Cafe Leone

    "What? Wait. I can’t hear you. Hang on."
    "Hang on!" He said even louder. His elbow raised high in some make-believe self-important way.
    "I will call you when I get to my office. I am on the elevator right now."
Dean tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket; too preoccupied to notice the looks of disdain in the eyes of the others taking the same trip.
    The muffled, digitized ring begins again. People begin shifting uncomfortably and their clearly audible sighs do nothing to hide their disgust as Dean answers it again.
    "Yeah. I know, I know. I said I will call you when I get to my desk. Jesus!" He hung up angrily, but this time his elbow nearly smashed into the woman behind him.
    An elevator, and a crowded subway are perhaps the only place complete strangers can stand so awkwardly close. Standing so close, and yet trying so hard not to make eye contact; that was the dance played out a million times per day. But for now, all eyes have been released from their usual lock on the changing floor display to collectively sneer at Dean.
    Floor 14, the doors open and Dean allowed himself the luxury of first exit, though there are others physically closer to the front of the elevator.
    He walked past rows of cubicles, each the same, save for the pre-approved personal flair added by their occupants. He did not notice Julie’s cube looks a bit overrun with plants and other greenery. If he ever slowed down long enough, he would have noticed that bamboo plant with some purple fish inside the glass vase swimming through the roots. If he slowed down, he would see Stephanie’s desk with a disturbing number of cat paraphernalia; cat calendars, cat mug and, strangely, a cat mousepad. From golfing magazines to Hallmark cards. From Employee of the Month awards to the ubiquitous pictures of children, everyone had a story to tell. Everyone needed to put a personal mark to break the sameness of their cubicle neighborhood, cuburbia. Dean couldn’t be bothered. He stormed past them all until he got to his own cube. On the way past his boss’s office, the only space enclosed by four walls and a door, he managed a drive-by wave.
     Dean turned on his computer and grabbed his emails before remembering to call his sister.
    "Sorry, Jo, it is not even eight and it already is getting…"
    "That’s fine, Dean. I understand. You know I wouldn’t want to bother you unless it was important."
    "Listen, Jo. I know Ma is disappointed in me for missing their fiftieth anniversary party. She already gave me an earful but you know that no matter how much planning I try to do, I am at the mercy of these customers. Just the other day…"
     "Don’t! Don’t do this Dean. I don’t care about your friggin’ customers." Audible crack in her voice shattered his ability to create a coherent thought.
    Dean sat up, turned his chair to look out down to the crowded street below. It was becoming clear to Dean that this was not the normal "You really blew it this time" call.
    "Sis, If Don is hurting you in any way, I…"
    "This has nothing to do with anniversaries or wife beatings, you fucking moron! Just stop. This is hard enough for me without you playing the idiot detective. For once in your goddam life, listen."
    The sound of silence penetrated the next twenty seconds like a bullet.
    "Your father, our dad, Papa…..He died last night!" Silence. Did you hear me? Lui e morto!" She screamed the last sentence in utter exhaustion and obvious frustration.
    Dean chewed his cheek and blinked hard and fast as he came to terms with what he was told. Normally, never at a loss for words, there were no words to describe what Dean was feeling. He dropped his cell phone to his lap as he stared through the objects in his cube.
    "Dean, for crap’s sake. Did you hear me?"
    He picked up the phone again.  
    "When?" was all he could come up with.
    "Yesterday. It happened so fast. By the time we got to the basement, he was already lying there in a pool of blood."
Dean let the image of that pool of blood flood his brain. He was no longer thinking of his father. He was simply picturing the ever expanding pool of blood like a death scene in some bad movie.
    "We told him every day not to play with the electricity. But of course, he had to try to re-wire the light over his workbench so that it would go on whenever he turned on the big light to the room. You remember, we even used to laugh at him for being so harebrained, and as always, he didn’t turn off the power to the light. Instead he tried to do it the usual way and just hope that the live wires wouldn’t cross. Well, you know, the guy is 79 years old. His hands shake so badly, he is blind as a bat, I am surprised he didn’t kill himself shaving. The jolt knocked him to the ground. It was the fall that killed him. His head hit the cement floor hard enough to shatter his skull. That bastard! If he wasn’t dead, we would all be laughing at this. I wish I could laugh right now."
    "How’s Mama?"
    "Well you know Mama. She has been dressing in all black for the last fifteen years just because she knew he was going to kill himself someday.
    That was just like Jo; never at a loss for breaking life down into the ridiculous.
    Her given name was Giovanna Bruna Cedrone. At no time did anyone ever dare call her that. Giovanna was reserved only for the birth certificate and it was Jo for the rest of the planet. She had classic Italian features. Olive skin that was shiny like she bathed in the magical oil. Her hair, thick, was always out of control. A wisp of hair would find its way in front of her eyes and she would blow it back with a well-placed puff. Her eyes were buried deep inside of even deeper sockets. Not-so-skinny would be the best way to describe her body. Italian food coupled with four children will change the architecture of any body. She preferred to be called curvy. Her Sophia Loren breasts would find little use for her bra as they spilled easily over the top.
She was a loving mother to her four boys. Over-protective, of course. A parent has to be these days. Stern, without a doubt. She was not above a quick slap in the butt as a form of enforced encouragement. But, not a heartbeat later, she could drop down to the floor and play video games with them with all the genuine enthusiasm as if she were a child herself but with all the skill of a mom genuinely in love with her children. Then she had no problems springing back up once her husband came home in order to start dinner. She was tireless. A good quality to have in a small house filled with boys. To Jo, her family was her life. Without them, there would be no Jo.
    She never strayed far from the town she grew up in. In fact, she never strayed from this very house in her forty-five years on this planet. She, her husband, Donato, and their four boys lived just below her parents in the same house on Lincoln Road.
    "Listen. If you are interested, the wake will be Friday and the funeral will be Saturday. If my opinion matters, I think Ma will really appreciate it if you would come and pay your respects."
Dean remained silent. Silent, stunned and hurt. His brain trying to process everything and grasping nothing. His sister’s words spilled salt into the wound. What was she saying? Of course he would come home.
    "Interested? Papa is dead and all you can say is ‘if you are interested?’ Come on Jo. Cut me some slack, will ya?"
    "I will cut you some slack…once again. Just don’t disappoint Ma. She really needs all of us now more than ever. But she doesn’t need any of your ‘I am too important bullshit."
    Dean put his jacket on and retraced his steps back out. This time he was stopped by Julie who needed to know how he wanted to respond to the latest report highlighting his team’s underperformance for the last quarter.
    "Dean, I was just coming to see you. I am putting together the agenda for the Executive Update Meeting on Friday. I saw your slides and noticed that there was as decrease in your team’s performance over the last month. I thought it would be a good idea if we can deflect any questions about it by putting an asterisk next to the stat and a single comment from you."
    Dean caught about half of her words and tried to ignore the rest.
    "I really need to get out of here. Something personal has come up."
    She heard without listening.
    "That’s OK. How about a quick sentence. I’ll walk you to the elevator."
    "Um, alright. Listen. Just tell the Executive Committee that we are still reviewing the stats, but it looks like having one Rep out on maternity leave and the recall of our major player across all age groups resulted in an increase in call volume. We are confident that the next quarter we will see higher customer satisfaction as we recover from our slight downturn in call answer rates. Blah blah blah. You’ve done this a million times before, Julie! Can’t you figure it out?"
    "You know they are not going to buy that. Don’t you?" They are simply going to ask why we did not forecast staffing requirements. It’s not like we didn’t know she was pregnant."
    As he handed her the report, he stopped long enough to look in her eyes.
    "Just tell them to take their staffing requirements and stuff them up their ass. Let’s see them forecast that." He said as his head cocked to the side exaggeratedly.
    Julie Moretz had this ability to look right in your eye, nod her head in agreement and at the same time she could make you feel like you were standing on your head. At this moment, she perfected that look.
    He threw his keys on the table next to the door; put there just for that purpose. His apartment had very little "new" furniture. In fact, one of his girlfriends called it "dorm-room chic." The one piece that became Dean’s pride and joy was his bar. He remembered how excited he was when it was delivered to him. It even came assembled; a unique feature for Dean’s decor. Made from a warm, rich cherry wood and even came with the optional brass footrest. It had a stemware holder and a mini-fridge for precisely chilling white wine. With the bar came a free gift of the Boston Bartender’s Guide. The first thing he did was go to the liquor store and collect every bottle off the Must Have list. He sampled everything on that list and maybe concocted hundreds of drinks following the precise recipe in that book. He impressed no one but himself when he meticulously cut up limes and opened two jars of maraschino cherries to place in the special bins at one of his parties.
    Tonight, that is not what he wanted. He had no use for preparing a complicated drink. He went to the fridge, dropped to his knees and moved a small collection of hot sauces out of the way. After knocking over a few, he found what he needed. He picked up the gallon wine jug. The one with the screw top. A special package from his father.
    Every September, his dad would press his own grapes into wine. He would send a carefully wrapped bottle to Dean every month. The bottle came from the same stash of bottles collected over the last thirty years. His dad even learned to use the computer at seventy-five years of age, just so he could print out cute labels. The label had an image of a lion in the shade of some tree in Africa caught in a giant yawn. Inscribed on it was his father’s birthday, June 12, 1939 and the words in some Ancient Roman script, Bottled with Love By La Famiglia Cedrone. The reason for the lion was not so romantic or symbolic. It simply was one of the standard stock images that came with the labeling software.
     Usually the wine just sat in the fridge with Dean taking the occasional sip or using it in some recipe. Tonight, Dean needed to drink it. It didn’t matter that the red wine was refrigerated. To his father, drinking warm wine was like drinking warm beer. He could never understand how Americans complained that the British like their beer warm and at the same time say that red wine should be never be cold. Neither made sense. Dean reached for a juice glass from the cabinet. He poured the wine into the Williams-Sonoma Picardie glass and drank most of it without tasting it. Drinking now was not about savoring. It had nothing to do with slurping and analyzing tannin, watching the "legs" or distinguishing hints of dark fruits and plums. It was about coping. Coping in the only way Dean ever really learned how to cope. This process was designed to hit him hard.
    He turned on the CD player using the remote on the counter and then threw himself on the sofa. He placed the gallon jug on the floor next to him. The voice of Pavarotti filled the room but it was the images of his father that filled his mind. He took another gulp of wine. In minutes, he finished his third glass.
    At 7:16 AM, the alarm had been going off for the last sixteen minutes with not even a flinch from Dean. He half-opened his eyes, rubbed the string of drool dangling from his mouth and stared down to see the same clothes he had on last night. He didn’t even give himself the courtesy of lying down. He was in the exact same seated position that he was in last night.
    She stood in the doorway to the bedroom half-covering her naked body.
    "Why didn’t you come to bed last night? I woke up to your music but fell back asleep."
    "You should get dressed and go back to your apartment now. I have stuff I need to take care of."
    "What are you talking about? I haven’t been to my apartment in months. I practically live here. You can’t just tell me to leave. I even help you with rent, you mother fucker."
    He turned his head slowly, almost painfully, revealing his glaring bloodshot eyes. "Get out now!"
    "You are one fucked up dude!" She slammed the door but it popped back open and Dean could see her throw her pants on without underwear and shirt without her bra. She stuffed those into her purse, then collected some other belongings and stormed out whisper screaming that she doesn’t need his shit anymore. The front door popped back open. Dean stumbled to the bathroom.

The Son of His Father, writing | 4 Comments »

    “What? Wait. I can’t hear you. Hang on.”
“Hang on!” He said even louder. His elbow raised high in some make-believe self-important way.
“I will call you when I get to my office. I am on the elevator right now.”
Dean tucked his cell phone into his jacket pocket; too preoccupied to notice the looks of disdain in the eyes of the others taking the same trip.
The muffled, digitized ring begins again. People begin shifting uncomfortably and their clearly audible sighs do nothing to hide their disgust as Dean answers it again.
“Yeah. I know, I know. I said I will call you when I get to my desk. Jesus!” He hung up angrily, but this time his elbow nearly smashed into the woman behind him.
An elevator, and a crowded subway are perhaps the only place complete strangers can stand so awkwardly close. Standing so close, and yet trying so hard not to make eye contact; that was the dance played out a million times per day. But for now, all eyes have been released from their usual lock on the changing floor display to collectively sneer at Dean.
Floor 14, the doors open and Dean allowed himself the luxury of first exit, though there are others physically closer to the front of the elevator.
He walked past rows of cubicles, each the same, save for the pre-approved personal flair added by their occupants. He did not notice Julie’s cube looks a bit overrun with plants and other greenery. If he ever slowed down long enough, he would have noticed that bamboo plant with some purple fish inside the glass vase swimming through the roots. If he slowed down, he would see Stephanie’s desk with a disturbing number of cat paraphernalia; cat calendars, cat mug and, strangely, a cat mousepad. From golfing magazines to Hallmark cards. From Employee of the Month awards to the ubiquitous pictures of children, everyone had a story to tell. Everyone needed to put a personal mark to break the sameness of their cubicle neighborhood, cuburbia. Dean couldn’t be bothered. He stormed past them all until he got to his own cube. On the way past his boss’s office, the only space enclosed by four walls and a door, he managed a drive-by wave.
Dean turned on his computer and grabbed his emails before remembering to call his sister.
“Sorry, Jo, it is not even eight and it already is getting…”
“That’s fine, Dean. I understand. You know I wouldn’t want to bother you unless it was important.”
“Listen, Jo. I know Ma is disappointed in me for missing their fiftieth anniversary party. She already gave me an earful but you know that no matter how much planning I try to do, I am at the mercy of these customers. Just the other day…”
“Don’t! Don’t do this Dean. I don’t care about your friggin’ customers.” Audible crack in her voice shattered his ability to create a coherent thought.
Dean sat up, turned his chair to look out down to the crowded street below. It was becoming clear to Dean that this was not the normal “You really blew it this time” call.
“Sis, If Don is hurting you in any way, I…”
“This has nothing to do with anniversaries or wife beatings, you fucking moron! Just stop. This is hard enough for me without you playing the idiot detective. For once in your goddam life, listen.”
The sound of silence penetrated the next twenty seconds like a bullet.
“Your father, our dad, Papa…..He died last night!” Silence. Did you hear me? Lui e morto!” She screamed the last sentence in utter exhaustion and obvious frustration.
Dean chewed his cheek and blinked hard and fast as he came to terms with what he was told. Normally, never at a loss for words, there were no words to describe what Dean was feeling. He dropped his cell phone to his lap as he stared through the objects in his cube.
“Dean, for crap’s sake. Did you hear me?”
He picked up the phone again.
“When?” was all he could come up with.
“Yesterday. It happened so fast. By the time we got to the basement, he was already lying there in a pool of blood.”
Dean let the image of that pool of blood flood his brain. He was no longer thinking of his father. He was simply picturing the ever expanding pool of blood like a death scene in some bad movie.
“We told him every day not to play with the electricity. But of course, he had to try to re-wire the light over his workbench so that it would go on whenever he turned on the big light to the room. You remember, we even used to laugh at him for being so harebrained, and as always, he didn’t turn off the power to the light. Instead he tried to do it the usual way and just hope that the live wires wouldn’t cross. Well, you know, the guy is 79 years old. His hands shake so badly, he is blind as a bat, I am surprised he didn’t kill himself shaving. The jolt knocked him to the ground. It was the fall that killed him. His head hit the cement floor hard enough to shatter his skull. That bastard! If he wasn’t dead, we would all be laughing at this. I wish I could laugh right now.”
“How’s Mama?”
“Well you know Mama. She has been dressing in all black for the last fifteen years just because she knew he was going to kill himself someday.
That was just like Jo; never at a loss for breaking life down into the ridiculous.
Her given name was Giovanna Bruna Cedrone. At no time did anyone ever dare call her that. Giovanna was reserved only for the birth certificate and it was Jo for the rest of the planet. She had classic Italian features. Olive skin that was shiny like she bathed in the magical oil. Her hair, thick, was always out of control. A wisp of hair would find its way in front of her eyes and she would blow it back with a well-placed puff. Her eyes were buried deep inside of even deeper sockets. Not-so-skinny would be the best way to describe her body. Italian food coupled with four children will change the architecture of any body. She preferred to be called curvy. Her Sophia Loren breasts would find little use for her bra as they spilled easily over the top.
She was a loving mother to her four boys. Over-protective, of course. A parent has to be these days. Stern, without a doubt. She was not above a quick slap in the butt as a form of enforced encouragement. But, not a heartbeat later, she could drop down to the floor and play video games with them with all the genuine enthusiasm as if she were a child herself but with all the skill of a mom genuinely in love with her children. Then she had no problems springing back up once her husband came home in order to start dinner. She was tireless. A good quality to have in a small house filled with boys. To Jo, her family was her life. Without them, there would be no Jo.
She never strayed far from the town she grew up in. In fact, she never strayed from this very house in her forty-five years on this planet. She, her husband, Donato, and their four boys lived just below her parents in the same house on Lincoln Road.
“Listen. If you are interested, the wake will be Friday and the funeral will be Saturday. If my opinion matters, I think Ma will really appreciate it if you would come and pay your respects.”
Dean remained silent. Silent, stunned and hurt. His brain trying to process everything and grasping nothing. His sister’s words spilled salt into the wound. What was she saying? Of course he would come home.
“Interested? Papa is dead and all you can say is ‘if you are interested?’ Come on Jo. Cut me some slack, will ya?”
“I will cut you some slack…once again. Just don’t disappoint Ma. She really needs all of us now more than ever. But she doesn’t need any of your ‘I am too important bullshit.”
Dean put his jacket on and retraced his steps back out. This time he was stopped by Julie who needed to know how he wanted to respond to the latest report highlighting his team’s underperformance for the last quarter.
“Dean, I was just coming to see you. I am putting together the agenda for the Executive Update Meeting on Friday. I saw your slides and noticed that there was as decrease in your team’s performance over the last month. I thought it would be a good idea if we can deflect any questions about it by putting an asterisk next to the stat and a single comment from you.”
Dean caught about half of her words and tried to ignore the rest.
“I really need to get out of here. Something personal has come up.”
She heard without listening.
“That’s OK. How about a quick sentence. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”
“Um, alright. Listen. Just tell the Executive Committee that we are still reviewing the stats, but it looks like having one Rep out on maternity leave and the recall of our major player across all age groups resulted in an increase in call volume. We are confident that the next quarter we will see higher customer satisfaction as we recover from our slight downturn in call answer rates. Blah blah blah. You’ve done this a million times before, Julie! Can’t you figure it out?”
“You know they are not going to buy that. Don’t you?” They are simply going to ask why we did not forecast staffing requirements. It’s not like we didn’t know she was pregnant.”
As he handed her the report, he stopped long enough to look in her eyes.
“Just tell them to take their staffing requirements and stuff them up their ass. Let’s see them forecast that.” He said as his head cocked to the side exaggeratedly.
Julie Moretz had this ability to look right in your eye, nod her head in agreement and at the same time she could make you feel like you were standing on your head. At this moment, she perfected that look.
He threw his keys on the table next to the door; put there just for that purpose. His apartment had very little “new” furniture. In fact, one of his girlfriends called it “dorm-room chic.” The one piece that became Dean’s pride and joy was his bar. He remembered how excited he was when it was delivered to him. It even came assembled; a unique feature for Dean’s decor. Made from a warm, rich cherry wood and even came with the optional brass footrest. It had a stemware holder and a mini-fridge for precisely chilling white wine. With the bar came a free gift of the Boston Bartender’s Guide. The first thing he did was go to the liquor store and collect every bottle off the Must Have list. He sampled everything on that list and maybe concocted hundreds of drinks following the precise recipe in that book. He impressed no one but himself when he meticulously cut up limes and opened two jars of maraschino cherries to place in the special bins at one of his parties.
Tonight, that is not what he wanted. He had no use for preparing a complicated drink. He went to the fridge, dropped to his knees and moved a small collection of hot sauces out of the way. After knocking over a few, he found what he needed. He picked up the gallon wine jug. The one with the screw top. A special package from his father.
Every September, his dad would press his own grapes into wine. He would send a carefully wrapped bottle to Dean every month. The bottle came from the same stash of bottles collected over the last thirty years. His dad even learned to use the computer at seventy-five years of age, just so he could print out cute labels. The label had an image of a lion in the shade of some tree in Africa caught in a giant yawn. Inscribed on it was his father’s birthday, June 12, 1939 and the words in some Ancient Roman script, Bottled with Love By La Famiglia Cedrone. The reason for the lion was not so romantic or symbolic. It simply was one of the standard stock images that came with the labeling software.
Usually the wine just sat in the fridge with Dean taking the occasional sip or using it in some recipe. Tonight, Dean needed to drink it. It didn’t matter that the red wine was refrigerated. To his father, drinking warm wine was like drinking warm beer. He could never understand how Americans complained that the British like their beer warm and at the same time say that red wine should be never be cold. Neither made sense. Dean reached for a juice glass from the cabinet. He poured the wine into the Williams-Sonoma Picardie glass and drank most of it without tasting it. Drinking now was not about savoring. It had nothing to do with slurping and analyzing tannin, watching the “legs” or distinguishing hints of dark fruits and plums. It was about coping. Coping in the only way Dean ever really learned how to cope. This process was designed to hit him hard.
He turned on the CD player using the remote on the counter and then threw himself on the sofa. He placed the gallon jug on the floor next to him. The voice of Pavarotti filled the room but it was the images of his father that filled his mind. He took another gulp of wine. In minutes, he finished his third glass.
At 7:16 AM, the alarm had been going off for the last sixteen minutes with not even a flinch from Dean. He half-opened his eyes, rubbed the string of drool dangling from his mouth and stared down to see the same clothes he had on last night. He didn’t even give himself the courtesy of lying down. He was in the exact same seated position that he was in last night.
She stood in the doorway to the bedroom half-covering her naked body.
“Why didn’t you come to bed last night? I woke up to your music but fell back asleep.”
“You should get dressed and go back to your apartment now. I have stuff I need to take care of.”
“What are you talking about? I haven’t been to my apartment in months. I practically live here. You can’t just tell me to leave. I even help you with rent, you mother fucker.”
He turned his head slowly, almost painfully, revealing his glaring bloodshot eyes. “Get out now!”
“You are one fucked up dude!” She slammed the door but it popped back open and Dean could see her throw her pants on without underwear and shirt without her bra. She stuffed those into her purse, then collected some other belongings and stormed out whisper screaming that she doesn’t need his shit anymore. The front door popped back open. Dean stumbled to the bathroom.

The Son of His Father, writing | No Comments »

This is the third time I have posted chapter 1 of my novel. I do this to give the illusion that I am writing and that there is a chapter 2.

This story is not a memoir, but does build on the memories I had growing up in The Lake, a real place, sans water. The Italian village of San Donato is where my father comes from. Interestingly, or not, my dad’s name is also Donato. Even less interesting, or not, my real name is Donato too. But I guess both of you already know that. Clearly, creativity was not the forte of my ancestors….and neither is it mine.

Chapter 1 - The Lake

The bumper sticker said it all; a white background, an Italian flag and in large red font, the words The Lake. Dean had seen a million of them affixed to screen doors, telephone poles, shop windows and sometimes even on a bumper. The announcement so worthy of a bumper sticker was that you were from The Lake; not the lake, no caps, or that you lived around some body of water larger than a pond. But from The Lake; capital T, capital L and all its ramifications.

Dean grew up in the Nonantum section of Newton as every Cedrone did. Nonantum was named after the Algonquin Indian word for “place of rejoicing” following a conversion to Christianity of a band of Indians by the Rev John Eliot. This is the end of the history lesson. That was all Dean ever knew about the story of this small village. But to anyone this side of the Mass Pike, this will forever be The Lake.

If the image painted in your head is one of a body of water; if your mind’s eye pictures boys fishing along the banks or launching themselves off a rope swing, you would easily be forgiven. You see, in The Lake, there was no lake. Few people even knew why it was called The Lake. The assumption was that a longer time ago than anyone living could remember, there was in fact a lake to be jumped into or fished from.

The inescapable fact was that this was not your typical “village” of Newton. Newton had a reputation, and only because it deserved it, of being a moneyed suburb of Boston. With its stately homes and SUVs; old money and the nouveau riche; boutiques and soccer moms, Newton stank with money and the stench of entitlement permeated each blade of professionally coiffed grass. This exclusiveness was everywhere in Newton; everywhere except The Lake. Here, you could drive down Washington Street and once you took the right onto Adams Street you would be instantly transported to Not Newton Massachusetts. Here, the homes were smaller and packed more closely together. Lawns were replaced by vegetable gardens and automatic sprinklers firing off precisely at four in the morning replaced by statues of the Virgin Mary protected by a half bathtub surrounded with perennial Christmas lights; large wooden Doric columns replaced by fancy brick work.

These bricks were placed one at a time, by the irreversibly calloused hands and eternally bruised nailbeds of the men of San Donato, Italy. No conversation of The Lake can exist without mentioning San Donato; a mountain-side village usually described without description as being “South of Rome.” But somehow the migration began. Somehow, there was a pioneer Sandonatese that left the village to seek that better life in America that everyone talks about. Perhaps he lied and told everyone that the streets of America were paved with gold and this enticed subsequent immigrants or more likely they were lured by the fact that the streets were paved at all. After all, post-war Italy was no one’s idea of a fantasy.

Why Newton? Who knows? Herd mentality or some deep sociological need for like to remain with like. Dean didn’t care. All he knew is that he hated this place.

The Son of His Father, writing | 5 Comments »

Please allow me the luxury of reposting Chapter 1 of a book I am pretending to write. Everyone so often I feel the urge to post chapter 1 in a feeble attempt to convince both of you, and mostly myself, that I am writing a book at all. There are 15 more chapters of feeble attempts, but I always post Chapter 1. Oh, I am not so vain as to keep posting the same chapter over and over again. No, sir. I typically change a couple of words, usually be making liberal use of an online thesaurus. So, without further ado, I give you, once again, Chapter 1 of The Son of His Father. If either of you are awake at the end of the chapter, I will offer a bit of insight into the story.
Chapter 1

The bumper sticker said it all; a white background, an Italian flag and in large red font, the words The Lake. Dean had seen a million of them affixed to screen doors, telephone poles, shop windows and sometimes even on a bumper. The announcement so worthy of a bumper sticker was that you were from The Lake; not the lake, no caps, or that you lived around some body of water larger than a pond. But from The Lake; capital T, capital L and all its ramifications.

Dean grew up in the Nonantum section of Newton as every Cedrone did. Nonantum was named after the Algonquin Indian word for “place of rejoicing” following a conversion to Christianity of a band of Indians by the Rev John Eliot. This is the end of the history lesson. That was all Dean ever knew about the story of this small village. But to anyone this side of the Mass Pike, this will forever be The Lake.

If the image painted in your head is one of a body of water; if your mind’s eye pictures boys fishing along the banks or launching themselves off a rope swing, you would easily be forgiven. You see, in The Lake, there was no lake. Few people even knew why it was called The Lake. The assumption was that a longer time ago than anyone living could remember, there was in fact a lake to be jumped into or fished from.

The inescapable fact was that this was not your typical “village” of Newton. Newton had a reputation, and only because it deserved it, of being a moneyed suburb of Boston. With its stately homes and SUVs; old money and the nouveau riche; boutiques and soccer moms, Newton stank with money and the stench of entitlement permeated each blade of professionally coiffed grass. This exclusiveness was everywhere in Newton; everywhere except The Lake. Here, you could drive down Washington Street and once you took the right onto Adams Street you would be instantly transported to Not Newton Massachusetts. Here, the homes were smaller and packed more closely together. Lawns were replaced by vegetable gardens and automatic sprinklers firing off precisely at four in the morning replaced by statues of the Virgin Mary protected by a half bathtub surrounded with perennial Christmas lights; large wooden Doric columns replaced by fancy brick work.

These bricks were placed one at a time, by the irreversibly calloused hands of the men of San Donato, Italy. No conversation of The Lake can exist without mentioning San Donato; a mountain-side village usually described without description as being “South of Rome.” But somehow the migration began. Somehow, there was a pioneer Sandonatese that left the village to seek that better life in America that everyone talks about. Perhaps he lied and told everyone that the streets of America were paved with gold and this enticed subsequent immigrants or more likely they were lured by the fact that the streets were paved at all. After all, post-war Italy was no one’s idea of a fantasy.

Why Newton? Why The Lake? Who knows? Herd mentality or some deep sociological need for like to remain with like. Dean didn’t care. All he knew was that he hated this place.

The story is fictional, inasmuch as any story is completely fictional. The location is entirely real and is based on the area of Newton that I grew up in. Dean, an Italian American has spent the last 30 years of his life running away from his “Italian-ism” but the death of his father forces him to return home. The story is an unapologetically sentimental journey home.

Question for BoMR (Both of My Readers): Did you stay awake?

The Son of His Father, writing | 10 Comments »