A couple quick notes before the chapter:
1) For anyone here who's from NYC, I'm aware of what the real names are for the specialized high schools mentioned herein, but for reasons that I won't mention at this time, I have changed a couple of them.
2) Warning: there is some not-so-flattering discussion of Princess Peach contained in this chapter. This isn't what I personally think, so please don't consider this as a bashing fic. It's 100% not, I can assure you. Be patient ;)
Chapter 3: The Family
A groggy Luigi rolled around his bed at around ten o'clock in the morning. He tried to sleep in weekends, as much as his plumber's schedule and sleep schedule allowed. Most of the time, he kept a normal eight-to-six shift on weekdays; however, being on call twenty-four-seven occasionally required him and Mario to go to jobs on Saturdays and Sundays and at two o'clock in the morning. Luckily, no late-night calls post-Valentine's came in to either of them. Luigi smelled the frying eggs and bacon from the downstairs kitchen. That was Mario's gentle but firm announcement to his younger brother to rise and shine.
He spied the phone next to his warmed space in the bed and sighed in alternating contentment and nervousness. Last night was amazing; after he removed his mask, instead of repulsion, Daisy cupped his face and told him that she was glad that it was the bagel guy from the neighborhood bodega. They spent the next hours dancing, kissing, and drinking, hence his pounding morning headache and semi-aroused physique. At some point, her companion – Amy, he thought was her name – snapped a photo of them and sent it to Daisy, who texted it to him along with her name, number, and an invitation for an actual first date. Part of him wondered if she would regret giving out her number, as they both had quite a bit to drink. He shook his head; the beautiful, headstrong Daisy Abravanel refused to be bullied, even after a whisky and a Caipirinha. She wanted another date; she wanted him. Luigi turned on his side to access his iPhone for the tenth time. He wanted her. Inhaling deeply to calm his racing heart, he lowered the phone volume, tapped on the messaging app, and selected the entry under 'Daisy Abravanel.' Remember, he thought, nothing too overt or pushy – keep it casual. Under the picture of their passionate lip-lock, he texted, "Good morning, Princess. Did you get home safely?" He then closed the app to direct his mind off her response.
A harsh tap on his bedroom door sent thunderbolts to his temples. "Jesus H. Christ, Mario!" he cried, covering his head with the bed comforter.
"Rise and shine, fratellino," chortled Mario, poking his head from around the door. "I've got some brunch and aspirin to cure your little…postumi."
Luigi growled under the covers. Despite his good-humored voice, Mario would soon become more agitated if he did not come downstairs; Mario's agitation meant Luigi would be rolled up in his comforter like a Persian rug and physically carried to breakfast. "Yeah, fine," he replied, just to give him time to put his iPhone on silent mode and hide it underneath a pile of pillows. Then he snaked backward from his green and white diamond-patterned comforter until his feet touched the hardwood floor and threw off it off his half-dressed frame. Purposely ignoring Mario, he lurched into the adjoining bathroom and shut the door. "You come in 'ere, and I'll kill ya!" he yelled from the other side.
Five minutes later, a shirtless Luigi found himself at the eighties-era wooden dining room table in the kitchen, rubbing his head and sipping gingerly at the glass of water that Mario had placed in his hand along with two aspirin. Two white plates and silverware had been set in a pile at places opposite from each other. Three feet away, Mario was at the white oven cooktop, dumping the bacon, scrambled eggs, and buttered sandwich-bread toast onto a medium-sized red serving dish. After some rattling and rearranging of pans, which made Luigi wince in pain, he walked over to the table and set the dish in between the plates. "Mangiu," he said quietly, sitting across from his hungover brother. Snapping his fingers, Mario stood up and went to the refrigerator to retrieve the well-used ketchup bottle.
Luigi grabbed two pieces of toast and scooped a large helping of scrambled eggs and several pieces of bacon onto his plate. The smell of fat and salt made his stomach heave, but he reasoned that a bit of food would soak up some of the remaining alcohol in his body. He avoided looking in Mario's direction as in his current state, he would no doubt vomit at the death-by-ketchup that he was inflicting on his breakfast. Stuffing a couple pieces of bacon into his mouth, Luigi took a sip of water.
"Mmm," Mario began, shoveling ketchup-covered eggs into his mouth, "so why didn't you tell me that you were goin' to a party? Robots don't dress up like a bandit in the night."
"I didn't know I was goin'," replied the younger brother, who cupped his hand over his forehead, both to shield his eyes from the kitchen window's sunlight and from Mario's ketchup-covered breakfast. "It was spur of the moment. Non rompermi le palle, huh?!" He took another gulp of water and bit into a piece of toast.
Mario shook his head, glaring, making a pinching gesture with his left hand. "Huh, yeah. Don't break your balls? Stop breakin' mine! You're givin' me agita with your comings and goings, and-and-your lack of communication." He sourly sipped his espresso.
Rolling his eyes, Luigi scrubbed his face and continued to chew and swallow his bacon and scrambled eggs. A moment later he replied, "Yeah, my comings and goings. Plural. I go to work and then come back home. You were not even one day ago givin' me shit about how I didn't act like I was twenty-eight. Well, now I'm actin' like I'm twenty-eight, and you're still not happy."
"You and youse dipshit buddies givin' me agita; of course, I'm not happy!" quipped Mario, who took another sip of espresso. "Madonna mia…!"
"Pepto's in the medicine cabinet," retorted Luigi calmly. "Anyway, why were you home? I thought that you and Peach were going out?"
The elder brother frowned at the question. Angrily wiping his mouth with a red cloth napkin, he swallowed the last bit of food and stared at his half-finished plate. "Part way through our date, she got called in to handle business by her family. I swear to God, Weeg, her mother's just trying to ruin us! If it isn't Doctors Without Borders, it's her goddamn mother! She's been gone several weeks to god-knows-where, and when she comes back, she's got to do somethin' for la Signora Maria Celeste Venier di Venezia halfway around the world! Cazzo di merda…"
There were very few subjects that vexed Mario Masciarelli as much as one Cristina 'Peach' Venier, MB BS. Born to an ancient and wealthy family of French and Venetian origins with connections to prominent European diplomats and governmental figures such as Silvio Berlusconi and Jacques Chirac, the beautiful blonde rejected the Italian socialite life as well as the Spanish and French Bourbon suitors that her mother and father had intended for her. Instead, she graduated at the top of her class in medical school at the Imperial College London and ran away to exciting and extremely dangerous places via the Médecins sans frontières. On one such mission to a remote Afghani village in September 2006, her team was ambushed by 'unidentified' guerrilla soldiers; three doctors and staff were killed and four more, including Peach, were taken hostage. To avoid an international incident, the U.S. Government authorized a quiet 'intervention' of Green Berets, to which one Sergeant Masciarelli was assigned as an engineering and explosives expert. After a successful rescue of all hostages, Peach and Mario began an email correspondence, the latter having fallen in love with the forbidden fruit. Though Peach had maintained a respectful distance between them, especially as – much to his chagrin – she was married at the time and, in the U.S. military, adultery was a criminal offense, her attitude changed following the death of her estranged husband and Mario's near death in 2009. Since his rehabilitation, Peach moved to New York City with her aide-de-camp to be nearer to Mario, though under the guise of raising funding for humanitarian projects, as her parents emphatically refused to entertain her second marriage with another New York terrone. Unwilling to forego her family, title, and inheritance, Peach and Mario's relationship remained an open secret. Mario, who wanted to get married and start a family before turning forty, felt his frustration and insecurity grow daily.
"Yeah," said Luigi flatly, wishing that he had a third aspirin to swallow. Peach was one of his least favorite topics of discussion, ranking somewhere between number nine and thirteen on a top-twenty list. "She does seem to be busy at opportune times."
Mario glared at his younger brother. "And that means what, exactly?"
Sighing, Lou ate another couple forkfuls of eggs and bacon. "We have the same conversation about her, which inevitably devolves into an argument. You already know what I think," he said quietly.
His elder brother nodded. "Yeah, I know. Agita – from the two of youse!" He finished his eggs and toast in a few bites. "So, at this party, did you, y'know, meet anyone?"
Luigi shook his head. "Nope. I was just lettin' loose a bit."
Mario eyed his brother incredulously, crossing his arms over his white tank top, several military tattoos becoming visible. "Well, did you look? C'mon, bro. I can't believe that there weren't any twenties-something bonazze who were lookin' for a nice Brooklyn ragazz'!"
"There weren't any Italian girls who fit that description," answered Luigi.
Leaning in slightly, Mario said, "Fratellino, sai, se sei attratto dai ragazzi, va bene. Conosco dei tipi molto attraenti..."
"Basta," interrupted Luigi. "Seriously. I know some hot guys, too, but no one has been interesting – male or female."
Mario held up his hands in surrender. "Aight, aight. I'll back off." Luigi raised his eyebrows in incredulity. The former chuckled, flashing a grin, "Well, for now. But tomorrow at dinner, you better be prepared for the Inquisition."
The younger brother groaned audibly, letting his head sink to the table, still holding his fork upright. Inasmuch as Luigi was proud to be a first- and second-generation Italian-American who, unlike many Americans of Italian descent, could both claim Italian as his first language and the ability to read, write, and speak it in adulthood, he lamented the Italian curse – the Family. Regardless of the generation, the traditional New York or New Jersey Italian family gathering consisted of food, yelling, more food, more yelling, and knowing and being in everyone's business. Every Sunday after Mass, Mario and Luigi joined the Staten Island and Jersey cousins at their Zio Giuseppe – called 'Joe' – and Zia Lucia's house in Eltingville. Though they were not particularly religious, they frequented St. Rosalia Catholic Church in Bensonhurst to attend Father Sal's mass which served two purposes. First, it stopped any questioning about being hippies or atheists from the more conservative Uncle Joe. Second, Father Salvatore Rigassi was the only priest they knew who practiced what he preached; since becoming the parish priest in 2004, he disagreed with the Church on more than one occasion, thus making him the black sheep of the Brooklyn Archdiocese and more relatable to younger generations. Once they properly 'earned' their Sunday dinner, their nonna, Maria, and Lucia had fresh pasta, insalate, fish or lamb, and biscotti waiting for them. Despite her eighty-three years and arthritis, the stubborn Abruzzese Maria Masciarelli insisted on preparing the pasta and biscotti every Sunday for her remaining son, daughter, grandchildren, and great-grandchild. Between the insalate and fish course, the Family's favorite topic of conversation was Luigi's love life – or lack thereof. Although Nonna pleaded with the group to leave the 'povero Luigi' alone, his cousins, uncles, aunts, and Mario all offered their opinions as to how to remedy the situation, from introducing him to some cute Rutgers co-eds, whom Joe referred to as hipsters with armpit hair, to talking to a guy who could set him up with some other guy's sister. Occasionally, he managed to shift their attention from his dating life to demanding why Mario had shown up to the umpteenth dinner alone and why Peach had yet come to meet the Family like a good Italian girl. Was she too good for them?
Luigi thought about the Louisville Slugger that Mario kept in the garage; once the Family learned that he attended a Valentine's Day party, it would be a never-ending interrogation. Even worse, if either they or Mario found out about one Daisy Abravanel, they would insist on her attending the next Sunday dinner, and she would face the Inquisition. And he knew that the Italian Inquisition would be loud, sharp, and chaotic compared to what Americanos were accustomed. So, hitting himself in the head and expressing his regrets at being too injured to attend was a palatable if painful option.
Mario's full-belly laughter interrupted his thoughts of escaping his Italian family via baseball bat. The younger plumber lifted his head and dropped the fork to give his breakfast companion the ombrello. Like his Abruzzese grandmother, he was stubborn and could endure the Inquisition for as long as it took to romance Daisy Abravanel.
Luigi crawled back into bed after breakfast and several attempts by Mario to drag him out in the foggy and snowy Brooklyn air for a five-mile run. Nervously, he pulled out the iPhone to find two texts from Daisy. Unlocking the phone, Luigi proceeded to read the messages.
"Good morning 😀," it read. "Yeah, I got back safely. I don't know about you, but my head hurts like a bitch. Needed Engov and coconut water."
Luigi frowned a little – what was Engov? He then texted back, "Yeah, same here. It's been a while since I've drunk that much. I'm a lightweight, lol. Also, what's Engov?" He lay back against the nest of pillows to rest his now-mildly pounding head.
A moment later, the iPhone buzzed. Luigi read the bubbled response. "No kidding. Not a big drinker, either. Engov = Brazilian hangover pill. Works every time. I'd give you one if you were here 😀😀😀."
At the last line, Luigi's heart began to race, causing his temples to throb again. She's flirting with me, so she doesn't regret last night. He thanked the Almighty, Jesus, Mary, and all the patron saints twice in gratitude. Once again, he picked up the phone to text the beautiful Daisy. "I'd love one. Wishing I was there? 😉" Suddenly, Luigi regretted the forwardness of his flirtation; the last thing that he wanted was to come off as a pervert.
Two minutes passed without a reply, and Luigi began to feel sick to his stomach. She thinks I'm a perv. Before he could write to apologize, the familiar green bubble appeared with the message, "Of course 🌹🌹🌹. Can't stop thinking about last night…and you."
Momentarily ignoring the pulsing in his head, Luigi jumped out of bed and let aloud a "I'm number one!" and "She likes me!" His heart thudding against his ribcage, he excitedly responded, "Me too. Thinking about you nonstop, my princess 👸. I want to see you again if that's ok." The painful throbbing of his hangover forced him to lay back down, though his eyes remained glued to the iPhone screen. His heart sped up with the appearance of the three dots and he became breathless at the wait.
Finally, Daisy replied, "Yes! Sometime this week? Dinner? I know some great restaurants near Central Park."
Shaking his head, Luigi typed, "Ok, but would prefer Brooklyn. Depending on what day, I have to work, so it'd be easier to negotiate traffic. Driving for work." The last thing that he needed was to show up to his first date smelling like an ashtray or shaking uncontrollably.
The answer came swiftly. "Oh ok. Brooklyn works too. Am vegetarian, but otherwise open to cuisine and day 🌹."
Luigi grimaced a little. A vegetarian?! That would take a little explaining to the Family when it came time to meet them. Mario alone would have a field day with that tidbit of information – "Yo, Weeg, growin' sprouts yet?" He quickly opened the iPhone app for maps of Brooklyn and searched for 'vegetarian restaurants;' the algorithm presented several choices, half of which featured faux-Italian restaurants that he nixed automatically. Ultimately, he settled on a more upscale vegan-vegetarian restaurant in Williamsburg. Luigi sent the link and asked for her opinion. Once he had her approval, he texted her, "Tuesday night – 7 pm? Should I pick you up?" Was that too soon? Dates normally happened on Friday and Saturday nights; if it were logistically possible and not-at-all-stalkerish, he would see her every day.
Another iPhone buzz echoed throughout his room. "Sounds good. Tuesday, 7 pm. I'll meet you there. Coming from campus library 😃 🌹."
"Library?" wrote Luigi. "You okay? Wanna choose another day?"
"Nah," replied Daisy. "It's for my thesis proposal. I get to worry about writing it over the summer and fall !"
He smiled brightly. Finally, no Survivor or nail salons. "I want to hear all about at Tuesday's dinner. But we should both rest our heads 😃."
"Kill joy! 😠"
Luigi gave a toothy grin at the phone and tapped, "Good things come to those who wait 😃 🌹!"
"Well, until Tuesday, ."
He sighed heavily, heart fluttering. "Until Tuesday at 7 pm, my princess 👸."
The conversation ended as quickly as it had begun. It took every ounce of Luigi's self-control not to ask for her home address and coax her to spend the entire day in her bed, alternating between sleeping off their hangovers and sleeping of a different kind. Yet as he wrote to Daisy, patience is a virtue; according to limited experience from his early twenties, sex purely based on chemistry never ended well for him. In spite of the fun that they had the previous night, they could be romantically incompatible. Daisy was a rich girl from the Bay Area, and he was a working-class plumber from Brooklyn; she was in graduate school, and he was working a fifty-hour-per-week job. Luigi tried in vain to calm himself; predicting the future was futile. It had to be her choice – their choice. Whatever would happen between them, she could always be a friend. He glanced at the iPhone again.
Why did that thought give him so much agita?
All Saturday afternoon and evening, Mario allowed the younger plumber to sleep off the hangover, though he occasionally threw in a barb or two about giving him agita. On Sunday, they both decided to attend mass at St. Rosalia Church, during which Father Sal addressed his parishioners on the Parable of the Hidden Treasure – that "the Kingdom of Heaven is like a treasure hidden in the field, which a man found, and hid. In his joy, he goes and sells all that he has, and buys that field." Having spent his elementary and middle school years in parochial school and received communion, Luigi knew all of Jesus's parables by heart and the Catholic doctrine associated with them. The poor and meek inherit the Earth, and those among them who sacrifice through repentance and good deeds will be welcomed into the Kingdom of Heaven. However, Luigi never truly agreed with that interpretation; if avarice was in fact a deadly sin, then wouldn't coveting the Kingdom of Heaven also be a sin? Once in the fifth grade, he asked that very question and was promptly sent to the principal's office for not exhibiting the Christian spirit. Monsignor Rosetti just chuckled and sent him back to class, gently chiding the Galileo piccolo about asking too many questions. Nonetheless, Luigi suspected that St. Rosalia's was just relieved that he was not like his elder brother, who had been thrown out of every Religion class for a variety of incidents over the years. In one such incident, he vividly recalled a pissed-off Mario bringing home his thirteen-year-old namesake after having been suspended for his rather unique stick-figure illustrations of Jesus, the twelve apostles, and Mary Magdalene. To add insult to blasphemy, he made the drawings into flip books and distributed them to several sixth and seventh graders for a quarter each. Father Sal found out about little Mario's 'side business' and made him help in the parish soup kitchen for six months. Years later, it never stopped Mario from rolling his eyes through every "Stand-up, sit-down, Domino Nabisco, mumbo-jumbo bullshit. Where's God when you actually need Him?"
Following mass and communion, Mario drove them out to Staten Island to face the weekly Inquisition. As expected, the Family pleaded with Luigi to accept one date – just one – with Cousin Vinny's friend's sister's second cousin who was a nice Italian Jersey co-ed at Farleigh Dickinson. He smiled and politely declined, internally knowing that, provided Tuesday night went well, he had already upgraded. Between the spaghetti and biscotti, the Inquisition started in on Mario's ragazza (Uncle Joe had another choice name for her). Uncle Tony (no relation to Fat Tony, though he was also rather corpulent from eating all of the available pizza in New Jersey) threatened to find her himself and ask why the hell she didn't grace them with her royal Venetian ass, to which Nonna replied in Italian that it was a known fact that Venetians were cat-eaters, and who could trust a bunch of blasphemous magnagatti? Cue cousin Adriana's nine-month-old baby, Giulio, crying; a year younger than Luigi, she had, according to the Family, successfully fulfilled her primary function as a nice Italian girl. She found a nice ragazzo, Pauli, married in a Catholic ceremony, and had her first child. Mario could have had that with Pauline, had he followed through with their engagement and married her prior to leaving for his first tour of duty. Meanwhile, a red-faced Mario sat dejected, munching on his pasta and biscotti, unable to protest as the bile and envy rose in his throat. Uncle Joe's eldest daughter, Maria, figlio of the family and fellow plumber, threatened to kidnap Mario's favorite wrench so that he could 'save it' from certain peril and marry it instead, to which he angrily said that it would be a bitterly cold day in Dante's Hell before she would even know where he kept it.
The drive back to Bensonhurst was filled with the monotone drone of NPR. Usually, Mario and Luigi would laugh at some of the dumbest and cutting barbs from the Inquisition. That night, though, was somehow different. Mario was eerily quiet, his hairy pink knuckles gripping the steering wheel turned into a ghostly porcelain white. Any attempts at conversation were answered with a single word or grunts, which was Mario Masciarelli code to leave him alone for the next several hours. Shortly before bedtime at nine o'clock, Luigi overheard part of a heated exchange in Italian between Mario and his iPhone, in which he boomed, "Che cazzo dovrei dire loro?" and "Stiamo insieme o no?" Ten minutes afterward, he indignantly shouted, "Te ne vai sempre!" and threw the phone at the brown and gold sofa pillows. The next morning, Mario had already left the house when Luigi awoke, and the latter angrily clattered the piled-up dirty dishes in the sink, disgusted at where his elder brother had likely gone.
According to Sal, Mario called in sick that day, so his tickets were reassigned to José, Ernesto, and him. Luigi worked from eight o'clock until seven o'clock in the evening, though most of them were simple clogs and replacing pipes and water heaters. When he came home at around seven-thirty, Greek takeout for two in hand, his brother was still absent. Growling in fury, he dumped Mario's portion in the refrigerator and jabbed at his Greek salad and pita bread. He needed to eat, and he was not about to go down to that shitty bar on the corner to bail out Mario from whatever damage he did. Luigi had done this several times in the past, only to be punched in the ribs and thrown out by the Hammer Brothers for 'trespassing.' It was a miracle that the Army never found out what he often did on his non-service weekends and, occasionally, weeknights. Either that, or military intelligence really was a contradiction in terms, Luigi thought sarcastically. Sometimes, he feared what would happen once Mario was discharged from service.
Having finished eating and hiding all the baklava for himself, Luigi went upstairs to his room and began to sort through his fifties-era wooden wardrobe to prepare for the Tuesday night date with Daisy. Before leaving that evening, he had asked his boss to clock out at six o'clock the following day. Not finding the request unreasonable, Sal agreed, as he had not taken a personal day or left early in two years, and he was always working by eight in the morning. Being rather anal about his dental health, brushing and flossing three times per day, the hygienist did not have much to clean or remove during his yearly check-ups, so his appointments were no longer than an hour. Shifting, re-shifting, and comparing shirts, jackets, and pants for over an hour, he settled on a white Oxford, gray half-zip sweater, olive-colored trousers, and a pair of shiny black Italian leather dress shoes. He then fetched a long forest green dress coat that his Aunt Lucia had bought him for Christmas last year and nodded to himself in approval.
On Tuesday morning, Luigi woke up again to an empty house and a belly full of disquiet and fury at Mario and Peach. Of course, the stupid dick would stay out for a third day – on the same day that he actually had a date! he thought indignantly. Mario's behavior presented a problem for his younger brother; if Mario stayed out for more than three days and nights, then Luigi would have to risk showing up 'unannounced,' take a beating from the Hammer Boys, and drag him out of that sordid establishment. Luigi growled in frustration as he threw on a clean pair of jeans, a white tee-shirt, a dark green hoodie, and plumber's boots. A ding from his iPhone increased his annoyance – please, let that be Mario and please, let that not be Daisy, he said to himself. Luigi did not know whether to feel disappointed or relieved when he saw Sal's name on the display. Unlocking the phone, he read Sal's text which stated that he needed to bring his construction gear, as he and Mario would be working a gas pipe installation job in downtown Brooklyn for the next several weeks. Oh, and P.S.: Mario sent me a text that he'll be back at work today. The younger plumber let out the breath that he had been apparently holding. Then a concrete wall of rage smashed into him. "So, that goddamn stupid fuck could send a text to Sal, but not me?!" he yelled to an empty house. Slamming the black garment bag containing his date clothes on the kitchen table, he fetched and downed his espresso like a shot of the strongest vodka. Bracing himself against the old kitchen sink, he breathed in deeply and reminded himself that the small package of Marlboros was in the company truck glove compartment. Slipping on his orange safety vest, he opened the white refrigerator and took the leftover Greek takeout from the previous night and dumped it in his tin lunch pail. After shutting the door, Luigi snatched the bag, pail, his yellow hard hat, and went off to the site.
He arrived roughly a half-hour later due to Brooklyn traffic. Several journeymen and apprentices were already there, standing around in the sunshine drinking a regular and shooting the shit like union guys do for the first two hours of work. A portable radio was distantly playing the Boss's "The Promised Land;" normally, this would have been a good omen for the rest of the day, but Lou was in a foul mood and needed to re-focus his mind. A couple of the journeymen – José and Alassane – wordlessly followed his fuming footsteps across the site and mentally scrapped the idea of inviting him to their morning chit-chat. Everyone knew that the only thing that made Lou Masciarelli so visibly angry was his elder brother. Two minutes of walking and kicking the chance small rock in his path, Lou found Mario already at work on a fitting. Though he was dressed in a fresh red hoodie and blue-jean bib overalls, he could see that Mario's right-hand knuckles were split, swollen, and bruised. When he looked up to greet him, Lou saw the beginnings of a black eye forming around his left and his lip was cut.
"Fucking idiot," he hissed.
Mario raised his eyebrow in good humor and replied, "Morning to you, too, bro."
Lou heatedly crossed his arms. "You fuckin' went there again, didn't ya? One fuckin' fight with the little spoiled princess, and you fuckin'…" He turned his head away in disbelief. "Know what? Go fuck yourself, bro," he grumbled hostilely, putting a sarcastic emphasis on the last word.
The elder plumber shrugged and laughed. "Won a thousand bucks. I'd have shared it with you if you didn't tell me to go fuck myself."
Luigi glared at Mario. "I got plenty of money, asshole. Don't need yours. I'm gonna be out tonight, so don't wait up. But at least I'll come back." Holding up a hand to Mario's inevitable questioning as to who, what, where, when, and why, he stalked off to the pipes on the other side of the building. For the rest of the day, he stayed away from the other plumbers and especially Mario, refusing to engage anyone in conversation unless necessary. Mercifully, six o'clock came round, despite Mario's attempts within the past hour to speak to him by beginning with "What's a mattah wit' you?" and "You gonna ignore me forever, bro?" Without saying a word to him, Luigi cleaned up his workspace and carried his tools back to his red Suzuki. He drove to a nearby shopping mall to freshen up and change into his nicer clothing. Sneaking into a free stall in one of the men's rooms, he quickly removed the hoodie and jeans of an American worker, used a couple wet towelettes to clean his body of sweat and grime, and dressed in the Oxford, half-zip sweater, trousers, green coat, and black shoes of an Italian professional. Once fully dressed, he arranged the jeans and hoodie into the garment bag and came out of the stall to scrub the dirt from his fingernails and face. He found a mirror and quickly crimped his hair to give it some volume. Checking his watch, his eyes enlarged, as he only had approximately thirty to forty minutes in rush hour to drive to and somehow park in Williamsburg. Running out of the shopping mall, he unlocked his car, jumped into the driver's seat, and drove right at the speed limit along Vanderbilt Avenue. Whenever possible, he avoided the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, which was a dilapidated daisy chain of cars, half-assed construction, ill-conceived on-ramps, and cults of pigeons who decided that the end times were near. Slamming on the brakes twice due to a clueless clown-car with Pennsylvania plates banging a U-turn and a New York SUV attempting a double park, Luigi finally reached the restaurant and managed to find a parking space five minutes before seven o'clock. Shutting off the engine, Luigi checked his hair and face one final time, smoothing out his mustache, before exiting and walking to the front entrance of the restaurant.
7:00 pm sharp.
The butterflies started to flutter around in his stomach. He paced in front of the door and breathed in and out to calm himself, then checked his watch again. 7:05 pm.
Five minutes later, an auburn-haired woman with a high-collared orange winter coat came walking hurriedly down the street, a black backpack slung carelessly over her shoulder. Luigi checked his watch; she was ten minutes late.
"Sorry!" she called out to him. "I've never been here before, and I sort of…underestimated the time from campus to Williamsburg."
He raised his eyebrow quizzically and smiled softly. "Uh, y-you're only ten minutes late. It's no problem." Normally, Luigi despised tardiness, but he had a feeling that if Daisy said that she had just gouged out someone's eyes, he would have nodded and grinned.
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and battered her eyelashes. "Forgive me?"
Luigi blushed a deep crimson. Yep, he mused; she could be a femme fatale or mass murderer, and he'd beg her to be his next victim. "Uh, y-yeah. Sh-sure," he stammered.
Daisy beamed and approached the restaurant entrance. Pivoting to gaze sexily back at him, she murmured in a faux-British posh accent, "Shall we?"
Eagerly, he nodded and reached out to open the door for his princess. Yet too focused on her soft brown orbs and rose-colored lips, Lou's hand slipped, and the glass door's momentum yielded a loud whack against his forehead. From the threshold, Daisy popped her head into the colder air and asked in a concerned voice, "Woah, are you okay?"
Embarrassed at his clumsiness, Luigi straightened up and looked at her as though nothing had happened. "Y-yeah, I was just m-makin' sh-sure that the d-door was w-workin'." She chuckled a little, mumbled an "uh-huh," and re-entered the restaurant. He inwardly cursed himself and followed her inside to a large white and black hall with high-ceiling chandeliers.
After they were seated at a table for two and provided menus and a drink order, they sat in silence to consider their meal selection. Lou tried to flip through the menu, but he was easily distracted by her wardrobe. She was wearing a tan turtleneck, blue jeans with a thick, dark brown belt, and a long gray, orange and black striped country blazer that accentuated her curves. Luigi had to repeat to himself multiple times that he was a consummate gentleman, and no decent Italian guy would be leering at his date on the first outing. Oh, minchia, who was he kidding? He had been gazing at her ass since the first day that he saw her.
"….you having?" she suddenly asked.
"Sorry, what?" Lou said blankly.
Daisy chuckled again anxiously and then repeated, "I asked what were you having, Lou? Are you okay? You look kinda … flushed."
As he opened his mouth to answer, his hand seemingly flew out on its own and knocked Daisy's filled water glass into her lap, causing her to jump out of her seat in shock from the cold liquid seeping into her jeans. The glass shattered against the linoleum floor. Luigi covered his mouth with both hands, his normal light olive skin becoming pallid and sick. A visibly irritated Daisy glared at him and then replied, "It-it's okay. I'll go the ladies' and get some paper towels to clean this up."
After she stalked off to the women's restroom, the waitress came to clean up the mess, waiving off his attempts to assist her. Knowing that it was likely the first date, the waitress occasionally gave Luigi a pitying glimpse while sweeping up the broken glass. The man, however, did not see it; instead, he buried his head in his hands in embarrassment and shame, very close to tears. He was such a klutz – K-L-U-T-Z – in all capital letters and in all languages and frequencies. Without removing his hands from his distraught face, he said aloud to himself, "Jesus Christ, man. You're on a date with the most beautiful woman that you've ever seen, and you go and fuck it up by being a complete and utter klutz! Yeah, she'll be real impressed with your suave ass now."
Head still in his hands, he failed to see Daisy standing right behind him. She had calmed down considerably in the two minutes since the water glass incident and was now gazing at him in both empathy and shock. They were both nervous from the unofficially official label of first date, each trying their best to impress the other, even though their 'first date' had technically been Friday night. While he stammered so beautifully and had klutzy moments this evening and on Friday, Daisy tended to ramble or be too honest on first dates. While she had a fairly good idea of his physical attraction to her, given their long kisses and his willingness to be fucked (in her words) in that back room at the club, she had no idea of his true desires. No man had ever called her 'the most beautiful woman that he'd ever seen,' especially when he believed that he was alone. Her heart racing, she stepped closer to him and ran a gentle hand through his thick brown hair. Luigi froze at the touch, then leaned into it when he recognized that it was Daisy's. Slowly, he raised his head, humiliation still present on his face, in a hopeful gesture of reconciliation and remorse. Daisy grinned shily in response and returned to her chair across from him.
"God, Daisy, I am so sorry!" he breathed. "I—"
"Lou, sweetie," she interrupted, "it's okay. I'm, uh, a bit nervous, too. Usually, my dates roll their eyes at me about ten minutes in."
Luigi blinked in incredulity. "They roll their eyes at you?"
She nodded, brushing her medium-length auburn hair off her shoulder. "Yeah. The last date I had was in London about a year ago. He was a sabra who was looking for a nice kosher Hausfrau; I went off on the Premier League and how much Arsenal sucks. He asked for the check soon afterward."
He laughed loudly, opening the menu once more. "He sounds like a moron both ways – everyone knows the English cheat. But you get bonus points if you've pledged undying loyalty to i Azzuri."
Daisy stared at him seriously. "My father is Brazilian, so Seleção Canarinho forever. I assume you're Italian or just an Italian football fan?"
Lou shrugged, dropping the menu, and turning his palms toward the ceiling. "My last name is Masciarelli, my first language is Italian, I grew up in Little Italy, and I look like a guy from the Mezzogiorno. You can draw your own conclusions there."
She chortled. "Oooh, a Brooklyn smartass!"
"Better than an English jackass," retorted Luigi.
The waitress returned and asked if they were ready to order. Luigi and Daisy, gazing at each other bashfully, answered affirmatively. Throughout the meal, they made small talk about their mutual dislike of the English national football team, how Brazil was going to win the upcoming 2014 World Cup (Luigi snorted with derision), and their favorite sports which included baseball, basketball, and football. Their fingers brushed several times, culminating in their hands intertwining much the same way as they had done on Friday night. Two coffees later, Lou requested the check and, despite Daisy pleading with him to go dutch, paid the bill, leaving the waitress a generous tip as an apology for the broken glass. Holding hands, they exited the restaurant. Not yet wanting to part company, they decided to stroll around the relatively calm streets and striking red-brick buildings of Williamsburg. During the first few minutes, they silently enjoyed each other's presence, building up the courage to ask the more 'serious' date questions.
"So," began Luigi, "you're working on a thesis?"
Daisy groaned, squeezing his hand with hers. "You had to start with that question? I was half-drunk when I mentioned it! Yeah, I'm writing the fucking thesis. My fucking thesis, whose proposal has been written and rewritten several times, is presumably entitled, 'Eat My Ass: A Methodological Approach Into the Dogma of Academia.'"
An amused Luigi glanced down at his partner. "'Eat My Ass'? Is that a technical term?"
Daisy snorted. "Might as well be. I'm doing a Master's in International Affairs at Columbia. It was intended to be a credential to get into an Ivy League law school, but it's all fluff and puff. Actually, I'm writing about the human rights policies, or lack thereof, in Mali and Niger. My advisor's supportive but insists upon 'la méthode'. Eventually, I want to practice human rights law."
A definite upgrade from nails and Survivor, Luigi noted mentally. "I'm impressed," he said. "And Columbia, wow. You went to school in San Francisco, like Berkeley or Stanford?"
She paused, side-eyeing Luigi to judge a possible reaction to her answer. "I went to high school in the Bay Area, yeah. But, uh, I went elsewhere for my undergraduate degree."
They continued to walk along a semi-residential street. Not letting go of her hand, he considered her hesitation. "Bad place or somethin'?"
"No, it's, uh, a pretty good school. It's just that I don't want you thinking that I'm some spoiled snobby princess," she finally replied.
Lou stopped to face her. "It shouldn't matter; it doesn't to me. But for the record, I don't think you're a spoiled princess. I've met them, believe me. Back at the restaurant, when I was the King of the Klutzes and spilled that water on you, I half-expected you to walk out on me, but you didn't. You made me feel comfortable instead. A spoiled princess doesn't do that. At the club, you also looked out for your friend – Amy, I think it was – and a princess doesn't do that, either."
The auburn-haired woman's mouth quirked upward slightly. "Thanks," she murmured. "Okay, it's uh, St. Catherine's College," she mumbled so softly that Luigi barely caught it.
"St. Catherine's? Is that some Catholic college?" he asked confusedly.
"No, sorry. It's St. Catherine's College, Oxford. I read Physics."
It took Luigi a second before he fully registered her response. "Whoa-wait. Oxford, as in the Oxford in England?!"
She focused on a small rock at her feet. "Yeah."
Luigi gulped. Boy, did he ever upgrade?! Oxford Physics? Oh no, he thought; what would she think of him when she inevitably found out that he never went to college and instead graduated from a trade school in Queens? She would certainly think that he was a lowly Italian schmuck trying to press his luck with … perfection. He surreptitiously examined his surroundings and mentally recorded the last place that Daisy Abravanel would want to see him. Yet as he observed her again, she seemed timid, almost the opposite of the brash, headstrong knight that had crushed an annoying douchebag's balls. With his left hand, he tilted her head to see her face and eyes which were filled with uncertainty. Smiling in awe, he whispered, "Why would you be ashamed of that? That's...That's amazing. But why'd you switch to International Affairs?"
She let out the breath that she had been holding. "Because I want to help people. Not in a white savior asshole complex sorta way, because I saw what that did in Africa. But my father's a lawyer who wants me to take over his practice someday, and both my parents fled idiotic governments and societies to come to America, so…yeah. I couldn't do that in a lab."
He nodded. "I suppose so. I guess Maxwell's Equations or the Ideal Gas Law wouldn't be handy in an immigration court."
Now it was her turn to be shocked. "And what would you know about Maxwell's Equations?"
Luigi grinned. "Four equations that describe the exact speed of electromagnetic waves – the speed of light. But really, I'm more of a Navier-Stokes kind of guy."
The auburn-haired lioness purred contentedly. "A favorite equation, and a good one to boot. You're or were in physics?"
Here was the moment of truth, he realized. On one hand, he could exaggerate his background a little and say that he was an engineer to appear less like a scholastic loser, as he did attend two of the best engineering magnet high schools in the five boroughs. On the other hand, if Friday night taught him anything, it was that Daisy Abravanel did not suffer manboys or fools. A male-dominated field like physics – and at Oxford University of all places – only cemented that hypothesis. It's your balls, Lou, echoed Blu's voice.
Best to start with a half-truth and let her lead with questions. Summoning his courage and coglioni, Luigi answered, "I was in physics – kind of. I majored in math and engineering in high school. I went all the way to PDEs and tensor calculus, but ultimately opted to do something else."
Frowning in confusion and curiosity, Daisy questioned, "You majored in engineering in high school? Wait, did you go to school in Italy? I've never heard of that in an American school."
Snickering loudly, Luigi shook his head, flexed his fingers, then laced them with hers again. "Ha, I wish! Nah, we got something called the SHSAT here in New York City; it's a standardized test that you can take in eighth grade to get into the top public schools like Stuyvesant, Bronx Science Academy, Staten Island Tech, and Brooklyn City High. I, uh, went to the latter two. Brooklyn City High has a unique program where you can study college-like majors. My official major was Mech Eng 'cause I was really into robotics."
"Wow, yeah, I've definitely heard of Stuyvesant and Bronx Science – we had one PhD student at Oxford who had gone to the Bronx and then Harvard. So, then you went to NYU or…Columbia then? I assumed that because the party's for NYU and Columbia students," asked Daisy.
Cazzo di merda. Time for the truth. Luigi anxiously ran a hand through his hair. "N-not e-exactly." He stilled his breath and turned her body to face him squarely. "Look, Daisy, I didn't go to college. The truth is…I'm a plumber. A union-trained New York City journeyman plumber, which is the best training and work in the entire country, but a plumber, nonetheless. It's not Oxford or Columbia. I was at that party 'cause my friends asked me to fix Blu's clogged sink. I got friends from Bensonhurst who are grad students at Columbia and NYU – you met Yoshi and Miles." He blew out a puff of air, then added quietly, "You can tell me to fuck off now."
Daisy's eyes widened in surprise. Lou Masciarelli was more of a mystery man that she had ever guessed. He dressed in an elegant geek chic; had she needed to guess his occupation, she would have opted for an Italian professor or absent-minded physicist. Frankly, she thought about dragging him to bed several times throughout their date, as his layered European garb was incredibly intoxicating on his lean six-foot frame and made her want to tear into him like a Hannukah present. During their discussion about the Premier League and World Cup at dinner, she swooned; at his mention of the Navier-Stokes Equations, she almost lost her composure. Until now, she had yet to find a sexy and smart man who wasn't also an egotistical asshole or a 'Nice Guy.' Despite his mild nature and observable intelligence, her father would no doubt be disappointed in her choice – an undesirable profession and a completely unacceptable ethnicity. After her tumultuous return from Mali in 2012, Enrique 'Harry' Abravanel and especially her stepmother, Yael, had pushed several nice Sephardi and sabra lawyers and doctors on her. Everything was kosher, proper, orderly – no spontaneity, drive, or sex appeal. At the club bar, Lou had read unintentionally her like a book; she was incredibly bored of that envisaged life. She could have the Harvard- or Stanford-educated lawyer, like her father, and feel confined to a role, a performance for the rest of her life. Though she was unable to divine the future, Daisy knew one thing for certain: she had something with this Italian plumber, and following several unhappy and lackluster dates, it would be a shame to ignore it.
Carpe diem.
"Well," she began neutrally, re-shifting the backpack over her left shoulder, "I am surprised, but I'm not sure that I believe you."
Luigi's mouth dropped open and he stammered, "W-what do you mean? Th-that I'm a plumber?"
"Yeah," she said. "I didn't see your buttcrack hanging out of your trousers. I think that's the universal test for plumbers – a visible crack."
He mouthed "buttcrack" before howling with laughter. "Buttcrack? Jesus, Daisy! No, I don't show my buttcrack to just anyone. I can assure you that my pants are securely fastened and over my ass at all times."
"A cute ass from the little I've seen," passively observed Daisy. She inwardly snickered in victory at the bright red blush that spread across her date's cheeks.
"I'm glad you approve of my ass," Luigi purred.
"I definitely approve of your ass," she replied. "Okay, new topic: if you're Italian, from Bensonhurst, how many brothers, sisters, and cousins do you have in your family? Are there any Tonys or Vinnys?" He let out a small whine and she giggled, adding, "This is payback for asking about the 'EMA'. And like all good payback, it's a cold-hearted bitch."
Lou shook his head. "Aight, aight," he began, breaking his handhold with Daisy to show both of his hands in surrender. "I have one older brother who's a plumber like me. He's also in the military and is supposed to be gettin' out in about a year and a half. I got three uncles – one of which is a Tony – two aunts, seven first cousins – one of whom is a Vinny," he interrupted himself at Daisy's barely contained mirth, "'Ey, don't laugh! And one second cousin. And of course, my nonna – my grandmother."
Daisy suddenly frowned. "You didn't mention your parents."
He froze and turned away from her. "Uh, yeah, they're both deceased. They died when I was young."
She flanked him and re-joined their hands. "I'm sorry, Lou. I didn't mean to press on a difficult subject…"
"No, it's fine," he interjected softly, squeezing her hand in reassurance. Taking the lead to walk once more, he continued, "You couldn't have known. I was kinda raised by my Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia, so they became my parents in a way. They got three daughters. They're all loving, but very, very loud Italians from Abruzzo. My mom's side is from Sicily, and no, we're not fuckin' Mafiosi. Alright, your turn, princess."
She smiled a little. "Okay, Louis, you asked for it. My father's an intellectual property and human rights lawyer; he was born in Brazil but grew up in Boston after the 1964 coup. His parents are descended from Moroccan and Egyptian Sephardim. My mother's…Well, she's a Buddhist nun. I mean, she's kind of in my life, as in a 'Namaste, Venerable' sort of way. I don't know much about her family, to be honest. She's Bermudian; her father was the son of a Hong Kong shipping magnate and I have no idea about her mother who was also from Bermuda. All I know is that good Chinese men didn't marry mixed women at that time, so my mother was sent away to Bermuda and never recognized by him. Mom was always fascinated by religion; she converted to Judaism sometime before she met my father, which is why my grandparents grudgingly allowed the marriage. Anyway, my parents divorced when I was six, and Papai married my stepmom, Yael, when I was eleven. Yael is...a constant pain in my ass. I love her, but she's a fucking pill. No brothers or sisters; just me. I do have extended family, like third and fourth cousins, in Brazil and Israel, but it's just been my father and I mostly."
"Firstly, my name's not Louis," replied Lou, "It's Luigi. Secondly, your family sounds interesting. You've got Yael as your pain in the ass; I've got … well, everyone whom I mentioned."
"For sure, Luigi," Daisy stated. "Actually, I like Luigi better than Lou. Anyway, Luigi, families are always complicated."
They chatted about sports and artificial intelligence for another hour, hands still intertwined, strolling casually throughout the southernly part of Williamsburg. As half past nine rapidly approached, Daisy and Luigi mutually decided that it was time to return to their homes. Luigi insisted upon giving the beautiful woman a ride home. At ease with the Italian plumber and wanting to spend a few extra minutes with him, she happily provided her address in Carroll Gardens. They did not speak in the car, as Luigi was focused on navigating the zigzag of upper Brooklyn and the surprise asshole SUV who did not know where he or she was going. Fifteen minutes later, Luigi parallel parked on a streetlight-lit one-way next to a large line of brownstones and shut off the engine. As Daisy unbuckled her safety belt and was about to exit the red car, Luigi hurriedly unbuckled his seat belt, got out of the driver's side, and ran over to open the passenger's side door. Stunned, she stepped out of the vehicle and allowed him to close the door for her. Then he followed her up the short staircase to the brown oak and glass door directly ahead. Taking out her keys, she rolled to him and said, "Thanks for tonight. I had a great time." He blushed, but did not reply, instead closing the distance from a foot to mere inches between them, stroking her hand with his thumb. Neither of them dared nor desired to part. Daisy raised an eyebrow at him, mutely challenging him to make the next move. He raised his right hand to her face to caress it, then leaned in to capture her lips with his. The next few minutes were a blur: he vaguely recalled strong, yet feminine hands gripping his jacket to deepen the kiss, being crushed against the oak door by a lithe medium-sized frame, and his lips ending up on her jaw and neck sometime afterward. Feeling a certain part of him growing by the second and inch, Luigi broke the embrace. Attempting to avoid gazing at her swollen lips, glassy-eyed brown orbs, and enflamed skin, he inched out from her, coughed into his hand distractedly, and stepped back to a respectable distance.
The auburn-haired woman was still out of breath. "You stopped."
Luigi nodded, though not without a dopey smile. "Yeah, it's better if I do. But I really want to see you again."
Daisy closed the distance between them again and captured his lips once more. "Saturday evening, 7 pm again. Dress casually. Pick me up," she ordered before spinning on her heel to unlock and enter her apartment. Waving goodbye with a promising twinkle in her eye, she shut the door to an alternatively speechless and breathless Luigi.
Luigi arrived home at around ten-twenty. The house was quiet except for the low rumbling of the living room flatscreen. Positioned in front of the television was a slumped Mario in a beat-up green lazy-boy, a multicolored crocheted blanket covering his legs and an empty pizza box at his feet. He had not changed from his red hoodie and overalls, which were, to Luigi's disgust, marked with dust and grease. A melted bag of ice rested on Mario's right-hand, and his left eye was encircled with a purple, green, and black halo. Next to his left hand lay his iPhone opened to his little brother's number; he had begun to type a message but either had fallen asleep before he could finish and send it or reconsidered and aborted the endeavor. Luigi shook his head in repulsion as he pointed the clicker at the television to shut it off. Slinging the garment bag and boots over his shoulder, he moved past the omnipresent tri-folded American flag that lay encased in glass and wood atop the mantle. Tiptoeing up the stairs to his room, the plumber stripped his clothes, removed the dirty ones from the garment bag, dumped them in the laundry hamper, and padded into the blue-tiled bathroom. He showered, brushed his teeth, and then shut off the light. Climbing underneath the covers, Luigi flopped down on his nest of pillows and gazed up contentedly to the ceiling, too excited and besotted to sleep. Though it was only four days until Saturday night, he wished that he could sleep through them to pass the hours, minutes, and seconds in between.
