Okay, the second of three arc chapters. I hope you like it! I am giving a general warning for adult themes and one slur. Nothing graphic, though.


Chapter 11: Kairos

Upon boarding the flight to Phoenix, Luigi discovered that he was alone. According to the attendant, Lucas had flown to Arizona earlier in the week for a Cybersecurity and Financial Affairs Conference and would pick him up at the airport. As expected for any New York-area airport, the plane took off twenty minutes late; since the weather was rainy and cloudy for much of the East Coast and thus obscured any landmarks, Luigi put on his headphones and read more of his assigned materials for the first two hours of the flight. He then took a one-hour nap, ate a plate lunch of grilled salmon and asparagus, and watched re-runs of Anthony Bourdain's No Reservations before landing at Sky Harbor around noon local time.

As he walked out of the private terminal, a jacket-less Luigi spotted Lucas in his plum-colored polo shirt, khakis, Italian shoes, and Raybans. The taller man was engrossed in an angry exchange in Greek. Nothing's changed in over a decade; they still hate each other, the plumber mused. Lucas's father, George (Giorgos), was born and raised in Athens before moving to the United States where he met and married the young man's Italian mother. Though they remained married on paper, mainly so that Giorgos could avoid dividing million-dollar assets with his wife, they lived on completely different continents – Giorgos in New York and Los Angeles and Francesca in Rome – and were often and openly spotted with an assortment of lovers. Lucas was raised by his father and always resented their estrangement from Francesca. Giorgos thought Lucas wasted his time with too many distractions – notably food, fast cars, and fucking.

"Ποιανού η γαμημένη ιδέα ήταν αυτή? Οχι! Οχι … Ναι, okay, fine!" he shouted and ended the call. Wiping his mouth in frustration, Lucas glanced up at his approaching friend and forced a smile.

"Everything alright?" asked Luigi while pulling his roller bag behind him.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is now. Welcome to Phoenix! I planned for us to stay longer, but unfortunately, we have to leave in a few days." He took Luigi's suitcase and put it in the trunk of his white 2014 BMW 435i convertible. Lucas gestured that they were leaving, so the tired plumber slid into the plush white leather seat on the passenger side. As Lucas started the car, exited the airport, and merged onto the Red Mountain Freeway, Luigi took a moment to text Daisy that he had arrived in the desert.

Lucas watched his friend move his thumbs several times, then put the phone in his pocket. "Is that Sergeant Major Dickerson?" he inquired in a flat tone.

"Nope," said Luigi. "So what's the plan? Why are we in Phoenix?"

The driver beamed salaciously. "Well … There are some people interested in funding our little project. Most of the tech out here deals with medical and health; however, there are a few who have an interest in AI and SCADA. Makes sense because older snowbunnies are moving here. Florida ran out of room and, frankly, the entire state smells like tanning oil, plantains, and ass. We'll attend the last day of the conference tomorrow and meet them for dinner tomorrow evening. That'll give us two days to fuck around in the sun."

Squinting from the arid climate and bright sun, Luigi frowned at his companion. "Then what? Why three weeks?"

"We need to get you some sunglasses ASAP. It's not good to be without UV protection, especially here, Weeg. Your blue eyes and pale-skinned ass are going to suffer."

"Lucas, where are we going?"

The tall Greek man sighed dramatically and shook his head. "Nowhere pleasant. Let's not worry about it for three days, okay?"

"It's not dangerous, is it?" questioned the plumber apprehensively.

Reaching over to pat and rub Luigi's left shoulder with his right hand, the taller man shook his head. "No! It's not dangerous. Weeg, I'd never take you to the ghetto or some fucked up place in North Dakota. You're too important to me. It'll just be busy work, that's all. Just a lot of no bueno. But don't worry – we'll deal. Then I'll take you somewhere better the next time."

Luigi nodded absently as he looked to his right at the red soil, greenery, palm trees, and the small river running parallel to the freeway. "I thought this was all desert, with cactuses and shit," he said after a few minutes, wincing at the traffic around the open cab.

"It is all cactuses and shit!" yelled Lucas over the noise of cars and speed-generated wind. "But even the desert's gotta have water! What, did Super Mario tell you that?"

He shrugged a little. "Yeah, kinda."

Lucas shook his head in disgust. "Of course he would! The super asshole never wanted you to grow up and see the world. Can you imagine if you had enlisted? Gone Navy or some shit? Got out on an aircraft carrier and saw San Diego or the Arabian Sea?"

Luigi laughed aloud. "I almost did!"

The man in purple did a double take and stared in shock at his companion. "Wait, what? Deadass? You … the military?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, let's hear the story!"

"I was twenty. Just finished my first year at LaGuardia. I was burned out from this dickface of an instructor, John Slaughter. Fucker made my life hell. Aside from enduring his sheer incompetence as a plumber and pipefitter, he told me – and I quote – that 'he'd make sure that my faggoty ass wouldn't make it beyond the first year.' I made it, just to spite him, but I got assigned the shittiest overnight jobs for the next several months on top of my daytime classes. I wanted something more, so I visited with the recruiter."

"What branch?" asked Lucas while switching lanes to take the exit north toward Scottsdale.

"Marines."

Lucas's mouth dropped open to form a perfect oval, and he had to make a conscious effort to watch for the exit to the loop. "You're shitting me? You – a fuckin' jarhead?!"

Luigi chuckled. "No shit."

"I'd have pegged you for the Air Force or even the Navy, but the fucking Marines?! Weeg, they're fucking hardcore nutjobs! I … I can't even picture you with a shaved head and no mustache. So what happened? Why aren't you Gunnery Sergeant Masciarelli who's a bigger badass than Sergeant Dickerson? Did Joe stop you or something? Say that he needed his personal plunger?"

"Nah," he said, dark brown strands blowing into his face and eyes. Brushing the mess away, the plumber replied more softly, "Uncle Joe never knew about it. Neither did Mario. It was fuckin' damnedest thing. As I was driving over to Bay Ridge to sign the contract and say a hearty farewell and screw you to Brooklyn, my car broke down in Dyker Heights. I'd bought that used piece of shit back in 2003 with the money that I'd saved up from workin' in Joe's shop. By the time I got it to the mechanic, I … I lost my nerve. Never went back." Luigi looked straight ahead at the distant bluish purple mountains and lost himself in wordless contemplation.

Lucas's mirth changed into a mixture of sympathy and sadness toward his friend. "It's just as well, you know. You don't need to be a soldier to prove that you're a badass, Weeg. Your mind would have been wasted in the military."

They rode in silence north toward Scottsdale on the Pima Freeway. After twenty minutes, Lucas insisted that they purchase Luigi a pair of sunglasses before his eyeballs dried out from the Sunbelt rays. At the upscale boutique, and much to Luigi's initial embarrassment, Lucas bought him a pair of gold-trimmed aviator sunglasses that cost almost as much as a journeyman's monthly salary. When he put them on, however, the plumber had to admit that they looked rather stylish and his blue eyes hurt less. Strolling along the outdoor mall to stretch his legs after the five and a half hour flight from New York, he and Lucas stopped at an outlet featuring Western and Native American art. On the walls hung several desert-themed and landscape oil paintings with a variety of eye-catching red, purple, orange, and turquoise sunrises and sunsets, deep green cacti, and yellow and gray stretches of dust and sage. Another canvas in acrylic featured a black and white reinterpretation of the shadowy Earps and illuminated Clantons just before shots were fired at the O.K. Corral. Lucas immediately asked the shopkeeper about the black and white painting while Luigi moseyed past the thousand-dollar paintings and inspected the short white, black, and burnt orange-colored Hopi jars and hanging bowls on the display shelves. His blue eyes were abruptly drawn to one of the flat bowls; inscribed in its center was a black-trimmed bird of prey with closed wings and drooping, finger-like feathers. He stared at the bird for several minutes, giving into its demands for admiration and prostration. Sensing Lucas behind him with the painting carefully wrapped up for transport, Luigi wordlessly acknowledged that he was ready to go.

He and Lucas returned to the latter's two-bedroom suite at the Four Seasons in Troon North which sat at the edge of Tonto National Forest. Walking out to the spacious patio, Luigi was treated to a panorama of incisor-like sapphire blue-rock mountains, pale green sage, towering emerald cacti, creamy-white rocks, and pink desert flowers against a cloudless cyan sky. It was a long way from the twists of glass, steel beams, ruddy waters, and brownstones of Brooklyn.

"The furniture is gaudy, like they couldn't figure out if it was Arizona or New Mexico, though the private wading pool is kinda fun, especially with chicks. You got your own room and bathroom," he heard Lucas call out from somewhere in the suite.

Luigi did not respond, still mesmerized by the sight before him. Glancing up to the bright sky, he saw a darkened shadow of a hawk, its wing span extending to envelope the earth. Lucas came out to the patio and stood next to the plumber who was studying the bird intently.

"Oh, yeah, it's a Cooper's Hawk. The little fuckers like to cruise around here for a nosh," offered the taller man. "C'mon," he said, wrapping his arms around Luigi's shoulders and guiding him back inside the suite, "let's get into some swim trunks."


Luigi retreated to his room, a little tipsy on the two Prickly Pear Margaritas that he sipped while in the small jacuzzi-like private pool. Crashing on the king-sized bed, he unlocked his phone and checked his text messages. One was from Daisy: "There's no sun in Brooklyn today. I am jealous 😠😠😠!"

He smiled and texted back, "Neener neener! But I wish you were here with me. 💗"

A moment later, he received another message: "Having fun, are we?"

"Yep. ️. Two Prickly Pear Margaritas. Getting sleepy. It's an interesting place. Definitely not Brooklyn. It's not perfect, tho. You're not here."

As the plumber let his damp body sink into the soft Egyptian cotton and plush pillows, he heard his phone ring. With one eye open, he checked the caller ID and answered, "Hey, sweetie," he murmured softly.

"Hey, sweetie," greeted Daisy cheerfully. "You sound relaxed. The consultant assignment must be treating you well."

"Somethin' like that, yeah. I'm here with…Well…a former classmate and colleague. He ordered a round – or several rounds – of these pink margaritas. Damn, I'm a lightweight. Sat outside in the small wading pool."

"Luigi, be careful. It's extremely dry in Arizona. While it's not oppressively hot yet, you'll feel the effects of alcohol more in that type of climate than in humid Brooklyn."

"Okay," he whispered. "Thought about you in a bikini. Red one."

Daisy giggled on the phone. "Did you, now? I bet you looked rather manly in your swim trunks."

"Hmm, hold on," he said. Moving the phone away from his ear, he flipped it around to take a quick selfie. Once satisfied with the photo of his bare runner's chest and top of his multicolored swim trunks, he sent it to her. "I just sent you something," purred Luigi.

To his initial delight, the plumber heard a faint, though audible gasp. Then he felt worry and panic build, and he uttered, "I…I'm sorry. I'm a little drunk and screwed up from the desert. I mean…"

"I like what I see," Daisy finally said in a husky voice.

Luigi beamed and closed his eyes. "Good. I was kinda worried about that."

"Oh?" she half-laughed, amused at the in vino veritas.

"Yeah," he breathed, slurring the end of his words. "I'm a lanky dork of an Italian plumber. You're practically a supermodel. Dunno what you're doin' with me. Like the Boss's song, y'know?"

"Isn't that song about a guy's who's either cheating or thinking about cheating?" she teased. "Got something to tell me, plumber?"

"No, never cheat on you, Daisy. Never. Mai in vita mia. Jus' meant that … You're a lawyer, a supermodel lawyer who goes to Mali, and I'm a dork who fixes toilets and did ballet. You could have a model, a football player, or a soldier."

"Well," she replied tranquilly, "maybe I want the dork. Rest now, sweetie. Text me later."

"I will," promised Luigi. "Daisy?"

"Yeah?"

"I'll give you more than I got. I promise."

They mumbled their goodbyes and Luigi allowed his body to relax into an alcohol and desert-induced slumber. An unknown amount of time had passed when a blue-jeans and green-hoodied Luigi found himself in an elevator with twenty-odd faceless men and women. He felt his toolbelt hanging around his hips. The only workman present, he noticed that the others were dressed in conservative, nondescript black, blue, and brown suits, ties, blouses, and skirts. Though he could feel the rapid movement of the metal apparatus, the floor number was obscured. The door dinged, and a fourth of the occupants exited in an orderly line. A minute later, the silver doors shut and the elevator resumed its course upward. He glanced around the space; no one said a word. It dinged and stopped a second time. As Luigi leaned backward toward the end of the lift, the doors parted to an irate hawk flying full speed at him, wings expanding to the length across the interior. He screamed for help, covering his head with his arms, as its claws were about to touch his face.

"Ah!" he yelled. His blue eyes focused on a white ceiling. Was he dead? Looking to the left, he saw sunlight streaming lowly through a glass door to the patio. Gasping for air, his last memories of the Arizona desert, Prickly Pear Margaritas, and talking to Daisy on the phone came flooding back. Sliding off the bed and moving to the room-sized bathroom, Luigi went to the sink and flicked on the cold water faucet. Cupping cold water into his hands, he splashed it on his face and rubbed some into his hair. After he calmed down from his bizarre nightmare, Luigi turned off the faucet, moved to the toilet, and made his Brooklyn contribution to Arizona water treatment. Distinct flushing echoed out of the bathroom as the plumber returned to the bedroom and put on his black tee-shirt. He checked the time with his phone – 6:02 pm Arizona Time.

There was a knock at his door, which then unlocked. "Hey, man," said Lucas. "Everything okay? I thought I heard something."

"Yeah, yeah," responded Luigi. "Yeah, it's fine."

"Want to get some dinner soon? I know you haven't eaten in a while."

"Yeah, sounds good. Give me ten minutes to change out of my trunks."

The thirty-minute drive from Troon North had been noiseless, except for a variety of Bruce Springsteen songs from Born in the U.S.A. on Sirius radio. Occasionally, Lucas eyed his former classmate who was wearing his aviator sunglasses and rubbing his head, presumably from a budding hangover. He drove the convertible up to a small white metal shack with a red and yellow awning. Putting it into park, they exited the car and walked to one of the plastic table and chair set-ups. A cranky Luigi grabbed one of the menus, but Lucas shook his head and said, "Man, there's only one thing to order here, so I'll save you the trouble." In no mood to order, he nodded, and Lucas went up to the counter to order for them both.

While Lucas was waiting on the food, Luigi's eyes widened in worry. He checked the time on his phone – 6:57 pm. Unlocking the screen and hitting the dial key for Mario's number, he put the phone to his ear.

It rang once, then twice. "Little bro," the voice answered.

"Yo," replied Luigi. "I'm in Arizona and am fine. Happy now?"

"What are you doing?" asked Mario.

Luigi looked up as Lucas returned with two Diet Coke bottles under his arm and two red dinner baskets. He placed one of each in front of the plumber. "Eating. Are you in the City?"

"Yeah, I'm with Peach. No one's home back on 62nd, so, you know."

Lucas mouthed "Mario?" at his dinner companion, to which the latter nodded. "Yeah, well, now you know how I feel most weekends," he replied to Mario. The man in purple suddenly made a goofy face and presented a military salute. Luigi glared at him.

"So you're gonna be like that?" grumbled the older brother.

Before Luigi could retort, Lucas gave another salute, then quickly formed an open circle with the same hand and put his left middle finger through it. The plumber's eyes narrowed at Lucas to tell him to shut it, though his hand had flown to his mouth to stifle his laughter.

"Weeg?"

"Mario, I'll call you tomorrow as I promised, okay? I gotta go," Luigi quickly said before hanging up the call. Lucas cut up the food with his fork and knife, smirking. "You," he spat, "you asshole."

Proud of himself, Lucas chewed his food from the end of the plastic fork. Twisting off the cap from the Diet Coke bottle, he snickered, "Fucker deserved it. Let me guess – Sergeant Masciarelli ordered an ass-debriefing at 1900 hours or else. He needs to check inside ya assho'."

Luigi ignored the comments about his brother and instead examined the basket of food – a roll with everything. "What is it?"

"It's called a Sonoran hot dog. It's wrapped in bacon, topped with everything Southwest – avocado, tomato, onion, jalapeno, mayo, and cilantro – and layered with refried beans. The bread's a Mexican roll. It's like a Chicago dog, only better."

The plumber removed his aviator sunglasses, folded them, and set them on the table. Then he regarded Lucas with a serious expression. "You know this is heresy, right?" he began, pointing downward at the roll, "As a born and fucking bred Manhattanite, you cannot tell me that this qualifies as a hot dog? Mustard and that's it. You know the rules."

Mouth half-full, he lightly snapped, "Shut up and eat, picky asshole."

He rolled his eyes and bit into the hot dog. Silence. Slowly, he began to chew and his taste buds identified the salt and fat of the meat, the creamy mayo and avocado, and the fresh pico de gallo. Taking another bite, he glared ruefully at Lucas. I hate you, he thought; this is pretty good.

"Oh, look – Luigi's come off the mountain and discovered a world outside of New York!" joked Lucas.


Following a fitful sleep and a nightmare that he could not remember, Luigi got up at seven o'clock, showered, and changed into a light pink Oxford, the Armani black suit trousers from Rodeo Drive, black dress socks, and Italian shoes. After crimping his hair with a little product and trimming his mustache, he took a selfie of his outfit. He texted Daisy, "Morning, sweetie. Sorry that I didn't text last night. I ate my first Sonoran hot dog and then crashed afterward. I promise, no more alcohol." In a second text, he sent the picture with the caption, "Dressing to impress! . I will call you this afternoon at 3-ish your time, if that's okay?"

Collecting a brown leather portfolio and a small black backpack that Lucas had gifted him, he received a response: "Morning, Luscious Luigi ❤️. I've heard good things about the Sonoran hot dog. And yes, perfectly acceptable, even welcome, to call me at noonish your time. And oh, I've sent you something." Luigi's eyes widened at the subsequent picture of a sweaty Daisy in white gi pants and tank top performing a back flip against an opponent who was caught in a mid-dodge.

He gulped. Minchia, does she know what she does to me? Another text soon came: "Enjoy your morning, sweetie."

When he went to open his bedroom door, a message from Miles came through: "Mario came by and threatened to lock me in a wooden shed upstate last night. Peach and Yoshi stopped him from following through. Also, what's this about AZ?"

Quickly, he texted, "I'm in AZ for 3 weeks. The less you know, the better. Also, sorry about Mario. He's being more of an asshole than usual." Placing the phone in his trouser pocket, he left to join Lucas in the suite living room.

Around eight-thirty, Lucas and Luigi arrived at the conference hall. The latter raised an eyebrow at the former's gray and white striped Oxford and matching amethyst-colored suit vest and trousers. "Peacocks get noticed," Lucas whispered conspiratorially to his colleague. They each took a red lanyard and name tag, white napkin, cinnamon roll with an extra helping of cream cheese frosting, and black coffee. Munching on the rolls, fifty-some-odd attendees entered the large room lined with narrow rectangular tables in rows. At the front of the room stood a middle-aged man in a suit whose haircut gave him away as ex-military and a projector with a blue PowerPoint introductory title slide, "The Future of Everyday Data: Bringing the War to the American Household." Lucas rolled his eyes dramatically as he sat down in the third row next to Luigi. "Yay," he whined in the plumber's ear, "another fucking grunt who's going to tell us that stealing data's bad unless it's the military doing it."

During the talk, Lucas doodled on his legal pad with a fountain pen. He drew the ex-military intelligence official gesticulating wildly as a rather bulky USB drive poked out of his open zipper. In front of the USB was the bent over figure – or rather the donut-like body, massive head, and wire-frame glasses – of James Clapper, whose derrière was fashioned into a port. He added two dialogue balloons for each man. The first, which belonged to the speaker, read, "Telnet: the gift that keeps on giving!" The second belonging to Clapper answered: "Well, what can you do when you're between a rock and a hard place?" Luigi glanced down at Lucas's artwork and choked, ducking down and putting his hand over his mouth to avoid attention.

The next three conference talks ranged from the security of big data streaming within Apache Spark and Kafka to the invention of health via telecommunications. As Luigi gathered from the chitchat during the coffee breaks, most of the attendees worked in Palo Alto's, Seattle's, and Portland's booming financial tech and Internet of Things industries. Some worked in low-level development operations while others were implementation specialists and consultants. Attempting to mingle among the young professionals, Luigi listened more than he spoke, which suited them, as they were occupied with one-upping each other in a competition of whose AGILE process was better. Five minutes into the lunch break, the plumber felt overwhelmed; clouds, virtual machines, big data (which Lucas renamed 'Big Fucking Deal'), white box testing, and agile processes were like Ancient Greek to him. He hastily excused himself to the men's restroom and hid in the largest of the high-class stalls.

"What the fuck am I doing here?" Luigi hissed to himself. "I'm more useful in here than I am out there." Closing his eyes to steady his breath, he thought about calling Mario and confessing everything.

As he debated whether to dial "1" for Mario, he heard the restroom door and shut, and a familiar voice call out, "Weeg, are you hiding in here?" Before Luigi could climb on the toilet seat to obscure his location, Lucas's face popped under the stall, then he slid his six-foot-four-frame underneath the bottom and faced the plumber. "Weeg, c'mon, let's get some lunch."

Luigi shook his head. "You made a mistake. I don't know jack shit about clouds or Spark or Kafka! I know robots and systems…"

Lucas raised an eyebrow. "Are you finished, Weeg? Because, no, I didn't make a mistake. I brought you here for three reasons," he said, holding up three fingers. "One: you need to learn the art of blending into bullshit. They," he pointed toward the exit, "are bullshitting. They didn't understand any more than you did. In fact, I think less. Two: for the shit that we're doing, you are the guy. Do you think they know anything about SCADA, as in water and pipes management systems? No, they know fuck all. That's what we're selling, at least initially, Weeg. The security. Finally, three: you need to relax!" He leaned in to his partner and said lowly, "Look, tonight, I'll make sure to get you laid. How long has it been since you've had a good piece of ass, anyway?"

"WHAT?" cried Luigi.

The man in the purple suit rolled his eyes at his shorter friend. "You're a guy in his prime, man. Stop being such a fucking prude."

"Thanks, but I'm fine," retorted the plumber irritably.

Lucas gazed at him disbelievingly. "If you're fine, Weeg, then why are you hiding in the little boys' room? There are only two reasons why a guy gets finicky. Either he's in pain or he's horny." He slowly approached Luigi and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder, even as the latter refused to look at him. "Look, it's nothing to be embarrassed about – truly. We've all been there. My father was right about one thing – it's better just to get it out of your system rather than be repressed and pissed. Here's what I propose: go get some room service, take a nap before our meeting tonight, and then after we meet with the backers, we take care of your little … problem."

As Luigi opened his mouth to object, Lucas unlocked the stall and walked toward the main door, calling out, "Non-negotiable, Weeg."

Though he disliked roughly eighty percent of Lucas's plan for the evening, Luigi decided to take his advice and return to the suite for a solo lunch and afternoon nap. He ordered a veggie burger, French fries, and a soda from the resort kitchen. After it was delivered to him in-room, he stripped to his boxers and undershirt to avoid getting his nice clothes dirty from lunch and wrinkled from sleep. Licking his fingers of the black bean burger's pimento aioli and avocado, he picked up his cellphone and called Daisy's number.

"Hey, sweetie," the woman answered after three rings.

"An Arizona hello, sweetie," greeted Luigi, chewing on a French fry.

"I believe that's Yá'át'ééh," chuckled Daisy. "Also, bon appétit."

"What is it? Yaa-aat-ee?"

"Yaa-ah-tay. It's Navajo language. I mean, that's the only word I know, plus, haa-go-neh, which is goodbye."

"Yaa-ah-tay. Huh," he mused over another bite of the veggie burger. "You know, it's weird. In New York, you've got everyone from everywhere – the Italians, Irish, Jews, Puerto Ricans, Blacks, Africans, and Arabs. But you never heard about the Native Americans except in some bullshit fairytale about Thanksgiving."

"Yeah," replied Daisy. "It's probably because they're either dead or on the crappiest pieces of land that the U.S. deigned to give them at the moment. And since New York was prime real estate from the start in American history, they were removed fairly quickly. Then undercounted and eliminated in the Census."

"No shit. It's a sad history. But knowing a few words here and there's good, though, even if everyone here speaks English – Yaa-ah-tay. How do you say, 'Thank you, my princess?'"

She giggled and took a sip of something. "No idea. As I said, I just know 'hello' and 'goodbye.' So what are you doing, Luscious Luigi?"

Luigi's eyes closed at the low tone in her voice. Shifting in his chair uncomfortably, he silently cursed Lucas for his rather direct and lewd conversation in the bathroom stall. "Eating," he finally managed. Desperate for a mental distraction, he added, "I'm, uh, eating a veggie burger and fries in my room. As promised, no more alcohol. Once I'm done, I'll take a short nap. I was in talks and meetings all morning, which was fine, as it was later New York time. But this desert, sweetie, it's making me tired. I mean, it's not that hot out, either. Eighty degrees."

"Could be the dry air. Drinking enough water?"

"Probably not," he admitted, wiping his mouth with the cloth napkin and setting the tray on his night table. Standing up and walking over to the mini-refrigerator and bar, he selected a bottle of Dasani, twisted the cap, and gulped a quarter of it. "I just got some water, so we'll see if that helps."

A sigh echoed at the other end. "Luigi, are you okay? You're normally more put together than this. How long have you known about this trip?"

The plumber froze and considered her words. Did she think he was incompetent? "What do you mean?" he asked carefully.

"Just that you seem exhausted and anxious. I just … I just want to know that you're okay. Even in the early spring, Arizona can be trying. I spent my summers in São Paulo and Tel Aviv, and even I'd get sick on occasion from the heat. I mean, that's humid heat. Still," she answered softly. "I'm sure you're handling it. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have …"

How could I have ever doubted her? "No!" yelped Luigi into phone. "I mean, nah, you're right. I am dealing with it, but I should pay more attention." Laying his head on the heap of white pillows of the kind-sized bed, he murmured to her, "I wish you were here with me." Then a moment later, he inquired, "Have you … have you ever felt out of your element? Just like, I dunno, found yourself somewhere you don't belong?"

There was quiet pause as she thought about his question. "Well," she started, "when I came to Columbia in the fall, actually. I just got back from Rwanda and spent the summer as a summer intern at an immigration law firm in San Francisco. I came to New York and was suddenly in class with these incredibly privileged graduate students. I guess I shouldn't talk; my father's paying my way, but hey, at least I know it. Party this, gala that, protest at the latest so-called organic grocers'. When they asked me about my academic background, I was immediately not as knowledgeable because what would a physicist know about oppression? It took me a few months before I made friends. You met Amy at the party. And eventually, I said 'screw it' and said my piece in class. Having an opinion is part of being a lawyer. Although, you know what they say about opinions?"

Luigi turned up his lips sleepily. "They're like assholes – everyone's got one?"

"Exactly."

"So you carved out your own space?"

Another pause, then she spoke, "Yeah. I hadn't thought about it that way, but yeah, that works."

"Daisy? Thanks."

"Uh, you're welcome," she replied sheepishly, unsure as to its circumstances.

They continued to talk on the phone for the next twenty minutes. Daisy described her previous night's outing in Manhattan's Little Brazil with Amy and their girlfriends, where they enjoyed a few cocktails, fresh pão de queijo, and carrot cake, as well as the morning's Capoeira workout along the river. Luigi made a mental note to check for Brazilian restaurants in Brooklyn upon his return; while he had planned on her birthday to stuff her with at least two cannoli from a local Italian bakery, he could always add one or two delicacies from Brazil or Portugal. Feeding her pastries was the last idea in his mind before his eyelids became heavier, and he dozily mumbled to his beautiful princess that he would call her tomorrow evening her time. Daisy's blissful voice echoed throughout his blank consciousness.

The young plumber, dressed in his green zip-up, blue jeans, toolbelt, and brown boots, found himself in the middle of a soundless, unrecognizable open space. In front of him was a jagged, brown and purple rock face highlighted in the orange and vermillion glow of sunset, with emerald sagebrush and celery-green cacti at its base. Luigi glanced up to the ice blue sky above; there was something empty about it, like a canvas waiting to be painted. He stood motionless for what seemed like hours until he heard the crunching of footsteps approaching from behind him. As he turned around, he saw no one.

"Hello?" he called out, only for his own voice to answer.

Precipitously, Luigi spotted a figure in the distance walking toward the rock face. Running toward the individual and crying "Hey!" and "Hello!" to get his or her attention, he felt his legs move slower and slower, yet not quite at a standstill. The person kept on his or her course without acknowledging the plumber. A strong, identifiable squawk resonated throughout the deserted space, causing Luigi to freeze and tremble in place. The hawk swooped down toward him, claws drawn. Instead of attacking him, however, the bird of prey displayed its wing span proudly, morphing into less of an animal than an image. As he marveled at the hawk, he perceived a mighty rumbling in the distance. The ice blue sky changed into a dark gray, and the red and orange light illuminating the rock face disappeared. All of a sudden his face and hands brightened from a flash of white and blue light overhead.

"Ahhh!" he gasped as his eyes popped open. Inhaling deeply, he looked around to find himself in the suite bedroom, iPhone laying on the left side of the bed. Luigi blinked awake, then checked the time – 5:00 pm. He had slept four hours. Groggily checking his phone for messages; the first was from Lucas asking him to meet him at the car by six o'clock, a voicemail from Uncle Joe demanding to know just what the hell was going on, as a miserable Mario had showed up to Sunday dinner alone, and a third message from Yoshi wanting to call him tomorrow to talk. Acknowledging Lucas's text, ignoring the Ayatollah's expletive-filled rant, and replying to Yoshi that he would be free to talk at eight-ish Eastern Time, he set the phone down and went into the bathroom. Five minutes later, Luigi reappeared and dressed in the pink Oxford and black suit trousers. He could not erase the image of the bird from his dream which was as clear as a real memory. Feeling a strange compulsion, the plumber reached for the blank Four Seasons-logoed paper and black ball-point pen and began to sketch the bird. Shaking his head every so often, he angrily ripped, balled up, and tossed several pieces of paper into the recycling bin. Luigi had not noticed that forty-five minutes had passed. His iPhone began to ring; glancing at the screen and the time, he swore under his breath, grabbed the drawing, and answered the phone. As he folded and placed it in his back pocket, Luigi said, "Yeah, sorry, I'm coming," to the ready and waiting Lucas.


At about six-thirty, Luigi and Lucas arrived at the upscale fixe-menu restaurant where five equally well-dressed men were gathered. The blue-suited maître d'hôtel greeted Lucas in French and Greek, assuring him that everything would be according to the normal standards. Nodding, Lucas guided all of his guests, including an astonished Luigi, into the private dining room. It was an intimate setting meant for une expérience de goût: the long rectangular table with its cream-colored cloth contrasted with the gold-trimmed salon-style chairs, thick-framed portraits and paintings on the walls, gleaming chandeliers, gold candlesticks, and pink, green, and yellow flower bouquets. Luigi felt like he had stepped into Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice or Honoré de Balzac's La Peau de chagrin. Lucas positioned himself at the head of the table, gesturing for two of the men to sit at his ends; the four remaining dinner guests, including Luigi, were left to the other seats. The plumber chose one of the chairs at the end opposite of Lucas. The waitstaff entered the dining room and, like a choregraphed dance at Versailles, filled each person's water glass simultaneously. Next, they went person to person for a cocktail order. Remembering his promise to Daisy, he ordered a club soda with a squeeze of lime, which did not go unnoticed by Lucas. A few minutes passed, and the waiter and waitresses returned with three house specialty drinks, a Manhattan, two tequilas, and a club soda with lime. Once everyone received their drink order, Lucas stood up and gently, yet unnecessarily tapped his water glass with his butter knife.

"Gentlemen of Dickwood and Martin Industries, welcome to a dining experience. You all know me." The room chuckled in response. "But you may not know each other. These two gentlemen next to me are Matt Valdez and John Shivers, Senior VPs in the New Orleans and Atlanta offices. Then we have Marc Lavalière in Montréal, and VPs Bob Stevens and Heinrich Mann in Phoenix. Last, but certainly not least, my right-hand man, Lou Masciarelli. Please enjoy what Arizona has to offer," he said.

His dinner guests applauded politely, then took out their iPhones (and one Samsung) to take pictures of the 'experience.' Luigi copied the others and snapped a quick photo of the restaurant as a backdrop to his club soda. He eyed the time – 6:40 pm. Twenty minutes before he was due for the Sergeant's 'asshole checking and debriefing.'

"So, Lou," began the forties-something Bob to Luigi, "are you based in Scottsdale?"

"Ah, no. I'm in New York with Lucas," he replied shily.

"Oh, okay," Bob said, nodding. "How long have you been in IT?"

Luigi paused nervously. It would not sound good at all to admit that he was cajoled into the IT business a couple weeks ago, let alone mention his day job. "Uh, a while," he finally answered. "I worked a long time in gas and pipeline infrastructure in New York, but I, you know, dabbled in computers, and Lucas wanted to get into SCADA, asked me to help. We go way back."

The short brown-haired Bob nodded again, satisfied with the answer. "Ah, you're a gas guy. If you couldn't tell from my accent, I'm from just outside of New Orleans. John Shivers over there was my former boss at Dickwood and Martin – he's from Atlanta. I worked an offshore rig for a number of years before going to work at D&M."

Relaxing visibly at the man's history, Luigi smiled. "Yeah, I was a plumber for a number of years, so I did pipe design and installs, HVAC, you know. Family business."

"Yessir, a trade school man. I like that – not one of those bozo college kids who got their pieces of paper from UT or Tulane, but don't know shit about flow. My daddy and granddaddy were oilmen, too, so I understand where you're comin' from."

They chatted pleasantly a little bit about New York and Louisiana before Luigi's phone began to vibrate impatiently. Giving an apologetic smile, he excused himself from the table and walked out of the French doors. Answering the phone, Luigi answered nonchalantly, "Hello?"

"Do you know what time it is?" hissed his brother. Luigi checked the phone time – 7:10 pm.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm at dinner."

"At dinner?!"

"Yeah, you know, an evening meal where people sit down and chat."

"Don't be a fuckin' smartass, Weeg. I had to explain to Uncle Joe and Aunt Lucia that you went to Arizona to do god-knows-what," growled Mario.

"Huh," deadpanned Luigi, "that doesn't sound familiar at all to me. Not at all."

"Fuck you, little shit."

"Save that for Peach. As you can hear, I'm alive. Anything else?"

"Don't you dare hang up! Don't you dare. I don't care if you're having an eight-course meal with Scott the Shitbucket," yelled the older plumber.

Luigi rolled his eyes, growing agitated at his older brother's tirade. "Look, what do you want, Mario? What? Never am I ever asked how I'm doing! Also, why can't I enjoy myself without you for one fucking time?" he shouted into the phone. Embarrassed at the unintentional volume, the younger plumber took a deep, calming breath. To put distance between the budding argument and the dinner party, he walked with the phone at his ear out of the restaurant.

There was a hush on the other end for a full minute. Luigi was about to prompt him when Mario replied, "Aight, you want to know what I truly think? I think you're a fuckin' moron for going to the desert as a fuckin' errand boy for that piece of shit. You wanna know what I want? I want you to stop givin' me, Peaches, Joe, and Lucia agita! And why can't you enjoy somethin' without me? You can … You do … in fuckin' Brooklyn!"

"There's just no pleasing you, is there?!" Luigi fired back, tears forming at the corner of his blue eyes. "First, youse tell me that I need to grow up and fight my own battles. Then when I do, or at least trying to, I'm a fuckin' moron? Know what? Youse can go fuck yourselves – you, Peach, Joe, Bowser, Tony. I'm done with you! You're not gettin' anymore calls. And since I'm such a moron, you don't need to worry about me fucking up, 'cause I don't exist for you anymore. Vi dico addio!"

"Woah, wait, Luigi, let's …" Mario began, but was cut off by the end-call button.

Wiping the fallen tears from his cheeks, Luigi switched his cellphone off and returned to the dinner party. Plastering a fake smile on his face, he resumed the conversation with Bob and the other VPs who were curious at the young 'gas and pipe guy' at the end of the table.

Meanwhile, Lucas watched on, sipping his Manhattan contentedly, as Luigi recounted tales of epic disasters and lesser-known facts about the New York sewer system. He knew that the old-timer vice presidents would find the young Luigi Masciarelli irresistible, as he spoke their language and understood them.

Never mind that he planned to use Luigi as the Trojan Horse to wreak havoc on their shitty systems.

While cybersecurity specialists mentally and logistically jacked off on worms, backdoor attacks, zero-day attacks, and other sexy buzzwords, they rarely planned defenses against the most basic, yet effective attack – one from the inside using patience and social engineering. Lucas preferred the term 'social constructivism.' Dickwood and Martin, a chief military and government contractor, was regularly awarded billion-dollar contracts to construct and maintain major infrastructure projects such as nuclear power plants, space tech and satellites, and intercontinental gas pipelines. Unfortunately for the government, however, Dickwood and Martin – known as 'Dickweeds and Morons' by engineers and computer scientists alike – was among the less intelligent of companies, mainly due to its size and arrogance. Fifteen years ago, a Dickwood and Martin engineer programmed a state-of-the-art interplanetary spacecraft with the incorrect measurement system, rendering it useless. The financial loss was on the order of $100 million. Like a good Pick Up Artist, the man in the purple suit would feed the 'Dickweed and Moron' Heads a nice, four-course dinner, dessert and coffee, lull them into a state of false security in a deranged ménage à trois, and finally initiate a brutal penetration and ghosting. He knew Luigi wouldn't mind – his family certainly wouldn't.

Following the several-hundred-dollar-per-person, four-course meal of cauliflower soup, tête de moine, Argentinian pork belly and shellfish, and herb crusted rack of lamb and the exquisite dessert consisting of amaretto cheesecake, 2011 Quinta do Noval port wine, and Columbian coffee, Lucas and the happy vice presidents exchanged business cards and promised to follow up with a conference call in a few weeks once they reviewed his proposal thoroughly. They also requested Luigi's business card and offered to fly him out again to Scottsdale or the New Orleans office in the next few months. Lucas jokingly told them that there would be no poaching, though another trip to Scottsdale would be welcome.

Tossing the keys to his partner, he gestured for him to drive. Momentarily pleased with himself, Luigi slid into the driver's seat as Lucas hopped on the car door and swung his long legs to drop into the passenger seat. Starting the engine, Luigi inquired, "Now what?"

"Well, now, it's time to have fun!" whooped Lucas as a laughing Luigi maneuvered the sports car to exit the restaurant valet parking. "You were a fucking hit, man! Plus, free trips to New Orleans or Scottsdale. There'll be a conference call with D&M in a couple weeks, but I think they'll go for it. Turn left and then a right at the next light. It'll be a fat paycheck of a couple million to start."

"Okay," Luigi said while driving east toward the Old Town. "But what are we doing, Lucas?"

"Security for their big projects. SCADA is protecting large shit like pipelines. And I do mean big. That's why they needed to meet you. They want someone who gets them."

"Yeah," he replied slowly. "I get that. But why don't they have their own security? If they're working for the feds, then they got the military to do that."

"Wrong!" interjected Lucas. "Military doesn't give a fuck about non-military applications. It's their mistake, one from which we'll gladly profit. We get the money, then we move into city infrastructure. Then AI. We can't do the latter until we prove ourselves. Amazon and Google didn't just get rich from providing a public service – they did security shit and bent over for multiple contractors to pad their research fund. Turn left."

Luigi followed Lucas's direction and spotted a mall of ivory and sand-colored buildings next to tall palm trees. The latter gestured him to park in front of the largest building. Realizing from the loud music that they were at a gentlemen's club, Luigi groaned inwardly. "What are we doing?"

Flashing him an lecherous grin, Lucas ripped the key from the ignition and jumped out of the convertible. "I told you, man! We're going to have some fun and get you some tail."

The plumber's blue eyes increased in size by at least three times. "Woah, woah, woah! No way. I'm all for you having fun if that's what you want. Me, no thanks."

"No dice, no bueno," retorted Lucas. "You gotta bag one chick or I'm not giving you the keys."

"No, Lucas!" growled Luigi, his forcefulness startling the taller New Yorker. "Look, I'm seeing someone back in Brooklyn."

"And?" he replied, raising his arms in a nonchalant shrug. "What she doesn't know won't hurt her. She'll probably even be grateful than you're not begging for it from her."

"You know what?" hissed the outraged plumber, "I'll get a cab to the resort. You do whatever. I won't cheat on my girlfriend." He began to walk away, leaving a perplexed Lucas standing in the parking lot.

Time to investigate this 'girlfriend' in Brooklyn, angrily opined the latter to himself as he stared incredulously at the plumber's back.


Luigi strolled aimlessly down the lamp-lit streets of the Old Town until he came across a Western-motif strip mall surrounded by a variety of trees. It was Sunday evening, so only a few of them – a coffeehouse and a few gift shops for the tourists – were still open past eight-thirty in the evening. He took out his phone and switched it on to check his messages and emails. Nothing save a few spam and advertisements. It was just as well, Luigi rationalized; he was tired of the constant insults and abuse for trying to improve his life. A fleeting fear of Mario going to the union crossed his mind, yet he surprised himself by feeling nothing. The worst that the union would do is dismiss him. Although he would lose his job at the shop, as union-sponsored companies were prohibited from hiring non-union candidates, he was relatively certain that Bob and John would offer him a position at D&M if Lucas's plan went south. While weaving around a large wooden wagon wheel, he nearly tripped over a folded sidewalk sign. Swearing, Luigi was about to move on when a figure caught his eye – the same bird of prey that he saw in his dream. Backtracking to inspect the sign more carefully, he read aloud: "The Dreamcatcher Tattoo Shop."

Entering through the glass door to the parlor, Luigi looked around at the black and silver walls displaying rows of previous tattoos that the owner had ostensibly done, from Betty Boop to red roses inscribed with "Never Again!" The shop itself was clean to the point of sterility; the wooden floors had been recently mopped, the black tattoo beds smelled of medical-grade cleanser, and the desks were organized and clear of clutter. A thin, older woman with long, braided black hair and Asiatic-like features appeared from the back room. "Hello, can I help you?" she asked.

"Um, I … I don't know, actually," answered Luigi a bit sheepishly. "I saw your sign and was curious."

She nodded curtly, adjusting her turquoise bead necklace. "Okay, well, have a look around at the walls. If you see something you like, let me know."

As she moved away, Luigi called out to her, "Uh, sorry, ma'am. Do-do you do custom tattoos?"

The woman gave the Italian an amused, if annoyed smile. "I'm a tattoo artist, kid. Do you have something in mind?"

"Uh, yeah, maybe," he answered, taking out the piece of paper from his back pocket and unfolding it. "Can you do this? Drawing was never my strongest area, but I think you get the idea."

Taking the piece of paper, she studied it warily, then gave it back to him. "Why do you want that design?"

Luigi's shoulders sank and he tossed a hand carelessly. "I'm sorry; this was a dumb idea. Sorry for wasting your time."

As he moved to leave the parlor, the artist spoke, "I never said it was a dumb idea. I just asked why. Do you know what that symbol is?"

A dejected Luigi pivoted toward the Native woman and remarked, "No, I don't, to be honest. But I keep seeing it. That's what brought me in here. You have that same symbol on your sidewalk sign. I … Look, you'll think I'm nuts, but since you asked – I keep seeing it in my dreams. Hell, awake now. Ever since I got here from New York."

She nodded. "Well, it is nuts that a non-Indian guy from New York would keep seeing that symbol." The woman paused, then said, "Tell ya what. Sleep on it. Tomorrow, take a drive somewhere out of Phoenix. You look like you could use it – no offense, kid. After, if you still want me to do the tattoo, I will. Be here at 7 pm sharp. No late appointments."

Luigi cocked an eyebrow at the fifties-something woman. "Do you always make your potential customers wait?"

Shrugging, the woman flatly replied, "No. Just New Yorkers who come asking for Native tattoos."

"Alright," he acquiesced. "Two questions, and then I'll leave as you asked. First, where do I go? This is my first time outside of the East Coast. Second, what do I call you?"

"You can call me Michaela. And Superstition Wilderness is nice this time of year. I think you'll also appreciate the irony."

Muttering his thanks, Luigi refolded the piece of paper and put it in his back pocket. As he departed the tattoo parlor, he made a mental note of its location. Unlocking his phone, he searched for the number of a Scottsdale cab company and called it to reserve a ride. Forty-five minutes later, the cab pulled up to the curb. The inside smelled like cigarettes and dry beer, though the driver, Maribel, was thankfully sober. She and Luigi had a pleasant conversation about Times Square and all of the landmarks that she had seen on her last trip to New York City during the thirty-minute ride. At the end, he tipped her well and retreated to his room of the empty two-bedroom suite. Unsurprisingly, Lucas had not returned from the gentlemen's club and probably would not before 2 am if he was at all the same as he was in high school. Exhausted from the desert and time change, Luigi removed his button-down and trousers, leaving his undergarments, and went straightaway to sleep. At some point in the night, he vaguely heard a woman screaming in ecstasy while a man grunted like an animal. Nonetheless, sleep called him back to unconsciousness, a skill that had evolved over decades of life in noisy Brooklyn.

The next morning, Luigi awoke and completed his routine by 6:45, roughly a half-hour after the orange and red Scottsdale sunrise. Donning a green tee-shirt, blue jeans, street shoes and seizing the black backpack, he noiselessly opened and crept out of his bedroom. Passing Lucas's room, whose door was ajar, he saw the visible bare ass of his friend as well as the naked sleeping body of an unknown blonde. Beside the two passed out forms laid a small plastic bag of multicolored pills. The plumber shook his head in disgust and left the suite to eat breakfast at the one of the open restaurants. Over huevos rancheros, he texted Daisy pictures from the previous night's 'dining experience' and a flirty good morning. As for his messages, there were two, one from Yoshi apologizing for the need to reschedule due to a last-minute experiment redo and another from Miles. Luigi proposed Tuesday evening to Yoshi at the same time. Then he read Miles's text:

(5:47 am Arizona/MST) "Mario harassed me again last night. Instead of locking me in a closet or threatening to do something expectedly twisted, he just sat on my couch, not saying a fucking word. Peach and Rospo had to come get him. I dunno. Why is he so upset over AZ of all places? Is there something you're not telling me?"

Luigi texted back the following message:

(7:21 am Arizona/MST) "Hey. Kick his ass out if he does it again. We're not talking. It's nothing you did, and I'm telling you all that I can. Mario's upset because he doesn't have his maid and cheerleader anymore. He's Peach's problem now. Not yours, not mine. I'm okay; don't worry. Let me call you tomorrow? I might have something in the morning, and Yoshi or Daisy may call me afternoon my time, but evening (-3 hrs) works."

After breakfast, the hotel concierge arranged for Luigi to be driven to a recommended rental car agency in north Scottsdale. He rented a silver 2013 Hyundai Tucson and received directions and recommendations for a day trip to the Superstition Mountains. The rental agent recounted the legend of the Superstition Mountains to him with barely contained glee. So named by the Pima, they have been the source of mystery and murder for hundreds of years. A religious stronghold for various Arizona tribes, the rock cliffs and forest remained relatively untouched until the 1840s, when the Mexican Peralta family opened a gold mine deep in the mountains, uncaring of their significance to the First Nations. According to popular legend, the incensed Apache tribes ambushed the Peralta gold miners and killed all but two members of the Peralta family, who fled into modern-day Mexico. The 1848 killings gave the area its rather ominous name – the Massacre Grounds. Several people searched in vain for the mine's location, yet came up empty or disappeared altogether. Numerous maps had surfaced over the years, only to become lost or misplaced; those who claimed to have found the Peralta mine, including a German con artist named Jacob Waltz, were unable to return to it, either due to lost path, natural disaster, or financial misadventure. Though Luigi cared little for the supposed gold mine or treasure, he was moderately perturbed by the potential of getting lost and disappearing in the Arizona wilderness. Another Apache legend had it that just beyond the mountains was the entrance into the underworld – into Hell itself.

The drive to the entrance, per the rental agent's directions, was forty-five minutes through dry sagebrush, old Protestant churches, wooden fences, cacti, and dry, tan dirt against the backdrop of reddish-brown rock cliffs. Luigi arrived at the base of the trail at around 9:20; as it was early spring, the weather was sunny, though cooler in the sixties Fahrenheit. In the sunlight, the mountains had a bluish hue against the green shrubs and Saguaro cacti at its foot. Locking the car and grabbing his black backpack which contained water and a few snacks, he entered the Massacre Grounds and began the five-and-a-half-mile hike toward the mountains. About twenty minutes into the hike, he had crossed a dry river bed, whose soil resembled a ruddy quicksand, and crossed an open space decorated with ten, fifteen-foot high Saguaros which – Luigi's New Yorker mind smirked – stuck up from the ground like giant middle fingers, spikey white and green mutant-like cacti, and a purple-blue rock face. Luigi gasped when he first saw it up close, as it was the very same one that he had seen in his dream.

How did Michaela know? he wondered.

Crossing a few bunny hills, he continued across the relatively flat stretch of mountainous desert. Instead of honking horns, shouting, swearing, and grinding steel that characterized Brooklyn, the two audible sounds were the birds chirping and the crunching of his shoes against the dust and rocks of the trail. Initially, the silence was disconcerting; New Yorkers generally distrusted quiet and desperately tried to fill it with nonsensical chatter or kvetching. However, he grew to appreciate it, as he could, for the first time in a long time, hear his inner voice clearly. On occasion, he would glance behind him to the distant blue-brown mountain range. Eventually, the hills grew a little steeper and rockier through a forested area scattered with yellow, pink, and purple flowers, and his breathing became harsher due to the elevation change. Goddamn, I should quit smoking, he grumbled as he briefly stopped to catch his breath and drink some water. Luigi started moving again, almost slipping on the loose silvery rocks as he climbed over them up a reddish-silver rock formation. "Shit," he muttered at himself. After pausing to catch his balance and breath, he persisted over the rocks. In due course, he found another flat clearing with an almost golden-brown tinge to the ground; behind him, four bluish-brown mesa peaks. Stopping again to catch his breath, the man in green gazed up to the clear blue sky to find a hawk soaring forty or fifty feet above him. Feeling a sense of peace and tranquility, he approached a dense tree grouping, then wandered to desert and large jagged rocks. After another fifteen or twenty minutes – he had long lost track of time – the plumber was on top of a mountain cliff, the drop was at least the same as an office building or small skyscraper in Brooklyn. The panoramic view of the landscape was sublime; it was if Luigi could see every mesa, hill, and mountain in Arizona, and the Earth was no longer a flat surface, but a toothed, coarse, and baked edifice constructed and molded over a period of eons. Progressing along the man-made trail, he finally reached his destination – a curved, ruddy rock formation where one could see incoming traffic yet avoid being seen. The area was shaded and cool, with a threadlike stream of water streaking downward thirty-five or forty feet. Like a good Millennial, he snapped a selfie at the waterfall, then sat on a rock adjacent to the water to eat a peanut butter granola bar that he had bought in the resort's little general store.

A lifelong city boy, Luigi had a general mistrust of anything that could not be regulated or mastered by human engineering and ingenuity. It was for this reason that he assiduously avoided Central Park and open spaces as a child; he was convinced that monsters and wild beasts lived in its thick ferns and trees. Mario Senior tried to take his young son camping in the Catskills; it did not go well, as the little Luigi constantly cried and hid behind his father, certain that ghouls, bears, and Sasquatch would come and eat him. As a prank, the thirteen-year-old Mario crept outside of the tent and roared like a grizzly bear, causing the five-year-old to wet himself in fear. The fireman was not amused by his eldest son's 'joke' and yelled an assortment of invectives in Brooklynese and Italian. Thereafter, Luigi refused to go camping with his father, much to the latter's sadness.

Now it was too late to go with him, the young plumber noted regretfully.

At the same time as a tear escaped Luigi's eye, the hawk returned and, landing on the cliff above Luigi's position, squawked. He looked up at the orange and gray bird who was watching him. "I'd share if I knew that it was safe for you," he said. The annoyed hawk flew away, no doubt in search of tastier birds to eat. Checking the clock on his phone, he decided to make his way back to the parking lot. He had to prepare for tonight.


About two hours later, Luigi was driving toward Mesa and civilization when he received an incoming phone call from Lucas. He had seen a notification for several text messages and voicemails, though had no particular desire to reply to them right away. Clicking on the green key and putting the call on speakerphone to drive, he answered, "Hey, what's up?"

"Weeg, where the hell have you been? I got up, like, at ten, but you were gone. The concierge said that you went to a rental car place. You didn't … return to New York?" Lucas inquired with a vaguely worried tone.

Luigi laughed. "Nah, man. I just went for a little hike in the Superstition Mountains. I'm driving back, actually."

"You? Hike?"

"Yeah, me. I went hiking."

"Oh. Right. Um, I was gonna see if you wanted to do a few of the golf holes," he said with a perturbed voice.

"I'll pass, Lucas. Thanks, though. I'm pretty tired from the hike, so I'll probably get a late nosh or lunch. What time are we leaving tomorrow and where are we going?"

He heard Lucas talking to someone, presumably a golfing partner. "Yo, Weeg, I gotta go. Be ready around 10 am tomorrow," the man announced before ending the call.

Luigi shook his head in irritation. For whatever reason, Lucas refused to tell him where they would be for the next two and a half weeks. Given that he was obfuscating instead of making a spectacle of possible culinary or hedonistic activities, Luigi knew that it was serious, and he did not want to respect his father's demands. In addition to this evening's plans in the Old Town and Daisy's warnings about the arid climate, the plumber committed to abstaining from drugs and alcohol; the hairs on his back stood up, and he could feel a cold wind coming. Dialing Daisy's number, he was soon disappointed when he was routed to her voicemail. Leaving a message that he was driving back to Scottsdale and would be available until nine o'clock New York time, he semi-cheerfully told her that he still missed her and wanted to hear her voice.

An hour later, he collapsed on his resort bed, cozy yet refreshed. Thankfully, the suite was empty of blondes or drugs, and he assumed that Lucas was playing a round of eighteen at the Four Seasons' golf course. Munching on an assortment of chocolate chip cookies, he finally checked his voicemail and texts: two from Lucas, one text from Daisy telling him that she would need to skip their chat due to a group project that had gone to hell, one from Yoshi confirming their call tomorrow, and a final voicemail from Peach. Unable to resist or ignore her, he played the latter's voicemail:

(1:13 pm Arizona/MST) "Luigi, it's Peach. Normally, I wouldn't call you, but …" she sighed, "it's Mario. I don't know what you and he have been fighting about lately, and I know it's not my place to get involved. He won't talk to me. He goes and torments poor Miles about you. Giuseppe has called several times, but Mario won't talk, even to him. Will you please call him or even me? I know he's hurt you. I've had talks with him about how he treats you. But I'm scared, Luigi. Please, Luigi. Do this for me, for Mario."

Luigi furiously picked up one of the pillows and threw it across the room. He dialed the "1" and waited, only to hear Mario's pre-recorded voice. After the beep, he growled, "You selfish sonofabitch. Leave my friends alone, leave me alone! Talk to your pseudo-wife. Tell Giuseppe that the Family Fuck-up went to Arizona and is now out of their hair. Finally, get on the plane to Bragg and finish your service. This is the last time that I play nursemaid."

Hanging up the phone, he laid against the fresh pillow cases and slept dreamlessly until just past five o'clock. Luigi stretched awake and checked his phone. Daisy sent him several texts expressing her envy that he had gone on a hike to such a beautiful place. She vowed to quiz him for details tomorrow evening. Smiling, he wrote back that he could not wait to describe what she missed and, perhaps one day, they would return together. Checking the suite for Lucas who was still absent, he left him a voicemail saying that he was going out and would see him in the morning.

The plumber took a shower and put on a black tee-shirt and cargo pants – tucking the folded piece of paper in one of the pockets – before leaving the suite to the rental car. To kill time and satisfy his hunger, he drove twenty minutes back to the Sonoran hot dog stand. Despite his general opposition to any hot dog other than a Nathan's with mustard, Luigi considered the Sonoran hot dog more of an Arizonan experience than the previous evening's four-course monstrosity. Having said that, though, he had to concede the amaretto cheesecake had been pretty tasty. Finished with his dinner, he returned to the rental and pulled out of the parking lot on a course toward the Old Town. Twenty minutes later, he maneuvered the SUV into an angled parking space near the tattoo parlor. Double-checking that he had his wallet and drawing, he locked up and walked into the Dreamcatcher at precisely seven.

Michaela, who was dressed in a red flowing tunic, black jeans, and turquoise necklace, glanced up to the younger man, unsurprised to see him. "Evening. Whenever you're ready, you can sit in the chair. Is this your first tattoo?" She handed him the consent forms with the price and a pen.

"Hello, and yes," replied Luigi, signing and returning the forms as he moved to sit in the black-cushioned chair.

"Okay. Normally, this tattoo goes on your back across your shoulder blades, but that's an area that is recommended to those who've had a tattoo or, better yet, several. So I'll put it on your arm. It'll have the same effect. That okay with you?" she asked matter-of-flatly.

"Uh, yeah. You know, whatever you recommend."

He handed her the slip of paper, which she declined, sitting next to him and rolling up his right tee-shirt sleeve. "I don't need it, kid. What colors do you want?"

Luigi froze. In the excitement in doing something so permanent and forbidden, he had not considered the finer details. Alarmed, his blue eyes met her expectant brown ones. "Uh …"

Slipping on a pair of bifocals, she gave him a look of sympathy and amusement. "It's your tattoo, kid. In your dreams or on your hike, what colors did you see?"

"Yellow, red, blue, orange, green, brown, and silver. All of them are okay. Minus green." Luigi rolled his eyes to himself, "God, no more green."

Nodding, she put on a pair of medical gloves, sanitized his skin where she would apply the tattoo, and shaved the top of his triceps of hair. "So, kid, I'm not gonna lie; this may hurt. It'll also take three or four hours to finish. That okay with you?" Luigi mumbled a 'yes,' to which she continued, "Alright. Let's begin." She used a prepared stencil and stuck it to his skin with soap. Peeling off the paper to leave a blue-purple trace, Michaela started to tattoo the outline of the bird. At first, the young plumber felt a prick; a moment later, he winced at the burning sensation.

"Relax; remember to breathe," she murmured to his initial discomfort. "What's your name, kid?"

"Luigi Masciarelli."

"Ah, New York Italian. We don't get many of you in these parts. What brings you out to Arizona?"

"Uh," he grimaced slightly, "it's complicated. Going into business with a … friend."

"What kind of business?"

"Systems security."

"Mmm," the woman replied, focusing on the outline. "Everyone's into that IT stuff now. I heard the money's good. But just like with everything, too much technology ain't such a good thing. With great power comes great responsibility. Just like your tattoo."

"You never did tell me what it meant," he pointed out.

"You're right; I didn't. Since you're here, might as well. It's called a thunderbird. For most First Nations, the thunderbird is a being of immense power. When it flies, it creates thunder from its wings and shoots lightning from its eyes. Rain and crops come as a gift from thunderbird. It's also a protector of human kind. That's why some tribes use it as an identifying symbol while others construct poles at the ends of towns. Like your scarecrow. Some people think they've also seen thunderbirds up by Tucson. Pictures of it. Fifteen feet tall."

"That last part is bullshit, Michaela," interjected Luigi.

She grinned mischievously. "You're right, kid. The truth is that thunderbird is a powerful force, not to be used willy-nilly. Just like with anything powerful, be careful what you ask for. Did you find what you were looking for up on the mountain?"

"What do you mean?" he inquired, frowning.

"Well, you came in here, spur of the moment, for a tattoo that you saw in a dream. It's not Italian. You don't live in Arizona, but in New York. You came out here for a job that may or may not pan out. Either you like to live by the seat of your pants or you came here in search of a path," she responded.

Luigi turned away from the older tattoo artist to contemplate her statement. "Yeah," he finally said, "I guess you're right. I'm not sure if I found what I was looking for, to be honest. I've kinda found a lot of moments or opportunities that I've missed in life." He swallowed harshly, "That I regret."

"That's a path – it's the path not taken. We all have those paths in life. The what-ifs. But some of those paths are unhealthy, and that's why they're paths not taken," she mumbled as she continued her work.

"Is that Apache philosophy? Sorry, it's a question from both curiosity and ignorance."

"Not necessarily," she replied. "I'm fifty-five years old, I'm a grandmother, and I've seen some shit in my life."

"Fair enough," acknowledged Luigi. For the next several hours, save basic direction on the coloring of the tattoo, he remained in quiet mediation, as Father Sal had often required him to do in school. His current path is a path not taken. Or is his prospective path one that is not taken? Was it both? On one hand, he felt that Michaela's statement was the most accurate description of his life that he had heard in a long time. Yet on the other hand, it was also the most confusing. Until recently, he accepted his fate as another Masciarelli plumber who would, like Nonno and Joe, marry a nice Italian ragazza and live in an obscure house in Staten Island or Bensonhurst. However, here he was in Scottsdale, Arizona getting a tattoo, making professional connections with company vice presidents, eating and staying in first-class establishments, and planning a future with a non-Italian Oxford graduate-cum-lawyer. He mulled over the vast space of land in both his dream and at Superstition Mountain – it was miles and miles across and appeared never-ending.

How could he go back to a mile-long strip of Bensonhurst pavement after that?

Michaela yawned and put away her tools a few minutes short of 11:30 pm. She took some ointment and cleaned the finished tattoo. "Okay, have a quick look before I wrap it up."

In the mirror, Luigi lifted his arm and kept his sleeve back for a better inspection. The thunderbird was outlined in black. A second, inner outline in yellow and orange contrasted with the bird's deep blue and silver wings. Finally, its chest and eyes were made a crimson red. He gasped in excitement, warmth, and gratitude, recognizing the color scheme and shading from a long-buried insignia.

He found what he was looking for.