the tarmac and took its place in line for takeoff. 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, and she motioned with her finger to “come”.
In disbelief, I pointed at my chest and mouthed the words, “Me?”.
She smiled, nodded, and again gestured for me to follow.
I squeezed past the elderly woman and her dog, reached for my carry-on, and again looked at the attendant. “This, too?” I mouthed.
She laughed and nodded. I slung my bag over my shoulder and followed her toward the front of the plane.
Sample Chapter 2
We passed through a blue curtain, and the attendant paused in front of the first-class restroom. As I caught up to her, she pointed to an aisle seat about halfway through the first-class cabin and said, “We were saving that seat for one of our senior pilots who was relocating to Italy, but he canceled last minute. You’re welcome to take it.”
I was shocked by this sudden change of fate. Wow, first-class? “Are you sure it’s okay?” I asked, stunned.
The attendant laughed. “I’m the lead flight attendant. When 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 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 going to take off in a few minutes.”
“Thank you, Jenny. You’re very kind.”
Compared with economy class, first class on a Boeing 777 is luxurious. The 2-4-2 layout meant wider seats, more legroom, and actual comfort. As I reached my aisle seat, I did a double take — the woman I noticed earlier, with ivy tattoos and black glasses, was sitting in the window seat next to mine. She was leaning against the window and appeared to be sleeping. Her Chick-fil-A bag was on my empty seat.
I put my carry-on in the overhead compartment and attempted to sit. When she didn’t clear it, I grabbed the Chick-fil-A bag and said, “Excuse me, miss, is this yours?”
She squirmed in her seat, rubbed her eyes, and slowly opened them. “Yeah, … sorry.” She took the bag and set it on top of her big purse, next to the wall of the aircraft.
“Not a fan of airplane food?” I take it.
She looked at me suspiciously and said, “Well, … you never know what you’re going to get.”
Her low alto voice surprised me. I guess I expected a higher, ‘childlike’ voice from such a petite woman. “First-class food is pretty good, though … right?”
“I wouldn’t know. It’s my first time flying. I didn’t even know if they would feed us.”
“Oh yeah. They usually have pretty good food in Delta first class,” I said, showing her the menu card from the seatback pocket.
She took the menu and examined it. “I’m not paying for high-priced airplane food.”
I leaned into her and whispered, “It’s included.”
She looked at me silently for a second, then said, “You can order anything on this card … free?”
“Well … you have to wait until the plane reaches 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 I soon realized she was sincere.
“So this is your very first flight — and it’s in first class?”
“That’s right,” she said. “I’ve never had the opportunity to fly. I’ve wanted to go places, but it’s pretty expensive.”
“So, now you’ve decided to go to Venice?”
“Well … it probably wouldn’t have been my first choice, but I won a contest, and the prize was a free ticket.”
“Wow, seriously? That’s great. You won a first-class ticket? How did you do that?”
“I’m a bartender. I sold the most La Marca Prosecco last year. I was the top seller in the entire country, and the prize was a first-class ticket to Venice. That’s the area where they make 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 gave La Marca Prosecco to anyone who asked for champagne. Most people don’t know the difference,” she said with a small smile.
I smiled and shook my head. “Where do you live?”
“Originally, Walnut Grove. But I work in town now, at a bar in Little Five Points called the Euclid Avenue Yacht Club. Have you heard of it?”
“I’ve been there. That’s a great bar, all that junk on the walls and ceiling. Love that part of Atlanta. Very artsy.”
The jet made a sharp left turn, and the engines roared. The aircraft accelerated, and the lines on the tarmac began flashing by. Soon the nose of the large aircraft rose. The engines whined as the wheels left the runway.
As many times as I had flown, the power of the jet engines always amazed me. I think of the weight of my person and suitcase, then multiply it by the hundreds of people on board, then try to imagine how much thrust it would take to just lift that load, let alone accelerate.
As the large jet angled upward at about 45 degrees, I looked at the young woman next to me. Her fingers clasped the seat divider so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.
She saw me looking at her and whispered, “This is fucking scary.”
“You’ll get used to it. Think of it as a ‘technology trap’ like an elevator or a rollercoaster. You made the decision to trust your life to a machine when you crossed the threshold. There’s nothing you can do about it now, so you may as well relax.”
Suddenly, the jumbo jet began to shake violently as it entered a pocket of heavy turbulence. Her face turned white. She closed her eyes and moved her lips as if praying, or maybe cursing.
“Don’t worry,” I whispered. “These big jets usually get where they’re going. Nothing usually happens. Everyone usually makes it. … Usually. I don’t think they’ve had an accident, … recently.”
“Will you stop it!” she shouted in a whisper.
“I’m sorry,” I laughed. “You’re fine. The pilot looked a little young, but we’ll probably be okay. … They usually know what to do. The training program at Delta is pretty good, … as far as it goes. There have been cutbacks, though …”
“Stop it!” she whispered sternly, making a fist and punching my thigh.
The giant aircraft rose above the clouds and leveled off. The shaking stopped, and a collective sigh of relief ensued from the assemblage. After a couple of minutes, the aircraft was so calm and stable that the seatbelt sign went out with a bing.
I motioned to Jenny for service. “Jenny, can we get drinks yet?”
“Sure, what can I get you?”
“What are you drinking?” I asked the young woman.
“Anything?” she asked.
“Anything on the menu card.” I said, flipping the card to the back side and handing it to her.
“Okay … I’ll have a double Absolute on the rocks, … with a lime if you have it.”
“Bourbon on the rocks with a cherry, please, Jenny,” I said.
When the drinks arrived, I lifted mine to take a sip and stopped. “What’s your name?” I asked, looking at the young woman.
“Carrie. Carrie McCall. … You?”
“Francis Marino. It’s nice to meet you, Carrie.”
“Here’s to a great Venetian visit,” I said, extending my glass toward hers. We clinked and sipped.
The nonstop flight to Venice left the gate at about 8:45 PM. With the time zone changes, the flight lands at Marco Polo Airport at about 12:00 noon the following day. Night passes quickly when you fly east, usually only 4-5 hours. It’s odd.
Shortly after takeoff, the aircraft cabin assumes a “nighttime” atmosphere, with all cabin lights off except for the aisle markers, seatback TV screens, and individual seat reading lamps. Many travelers try to get a jump on the time change by sleeping. But I never could. The anticipation of any European destination always made transatlantic flights incredibly exciting.
Carrie and I finished our drinks and ordered another. She mentioned that she hadn’t slept much after ending her shift.
“So what’s involved in closing a bar?” I asked.
“Give the last call. Sweep. Throw all the lingering customers out. Wipe everything down. Wash the glassware. Restock — pretty basic. We usually sit around after cleanup and have a drink, smoke, and talk about the shift. My friends knew I was leaving today and threw a kind of after-hours going-away party last night. It was nice. We had fun, … got high. It was after four when we locked up, then we went to breakfast. I tried to sleep for a few hours when I got home, but the trip anxiety kept me awake,” she mumbled. “I honestly don’t remember sleeping at all.”
Carrie was drifting off. The anxiety of the airport and takeoff had taken its toll. Shortly after her second drink, she curled up against the window and fell fast asleep.
I, however, could not sleep, even after two drinks. I watched a movie, then sat silently, looking over the dark cabin. I loved flying at night. The stillness and indirect lighting contrasted sharply with the harsh activity of day flights. It was relaxing, almost like traveling by candlelight. I observed the TV screens on the myriad of seat backs to see what others were watching. Some movies I recognized; others I did not.
After a few minutes, I rose to go to the restroom. Airplane restrooms are a weird experience. You lock yourself in this tiny room with a mirror, a small sink, and a toilet, isolated from the rest of the plane. You’re all alone. It’s still and private. Then you remind yourself you’re forty thousand feet above a vast ocean, flying at over 400 miles per hour. Without turbulence, the altitude and motion are imperceptible. Curiously, the first-class restroom had an outward-looking window above the toilet. I opened the shade and looked at the ocean below. Never seen that before, I thought. I closed the shade and flushed the toilet. Its contents evacuated the bowl with a loud rush, and I wondered where it all went. The loud rush sounded as if it went outside the plane. But that couldn’t be? Someone has to empty those tanks at the airport. Right?
The restroom was at the rear of the first-class. I exited the tiny restroom, passed through the blue curtain, and stood looking over the sea of economy class passengers. I walked down the right aisle to stretch my legs. As I passed my old seat, I noticed the older lady sleeping with her mouth open. A black sleeping mask covered her eyes, and she was snoring slightly. Her dog lay limp and asleep. His tail hung over into my old seat. On the other side, the baby was sleeping, nestled under the mother’s burqa.
I continued on to the flight attendant station at the rear of the aircraft. Three attendants were resting on jump seats and talking.
“Hi,” I said as I entered their small galley. “Can I get a cup of coffee?”
“Sure,” one replied, rising to pour. “It should be okay. We just made it.”
“Thank you,” I said, taking the paper cup.
I passed through the tiny galley to the aisle on the right side of the plane, then moved through the archway and stood facing the rear safety exit. I looked down at my toes. They were on the edge of the door’s threshold. I leaned forward to look out the window. It was a clear night, and all I could see was the ocean in all directions. I thought it curious that while I suffered vertigo at building-level heights, standing on the threshold of a forty thousand-foot drop, with only a door between me and certain death, didn’t bother me at all. It was all so 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 an orange envelope.
“What’s this?”
“Divorce papers,” she said. “I want a divorce. You need to move out.”
Just like that.
While I’d been planning our future, she’d been transferring assets, meeting with lawyers, and falling for her boss. Everyone knew — except me.
I shook off the memory. Not tonight. Not on this trip. I walked back to my seat and started another movie.
Sample Chapter 3
Saturday, October 26, 2002
Five hours into the flight, the cabin lights came up. Dawn edged over the horizon. Somewhere on the ground, it was morning, and the attendants were 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 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?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me?”
“On transoceanic flights, they usually just evacuate sewage to keep the weight down. We’re so high, it usually freezes solid before hitting the ocean. If it hits someone on a boat below, it can cause serious injury. You’re supposed to look out that window before you flush, just to make sure. Didn’t you see the sign on the mirror?”
She stared at me in 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 slowly nodded.
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 that. The flushing sound, … that rush, sounds like it could be shooting the contents outside the plane, right?”
She just stared at me, feigning indignation.
We chose breakfast items from the menu and ordered drinks. A Bloody Mary sounded right, and I ordered two.
“So,” I said, “what’s with the tattoos?”
She 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. 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 in Five Points has one, and I was always curious; I thought they were kind of cool. Bad girls had them, and 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 this 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 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 her way, 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. Things can get pretty dicey. … You know, … wind shears?”
“What’s a wind shear?”
“A sudden downdraft. Statistically, that’s when most of the accidents happen. They’re not usually too bad, though. … Not usually.”
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.
“Experienced pilots usually handle them pretty well, though … usually. But this young guy?” I said, shaking my head. “You know, they’ve had cutbacks.”
She shook her head and glared. “Will you stop it! I’m onto you,” she whispered. “You’re taking advantage of me.”
I laughed. “Yeah, you’re right … Statistically, crashes are rare. … We’ll probably be okay. … Probably.”
She clenched her fist and punched me in the thigh.
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. It was wedged in tight. She tugged repeatedly, but the overstuffed case wouldn’t budge.
“Let me help,” I said.
She stepped back, and I tugged at the case. It finally gave, nearly dropping.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, laughing. “What’s in here — cement blocks?”
Our eyes connected. She smiled sheepishly, hunched her shoulders, and looked off to the side.
When her case was in the aisle, I watched as she struggled with the heavy purse and carry-on. It would have been comical watching her struggle to navigate the aisle and bump-tug her luggage onto the jetway, if I hadn’t felt a sense of concern. After speaking with her on the plane, it was obvious she was a novice traveler, and transatlantic flights to countries that don’t speak English are even more difficult. As I watched her struggle with her bags on the jetway, I felt compassion for her. We’ve all been there, I thought,… not knowing what you don’t know.
As we entered the busy concourse, I noticed her looking confused. Many of the signs were in Italian, with English, and sometimes Chinese subtitles. Even knowing a little Italian, I found the signage somewhat bewildering. You had to understand airport parlance and study the signs carefully. Worse, Americans many times call cities by different names than Europeans do. Venice, in English, 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. Short sleep on the plane and time zone changes are the culprits. Adrenaline keeps you going until you inevitably crash. The long walk down the concourse with your baggage always seems to remind you of this. 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 taxi. It takes you across the lagoon and stops at several locations in Venice. It’s supposed to be a great way to see the city for the first time. The guidebook recommends it.”
She fished an envelope from her purse and flipped through the papers. “No. … No. … I have a train pass that came with my ticket.”
“Okay, the train station looks like it’s that way,” I said, pointing to a sign reading ‘Stazione Ferroviaria.’
She turned toward me and stood silent for a few seconds, studying me, as if 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. … 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,” I smiled.
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 sad to see her go. She was cute, and her defensive sass seemed to hide a sweetness she didn’t want others to see. I smiled and returned the wave. I should have gotten her contact information, I mused, shaking my head, then turned to find the Vaporetto departure dock.
I purchased a ticket and stood in line to board. It was late October, and while the weather was mild, the wind on the dock made it chilly. I pulled my black jacket from my suitcase and put it on.
For efficiency and simplicity, I packed only black and white clothes. But now, as I stood on the dock, I realized many local Italians dressed in black. As my pants were black, and my jacket was black, I got the feeling that many in line thought me to be Italian. At one point, an English-speaking couple addressed me with the Italian phrase, “Buongiorno”, or good morning, and asked me if I knew a good place for lunch. I laughed and told them I was from Atlanta, but it was nice to be thought of as a local.
The vaporetto was a sturdy, yellow-hulled boat, about forty feet long, with covered seating. Around seventy passengers boarded. I checked the map. It made several stops along the northern edge of Venice, then east and south to Piazza San Marco. I decided to get off there, then walk north to find a hotel.
Although you can see the Venice skyline clearly from the vaporetto departure dock, the trip took longer than expected. So many boats cruise the lagoon that authorities keep speed limits low to prevent waves. The big boat puttered along at only 5 to 7 knots. It was partly cloudy, but enough sun was peaking through to cast dramatic shadows over the buildings on Murano and Venice proper. We made three brief stops along the way. At each stop, tourists got on and off.
I was struck by how vibrant Venice appeared to be. I was so concerned with just getting there that I hadn’t thought past the flight. But it was now almost one PM, and thousands of tourists from all over the world crowded the attractions, shops, and streets. The contrast between the formal Renaissance architecture and the crowds of casual, modern tourists was quite surreal. The island was brimming with excitement and felt festive.
We docked at Piazza San Marco.
Guidebooks recommend using wheeled backpacks in Europe — especially in Venice, where cobblestone streets are notoriously unfriendly to roller suitcases. I’d come prepared. Before the trip, I bought a travel backpack with convertible straps. I hoisted it onto my shoulders and stepped off the boat.
The Pillars of San Marco and San Theodore guarded the entrance to the city. Atop one pillar stood the Winged Lion. On the other, San Theodore held a spear over a dragon. To the right loomed the Doge’s Palace — a Gothic marvel, once home to Venice’s highest official. To my left stood the Campanile di San Marco, the city’s most iconic symbol. The 12th-century bell tower soared 323 feet into the sky.
I stood in awe. It’s hard to explain, but seeing something in person that you’ve seen so many times in pictures, in movies, and on TV, is always a revelation. When you have the time to study the details, and look at the things that matter to you, the impact is exponential. The intricate stonework, the ornate design, the size and grandeur far surpass anything an image can capture.
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 getting very tired. I had to find a hotel and crash. The guide indicated that most of the cheap hotels were located close to the train station on the northwestern side of the island. I decided to head that way. The guide also said that any hotel with fewer than three stars wouldn’t have a private bathroom; anything higher than three stars was probably too extravagant for my needs. I wasn’t planning on spending much time in my room, so I opted to make a three-star rating the target of my search.
One interesting aspect of Venice is that while there are no main roads, there are main “trails” between the buildings. The alleys are clearly marked with signs and arrows on the corners of the buildings, indicating the direction of major attractions. The trail to the train station was clearly marked.
As I followed the signs on the old Renaissance buildings, over tiny arched bridges, and around corners, I was struck by the amount of graffiti on some of the building 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 paying customers. I had a misconception that gondoliers would be grizzled old men poling old-fashioned, worn-out boats. I was 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 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 the bridge and began to look for hotels. The first few I encountered were luxury, 4 and 5 star. I continued looking.
The walk from St. Mark’s to the train station took about thirty minutes. About halfway there, I encountered the first three-star hotel. I inquired about a room, but they were full. Three more stops resulted in the same response. I worried. What if every hotel is full? Would I sleep on the street? Finally, with the train station in sight, I saw a sign pointing down a tight alley. At the end of the alley was a small, three-star hotel that had a vacancy.
As I entered the office, the doorbell jangled. Through an archway, I noticed an old Italian man watching TV. He rose and emerged to greet me. To my relief, he spoke broken English.
“What’s your name?” I inquired.
“Geno, … Geno Clemenza. This is my place. Welcome.”
“I’m Francis,” I said, handing him my credit card.
“Here you go, Mr. Marino,” he said, giving me a key with a massive tassel — too big to pocket. Italians keep hotel keys at the desk. You return them when you go out. As I intended to go out later in the evening, I asked Geno how late he was open. He said 1:00 AM.
“The room is just down the outside passage to the right,” he said, pointing in the correct direction.
My room was small and cramped. It included a small bathroom with a toilet, sink, and shower. The shower was so small, however, that when the two sliding doors were closed, it was impossible to bend over to pick up a dropped bar of soap. The bed was also small, about the size of a single, full-sized bed in the States. A small closet, a tiny desk, and a dresser completed the room. I stowed my suitcase in the closet, stripped, got into bed, and the room went dark.
Sample Chapter 4
I looked at my watch. It was 7:00 PM. I had slept for five hours. I felt somewhat refreshed, and my adrenaline reserves were slightly replenished. I was excited. I was in Venice; it was Saturday evening, and I didn’t want to waste it.
I rose and showered. The tiny shower was challenging for an American. I had to open the doors twice to bend over and pick up the soap. In the end, I managed. After toweling off and dressing, I returned to the hotel office to drop off my room key — the one with the giant fob. I confirmed that the office would be open until 1:00 AM so I could retrieve the key again. Geno assured me it would be.
I walked down the narrow alley to the larger street in front of the train station, then turned left toward the center of the island and the Rialto Bridge. My plan was simple: wander toward Piazza San Marco, look at things, and stop anywhere interesting along the way. A few yards from the hotel, I spotted a coffee shop. I ordered an espresso and two pastries to fight off grogginess and hunger, then continued my walk.
The streets were still busy, but the flow of foot traffic was heading northwest — back toward the train station and the cheaper mainland hotels. Venice was emptying for the night. A few hundred yards later, I noticed what looked like a disco.
Wow, an Italian disco in Venice? That’s got to be weird.
I stopped inside to check it out and grab a drink.
The club had just opened. The staff were setting up the bar and getting organized. There was no music except what was on the two TVs above the bar. It was Saturday evening, but it was early, too early for dancing. There were no stools at the bar, leading me to believe the club got very busy and needed the bar uncluttered to service a packed house. I stood and ordered a glass of red wine.
“Un vino rosso, per favore,” I said to the bartender.
“Va bene,” the bartender countered.
“Lei parla inglese?”
“Only a little,” he answered as he slid my wine across the bar.
“What time does it get busy?”
“Oh, tonight, … about 10:00 PM, it starts to get very busy.”
The club was empty except for the staff, a couple of young guys at the opposite end of the bar, and three young, attractive girls standing a few feet away. They seemed to be in their mid-twenties. 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 the women laughed and said, “I wonder how you say, ‘Do you want to fuck?’ in Italian?”
Their brazenness surprised me as they stood just a few feet away. Then I realized I was wearing my black pants, shoes, and jacket. My white shirt collar was the only break in the black color scheme. They must think I’m Italian, and I can’t understand them.
I laughed to myself. The girls were cute, but I didn’t want to spend my first night in Venice trying to split one of them from the group in a cheesy Venetian disco. I finished my wine and left.
Back on the street, the sky was overcast, and droplets spattered the cobblestones. I headed southeast toward the Rialto Bridge. The crowd was thinning; the alleys were quiet. The light rain intensified to a sprinkle. I hugged the building walls, walking beneath small eaves to stay dry.
It was an interesting walk. I noticed many things I had missed when anxiously searching for a hotel. Boxes filled with red geraniums adorned many of the windows. Until now, the only geraniums I had seen were Memorial Day grave decorations in our Catholic cemetery. In Venice, however, they seemed to be everywhere. The young, bright, beautiful red flowers struck a sharp contrast against the decaying buildings.
The alleys took interesting twists between ancient structures, stores, churches, apartments, and hotels. Tiny arched bridges over the many canals punctuated the walk. Despite the light rain, I stopped for a few seconds on each bridge to look down the canal and appreciate the Renaissance architecture. As I paused, I tried to quiet my mind. But the stillness invited loneliness to creep in. The canals were beautiful. But as I stood in the light drizzle, staring at the decaying buildings haunted by the ghosts of ancient merchants and mariners, I couldn’t help but wonder: what was I doing here? Why did I come? What did I hope to find? Loneliness and melancholy seeped in. I ignored it and pushed on.
When I finally arrived at the Rialto, the precipitation had intensified into a light rain. I looked for cover. It was late October; the days were short. Amber street lamps and indirect lighting on the bridge created a warm glow and long shadows on the masonry, but the overcast sky and minimal ambient light made the evening seem dark and lonely — almost spooky. The tight cobblestone alleys appeared ghostly and haunted.
I crossed the bridge and looked down a narrow alley for cover. About 100 yards away, a bright yellow-orange light glowed from a window. A small sign over the door read ‘Bacaro’- a traditional Venetian bar. I quickened my pace and headed toward the light.
Inside, the bacaro was small, warm, crowded, and smelled of drying overcoats. I guessed that about thirty patrons were laughing, drinking, and talking loudly. Every seat was filled except for one lonely stool in the middle of the bar. I slid onto it and ordered a red wine.
As the barista slid my wine toward me, I heard someone shout.
“Francis!”
I turned to see three women sitting at a tiny high-top table against the wall. The woman who called out to me was Jenny Rice, the flight attendant who 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. … Borrrring. So we took the vaporetto into Venice. 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 stop whenever we lay over. It’s very local.”
“Can I buy you girls a drink?”
“No, we’ve had too many already. We’re leaving soon. We’ve been here since about five. We ate the cicchetti for dinner. I think they put it away now, but you should try it here sometime. It’s some of the best in town.”
“Maybe I’ll swing by tomorrow at happy hour. How long are you here?”
“We fly out tomorrow morning at ten.”
I hadn’t noticed how attractive Jenny was. On the plane, her uniform and tight hair bun made her seem formal. Now, in fitted jeans and a loose sweater, with her hair down past her shoulders, she looked relaxed. Her laugh was infectious. 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 to her for a few minutes before I came to get you. She was sweet and very polite. I helped her get her suitcase into the overhead. Did you notice how heavy it was when you helped her?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“She reminded me … of me 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 on her lower back. “I know what I’m talking about,” she laughed.
“When are you flying out?”
“Next Saturday.”
“At ten in the morning?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll probably see you then on the flight back to Atlanta. We’re all working on it.”
The Delta attendants paid their tab and rose to leave. “Safe travels,” I said. “Hey Jenny, thanks again for the upgrade. That was very sweet of you.”
She smiled and pulled her jacket over her head. They stepped out into the drizzle and waved through the window as they passed.
I turned back toward the bar.
“Un vino rosso, per favore.”
“Va bene,” the bartender mumbled.
“You’re American?” a well-dressed gentleman sitting 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 asked.
“I’m a congressman in the German government. Hinrich Schmidt,” he said, extending his hand.
“Francis Marino,” I said, shaking his hand. “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. You?”
“I’m a tourist. Just wanted to see Venice before visiting my grandfather’s hometown.”
“Where is that?” he asked.
“On the Po River, it’s called Felonica Po. I don’t know much about it, but I wanted to see where he … I came from.”
“You must’ve loved your grandfather.”
“I did. What made you ask?”
“You are spending a lot of time and effort to find his hometown. You must have been close, right?”
I paused. “Yes, I guess so. I wish I’d have known him better. He died when I was still in high school. I never really got to ask him deeper questions.”
The congressman smiled. “I think we all feel that way. By the time we are old enough to understand the questions, the people with the answers are all dead.”
By now, the bacaro was very loud and crowded. Patrons kept reaching between those sitting at the bar to get drinks. As a man extracted two draft beers on my left, the gentleman on the stool to my left said, “Be careful with that, Laddy. I don’t want to get wet.” Our eyes met.
“How you doin’ tonight, Francis?” the man said.
“I’m okay. … How’d you know my name?”
“Oh, I heard you talkin’ to your German friend over there,” he said, leaning in to catch Hinrich’s attention.”
“Killian Conley,” he said, reaching for my hand and nodding at Hinrich.
As I shook his hand, I noticed it was rough and strong. His clothes were worn and dusty.
“What do you do?” I asked.
Killian seemed a little drunk. “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.” He laughed loudly.
Hinrich laughed so hard he had to wipe dribbled wine from his chin.
“I’m sorry. I meant no offense,” I said. “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. “There aren’t many of us around anymore.”
Hinrich leaned in. “Are you working on St. Mark’s? I saw the scaffolding.”
He nodded. “Yes, I’m working with the crew repairing the north wall.”
“You must be very good. They don’t let just anyone work on such a masterpiece.” Hinrich said.
“Thank you,” Killian said, raising his glass. “See, Francis. If Hinrich had introduced himself, he’d have asked: ‘Where did you go to school?’ That’s what Germans do.”
Hinrich laughed and mumbled, “I was actually going to ask if you made a lot of money.”
“Okay,” I laughed, “where did you go to school?”
“Cambridge.”
“Come on. … You’re joking?”
“No, I’m not. Full scholarship. Don’t you believe me, Francis?”
“I would never 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 rarely have degrees from Cambridge.”
“I was the goalie on the Falcons soccer team my junior and senior years — graduated too. Of course, that was about 80 pounds ago,” he laughed.
“Then why are you a stonemason if you have a degree from Cambridge?”
“Philosophy majors aren’t the most sot after graduates. Besides, it’s a family business. My father was getting old — I started helping out, and here I am.”
“Why philosophy?” Hinrich asked.
“I had to pick something when I got the scholarship. It sounded interesting. … I actually enjoyed it.”
“Can I buy you both a drink?” Killian offered. “Come on, guys. It’s Saturday night. Let’s get pissed!”
We thanked him and ordered drinks. Over the next hour, we all got quite drunk. We bantered loudly 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 mused.
“Do you make friends easily at home?” Killian asked.
“I guess so.”
“Well, there you go. You’re the same guy here — you make friends easily at home, you make friends easily here. … I like you, … and I just met you.”
I smiled and said, “Thank you.”
Hinrich leaned into the bar and said, “People say travel is ‘transformative’; I think it just clarifies who we actually are.”
As the hour approached midnight, I said, “Gentlemen, this has been an education, but I’ve got to get going. My hotel lobby closes at one.”
“Aw, come on, Francis. Don’t bug out on us now,” Killian said. “It’s Saturday night. Just beat on the door. The innkeeper will let you in.”
“Buddy, I was in Atlanta this morning. I’m beat. I’ve got to get some sleep,” I laughed, and stood to say my goodbyes.
“Ah … you’re weak, Francis!” Killian said.
“Good luck with the basilica,” I said, man-hugging and slapping him on the back. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll check out your work next time I’m in town.”
“Ah … you’re welcome, Francis. Safe travels,” he said. “Keep an open mind when you visit your grandfather’s home. A lot has changed in a hundred years.”
“Thank you.”
I turned toward Hinrich. “Good luck at your conference. Learn something about economics. Enjoy your stay.”
“You as well, Francis,” he said. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
We shook hands. I paid my tab and left.
I was exhausted, and my head was spinning. I stood under the bacaro’s eve for a moment to zip my jacket and contemplate my walk home. The alley was silent and deserted. It was dark, cold, and still sprinkling. I pulled my jacket tight around my neck and set off. Small puddles punctuated the narrow passageway. It was very wet, and I was glad I had followed the travel advice and worn waterproof shoes. I quickened my pace.
As I climbed the Rialto Bridge, I noticed one of the amber street lamps on the far side of the Grand Canal seemed to be brighter than the others. It flickered intensely, as if the bulb were on the verge of burning out. That’s odd, I thought, and fixated on it.
As I crested the bridge, I paused to contemplated the deserted alleys and ancient, rain-soaked buildings. Leaning against the heavy stone railing, I stared at the flickering lamp. The dark, overcast sky and the gloomy silence stirred the same hollow loneliness inside me. Questions welled. Why did I come? What did I hope to find? What am I doing here?
Raindrops streaming down the sides of my face and dripping from my nose finally prompted me to move on. As I descended the north side of the bridge, I glanced once more at the strange amber light, then at the café beneath it.
I froze.
Under a canvas awning, about forty yards away, sat a lone figure. She had situated two chairs so that they faced each other. She sat on one and put her feet up on the other, as if trying to sleep. I recognized the shoes. They were black Converse basketball sneakers.
That’s Carrie.
As I approached, she looked up. Her eyes appeared red under her fogged glasses, and tears were streaming down her cheeks.
“Carrie? What are you doing here?”
She sniffed. “My suitcase was stolen.”
“What?”
“The restroom on the train wasn’t big enough for me and my suitcase, so I left it outside on the baggage rack. While I was in the restroom, the train made a stop on the mainland.” She sniffed, then wiped her nose on her sleeve. “When I came out of the restroom, the train was moving again, and my suitcase was gone.” She started crying again.
I dragged another chair close to her and sat beside her. “I’m sorry. Did you get a room?”
“No,” she said, wiping her nose. “My clothes, my money, and my debit card were in my suitcase. Except for the thirty dollars I had in my pocket, my passport, and my ticket home, I lost everything.” She broke down again.
I sat silently for a moment and tried to think. I liked Carrie, and she was cute, but I didn’t really know her. She seemed cool, but what if she was just another flaky bartender? My head was spinning. I was looking forward to simplicity, decompression, and relaxation. I didn’t need a boatload of drama to crush the trip. I had a plan. But the night was chilly, dark, and damp. As I watched her shiver and sniffle, I felt myself melting. At this late hour, almost all the hotels were full or closed. Lending her money would not help. I handed her a napkin I’d taken from the bar, then spoke, “Well, you can’t stay out here. It’s cold and wet. Come on. You can crash in my room tonight, and we’ll figure things out in the morning. You’ll be safe. It will be okay.”
She wiped the fog from her glasses, slid them back on, then looked up at me with tears in her eyes.
“Really? You’d do that for me?”
“Yeah, sure. My room isn’t much. I didn’t plan to spend much time in it, so it’s cheap. It’s small, but I think there are extra blankets in the closet. We can make it work. You’ll be safe there.”
I helped her up. She grabbed her big purse, and we walked briskly along the sides of the buildings to avoid the rain.
“Did you get anything to eat?”
“Yes, I ate that Chick-fil-A sandwich I brought.”
“Was that enough? I think there’s a convenience store close to the train station if you’re still hungry. They may have things there.”
“That’s kind, Francis, but I’m okay. Thank you.”
When we reached the hotel lobby, I rang the bell. Through the archway, I saw a TV tuned to a soccer game. Geno rose from an easy chair and rounded the corner.
“Numero 12?” he asked.
“Sí, numero 12.”
Geno looked through a series of ‘pigeonholes’ on the back wall and handed over the key with the enormous fob.
Carrie laughed sadly. “How are you supposed to put that in your pocket?”
“You’re not. That’s the point. These are old-school keys — losing one’s a pain, so they don’t take any chances.”
We trotted down the narrow alley to my room. I unlocked the door and let her in, then turned on the lamp. She was drenched. Her hair was dripping, and her jeans and shoes were soaked through. I remembered that the room was tight. With two people in it now, it suddenly felt much smaller.
“Do you have another change of clothes?” I asked.
“No. I do have extra underwear somewhere at the bottom of my purse. You can never have enough underwear. You know?”
I laughed. “Okay, do this.” I opened my suitcase and pulled out an elastic clothesline. Stretching the line across the warm radiator by the window, I secured it with the suction cups on either end.
I reached into my suitcase and pulled out a large white T-shirt. “I’ll leave for thirty minutes. Hang your clothes over the radiator to dry. Take a shower if you want. Dry off and put on your clean underwear and this shirt. You can sleep on the floor with the extra blankets in the closet, or share the bed — your call. If you choose the bed, I promise I’ll be a gentleman. You’re safe here.”
“It’s raining outside. Where will you go?” she sniffed.
“I’ll walk to the train station. It’s only a block away and probably open all night.”
“Francis, … I feel terrible putting you out of your room.”
“It’s okay. You’ve had a rough day. Don’t worry about it. I’ll see you in thirty.”
I trotted to the train station to loiter for thirty minutes. There wasn’t much happening at 1:30 AM. A handful of travelers waited for an early-morning train to Milan. I walked to one of the open service counters and asked to speak with the station manager.
When I returned, I opened the door quietly.
Carrie was asleep on the floor, wrapped in a blanket. She’d taken one pillow from the bed and curled up between the desk and the wall. The day’s stress had clearly taken its toll; she was sound asleep.
I brushed my teeth in the tiny bathroom, then crawled into the narrow bed.
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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.