Black Celery, Black Death

An Astronaut Mike Dexter Mystery

Chapter I

It's holiday time in New York City. The seasonal amplification of hustle and bustle is in effect on the streets while skaters alternately glide and hip check beneath the glistening 34-foot tall tree in Rockefeller Center. All the urgency and desperation of the impending holidays is in full force, but looking down on it from the upper floors of 30 Rockefeller Plaza, it all seems quaint—especially compared to the annual near insanity overtaking the TGS staff as they seek to finish the week leading up to their final show for the year and get out of Manhattan before the streets below are completely overrun with the worst vermin the city has to offer—holiday tourists.

Liz Lemon, head writer for the late night TGS Show, and Pete Hornberger, the show's producer, are in her office, continuing the planning process for this week's show. Liz looks up from her checklist says, "…and no punch bowl for the after party this year. Remember what we found floating in it last year?"

"Paco promises to keep his leg on this year. The guys just wanted to see if it would float." Pete explains. "But okay."

"He could have taken the sock off."

"No punch bowl…check."

"And, why does he need a sock on his fake leg?" Liz moans, "I still have no idea what to get Jack."

In walks Cerie, the (very) young, and (very) pretty receptionist, to hand Liz a letter. "This paper thing with a little sticker in the corner has your name on it. I figured I should bring it to you."

"This is a letter, Cerie," explains Liz with pedantic sarcasm. "You know, in the old days, when someone wanted to tell you something, they would write it down on a piece of paper, and put it in a mailbox and the post office would deliver it to you in only a couple of days."

Briefly confused, Cerie brightens, "Oh! Like a slow paper IM. I get it."

"It's a SPIM," remarks Pete.

Frank Rossitano, a somewhat surly and lascivious writer on the show, and Kenneth Parcell, a sweet and clueless page for the network, join the group in Liz's office. "What's up?" asks Frank.

"Liz got a SPIM," says Cerie knowledgably.

"Cool. Who's it from?"

Liz examines the letter and notices it's postmarked from Italy. "I don't know anyone in Italy."

"Maybe it's Italian junk mail." offers Frank. He unfortunately continues, "That's what they call it when an Italian guy mails someone a picture of his junk. Of course nowadays it's all 'sexting' and 'poking.' All this immediate gratification takes the suspense out of it. You know…will she open it, will she like it, is that the police knocking at my door?"

"Frank! It's not that kind of junk mail!" Liz exclaims, before musing almost to herself almost hopefully, "At least I don't think it is."

Pete offers "You've got SPIM SPAM!"

Kenneth encourages Liz to open the envelope. "Maybe it's from Mbe!to!to. He's the Nigerian prince I've been helping. He's been working so hard to regain the fortune that was stolen from him that I sent him some extra money this week to take a vacation. Maybe he went to Italy."

As Liz opens the envelope, she tells Kenneth to remind her later that she wants to speak with him about sending money to Nigerian princes. She unfolds the letter and begins to read: "Oh my gosh!"

"What?" the chorus inquires.

"Is it from Mbe!to!to?"

"No," Liz replies in a daze. "It's from Astronaut Mike Dexter."

Pete tilts his head to the side and asks, "Isn't he…"

"Awesome? Yes!" exclaims Liz before adding more quietly, "That is what you were going to say, right?"

"I was going to go with 'fictional' or 'made up' or 'not even real to you without your massaging shower head with 4 settings'. But 'awesome' works, too."

"I know…I mean, no. Well, it has six settings." Liz recovers. "And, fine! But who would send me a letter from Astronaut Mike Dexter?"

The chorus chimes in again, "Read it!" "What does it say?" "Go on, and read it." "Tell us what it says."

And with reluctance, she does…

Dear Liz,

Buon giorno from Italia! I hope this letter finds you well, and that your foot problem has begun to clear up.

They have cut the phone lines and internet connections, and nothing seems to be happening right now (and yet so much is happening). I decided to sit down and write you this long overdue letter.

I'll start from the beginning. I was invited to visit Vecchio, a little medieval town in Italy, to receive an award for that thing I did on the International Space Station (which really frankly wasn't a big deal. Anybody would have saved her. I just happened to volunteer). I've flown over Italy so many times—it really does look like a boot from space, one of those high boots with Europe looking like its miniskirt—but I had never been, so after I received those personal appeals from Silvio and Benedict, I reluctantly agreed.

Vecchio is where Stefania grew up before joining Italy's space program. The town is incredible. It sits on the top of a small mountain, surrounded by medieval walls. The streets were laid out for donkey carts (which are unfortunately in much use right now) and when the fog rolls in it's like you've been transported to another time. It's incredibly romantic, and I had been making plans to bring you here but then this whole thing happened.

You've heard of the Black Death, right? I think it was also called the Plague. Very big in medieval times. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself.

I arrived on a day of postcard weather—clear skies, fluffy clouds, bright sunlight. As I climbed toward the walls in my Mercedes Benz C Class I passed through orchards of countless olive trees. As the breeze rushed up from the valley, the undersides of the leaves were exposed, covering the mountainside in living shimmering chain mail (the preceding translated from the tourist pamphlets).

The ceremony was to take place during the town's annual Black Celery festival. It seems each small town in this part of the country has an agricultural specialty and around harvest time, the whole town and surrounding neighbors come in for a big party on the piazza. There were medieval games, roaring grills of meat manned by roaring men, the local brass band played La Bamba and other Italian classics, and central to it all…crates and crates of black celery.

When it was time for the ceremony. Vecchio's mayor, (whose name, oddly enough, was Otto…Otto Sindaco) called me up to join him on a little stage set in the corner of the piazza by town hall. He was joined by his councilmen, and the mayor of the neighboring town, Signore Cippolino of Canardo. The members of each mayor's family stood at the back of the stage. . I was particularly struck by Donna Cippolino, the 22-year old daughter of Canardo's mayor. She too had studied at MIT (she studied chemistry, I studied rocket science) and seemed surprised, and even a bit shocked, that I was in town for the festival. Her face seemed trapped beneath her heavy spectacles, and her slightness made her appear timid next to her large and fleshy father. Mayor Sindaco's two sons, large and loud, paused in their continuous consumption with some irritation during the ceremony (although Giacomo, the older of the two, asked me what sex in zero gravity felt like). Collectively, the town honored me with a key to the medieval gates. Very touching and humbling

But more on the black celery or sedeno nero. It's not black. At best, it seems a slightly darker green than the celery in the States, but with stalks at least 50% longer than what we're used to. (actually, now I'm used to freeze dried celery paste, but you know what I mean). No one could explain why it was called black—or rather everyone could but no one agreed. "It's named after the special black soil native to the region." offers one fellow. He is immediately contradicted by his friend, "It's because the seeds are black." Another protests, "No it was the favorite food of Pope Paolo III's great nemesis the Bagiioni family, and he placed a curse on it." Every man, woman, and child within earshot joins in the debate with a different indisputable facts, and the piazza is soon filled with riotous squabbling. Everyone had a wonderful time.

And everyone ate. We ate black celery soup, grilled black celery, black celery and sausages, black celery ice cream, and the local favorite, black celery and baby onion stew. I was finishing my fourth plateful of food and swaying with the brass band's rendition of Jump by Van Halen and thinking that I would rather be here than anywhere else at that moment.

Then the first person, an elderly man name Giuseppe Primo, began to complain of a headache followed immediately by chills. People around him thought the vino was to blame and were laughing. Laughing until someone felt his head. "He's burning up!" Primo began to vomit, and soon, with his neck beginning to look bruised and ugly, he coughed up blood.

Concerned bystanders called for help and the local doctor, Dottore Salute moved quickly to his side. I joined him hoping that with my emergency medical training I could be of assistance. The doctor had just leaned over the ill man when another man, a construction foreman named Segundo also began to vomit as well, falling to his knees. He was quickly followed by a third, a fourth, and fifth. Soon, throughout the piazza people who had moments ago been singing, laughing, and eating (and some doing all at the same time), were falling to the ground in pain.

"E morte," said the doctor incredulously. And soon more would be as well.

The bells are ringing. That could mean trouble. I'll close here and try to write again tomorrow.

Fondly,

Astronaut Mike Dexter

"What happens next?" asks Kenneth excitedly.

"I don't know," replies Liz. "That's all there is. Who sent this?"

Chapter II

The next day finds Liz in the writers' room, going over the script schedule for the upcoming show. She tries to get the staff to focus on the task at hand, but yesterday's letter was proving to be a distraction.

"C'mon guys! We're only on the second sketch," Liz cajoles. "We need ten more and two musical numbers. What have you got, Toofer? Any progress on that John Boehner incident at the Cheez Doodle factory bit?"

"Almost done," Toofer, another writer on the show, replies. "Who do you think sent that letter?"

"I thought Astronaut Mike Dexter did?" queries Lutz in a high-pitched voice that juxtaposes oddly with his fleshy appearance.

"Ah, Lutz. Don't be an imbecile," cranks Frank. "Astronaut Mike Dexter is fictitious."

"All my boyfriends are fictitious nowadays," bemoans Liz. "Can we get back to work?"

Cerie pipes in, "I never dated a fictitious guy, but I dated a Spanish guy once. He was from Spain. What country are fictitious guys from?

"I don't care," says Jenna striding into the room "as long as they're hot." Jenna, the blond 'talent' on the show, takes a seat at the table, and then puts her feet on the table causing her inappropriately small skirt to ride up her thigh. Frank stares open-mouthed.

"They're as hot as you want them to be, I guess," replies Pete. "That's kind of the point."

"Are we talking hot like incredibly-built-role-playing-guy-with-two-things-down-there, or hot like Justin Bieber with chest hair?" Jenna asks.

"It doesn't matter." Liz raises her voice in exasperation. "It was just some stupid prank letter. Can we get back to work? I probably won't even get another one."

Kenneth walks in carrying a letter above his head. "Ms. Lemon! You got another SPIM from Italy!"

Liz takes the letter and begins walking toward her office. The group protests loudly.

"Fine," bargains Liz. "If I read you this stupid letter, will you all promise to finish what you're supposed to today? The show is in 5 days."

In the face of positive avowals sworn on various graves made with crossed fingers, Liz opens the letter and begins to read.

Dearest Liz,

I was right about the bells yesterday. They were indeed indicative of trouble. As I was walking up the cobblestone lane to the piazza, another cart passed me with a burlap blanket over another three souls. Something had to be done about this!

Before I get ahead of myself again, let me give you some background on what's been happening here. The black celery festival is the highlight of the year, so the town was crowded. The beautiful weather only added to the crowds, and apparently the black celery crop was outstanding this year. The normal population of 1200 had more than tripled during the last day of the festival. Then disaster struck.

As the stricken fell with black celery in their hands, the call went up quickly—"There's something wrong with the sedeno nero! It's poison!" Since practically everyone in attendance had partaken, the ensuing panic was all encompassing. People began fleeing, and the slow were trampled by the fleet, adding to the tally of fallen folks.

The doctor said to me quietly, so as to not spur on the panic, "This is bad. It looks like the Plague." The symptoms were all there…vomiting, fever, unaccounted for bruising, swelling of the neck and limbs, and then, for most, death. Later, the doctor mentioned that a few hardy souls were holding on, but he was not optimistic. "We need to get these people to the hospital! Why won't they let us leave?"

Fortunately (unfortunately?) as the initial wave of illness struck, a regiment of carabinieri, the special police force, were in attendance at the festival. The commandant quickly assayed the situation and called his men to bar the gates. If it were poison, he hoped to contain the guilty; if disease, he hoped to prevent its spread. Most of his men, being well-disciplined and predisposed to intimidating the populace, obeyed and the city was sealed.

So now we wait.

Blood samples have been lifted above the walls to the scientists waiting in plastic-walled tents. No word on whether the cause is viral, bacterial, or even contagious.

It's been three days, and as the deaths continue the town has quickly reverted to medieval tribalism. The townsfolk have retreated into their three historic neighborhoods, or contrade; closing their social circle tighter and tighter as people sought to insulate themselves and their families from the horror of the illness.

"It's the Black Death, come again," say the elders. The doctor, overworked and at his wit's end, privately agrees.

I have tried to contact the US government, but I'm getting nowhere. The Italians want to keep a tight lid on this, and the only way these letters are reaching you, if they are reaching you, is through the efforts of Paolo, my host and the best connected man in Vecchio.

So, back to the bells. The mayor had had them rung to gather the townspeople in the square. Not many of them showed however. I guess they felt the risk was too great. The mayor informed the few of us in attendance that "only" 20% of the population was now ill or had perished. He was adamant however that the black celery had played no role in the illness. No role! When pushed for scientific proof on the matter, he said it was coming. I couldn't help but be reminded of Larry Vaughn, the mayor of Amity, insisting that it was alright to go back in the water. Who would be Chief Martin Brody I wondered? And who would be Quint?

I am feeling fine, in case you're worried. And despite the mayor's uninformed defense of the black celery, I agreed with him. I had eaten the black celery, ran, fried, grilled…everything but stewed (onions didn't freeze dry well, and I had developed an aversion to them). If I wasn't sick, it wasn't the black celery. At least I didn't think it was.

There is a scuffle going on at the western entrance to the piazza. Tempers are flaring. That sounded like a gunshot! I must go! I will try to write again tomorrow.

Yours,

Astronaut Mike Dexter

"Oh my gosh!" Liz turns the pages looking for more.

"What's happening?" keens Lutz, his doughy face puffy with angst.

"I don't know. Just calm down."

Toofer looks up from his laptop, "There's nothing on the Web about this."

Frank scoffs, "He said they were keeping a tight lid on it, didn't he? Governments only let you know about stuff they want you to know about. You'll have to wait for the Wikileaks version if you really want to know what's going on."

Liz sits down heavily, looking at the letter, "Who's writing this?"

Chapter III

Liz, Pete, and the cast were on set rehearsing for the show. The happy holiday theme of the sketch they were rehearsing was ill-represented by the black mood of the people in the room.

"Why is it always White Christmas, White Christmas?" grumbles Tracy Jordan, the male lead on the show. "I have it on good authority that people of color celebrate Christmas too. So why isn't it Black Christmas, or Brown Christmas, or Yellow Christmas, or Purple Christmas…?

"There are purple people of color?" interrupts Pete.

"Yes!" replies Tracy. "They eat people. Probably because they're so angry about this Christmas racism. I can't say that I blame them."

Pete nods, "Purple people eaters, I get it." Teasingly he continues "But I always thought that the eaters eat the purple people, not that the people who eat people were purple."

Jenna begins to croon Streisandishly, "People…People who eat people…Are the purplest people…in the world."

"All right! Focus people! We have a show to put on!" bellows Liz. Turning to Tracy she explains, "Tracy, it's called White Christmas because the Christmas snow is white."

"Have you ever seen the Bronx when it snows? " Tracy replies. "I don't know what color it is, but it sure ain't white."

Kenneth enters quickly followed by a gaggle of staff writers. He's holding a letter over his head, and everyone encircles Liz when she takes it.

"Open it!" yells a dozen voices. "We have to find out what's happening! Are more people dead? What's causing it? Is he still single? Hurry, open it! Open it!"

"No!" yells Liz, putting the envelope in the folder she is carrying. "We don't have time for fun and games. We have a show to put on. And anyway it's addressed to me. It's my private mail. Maybe I'll read it to you later if you all behave and get back to work."

"Oh Ms. Lemon!" quavers Kenneth. "I don't know what I'll do if I have to wait until everyone does everything right. I haven't been this nervous about mail since my mammy mailed me that goat last year for Confederate Arbor Day. It took a lot longer than expected 'cause he'd a gone and licked all the stamps right off his forehead. Who knew goats had such long tongues?"

"I did!" pipes Jenna.

"I'm sorry guys, but…" and as Liz attempts to put her foot down, a chant goes up from the assembled group. Joining the cast and the writers were the gaffers, the grips, the Foley artist, and even the best boy. The 43 of them chanted, "read it…Read It….READ IT!"

"Fine!" yells Liz. And she opens the letter and begins to read.

Beloved Liz,

It's been a week and the fabric of society is breaking down. Water is in short supply, and the food rations are tight in most of the neighborhoods…all except for black celery, which still looks fresh even a week after harvest. We have plenty of that, but no one is interested in eating it.

I have spent my time puzzling over the cause of illness. If it was the plague, then it wasn't being transmitted by the produce. As you will recall, the original Black Death arose in the mid 14th century. It was spread by fleas on the back of rats. The typical affected town had an open sewage system, poor sanitation, and no pest control. Millions died unaware that the cause was scurrying beneath their feet.

Let me explain why I brought that up. This morning I took my morning coffee at the café outside the residenza where I was staying (oh, we still have lots of coffee) like I did every morning. I sat outside at a small café table, again like every morning. A couple of stray cats keep their distance, nonchalantly cleaning themselves without taking an eye off of me. With so few people out and about, there is not much more to do than to watch the cats, look at the clouds, and study the architecture (very true to its medieval roots, by the way). Today I found myself staring at a wall and not staring at the same time. I had seen all the posters pasted there many times and was quite familiar with them. An announcement for the Festival was most prominent (a knight wielding a stalk of celery). A soccer game was scheduled for yesterday with Canardo, the town in the valley below (there was no kickoff needless to say), a listing of movies at the cinema, a few notices advertising rooms to let (there are a few more rooms now), and there, a government warning of Zona Disinfestanza dated 3 months ago, complete with a circle with a slash through it. In the middle of the circle…a rat.

I went to find the mayor and the doctor to talk this over. I was one of the few people in town who had unfettered access to the streets. For the past few days, the traditional neighborhoods had become more aggressive at keeping others out. My status as an outsider and international hero helped me cross boundaries, but if things kept up, even my access might be restricted. No one in medieval times cared what happened 2,500 miles above their heads.

I was staying in Terziere Sotto, the neighborhood that is lowest on the mountain. The wall is highest here, and the houses almost seem to cling to the mountainside, leaning over like people looking over the side of a bridge. Paolo, my host, had made sure that I had enough to eat each day, although I frequently shared my meal with his children. All this gravity was making me feel heavy anyway (it's funny how long it takes to get used to it again). Paolo's neighbors had been hit hard by the illness, but at least they all seemed to have enough to eat. I asked Paolo in passing where the warehouse or storage place was, and he gave me that Italian shrug that translates into "that is not your business but I am too polite to say that out loud."

Upon leaving his house, I turned left and uphill onto Via Passaggio toward Terziere Mezzo. The quickest way to the mayor's palazzo was cutting through a corner of the second neighborhood. As I trod upward, I glimpsed faces behind quickly shutting shutters while unintelligible murmurs followed me up the street.

Approaching Via Limite I was confronted by an overturned cart blocking the street. Two men with bandanas covering their mouths and noses appeared. They had shotguns. "Torne indietro!" called one, telling me to turn back. "E Astronauto Mike Dexter, idioto!" countered the other. Then addressing me, "Benvenuto, Astronauto Mike Dexter! Where are you going?"

I explained my intentions and asked how his neighborhood was holding up. "Not so bad, not so good," he replied explaining that many had died, but most of the stricken were improving. "Not so bad as Sotto. They still have it bad." What does he hear of Terziere Bosco? He spat before explaining that the rich were always better off than the poor. They'll get theirs, he fumed. Then, calming quickly, he asked if I had any food, and I promised to return with some. "It's not for me," he explained. "The ragazzi, the children, they are hungry."

I strode with new purpose up Via Principale toward Terziere Bosco, the highest and wealthiest neighborhood in Vecchio. The mayor, the doctor, and most of the landlords lived here. Where the lower streets crowded out the sunlight, here the relatively wide avenues led to courtyards alive with trees and shrubbery. At the highest part of the city a small orchard and a few gentry farm plots were found within the confines of the wall. At the border between the neighborhoods, I encountered a tense standoff between formally cordial neighbors. Shotguns on both sides followed my path. Again, my notoriety helped ease my passage.

I quickly made my way to the mayor's palazzo, my legs burning slightly from the climb. I found the doctor was already there, reviewing the results of his crude autopsies and the possible causes of what the townsfolk were calling the Black Death. I joined him, the mayor, and Signore Cippolino, who had been caught in the quarantine while helping is fellow mayor manage the chaos. "It doesn't appear to be bacterial or viral. I'd need a better culture environment to be sure though." Mayor Sindaco asked the question before I could, "Is it the Plague?"

"The symptoms are classic plague symptoms, but there shouldn't be any way it could be," explained the doctor. I introduced my thoughts on the number of cats and the 'zona disinfestanza' program (and hence the lack of carrier rats) in support of the doctor's theory.

The mayor of Vecchio looked even more worried. "It isn't the black celery." It was almost a question, almost a plea. The mayor of Canardo looked away.

"I can't tell," replied the doctor, "but if I had to guess, I'd say it was something that the victims ingested." "Ahhhhh!" cried the mayor, holding the sides of his head. He wasn't dying, but I'm sure he saw his town's tourism dying.

I turned to the doctor and asked why he thought the disease was caused by eating something. "For a number of reasons," he responded while he took on a professorial stance. "First, I found that all the victims had full stomachs…full of black celery in all its variations."

"But we all did!" interjected the mayor.

"I know," replied the doctor. "I'm trying to narrow it down. But then there's the pattern of illness after the first day."

I asked him what he meant. He explained that Terziere Bosco, with its own fresh food sources, had seen relatively few cases of illness after that first tragic day in the piazza. The lower neighborhoods, which were dependent on their own food stores, were still realizing new cases.

"it seems clear to me that…."

The doctor's conclusion was cut off as a large cobblestone, the size of a fat housecat, flew through the large window formally filled with antique glass and into the side of the doctor's head!

Outside, an explosion and angry voices. I must go. I will try to write again soon.

Con amore,

Astronaut Mike Dexter.

"Oh my gosh!" exclaims Kenneth. A general unease burbled above the group.

"What is going on?" asks Liz. "What is going on with the black celery? And who is writing these letters?"

Chapter IV

The crowd assembled in the writers' room was surly and expectant. They were supposedly working on finalizing the script for the show, but it was clear their attention was elsewhere. Only Kenneth was his chirpy self, singing "Deck the halls with bowls of jelly, fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, lah."

"I hope the doctor is all right," comments Lutz.

"Where is the mail?" asks Frank angrily.

"I've been thinking," adds Toofer, "if it's not the rats, then it's got to be the celery."

"Then why isn't Astronaut Mike Dexter dead," asks DotComm. DotComm is one half of Tracy's posse. "He ate the black celery too."

"I am in favor of black celery," declares Tracy.

"What do you mean you're in favor of it?" asks Pete. "Do you even know what it is?"

"Sure. When blacks were sold into slavery it was called Black Slavery. Now when blacks are doing the selling, it's called Black Sell-ery. Selling is better than being sold. It's elementary, my dear producer."

Pete explains, "That may be so, Tracy, but we're talking about the vegetable, black celery. They think that if you eat it, it could catch the Plague. You know, the Black Death."

"I am definitely not in favor of Black Death," declares Tracy emphatically.

"I'm telling you, the doctor had the answer. Now, he's probably dead too," remarks Grizz, the other half of Tracy's entourage.

"Where is the mail?" Frank repeats.

"Oh my god! Maybe Astronaut Mike Dexter is dead too, and that's why there's no letter," keens Lutz, who then begins to mewl.

Everyone in the room gets oddly quiet.

"It's here!" Cerie glides hurriedly into the room. "Your SPIM from Italy!"

"He's alive! He's alive!" Lutz is moved almost to tears.

Liz grabs the letter and tears it open. "It's short."

"What's it say?" the chorus asks with excitement.

Caro Liz,

I haven't much time. I will have to be brief.

The neighborhoods are at war.

It looks like it started with some men from Terziere Mezzo overrunning the barriers on the western border they share with Terziere Bosco. It looks like they were trying to raid the fields at the highest part of town.

At the same time, the residents of Terziere Sotto, angry that the rich Boscans weren't doing enough to alleviate their suffering and to get help from the outside, marched on the mayor's palazzo to voice their complaints. A cobblestone was thrown through the front window. I doubt they were aiming for the doctor, but tragedy struck. I did my best to dress the wound and make him comfortable. He seems stable, but unconscious.

Unfortunately, one of Mayor Sindaco's hot-tempered sons responded by throwing open the door and firing a shotgun into the crowd. Two were hit, and stones rained down upon the house. The kid ducked back in quickly, slamming the door. I looked out the broken window and saw men rushing back to their houses to get their weapons.

More shots in the distance.

There is fighting throughout the town.

An angry crowd is coming downhill from the orchards. They're on a course to clash at the courtyard outside. People are going to get hurt.

I have to try and stop this. Things are getting out of hand. I'll write again when I can.

Yours in urgency,

Astronaut Mike Dexter

"Oh my," Kenneth cries with a hand covering his mouth.

"I hope he can stop this," says Liz.

"If anyone can, Astronaut Mike Dexter can," avows Lutz.

"I hope so," Liz responds. "I hope so."

And to herself she adds, "Good luck, Astronaut Mike Dexter. We're counting on you."

Chapter V

"Please, go back upstairs," pleads Hank. "I promise I'll bring it up as soon as it shows up."

All told, there are 67 people in the mailroom in the basement of 30 Rockefeller Center. The 3 mail-guys who are normally the only people there are a little freaked out by their visitors. It seems like the whole cast and crew are here. They're not talking. They're not moving around. They're just waiting.

"We can't do our work with you people sitting around down here," Hank complains.

Silence. Uneasy silence.

"You know," he tries again, "sometimes the postman doesn't show up until after lunch. You could be waiting here a long time."

Nothing.

"Who is this guy, anyway?" Hank is starting to lose his temper. "Maybe he didn't even write another letter. If he did, maybe it won't get here 'til next week. That Italian post office isn't known for its efficiency you know."

Bubkis.

"Maybe he's dead?" offers Tommy, the youngest of the mail room guys.

A number of people take a threatening step toward Tommy, and the beginnings of a growl is heard, but the progress is interrupted by the USPS mailman. "Light day today!" he announces smiling, before his bag is ripped from his hands and passed hand over hand from cast to crew to Hank, who quickly opens the bag and dumps its contents onto the sorting table. The freaked out mailman backs quickly out the way he came.

Hank quickly spreads the mail out, like a poker dealer doing a table shuffle. Around and around, sorting and sorting. No one breathes. Letters hit the floor. Magazines are pushed aside. Lutz faints.

No one turns to help him because Hank yells, "Here it is!" Liz grabs it, tears it open, and says, mostly to herself, "He's alive."

With quivering hands she unfolds the pages, and begins to read, "Bella Liz…"

"Hey!" Hank storms. "You can't read that here! You can't read mail in the mailroom!"

Grizz and DotComm stand up, a combined 13 and half feet tall, and Hank quickly sits down.

Liz starts again.

Bella Liz,

It's finally over.

I'll be flying home soon, and I cannot wait to take you out to dinner and then sit on the couch together in our pajamas making fun of Jay Leno. And then we'll…well, then we won't need the pajamas.

Standing upon an overturned Citroen amidst the teeming crowd, I was able to stop the violence. I implored them to look again upon their supposed enemies as neighbors…as people. I told them how, when you're in space and you're looking down upon that big blue marble, it becomes clear that we're all just passengers traveling in the same direction. We're all the same, deep down. The tension broke. People began to help the wounded. I called for the leaders from each Terziere to sit down with me and the mayor to put our disagreements to rest for the good of Vecchio.

I had hoped to simply stop the violence; to give the scientists outside the walls more time to figure out what was happening in here. I was as surprised as anyone with what happened once we started talking.

Paolo and his brother Simi represented Terziere Sotto. Agostino and his eldest son Ricky spoke for Mezzo. Mayor Sindaco was the sole agent from Bosco, his sons banished to their grandmother's house further up the mountain. Rounding out the quorum were me and Mayor Cippolino of Canardo.

The meeting started acrimoniously, with Agostino accusing Bosco of hoarding the good food, Paolo taking them to task over their apparent lack of effort to solve the problem, and the mayor blaming the others for creating the disturbances and for not eating the black celery. "Do you know how much money we're going to have to devote to the tourism budget to get back our good name?" he asked. "I don't even want to think about it."

Paolo exploded, "Tourism? Our people are dying…or dead!"

Agostino jumped in, "And how come your people aren't getting sick? It's because you are keeping all the good food!"

The mayor explained that all the food from Bosco's fields and orchard were sent to the general stores and shared with everyone. "Even if that were so, there's not enough to go around!" shouted Ricky. "And anyway, it's the food that's making everyone sick!"

"There is nothing wrong with the black celery!" shouted the mayor.

I saw Paolo share a quick look with Simi. Simi nodded. I asked Paolo to speak his mind. "It's not the food," he said. I pressed him to explain. "We have food coming in from the outside, but my people are still getting sick. In fact, we've been hit harder than anyone."

Agostino rebutted, "Francesca Totti and her child got ill just two days ago!"

Simi angrily replied, "That's two people. And they live right across the street from my cousin. Almost inside Sotto. How many people have gotten sick in Bosco, Signore Mayor?"

"No one in the last week, I don't think," he replied. "And anyway, what do you mean 'food from the outside'? The city has been sealed for twelve days! It's impossible!"

"It's not impossible," replied Paolo. He paused and then said simply, "The tunnels."

Everyone looked stunned, and then a slow realization came over them, like they were remembering something from their childhood. I was about to ask 'what tunnels?' when the doctor, his head swathed in bandages, came stumbling in. He was saying something, but we couldn't make it out. I helped him to a chair and asked him to repeat himself.

"Onions," he gasped before fainting.

Everyone (except me) instantly rounded on the mayor of Canardo. "What is he talking about?" demanded Sindaco of his fellow mayor.

Cippolino looked panicked and then quickly became defiant. "How dare you blame our onions! I won't stand for it! All my life you've lorded the success of your Black Celery Festivals over us, while our Onion Parade languished. And then, when you have trouble, who stayed to help? Who got trapped in here with you? Me! That's who! And now you accuse me! How dare you!"

I interceded as the group started advancing on him, and convinced them all to take their seats again. I made sure the doctor was comfortable, and took my seat as well.

"How can it be the onions?" I asked.

Paolo, who was doing his best to control his anger, steamed, "That's why we're still getting sick! The damn onions!"

"I refuse to sit here and listen to you all blame Canardo's onions for this. Our onions are unique in all the world. Sweet, soft, and with a little bite. No one has ever gotten ill from our onions!" Cippolino went on, "And anyway, there are no onions in Vecchio. The last delivery came before the festival for the stew."

Simi reached into the bag at his feet. I tensed (we all did really). But instead of a weapon, he pulled out smaller bag, holding a dozen small white onions, and spilled them onto the table.

"But where…?" began Cippolino.

"From our contact at the other end of the tunnel. Every day we pick up bread, olives, some meat, and onions. We give them mail and other things to carry away." Simi said this without looking at me. Then he added, "It all came straight from Canardo."

Cippolino grabbed an onion from the table, took a penknife from his waistcoat, and expertly split the onion in two against his thumb. He held it to his nose, and the color drained from his face. "There is something wrong." Rounding on Simi he asked, "What have you done to it?"

"We have done nothing," Paolo responded while Simi steamed. "We picked them up last night on our run, and were bringing them up here to possibly trade them for some apples."

Cippolino looked uncertain, and brought the onion to his lips. "I am positive that our onions are not making you sick." As he was about to put the onion in his mouth, the doctor roused himself.

"Stop!" he gasped. "Poison."

Cippolino dropped the onion. I asked the doctor if he was strong enough to explain.

"Some kind of poison. Heavy mineral. Overloads the defense systems." He was straining to stay conscious.

"It is true that Canardo has been ill-treated by Vecchio, but to accuse us of poison…it's unbelievable! It can't be!"

I turned to my friend Paolo and asked him who his contact was at the end of the tunnel. He looked sideways at Cippolino and hesitated. "Donna."

"NO!" Cippolino exclaimed. And then softer, sadder, "No. Not Donna. My bella Donna."

And it began to make sense. Donna, the chemist, had grown up seeing her father struggle against Vecchio's dominance. Everything he tried in order to get an edge failed. She couldn't blame him, so she decided to take revenge on Vecchio by ruining their famous festival.

Soon the authorities were informed, the gates reopened, the onions destroyed, and Donna arrested. She had admitted everything. She loved her father. She hated to see him humbled. So she seeded the onions with thulium, a highly potent and hard to detect substance. Once people were sickened, she fled before the gates were closed and then took over the delivery of food at the end of the old hidden tunnels. She is a troubled young lady, and the devastation she caused did not seem to affect her (but I was told that she said she was "only happy that her father and the hero Astronaut Mike Dexter were unharmed."

Cippolino resigned his position immediately, and sped to his daughter's side. She had been dispatched to the criminal asylum to await trial.

Vecchio buried its dead and held a long and touching mourning ceremony. Paolo and Agostino were invited to join the mayor's council. The orchard and fields above Terziere Bosco were opened to all residents of Vecchio. And I…I was ready to return home to see you, Liz.

Expectantly yours,

Astronaut Mike Dexter

P.S. As I was preparing to leave, word reached me that I had been summoned by NASA. I regretfully reopened this letter to add this sad postscript. It seems the next shuttle flight is down one man due to appendicitis. I am saddened that I have to put off our rendezvous once more, sweet Liz. But I promise to come straight to you the moment I land.

"He solved it! Hurray for Astronaut Mike Dexter!" exclaims Kenneth.

Frank adds, "AMD is the man!" Everyone echoes this with similar laudatory remarks and high fives abound.

"He's not coming," says Liz wistfully.

Pete looks concerned. "Yeah, uh…he's not real, Liz. Remember?"

"Oh yeah," she replies dreamily. "But he is pretty cool isn't he?"

"That he is, Liz," agrees Pete. "That he is."

Epilogue

Liz bounds into her boss, Jack Donnagy's office, bursting with good will.

"Thank you, Jack. Thank you, thank you!"

"Lemon, as much as I am tempted to simply bask in your gratitude without getting muddled in your reasoning, I find I must ask…why are you thanking me?"

Liz bounces on her toes in front of Jack's desk and replies, "For my Christmas present. Those awesome letters! That story was great! Thrilling, suspenseful…no one could get any work done until it was finished."

"Is the show finished, then?" Jack asks.

"Yep. Everyone was in such a great mood they knocked it all out in one day, and if I do say so myself, it was our best holiday show ever," Liz beams. "Except for Tracy's nip slip, but at least he was wearing glitter."

"That's great, Lemon. Except one thing…I don't know what letters you're talking about."

"Aw, c'mon Jack. The letters from Italy…black celery…black death…Astronaut Mike Dexter. It was great!"

"Lemon I didn't write any letters," Jack says bemusedly.

"Sure you did. It was your Christmas present to me," Liz maintains. "And they were great!"

"Did these stories include any financial tables with small footnotes explaining where all the money went?" Jack asks.

Liz pauses, confused. "No."

"Then I didn't write them," Jack explains.

"Okay…" Liz frowns momentarily before brightening, "Then you had the show's writers write the letters!"

Jack shakes his head. "Did these letters contain any fart jokes, gratuitous references to bestiality, or any situations involving Sarah Palin and a stripper's pole?"

"Noooo," Liz wavers.

"Then the writers didn't write them, either."

"But you could have gotten someone else…" As Liz is speaking, Jack reaches behind his desk and pulls up a wrapped box, slightly larger than two stacked shoeboxes. "Here, Lemon. This is my Christmas present to you."

"What is it?" Liz lights up, briefly forgetting about the letters.

"I had the guys down in R&D whip it up for you specifically." Jack explains as Liz rips off the wrapping paper. "It's a single-woman-sized combination microwave and convection oven."

Liz is excited. "Look! It has a setting for Bacon S'Mores!"

"That's right," Jack smiles. "It also has one for Ham and Dorito paninis. ('Yum,' Liz enthuses) And it's tear-proof for those lonely nights at home watching reruns of Party of Five."

"God I miss that show. That Bailey was hot stuff," Liz sighs. "Is the company going to make these now?"

"I believe so," says Jack. "We'll be calling it the Sempre Solo."

"Ooooh. That sounds nice," Liz coos. "What does it mean?"

"It means, Lemon," Jack begins, "…well, that's not important."

"Thanks Jack. I love it."

"Merry Christmas, Lemon."

"Merry Christmas, Jack."

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