Author's notes: Thanks to everyone who played the game. The winners are Swahili and Finnish. I will start writing in those languages in the next two chapters. I tried to throw them in this chapter, but it wouldn't have made sense with what I needed to accomplish here.
WARNING: there are homophobic slurs used in this chapter. I don't condone or like their use. But this character's a major asshole, and it makes sense for the context of the story. Plus, the guy gets his comeuppance. So bear with me.
Finally, please read and review. It's like kitty crack; not only does it help me see what you guys are thinking, but it's a motivator ;). I don't bite. Really. Anyway, thanks for continuing to support the story.
Chapter 20: The Practical on Elm Street
Luigi blinked awake sleepily to a somewhat cloudy morning, his faintly snoring girlfriend sprawled across his chest. Looking down at her, he grinned and, enfolding her body with his tattooed arm and running his thumb down her bare back, reached over to his charging iPhone to check the time. 8:06 am. With his right hand, he entered his security code and read his messages and texts. He had received one expectedly vulgar message from Lucas promising five hundred dollars if he would text him a pic of the Amazon's Grand Tetons, a second from Miles asking how Philly was, a third from Yoshi wanting to know if Daisy had really "beating the fucking shit out of that loser," and finally, an article from Mario featuring San Francisco being on the "10 U.S. Cities with the Worst Traffic," despite New York City having also made the list. Rolling his eyes for the fifty-ninth time at his brother's passive-aggressive complaints, he set the phone on the table and focused on the sleeping beauty in his arms. Stroking her medium-length hair out of her immobile face, he laid a kiss atop her head. She mumbled in response, but did not wake, much to Luigi's mixed amusement and displeasure. Although he loved watching her eyelashes flutter and pouty lips move, he cherished watching her gasp and arch her back even more. For that Sunday, he planned on taking a shower with his princess, getting a quick bite before check out, and driving back to Bensonhurst, where he would serve her in bed.
Feeling the call of nature, he gently slid from underneath the princess and the covers and moved to the adjacent bathroom. As he emptied his bladder, Luigi noticed the large tub that had not been used. Though the 'lizard brain,' as he called it, proposed several different scenarios involving he and Daisy, he ordered his body to calmarsi. The plumber was somewhat embarrassed to admit that he had never felt this stimulated, not even by Éclair or Mark. In Éclair's case, it was the excitement of experiencing the first and with a fellow outsider; as for Mark, he loved the notion of what he thought was receiving love and pleasure, when he saw so little of them after his father's death. He loved it when she took charge, when she signaled that she was ready, and when he worked to satisfy her, even when they were both unsure of what she wanted. There was a connection that had not existed with the others, and it drove him crazy – a burning, aching vitality that was primal as well as blissful. He loved the idea of that sense of innovation.
Flushing the toilet and cleaning his hands, Luigi felt feminine curves press into his bare back and lips brush his trapezius, which caused him to moan and growl at the same time. "Good morning, plumber," he heard a woman's alto voice say.
He smiled in the mirror at her while turning off the water and drying his hands. "Good morning, cat-face. Did ya sleep well?"
She hummed as she laid another half-open kiss at his right deltoid. "For the most part. Except I woke up a little cold."
Spinning around to face her with midnight blue eyes, he seized her body and brought it to his. Kissing her neck, he asked, "This better?" while backing her against the opposing wall.
"Yeah," she breathed, leaning into his caresses. "Dio, if I didn't have that fucking LSAT tomorrow, we could have stayed one more day in Philly, and I'd have three extra hours to fuck your brains out."
"Speaking of our return, did you need to study?" he inquired as he kissed her moving his hands up and down her back.
"No, have," she took a breath and ran her fingers through his mane, "studied enough, I think."
Luigi stopped to gaze into her eyes seriously. "You sure? Daisy, I … I know how important this is. I mean, if you need more time and privacy, I'll …"
Before he could continue, she kissed him soundly. "First, we're going to have a bath, after which I'm going to fuck you until you forget all about clogs, pipes, and … fit, plumber. Second, we'll need to get something to eat before hitting the road. Third, we get back to Bensonhurst, put on a few of those records, and I'll fuck you some more until I'm relaxed for the LSATs and you've screamed for mercy," she purred against his lips. "Go get those little granola bars that I saw you pilfer from the store yesterday night before the concert. I can't have you bitchy." She pecked him on the lips and gave him a commanding eyebrow.
To many men, Daisy's domineering attitude might be off-putting and even entitled at times. However, it relaxed and excited him, as his anxiety over constantly having to lead and perform perfectly was abated, and he could focus on the experience itself. He grinned salaciously at both her coarse expression and plans. "Mmm, I had thoughts about that tub myself," he said lowly. "Your wish is my command, my princess." He broke the embrace, and practically jogged into the bedroom to grab the granola bars, one of which he immediately opened and bit into, as well as a condom packet. He whimpered in anticipation as she turned on the water to fill the tub; still chomping on the snack, he grabbed the packages, returned to the bathroom as quickly as he had left, and shut the door with a slam. Giggling echoed throughout the loft.
The day passed by quickly for the pair as they had, more or less, followed Daisy's proposed plan. Dropping off the car at the rental company that was conveniently a couple blocks from 17th Street, they walked hand-in-hand to the brick house and swiftly retreated into his bedroom. Four hours later, a sleepy and tranquil Luigi, dressed only in a pair of green boxers, descended the stairs and walked into the kitchen, flipping on the overhead light on the side. Although Daisy was awake and volunteered to help, he persuaded her to stay in bed while he prepared her favorite, shit in a pan. Searching through the refrigerator, Luigi blew a sigh of relief that he had all of the ingredients and did not need to make a last-minute trip at just past eight in the evening. Chopping the vegetables and heating both the sauté pan and water pot, Luigi did not hear the garage door open and shut. He was thinking about the day's activities when he felt an arm put him in a headlock.
Daisy lay comfortably in her boyfriend's bed, waiting for dinner when she heard shouts downstairs and laughter. "Fucking asshole, cut it out!" echoed throughout the house. She then heard another familiar voice: "Ah, you know, we were practicing maneuvers, so I didn't get 'nough practice with puttin' little bros in headlocks." Mario, she thought with a shaking head. She heard more swearing and chuckling in Italian, then more shouting, which included an odd-numbered permutation of profanity in descending order: seven uses of "fuck," five of "asshole," three of "shit," and one "goddamnit." Sliding out of bed to investigate the ruckus, she gathered a pair of sleep shorts, underwear, sports bra, and light blue tee-shirt that had been discarded onto the floor some time earlier, dressed, and sashayed downstairs to find Mario in his Army combat uniform and tan boots circling his younger brother and the chopped vegetables menacingly. Two sets of identical blue eyes looked up at the woman who strolled over to her boyfriend's side. She narrowed her amber eyes at the soldier; not even he would steal her dinner. Luigi glanced down at the lioness's silent warning to the other lion and smirked. Mario crossed his camouflage-covered arms and raised an eyebrow at them. Daisy took a brief look at his combat uniform, which had the "Special Forces," "Ranger," and "Airborne" tabs lined one on top of each other and a black staff sergeant's insignia in the middle.
"Buonasera," the soldier greeted her. "I see you're … stayin' over for dinner?"
"Yeah," she answered somewhat awkwardly. "Luigi and I got back this afternoon from Philly, and since my LSATs are at Brooklyn College …"
He nodded slowly, still maintaining his body position as Luigi busied himself with the quick sauce. "Bene. What are we havin' for dinner?" he asked.
"The Army didn't feed ya or something?" griped the younger brother, tossing the pasta into the boiling water and giving the sauce a stir. He pulled out a second, smaller pan for Mario's anchovy sauce.
"Yeah, chow was at noon. Dinner was either the fuckin' Springfield Arby's or drive three-and-a-half hours for real fuckin' food. I chose the latter," Mario replied, eyeing the pans. "Looks like spaghetti alla puttanesca. Davvero, fratellino? Li stai preparando? Questa è la tua sfacciata, huh? C'mon…"
Daisy crossed her arms and gave an eyebrow raise of her own. "Mario, stai scordando che capisco italiano. E questi spaghetti sono i miei preferiti perché è Luigi che li fa per me."
Mario's eyes widened at his brother's girlfriend's retort in, to his dismay, decent, albeit Spanish-accented Italian. "Aight, GI fuckin' Jane," he grumbled tiredly in English. "I'll set the table, bring out some antipasti. There's also some leftover birthday cake, too, I think."
It took Luigi an extra ten minutes of cooking due to making the extra helping of the spaghetti, as he knew that Mario would demand his two-thirds, especially after maneuvers. At dinner, the older brother did not disappoint, indeed collecting his portion of both the antipasti and spaghetti. The younger plumber, however, made sure that his lioness ate well, with Mario occasionally asking if "she was a hippie or a cancer patient" for not eating meat or fish. Daisy seemed to take it in stride, retorting that she would rather leave most of the organic Bensonhurst dicks to pasture. Luigi watched with mixed pleasure and shock as Mario nearly choked on his pasta while she calmly twirled the long strands around her fork. Shaking his head briefly, he quickly changed the subject to military politics and the brass threatening him with a promotion to first sergeant, which he had successfully avoided or declined for years. At coffee and cake, Mario and Luigi discussed the practical exam as well as including Daisy's LSATs. Nervously, Daisy noted that since she planned on applying to Stanford and Ivy League law schools such as Harvard, Yale, and Columbia, she needed at least a 174 or 175 out of 180 to be competitive. Dropping his dessert fork and dramatically taking a sip of his espresso, Mario began to rant about "that fuckin' Stanford again" and "motherfucking earthquakes." This started an argument between the two brothers in fast-paced Italian that Daisy could not understand completely, ending with Luigi telling him to vafanculo and pulling her by the hand to bed. When pressed as to what was said at bedtime, Luigi refused, instead telling her to focus on her exam and not to worry about it.
Monday morning, Luigi woke his princess at five-thirty for a shower and breakfast before driving her to the exam at Brooklyn College. Arriving at the campus, Daisy and Luigi exchanged a lingering kiss, the former whispering a very suggestive proposal once she was done with her eight-hour test. Chuckling at his predictable moan of delight, she exited the red car and walked into the building. As for Luigi, he took a moment to calm down before driving a half-hour in traffic to the shop. A fresh cornetto and coffee from the morning bakery in hand, he walked into his 'practice area' to prepare for his practical next week. By lunch, he had received a slew of emails; the first were from his asshole brother regarding the questionable safety regulations of San Francisco and Bay Area homes and the second from Stanford Admissions confirming his scholarship and enrollment for Summer Quarter. He had selected and was accepted into three courses: Introduction to Machine Learning, Computer Security for Manufacturing and Control Systems, and Technology Entrepreneurship. Since Daisy was still taking her LSATs, and Mario was out on a job near Gravesend, he decided to grab a chicken arepa from a Venezuelan restaurant ten minutes away from the shop by subway. Three-quarters of the way into his lunch hour, he received a text from Lucas confirming both his residence in Palo Alto as well as a receipt of the paid tuition and fees, explaining that he also secured health insurance for him through the university. While making the return journey back to the shop, Mario sent him a picture of the following sign posted in the glass door of the Koopa Bar:
"Due to an unexpected family emergency, the Koopa Bar will be closed until further notice. We apologize for the inconvenience and hope to serve our clients soon!
-Thank you for understanding,
John Bowser"
Although Luigi did not want to know just why Mario had decided to frequent the Koopa at lunchtime, he was on one hand smug that that shit bar and thus the fight circuit would be hors de combat, but he was on the other hand unnerved, as the Koopa had never 'unexpectedly closed' in its three-decade-old history. It had not shut its doors even when John and Marco's mother passed away a few years ago. Could their father, Jimmy-B, have died? Another possibility popped into his mind: could Cousin Pete have used that information about Marco against the Bowsers? Both scenarios were equally possible, though Luigi had no desire to ask Fat Tony or the Colorado Cousins. He inwardly cursed; in the excitement of his exams, the acceptance letter, and spending quality time with his lioness, he completely forgot to notify Pete that he was going to California this summer. Making a mental note to email him later that evening, he sent a single "WTF?" to Mario's picture and resumed his work.
That evening, Luigi had nothing but Daisy on his mind. Following the arduous eight-hour exam, they met up at her place. Since she was prohibited from bringing anything past a purse into the testing area, Luigi kept her suitcase and other items from their weekend getaway in his trunk, which he brought to Carroll Gardens. Though it remained unsaid, they knew their time together was limited, as Daisy was leaving for Dakar on Wednesday. The minute that he arrived and she opened the door, he greeted her with a hungry kiss and dragged her to bed. A couple hours later, they relocated to the parlor, their bodies covered only with Daisy's bedroom comforter, to enjoy delivered vegetable pad Thai on the sofa. She talked about the LSATs, how she thought that she was close to, if not over the minimum score of 174, but that she would likely need to risk a second attempt in October to score at or greater than 175. Luigi wordlessly shook his head and kissed her bare shoulder, unenvious of facing competition so stiff that nothing less than a 175 out of 180 would do. Quietly, as he kissed her shoulder again, he asked if he was a distraction, to which Daisy gave him a reproachful stare and wrapped her body like a cocoon around him.
Luigi loved the newly found support and acceptance. Why did she have to go? She did not need to go to Dakar for law school; undoubtedly, she could get into Columbia or NYU with her brains and background. He chastised himself for his hypocrisy, as he was soon departing for an eight-week stay in Palo Alto. Fundamentally, Luigi understood her reasons; although he was certain that she had not experienced or been aware of the 2008 Financial Crisis, working contract to contract and dead-end job to shittier job taught him to value opportunities and go for the best, even when they seemed remote to working-class guys like him, as the Fat Cats would never otherwise permit the competition. Yet his attachment to her was growing, and he wanted nothing more to care for and support her as she did for him.
Despite Mario's continued grumbling about the Sfacciata and earthquakes, Luigi spent the two days before her departure at her brownstone in Carroll Gardens, only leaving to report for work. He texted Sal that he would work late on Wednesday evening so that he could take his girlfriend to JFK, thus confirming the suspicions of everyone in the shop that 'Xena, Warrior Princess,' also known as the 'Hinchapelotas,' was in fact his lover. At the drop-off zone for international departures, they kissed and nuzzled each other goodbye. The young lioness promised to keep in daily contact with her chosen partner while on the hunt for zebras; her cowardly lion huffed sadly and reluctantly acquiesced to her prowl half-way around the world. The drive back to the shop was a lonely one for Luigi. After work, he stopped along the way to Bensonhurst to pick up a present for his cousin Vinny, whose birthday was on the 23rd – the first day at Stanford. He returned at around ten o'clock in the evening to Mario stretched out in the old Lazy-Boy, waiting for his little brother to get home.
A forlorn Luigi entered the shop on Tuesday morning. Attempting to refocus his mind on both the practical and Stanford, he heard a profane uproar in English and Spanish between John Slaughter and Sal Maldonado. The fat union representative displayed a guiltless look while the Puerto Rican shook with rage. He had never seen the usually mild, almost meek master plumber that angry. As the young Italian plumber stopped to observe the scene, and his blue eyes connected with his boss's enraged and ashamed brown ones, he vibrated with trepidation. His fear grew as Sal motioned for him to come into his office, turning his head away from his mentee. Luigi's steps toward the small office felt heavier, like chains around his ankles, and he counted the seconds for which it took to cross the shop and open the door. Thirty-seven.
"Just the man that I wanted to see," announced the blue-suited Slaughter with barely contained glee. Sal glared heatedly, motioned again to Luigi to close the door after him as he narrowed his eyes.
"Oh?" Luigi retorted, closing the door.
"Do you want to tell him as his boss?" chortled the fat man to Sal.
The Puerto Rican raised his crossed arms and answered in a falsely calm tone, "This is your show, man. I fix the pipes, so I don't need to go further down the hole to the very shitty bottom."
Red-faced at Sal's refusal, Slaughter blustered and said, "If you insist. Lou, apparently, you're behind in your union dues. We've bailed you out a couple times, but you don't get to benefit from the privilege of UA 2 forever. We're kicking you out. And since this is a union-sponsored shop, Sal will have no choice but to let you go. Sorry. You can re-apply once you've repaid the six-hundred-odd dollars that you owe."
Gasping for air, unable to believe what he has heard, Luigi growled, "What? That's three fuckin' years' worth! Normally, you get a notice when the UA didn't receive 'em." With icy blue eyes, he added, relaxing, "Fine, I'll go to the union myself and ask the treasurer why the bookkeeping sucks so much that I can prove my checks went through."
Slaughter shrugged. "Do what you got to, kid. Sounds like a bank problem to me. But until you can prove that these checks 'exist' or somehow were … 'misplaced,' you're out. And even if they were, kid," he leaned toward the disbelieving, angry Luigi, "let me tell you: no one cares to let a greenie little faggot back in. No one. So you might as well give up on that practical exam, unless, of course, you like being a scab. You want to take the union on? Good luck getting a job in New York City. You're done!" The fat man grinned. Looking up to the still irate Sal, he spoke, "I'll let you handle the rest, Sal. But the little fuck needs to be gone ASAP before I jerk your fucking contracts. And make no mistake – you try to employ him under the table, and I'll make sure that all of your journeymen, your helpers, including those Mexican wetbacks that I'm not supposed to know about, are laid off." Continuing to sneer at the two men, he opened the door and, with a victorious bounce in his step, walked out of the office.
Luigi leaned over Sal's desk for support. Sal rushed to his side and murmured, "Forget him, mijo. I know you paid your dues. If you hadn't, you'd have received a notice. I would have been notified. This is one of Slaughter's shit games. Focus on passing that test on Friday."
"Why?" whispered Luigi. "Even if I passed, I wouldn't be able to use it. I'm blacklisted."
"No, no, no!" cried Sal. "Pass the exam. We'll go to the union, prove that you paid the dues with your bank, and then file a complaint against Slaughter. Make them take it to a tribunal."
Luigi shook his head, standing up to head out of the door. "We both know how this works, Sal," he said weakly, "Even if I were to win at the tribunal, I'd have a target on my back for making trouble, and the union bigwigs hate me as it is. And I'd have to give up going to Stanford. What more are they gonna take?" As Slaughter had done a minute before, Luigi left the bewildered Sal in his office, though his body nearly bent over his feet as he headed toward the exit.
Using every single curse that he had learned from his abuelita, Sal reached in his back jeans pocket and dialed Giuseppe Masciarelli's number, hoping that his colleague and friend would remain calm enough to avoid committing premeditated murder.
The young plumber tossed a few grapes from the plastic produce bag to the waiting mallards who had gathered in a semi-circle to receive their daily offering. Although he had promised his lioness that he would refrain from smoking, a lit Marlboro popped from his lips, the nicotine calming his nerves as well as any homicidal urges. He needed to retreat to his secret place, the docks at Crescent Beach Park, to avoid chasing down Slaughter and ripping him to pieces, limb from limb. It had been years since Luigi felt so defeated; even if he were to prove – and he probably could – that he had faithfully paid his dues, Slaughter had somehow managed to acquire enough friends in high (or low) places who not only protected him from several complaints and even royally fucked-up jobs, but moreover kept him in a position of power. Even when both he and Mario had each filed a complaint to be 'reinstated' after Slaughter failed them both in their classwork and final exams. As a Masciarelli, he knew better than most that the union sometimes tolerated poor behavior "to keep the peace" among factions. Passing the practical was thus a moot point; although it was technically illegal to run closed shops, many New York plumbing companies were unofficially closed to prevent 'scabs' – non-union workers who worked lower wages and thus could underbid union workers. Because it was a system that protected thousands of working-class guys in the already punitive price gouging practiced by New York City landlords, big businesspeople, and politicians, no one dared challenge the status quo, even if honest guys were occasionally victimized by it.
A tear dropping on his phone screen, he silently begged Daisy to answer his pleading text to call him back while ignoring the three phone calls from Uncle Joe, Mario, and Sal. It was nearly eleven o'clock in the morning, which would make it three o'clock in the afternoon in Dakar. Whereas his rational mind told him that she would probably call him later in day, Luigi needed to hear the comforting alto of her voice. A week into their separation, he still wept with fury and loneliness. After this indignation, he refused to go home to Bensonhurst; undoubtedly, Mario and Giuseppe would be waiting to escort him to his bank and then to Queens to 'plead his case,' just so he could get back in the union. But at this point, he was not sure that he really wanted to be reinstated. With Slaughter as business representative and shielded by certain higher-ups, this would inevitably happen again. Would he even have a pension at the end of his working years? Nevertheless, Luigi had Stanford, which, should he do well, seemed to be more promising and lucrative. His phone rang and he excitedly checked the name, sinking in disappointment at "Lucas" displaying on the screen. Taking a drag of his cigarette, he answered the call, "Lucas, it's not a good time right now."
"Yeah, I heard about what happened this morning. That fucking Slaughter, man! Fuck!" Lucas yelled. Luigi heard him honk his horn irritably at what sounded like midday Manhattan traffic.
"How'd you find out?" asked Luigi suspiciously, throwing some more grapes out to the now impatient mallards.
"Pichler couldn't keep his fucking mouth shut about it," he grumbled. "Look, you at home? I'll come pick you up; we'll go for a drive, get some lunch. We'll figure out a plan."
"Lucas, I'm not at home," he responded, taking a drag of the half-burned Marlboro. "I'm not going home for a few days. I just need time away from everything. Fucking Mario and Joe are gonna preach at me about how the union's just so fuckin' amazing. I appreciate it, b…"
"Weeg!" interrupted Lucas. "You need time in a nice place, with good food and drink. And frankly … better you learn this now rather than later. If you pass the practical and get the master plumber's license, you don't need the union. That's run by the city."
Luigi scoffed. "Yeah, try getting a contract without the union. And those SCADA systems are … "
" … Private as well as municipal," interjected Lucas. "And those guys, Weeg, hate the goddamn union more than you or even I do. They'll love you because of what you represent. Look, hear me out; if you don't like my plan, then you're free to do something else. No questions, no judgment. If I give you the address, will you meet me in, like, two hours? I promise, no Manhattan," he added to his friend's unasked question.
"Yeah, alright," agreed Luigi. He had nothing to lose by at least listening to Lucas's proposal. He took down the address and his eyes widened. "That's … "
"Barnum Island, yeah. It's my mother's home. On the rare occasion that she visits New York, mainly to flaunt her newest boytoy, she uses that house because it's near the water. She lets me use it whenever I need to get away from my asshole father. Mama won't mind you being there," explained Lucas. "There's no time limit. Well, Sunday, I guess, as we're going to California. You can even bring the Hottie."
"Fortunately or unfortunately, she's, uh, she left for Africa last week. She'll be gone until August," he murmured.
"Really? Africa? Oh well, alright. Disappointing, but we'll figure something out. See you in two hours, okay, pal? I'll bring lunch."
After Lucas hung up, Luigi finished his cigarette, tossed the remaining grapes to the demanding ducks, and walked up the small trail to his parked car. He made the nearly two-hour drive from Eltingville to just north of Long Island, listening to his stomach grumble throughout the trip. Luigi finally spotted a beige, Greco-Roman style mini-villa with a black BMW and its vanity plate "WAH2U" parked in the driveway. He checked the address again and confirmed that it was the correct house. Maneuvering his small red Suzuki next to the BMW, he turned off the engine and disembarked. The tall Lucas opened the door with a grin, "Weeg, you made it!" Smiling softly, Luigi through the gray-blue French doors to a mini palace with ivory and gold-accented walls, framed brown, gold, dark blue, and red tapestries from fifteenth or sixteenth-century Tuscany, crystal chandeliers, hand-made ivory, rose, and gold furniture from Milan and Florence, a marble-countered kitchen, and a large flatscreen television. Persian and Afghani rugs with a central fireplace completed the comfortable salon. Lucas guided them to the glass living room dining table where he had put out appropriate gold and ivory dining ware for the fragrant Persian meal at the center: jeweled saffron rice, koobideh, eggplant, Shirazi salad, dolmeh, tea, and baklava.
Lucas let Luigi enjoy his meal halfway through before resuming their previous conversation. "Weeg, as I was saying, hear me out: you're getting the master plumber for credibility to design SCADA upgrades. That's not just for New York. Yeah, some might kiss the ass of the Holy Union, but both Washington and Albany are getting fucking tired of them. Why? Because they encourage aging infrastructure and won't get with the twenty-first century, all the while telling people for whom they should vote and demanding higher pay for the same or fewer number of hours worked." Before Luigi could object, Lucas held up a hand and fork to his friend. "I'm not completely shitting on the unions – they had and have their place. No one wants to work twelve hours per day and get paid peanuts. But they care more politics and the illusion of working for the common guy. No offense, but Slaughter didn't seem like he knew his shit, pardon the pun. So how the hell is he even a rep? How is he even able to influence your career, if the union protects its own?"
Chewing slowly, Luigi did not reply. Nothing that Lucas had said was incorrect. Instead, he weakly shoveled more jeweled rice into his mouth. The man in the light purple Oxford went on, "Weeg, no offense, but maybe this is a blessing in disguise. Better now you see what kind of people they are. So here's my proposal: take a few days, stay here; enjoy the fresh air, the sea, calms, lobsters. Phone or Skype sex with the Hottie. Slaughter's little paroxysm won't make any difference in the long run because I'll pass the exam part of the CSSLP tomorrow morning, and after you kick ass at Stanford, you can take the Security+. It'll be a piece of cake compared to that written test you just ass-reamed. If you were to have that cert, you'd be earning the same, if not more than what you were as a journeyman or even as a licensed master plumber. You'll have a standing invitation at whatever school, leave Crooklyn, and we go on as planned.
'Now if you do want to show up on Friday morning, then following another victory, you'd have ammunition against the union because," he chuckled, "the city would do a background check for your license. Tell the truth; tell them that you were fired illegally and not given due process. Gather your evidence and submit it. Now, the Department of Buildings is obligated to report any fraudulent or suspicious activity that they encounter along the way, which includes how you were 'fired,'" he gestured using air quotes, "and that's actually on Sal the Beaner. He won't, of course, put his pension on the line to lie for the union, so it goes up, up," he twirled the air with his finger, "up the ladder who would have to answer to city and state government for keeping someone like Slaughter. The same people who hate their guts and look for ways to union-bust by vote. So … either way, it's no biggie and a win for you. But I warn you, Weeg: Joe the Plumber and Sergeant Major Dickerson will want you to work within the union. They'll try to get you to capitulate. La famiglia won't mean shit when it's their pensions." He put a hand on Luigi's shoulder. "Don't make any decisions today or even tomorrow. Enjoy yourself; Slaughter gave you a well-earned vacation as far as I'm concerned. Finish your lunch, then nap a little. I'll be in the study doing some last-minute review."
Luigi finished his meat and rice, had a piece of baklava, and brought his tea to one of the upstairs bedrooms where he slept dreamlessly for three hours. His eyes fluttered open to his iPhone; remembering his message to Daisy, he hurriedly grabbed his smartphone and unlocked it to a single text from her:
(4:15 pm ET) "Sorry, sweetie; I can't call today because the roaming is $$$, and I'll need to buy a throwaway phone from here 😡 😡 😡. Since you probably can't call a French or African number, can I call you tomorrow at 4 or 5 pm your time, right before curfew at the woman's hostel? I leave for the eastern part of the country on Thursday. I don't know yet. But what happened? Something must have. Can you email me, and we'll talk? I'm worried about you, sweetie, and I miss you already."
He texted that this was fine, and that he would email her a synopsis. Opening his email, which already had a "?!" from Miles, meaning that he had obviously heard something from either Joe or Mario and wanted his side, he composed and sent to his lioness a summary of the morning's events as he understood them. Closing his email app, he opened the text and message apps which contained three text messages from Mario and two more voicemails from Giuseppe. Jesus, leave me alone! he internally complained as he skimmed the text messages:
(2:16 pm ET) "Bro, listen, I heard about the shit that Slaughter pulled. He will NOT survive this. Zio, Sal, and I got your back. Just call me."
(4:58 pm ET) "Fratellino, dove sei? So che questo fa schifo, ma facci sapere dove sei. Parliamo di questo."
Sobbing quietly out of rage and frustration, Luigi could not bring himself to open Uncle Joe's voicemails. Lucas was right; the three of them – Sal, Mario, and Giuseppe – would certainly 'calm' him down like a bambino, sympathize to a point, encourage him to take the practical, and then order him play ball with the very institution that screwed him over. Wiping his eyes and sniffling, loathing himself for his emotionality, he shoved the phone underneath a pillow to hide it from view. With a deep sigh, Luigi moved off the bed and went into the bathroom to wash his face. He heard Lucas call out his name, asking if he wanted to go out for dinner in an hour, and that khaki shorts were in the closet. A little before sunset, Lucas and Luigi sat underneath a large maroon umbrella outside of a Long Beach kosher deli, eating a pastrami on rye and pickle. Sandwich in hand, Luigi enjoyed the semi-warm wind and salt on his face. He let Lucas, who was dressed similarly except with a purple tee-shirt, prattle on about the CSSLP and what fun they would have in California. Since he would be spending the next eight weeks in Palo Alto, Lucas decided to relocate his work to Los Angeles and fly up on weekends. Luigi shrugged; visiting Napa Valley or spending more time surfing sounded even better now that he had no other commitments, save returning in the fall for his lioness. He could stomach one more year in Brooklyn. Then once Daisy finished school, they could leave New York and spend the next few years in sunny California.
Early the next morning, Lucas had returned to Manhattan to take the CSSLP, leaving Luigi to sleep in and enjoy a fresh bagel and coffee out on the deck overlooking the marina. The Manhattanite had texted him that the private chef and staff would be coming around 12:30 to prepare lunch and bring a fresh couple changes of clothes for both of them. This suited Luigi well, as he wanted to go for a walk to clear his head and relax. Using his spare charger, he turned on and unlocked his phone, which, from the previous night, received ten more worried and angry emails, texts, and voicemails from Yoshi, Miles, Mario, Joe, Sal, and Daisy. Ignoring all except for his girlfriend's email, he opened it and read the following:
To: lmasciarelli42 Wed, Jun 18, 5:07 AM
From: sarasamina415
Subject: My Shitty Tuesday
WTF? ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS? Can they do that? I thought that unions had bargaining agreements and by-laws to prevent the illegal or categorical actions of certain members? Fucking hell. What do you intend to do? If you want, I can ask my father for legal advice, as he has had dealings with unions, albeit in California. I can't imagine that they're dissimilar from NYC. Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. 😢. I will definitely call you tonight. Answer it if it's from a number beginning with +221.
Your Cat-face,
Daisy
Though appreciating the gesture, Luigi ultimately decided against involving her father; he did not want to listen to yet another older male's opinion on the matter. Some time away from the situation would do him good. Sliding on his green tee-shirt, pair of fresh khakis, yesterday's socks, and sneakers, he went out for a three-mile walk, puffing a little; he made a mental note to enroll in a sport or perhaps pick up ballet again to get in better shape while in California. As he strolled along the series of dead ends and canals, his mind flashed back to comparable early-morning promenades as a teenager, flanking a curly-haired woman in her early twenties who hobbled with a cane. The first of their walks was just the length of their sleepy street in Eltingville; every week, they would get a bit farther until the cobalt-colored Atlantic Ocean just peaked into view. Not quite as tall as he, yet taller than Mario, the woman bore a striking resemblance to her father, Giuseppe: dark curly hair, glasses, blue eyes, and direct speech to the point of 'having a mouth.' But unlike her father, Cousin Maria's no-nonsense attitude was tempered with Zia Lucia's prudence and deep sense of justice, and she was strong, muscular, and burly like her Nonno Masciarelli. The notoriously stoic Maria had cried a single tear upon seeing the ocean for the first time in four months subsequent to the intentional accident that had, in her doctors' words, "crippled her for life." Having been released from Mount Sinai in Manhattan, the lead physician had admonished her to be glad to be alive and use the time wisely to invest in a new direction.
Returning shortly before ten o'clock in the morning, present-day Luigi went upstairs to take a shower and change into some cleaner clothes while waiting for Lucas's personal chef to arrive. Towel wrapped around his waist, he stretched out on the guest bed and, with a heavy sigh, played the unanswered messages from Joe, Sal, and Mario. Each one begged him to call him, to contact his bank, and to provide the evidence to the union office in Queens. Managing to call his Brooklyn bank using the calmest voice that he could muster, he explained the situation to the sympathetic middle-aged clerk, and pleaded with her to trace all deposited checks going to UA Local 2 Office in Astoria. A half-hour later, the bank clerk telephoned him, confirming that the dues were indeed received by the UA Local 2, via its American Bankers Association routing bank number, and offered to send him written documentation via certified mail and encrypted PDF. Thanking the woman profusely, Luigi requested both and disconnected the call.
Thank goodness that he had insisted on paying via check instead of money order or electronic methods.
It turned out that he could indeed prove that he had paid his dues and was illegally dismissed. He would arguably win in a civil matter, and more than likely, the union would try to settle out of court rather than risk thousands in punitive damages. But would it matter? Slaughter was correct that, even if he were reinstated this time, they would unfortunately get smarter for the inevitable third attempt – as the saying went, three times, a charm. So what did he want to do? What could he do? Reaching no conclusion, he opted instead to look up the booklist for Stanford and order the few that he needed via Amazon and Barnes and Noble.
The personal chef, Sergio, and his wife, Luisa, pulled up in a black van alongside the house about five past noon. Though he was still wrapped in the large ivory towel, he helped them carry the food and clothing inside; taking a package of men's boxers, fresh socks, khakis, and a black tee-shirt from Luisa, he hurriedly went upstairs to get dressed. Taking the dirty laundry downstairs to the washing machine, Luigi abruptly heard a sports car engine shut off in the driveway and an audible Waa-hoo echo throughout the street. He saw and covered his eyes as Lucas did several victory crotch chops indicating that he had passed the exam.
"Goddamn, man, did you have to do that with your crotch?" moaned Luigi, his hand still covering his eyes.
"Fuck, yeah!" cried Lucas who ran over and picked up the shorter male. "I took the ISC, shat on its face, ass-raped it sideways, burned its carcass, and then pissed on the ashes. Look!" Luigi took the paper from him and read the score – 982 out of 1000.
"Shit," he breathed, staring at the print-out. Once again, Lucas did a series of vigorous crotch chops to celebrate his passing score.
"My man, now we're official!" he shouted, wrapping his arm around his friend. "I'm a certified cybersecurity 'professional,' so I can sponsor you for shit. We get you the Sec+, Stanford, and then, we're off to the races. Fuck the union; let them get thermo-nuked by the future."
Luigi smiled, although the idea of Lucas being a licensed cybersecurity professional, especially after what he had suspected the latter of doing to his phone in California, was a scary one. A nagging, more ethical inner voice demanded just how deeply he was willing to be enmeshed with such a personality. Much to his surprise, Luigi found that he defended his former classmate more than he condemned him, as he had, so far, been right about his badly-needed sense of direction and exploration of the world. Furthermore, had Lucas not insisted that he apply to Stanford, the former plumber could very well have been financially dead in the water, as Slaughter would have eventually found a reason to blacklist him. The union was Giuseppe's and Mario's world; it did not have to be his.
At a quarter past one in the afternoon, Luigi and Lucas sat down to a feast of Maine lobster, seasoned vegetables, fresh bread, white wine, Pellegrino, and, for dessert, triple chocolate cheesecake with espresso. Following the elaborate celebratory meal, both Lucas and Luigi went upstairs to nap, leaving Sergio and Lucia to clean and wrap up the leftovers. Since the tall man preferred to eat a variety of different meals and cuisines throughout the week, he allowed them to take home whatever they desired, as he despised wasting good food. Luigi slept for two and a half hours; upon waking in time for the call from his lioness, he grudgingly texted Mario that he was fine and "needed space" after his elder brother had threatened to introduce Slaughter to his Army-issued service weapon. Going to the kitchen for a glass of water, he padded upstairs just in time to see an unknown number flash on the screen with a +221. Per Daisy's instructions from the email, he shut the bedroom door and he answered sleepily, "Hey, Cat-face."
"Hey, sweetie," replied Daisy. "I'm so sorry for the delayed calls. My fucking phone company wanted to charge me seventy cents per minute plus roaming fees because Senegal's apparently not a 'major service area.' Whatever. So I got this phone and phone card, which is much cheaper. Anyway, you don't want to hear about the finer points of phone service. How are you doing?"
"I'm," he exhaled and settled back in bed, "I'm okay, I guess. I think I'm still in shock. I, uh, contacted my bank, and sure as shit, the fuckers did receive my checks. But it's a done deal. Even if I can prove that this was illegal – and it was – this is the second time that Slaughter's done this shit to me. If you count other members of my family, it's … twenty-fucking-million times. And then what? Daisy, I … I like my work, I like the security that the union can bring, but I don't want to live my life with a target on my back until – if – I collect a pension." He sniffed, then stared at a point on the wall for a full minute before hesitantly adding, "Is … Is that cowardly?"
"Oh, sweetie," Daisy murmured soothingly, "Dio, no! It's not cowardly. No one would want to live like that! I guess," she sighed sadly, and he could hear her chewing on her lip. "I guess I just don't want you to be forced out. If it were your choice, that's would be one thing, and I would completely support you. But do you want to walk away, just like that? I mean, can you still take the test?"
"Yeah," he replied. "The exam's run by the DOB – Department of Buildings – which is the city, and not the union. If I passed, I would still be eligible to become a certified New York City master plumber. However, my ability to receive contracts or work in virtually any shop would be next to nil without the union."
"But that's illegal. Closed union shops were struck down by the Supreme Court in 1985 – Pattern Makers v. NLRB."
Luigi chuckled a little at Daisy's legal objection, as if she were arguing his case before a civil court. "Yes, sweetie. I may not know the exact court case, but I'm aware of the legalities. That being said, New York City, as well as most metropolitan areas of the East Coast, is very pro-union and has unofficial rules designed to protect it at all costs. In theory, it's to protect both the integrity of the craft and working guys like me. Plumbing especially needs protection against unscrupulous schmucks who employ fuckin' idiots and use cheap building and piping equipment that break in the summer and winter. That shit kills people. Now that being said, there's a lot of corruption that often follows a widely protected institution like a union. Families and whole generations run the show, and beefs can go on for decades. Not to mention issues with organized crime."
"So … you mean, the Mafia?" asked Daisy.
"Well, yeah. The AFL-CIO was run by the Mafia well into the 1980s. Jimmy Hoffa, anyone?"
"Point taken. I see your dilemma – why fight for an institution that has become a snake pit? You're going to Stanford next week and, presumably, you'll do well there … You could go anywhere."
"Yeah," he said quietly.
"Would you leave New York?" she inquired just as softly.
"Eventually," he nodded to himself. "That's always been the plan. But I won't … I won't go right away. That thing I've been doing since February or March may take off sooner than anticipated, so I'd stay for another year, and then … I could go anywhere. Anywhere, Daisy." Anywhere you'd be, he added interiorly.
"Well, in that case, you need to weigh the pros and cons of the situation, sweetie," she concluded uncertainly. "What would be the benefit of taking the master plumber exam versus saving your energy and fucks given? And that … é como trocar seis por meia dúzia – it's exchanging six for a half-dozen."
"Agreed. I just need to give it more thought and make a decision by tonight."
"And what's Mario think?"
"I haven't talked to him about it. You … You're the only one, Cat-face, and there's a reason: you're an outsider, so you'll tell me what you can observe. Mario's a union man, as is Uncle Joe. They'll try to get me to work within the system to get reinstated, even if I may not want that," Luigi said.
"But Mario knows the system. Perhaps he could …"
"Daisy, sweetie, this is my fight. I don't want to be beholden to Mario or Uncle Joe. And frankly, I don't often approve of Mario's methods. He's too quick to jump into a situation and thinks his way is the only one. I … I don't want to fight forever. I'm not him."
Daisy let out a puff of air and replied, "No, I get it. It's just … I hate that they're taking this from you. Alright, I'll come out with it: I want you to fight them. But you're right that I don't have an outcome in mind. That has to come from you."
Laughing a little, Luigi leaned into the phone and closed his eyes. "I know, sweetie; I know. But it's the outcome that concerns me and what makes thinking it through so important. Speaking of outcomes," he leered in a deeper, seductive voice, "someone told me that, uh, ph-phone sex can be so … enjoyable, you know, for both parties."
"Oh?" she murmured to him.
"Yeah. I miss you and your body."
"Yours, too. No fuckboys."
They bantered for a few minutes, becoming more and more breathless. Grinning salaciously, Luigi growled a rather inventive suggestion, to which she agreed wholeheartedly. He moved the phone to the crook of his neck to hold it in place while running his hands excitedly down his chest to unbutton his khakis.
Thursday morning, the young Brooklynite stretched, rolled toward his charging phone, and smirked appreciatively. As X-rated and crass as Lucas could be, Luigi admitted that his 'idea' was both fun and relaxing. Following his rather uplifting phone call with Daisy, he fell asleep, drained, and waived off his friend's calls to come out for dinner. His stomach thunderously growling for food, he got up, showered, and changed into his laundered clothes from Tuesday. Stretching as he descended the stairs, he found Lucas at the table with fragrant Italian bread, butter, strained Greek yogurt, jars of honey and peach, apricot, cherry, and marmalade jams, sliced strawberries, apricots, kiwis, and cherries, and a silver pot of Kona coffee. Looking up at the tranquil Luigi, he smiled deliberately like a Cheshire Cat. "Good morning, Weeg! I take it your phone call with the Amazon Queen was … what you needed? Does she play the flute?"
Sitting down to the table, Luigi gave Lucas an angry glare and declined to answer the question, which caused the taller man to guffaw, mouth half-full of bread and marmalade. "So," the Manhattanite began, "I thought that we'd go hang at the beaches in the Hamptons and then come back and make plans for Sunday's departure."
"The Hamptons?" Luigi mumbled over a mouthful of bread and apricot jam. Swallowing quickly, he made a sour face. "That's kind of far, and I …"
He shook his head, making a no-no gesture with his gold butter knife. "Weeg, you need TLC before you arrive in California. Especially after what happened on Tuesday, you don't need that garbage in your head. Let Joe the Plumber and Sergeant Major Dickerson play those stupid games. It's beneath you. Nah. Hamptons will do you a whole lot of good. Be ready to go at, like, noonish. It's a two-hour drive, traffic permitting, so we'll get there in the afternoon. There's this amazing fuckin' rum bar on the water where the young tits are just …"
As Lucas gesticulated wildly in front of him, Luigi felt strangely discomforted by his friend's plan to travel to the Hamptons. He chewed his piece of bread deliberately and nodded robotically. Too self-occupied by his plans for the Long Island-grown Twin Peaks, Lucas had not noticed his friend take a trip into his own head, wondering why he felt so ashamed at the situation. Once finished with breakfast, Luigi excused himself by saying that he was a little tired from yesterday, to which Lucas gave a knowing wink and a thumbs-up. Retreating to the bedroom, he checked his iPhone; once again, he saw that there were voicemails from Yoshi, Miles, Mario, and Joe, all presumably asking or demanding what he intended to do. Lying flat on his back to look up at the ceiling, he still had not come to a decision. As Daisy said, it was six to one, half a dozen to the other. Suddenly, his iPhone buzzed, alerting him of an incoming text. Ready to send Mario a pinned map to Fucking, Austria, complete with corresponding flight path from New York to Vienna and car rental, Cousin Maria's name popped into view. There was no text, just a link to a poem by Rudyard Kipling's "If." As he read it, the last stanza drew his attention:
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!
He walked out onto the bedroom balcony to look out into the tranquil blue marina. She knew him so well, and she was right. It was never about the union, which was filled with lying, unscrupulous bastards, but to fight for what he was owed by work ethic and right. He had the right to test and the right to shove the inevitable pass down their throats. He smiled; Daisy had in fact said something similar – "But do you want to walk away, just like that?" Leaning against the railing as if to gather his physical strength, a solemn Luigi thence collected his things and descended the stairs to opened French doors and a relaxed Lucas who was stretched out on the deck furniture. Noticing that his friend had his car keys in hand, he jumped up to confront him.
"Where are you going? We're not leaving for another hour."
"Lucas, I … I'm not going to the Hamptons. I'm gonna take the test tomorrow morning," answered Luigi. "Since I'm no longer employed, I'll need to rent a truck, stop by Bensonhurst to get my equipment, and check into a hotel in Staten Island. Thanks for letting me crash here; it was what I needed. But I got to do this."
The man in the purple frowned in dismay and threw up his hands quizzically. "W-why? I passed the ISC, I'll have the CSSLP cert, and we can go our merry way. Fuck the union, Weeg; you don't need 'em!"
Luigi shrugged at his friend. "You're right, I don't need them. And I'm still going to Stanford. But, Lucas, it's my fucking right to stick it to them one last time. I won't let that goddamn piece of shit get the last word in. Yes, he and his buddies may kick me out of the union. They can take my benefits and pension, my ability to work in New York. They will not, however, take my self-respect." He took a deep breath. "This is something that I gotta do for me. Not for Sal, Mario, or Joe, but me. I know that I'll pass that test tomorrow. I will not do anything less."
Studying him for a full minute, Lucas grinned ear to ear. "Alright. I'll cancel the Hamptons trip. I don't know anyone in that shithole Staten Island, so …"
Luigi held up a hand. "It's okay, really. It'll be the Holiday Inn or some place not exactly the Peninsula or the Ritz, so I understand that it's not your scene. Plus, I have a suspicion that Mario and Joe will crash the party. They're not supposed to come, as we're not allowed to bring anyone to the test, but they'll show up independently. We'll meet up on Sunday morning?"
The taller man crossed his arms. "Wait, and I can't be in Staten Island? I can stomach that shithole one night for this. I'll drive over with you, then have a car service pick me up once we check out."
The plumber raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Seriously?"
"Yeah, why not? Besides," he encircled his friend's shoulders, "I want to help the guy who's gonna humiliate the Great Business Masturbator of UA 2."
Five minutes later, both hopped into Luigi's red Suzuki, which was loaded with a violet cooler of "real food and wine" per Lucas's insistence, and made the hour drive from Barnum Island to Bensonhurst. Luigi pulled into the car rental a couple blocks from his house and secured a plain gray pick-up truck for Friday's practical. Lucas trailed him in the red car back to his house; no one was at home, so he and Lucas – much to the latter's constant kvetching and the former's laughter – loaded the equipment and cooler in the back and safeguarded them with a lockable top. He went inside the brick A-frame and tried his best to ignore its state of complete disaster – dirty jeans, socks, red shirts, dishes, pillows strewn about the living room and kitchen. Collecting a change of clothes and his swim trucks, per Lucas's suggestion, Luigi left as quickly as he had come; he slid into the pick-up truck driver's seat, and they headed toward the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge and Staten Island.
Grumbling about "substandard accommodations, even compared with fucking Jersey," Lucas managed to find a double queen at a Hilton Garden Inn and reserved it with his VIP pass at no cost. He called the hotel to let them know that they would be arriving early, to which the concierge acquiesced magnamously. Arriving at around one in the afternoon, he and Luigi checked in and parked the truck in their designated space. Bringing in and unpacking the picnicware, overnight bags, and cooler, they had lunch in their room. Then they went for a long walk in nearby Industrial Park. Upon returning to the Hilton, Lucas took a 'VIP call' in the parking lot as Luigi texted both his lioness at her +221 number and Miles that the practical "was a go for launch." He knew that Miles would pass on the information to Yoshi, and Mario would make the correct assumption once he found the red Suzuki parked at home and equipment missing from the garage.
Returning to the hotel room about forty-five minutes later, they noshed on the remainder of the triple chocolate cheesecake, drank a bit of Eiswein that Lucas brought from his mother's wine cellar, and watched The Avengers, which the Manhattanite ridiculed as being completely lame for giving 'third-billing' to Mark Ruffalo's Hulk and "assing off that Musk-rip-off RDJ and that little ass-faced Masshole Evans." However, he admitted that he would "absolutely fuck Natasha if he couldn't jerk off to the Brazilian Hottie." This ended up with Luigi elbowing him in the ribs and informing him that he could share Natasha with millions of other fifteen-year-olds. Lucas retorted that he had enough money to arrange for a personal dinner with Scarlett Johansson, to which Luigi blithely replied that "he'd pay a serious plumber Franklin to see that." Narrowing his brown eyes, the Greek accepted the challenge while the sparkling-blue-eyed Italian just shrugged. At the movie's end, they took a nap for a few hours to digest the rich wine and dessert and headed to the small indoor pool to swim, which ended up in an hour-long water fight. Though the 'score' was tied closely throughout the impromptu game, Luigi won by using his plumber's muscles against the wiry-bodied Lucas. The latter smarted, yet beamed happily, in the remnants of the evening as they played air drums and guitar to AC/DC, Rammstein, and Spartan.
The next morning, Luigi got up a few minutes before dawn, the still-slumbering Lucas was sprawled across the bed closest to the window. He spent twenty minutes in the shower, letting the hot water cascade down his weary, adrenaline pumped muscles. As he leaned against the beige and black shower tiles, his heart began a long-forgotten beat, a heavy metal of rage, vengeance, and defiance. His right hand trembled, but not totally in fear; it anticipated the morning's battle and was ready to pick up the wrench and blowtorch like a Molotov Cocktail. Once he felt cleansed and purified, he ritualistically shut off the water, toweled himself off, shaved, and dressed in his boots, jeans, and long-sleeved green shirt as he had done so many times for work. By this point, Lucas had awaken and was fishing through the cooler for the pastries that he had saved for the morning's occasion. Running the Nespresso machine, he prepared two cups of coffee and distributed the chocolate-filled cornetti. They ate in silence, Lucas strangely respecting Luigi's need for calm and quiet before the exam that was to take place in roughly two and a half hours.
Although Luigi was physically present, munching on his breakfast and sipping his café au lait, he was lost in twelve-year-old memories. On one dark December night in Eltingville, four weeks after Giuseppe's screech of fury that had apparently been heard on two floors at Manhattan Sinai Hospital, Luigi sat in a chair next to his cousin Maria's bed. He had fallen asleep, he himself depressed and avoidant of the Christmas lights and festive red and green signage of Buon Natale all over the Little Italies of Brooklyn and Staten Island. From his dreamless slumber, he heard a woman's moan, then several arduous grunts as she muttered a stream of curse words in both English and Italian. Waking up, Luigi was horrified to see that Maria was attempting to get out of bed. Reflexes dulled from underuse, he was unable to prevent her from standing up and pushing herself to balance against the wall. Maria started to perspire from ostensible, excruciating pain.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Maria?" hissed Luigi. "The doctors said to stay in bed!"
"And what?" she rasped, trying to concentrate on blocking out the intense jolts of electricity and burning that raced up and down her legs. "Live out a life where I'm on the goddamned dole and a burden to my family? Papà can't even bear to look at me!" She glanced at the popsicle stick on the side table that had dried a few hours previous. "Luigi, I need that popsicle stick."
"Why?" he asked. "I can ask Zia to get you another lemon ice if you're hungry."
She chuckled a little. "It's not for food. Bring it to me."
Unsure of her motivations, he nonetheless handed it to her, his right hand shaking as he did so. She took the piece of wood and put it in her teeth. As she took a step from the wall, Maria bit down harshly to suppress a scream of pain. Tears running down her face, she took another step, much to the teenage Luigi's growing horror.
"Basta!" he cried. "Don't move any further, or I'll get Zia!"
She stared at him harshly and removed the stick from her mouth to speak. "You will not! Mama will only have Papà force me back into bed, and the cycle will start all over again. By next year, I fucking swear that I will walk and return to work. I am a Masciarelli, that is who I am! This is mine! Capisci? And by next year, I want to face that motherfucker Slaughter and send him a three-word message! Now," she swallowed thinly, huffing out the last jolts of agony, "you can help me or not. But I will fucking do this, with or without your help."
Months later, on a rainy spring morning, and despite the screams of pain that each first step had brought, Maria demonstrated to a panel of union plumbers that she was not only standing but could lift the one hundred pounds that was suddenly and inexplicably required of her. Subsequent to the resentful reinstatement, she did in fact say those three words to John Slaughter's face, to the shock and delight of her father as well as the union men who happened to be present.
Once Luigi sipped the last of his coffee, he checked his newly charged iPhone for the current time – 6:45 am. He still had thirty minutes before he needed to be on the road toward Port Richmond and the courthouse on Elm Street. Even though the exam was officially to begin at 8:30 am, like everywhere else in New York City, parking near the Richmond Civil Court, especially with a pick-up truck, was always hit or miss, and he needed to have checked in and presented his identification papers fifteen minutes in advance of the start time. To calm his mind, he watched a few weird and funny dog and cat videos on YouTube and checked his emails, texts, and voicemails. He received several emails from Stanford Engineering and the university administration welcoming him to the upcoming summer session and providing campus maps, locations of restaurants, and his appointment time on Monday morning to have his student identification card processed and rendered to him. Additionally, he opened a forwarded email from Lucas with a lease agreement via DocuSign naming him as a tenant for an apartment in Menlo; there were no rent or utilities, but it simply charged him with the general upkeep befitting a normal tenant. Accessing the link, he signed the document and received a copy in his inbox. While he had no new voicemails, he had two new text messages from Miles and Daisy. Miles had sent him a "thumbs up" and a pasted sledgehammer, meaning that he had passed the information along to Yoshi, and they were telling him to destroy the exam. As for his lioness, she sent him a "GOOD LUCK, SWEETIE! FUCK HIM UP!" in all caps and promised to call on Saturday evening for a full report.
At a quarter past seven, he and Lucas parted ways, with the latter promising to check out later in the morning and to text him with the information about Sunday's flight itinerary. Placing his overnight bag in the passenger seat, closing the driver's cab door, and starting the engine, Luigi inhaled deeply to calm his mounting nerves and pulled out of the semi-filled hotel parking lot toward the northeastern corner of Staten Island. Thankfully, the two-lane South Avenue was relatively unobstructed with traffic; Luigi let his mind go blank as he was flanked by lush green bushes and trees, one of the prettier, less New York City parts of Staten Island. Merging onto NY-440, the plumber was somewhat relieved that he had left an hour before the exam, as the morning traffic through Decker and Castleton was heavier and thus cost him an extra fifteen minutes. As predicted, the side streets near and alongside the Richmond Courthouse were already lined with cars, so he spent another ten minutes circling and cursing Staten Island drivers for taking up two spaces with their single, small compact car. On the fifth attempt, someone had mercifully cleared a parking space big enough for a truck and that was not in a no-parking. He quickly parallel parked and shut off the engine. The bright sunlight highlighted the freshly-painted walk signal ahead that led directly to the colonial-style, red-brick and ivory-columned courthouse. The actual exam was in its underbelly; the basement entrance was normally in the back. Checking his iPhone again, he noted that the current time was precisely eight o'clock in the morning.
Ten minutes later, Luigi summoned his strength to exit the vehicle and go to the back to retrieve his equipment for the black steel and vertical copper piping assemblies. Managing to load everything, including a ten-foot, three-quarter-inch-wide black pipe, onto a portable cart, the plumber pushed it along the crosswalk. As he was walking the extra fifty or sixty feet to the rear entrance of the courthouse, he noticed a confluence of tough-looking plumbers standing on the sidewalk next to and across from the red brick building. About to ask them to move, he was stunned to recognize that they were all from his shop. Then he heard familiar voices shouting at each other from the corner of the public path and the entrance to the back of the building.
"Asshole, we can be here! It's public fuckin' property! Go back to your cushy little union office and bend over, you fuck! You ain't even supposed to be 'ere!" yelled a red-hoodied Mario.
Luigi and the cart approached the curb, where he could view the scene more clearly: John Slaughter was facing an irate Mario, whose arms crossed over his chest and thunderous blue eyes made his intent clear both to stay where he was and to potentially strangle the man at a second's notice. Two equally angry men stood behind Mario – Sal and Giuseppe – with José and three other plumbers standing on the other side of the street.
Though he was clearly surrounded, Slaughter laughed and sneered, "Oh, I'm just makin' sure that the rules are properly followed! Besides, where is your little faggot, anyway? It's 8:15."
Before a murderous Giuseppe could escape Sal's hold and finish what he had started twelve years earlier, Luigi growled, "Right behind you, John."
Slaughter's obese body had obscured the three plumbers from seeing Luigi. A momentarily surprised union representative cleared the path for the heavy cart and young plumber; Giuseppe's wrath dissipated upon seeing his beloved nephew and, his body relaxing, he began to cough. Mario and Sal breathed a sigh of relief and moved to comfort the wheezing man.
As Luigi pushed the cart to the right, the angry Slaughter began to pursue him. Seeing this out of the corner of his eye, Mario immediately stalked after the two men, gaining on the union rep, yet keeping a distance to avoid compromising his brother. "Hey, faggot!" called out the union rep from just behind Luigi, "Why are you even here? Your plumbing days are over! Go back to the Village where you fuckin' belong!"
Employing his fine sense of mental filtration, the plumber in green wheeled the heavy cart to the ramp and doors, where one of the Department of Buildings administrators held the door open for him and shot a warning look to Slaughter. "Yo, no visitors," said the man. When Slaughter did not move, the man yelled, "Back the fuck off, now."
Slaughter held up his hands. "Aight, aight. Faggot wants to test, faggot can test."
As the door shut behind them, Luigi winced as a commotion could be heard, with Giuseppe screaming at Slaughter from across the street, presumably where Sal and José had forcibly taken him, that he "would murder that piece of Irish trash!"
"You okay?" asked the concerned fifties-ish African-American man. Taking a deep breath, Luigi nodded wordlessly. "Aight, it's this way. I'll check your identifications, and then the evaluators will give you instructions."
The administrator, Davonte, led the way while Luigi nervously pushed the cart. About two minutes later, they arrived at the windowless basement, where there was another candidate present, an older African man who was, like Luigi, pacing around to calm his own jitters. Davonte formally asked for Luigi's credentials, which he provided; the administrator told them to wait a few more minutes as the evaluators would arrive precisely at 8:30. He explained that he and the other candidate could chat a little, but they would bear in mind that there were active cameras filming the room.
While they waited, Luigi and Teles introduced themselves; the latter worked out of Queens and was originally from Ghana. He further surprised Luigi by speaking conversational Italian with him, and they chatted about their favorite falafel and bagel haunts as well as a mutual dislike for the union leadership and Manhattan, which the African dismissed as too crowded and expensive. At the exam time, two burly white men promptly entered the room and, carrying clipboards and pens, and faced the younger plumbers.
"Good morning, welcome to the New York City Master Plumber's Practical. Our names are Bob Dolan and Mike Annunziata. We're licensed master plumbers from the Department of Buildings and will be evaluating your exam this morning. You will have four hours, first, to assemble a black steel pipe and second, a vertical copper sweat. We will check to make sure that you have brought all necessary equipment for your two demonstrations. You will separate in each corner here," he gestured with his pen to one space across the fifty-foot room and then the other, "and there. You're not allowed to communicate. Just work. Aight? We will check that your spaces are organized, safe, and clean throughout the demo. Once you're finished, we will check not only that each pipe is functional, but that they meet New York City code to a tee. You will know at the end whether you've passed. Your official report, either for a pass or a fail, will come in the mail within three to four weeks. Are there any questions?" Both men shook their heads. "Aight. Separate, then begin with your diagrams. Good luck; you have four hours from now."
Each man quickly pushed their carts to their respective corners and began with the black steel pipe assembly. Focused on his own project, Luigi began with putting on goggles and gloves and setting up his 'laboratory,' as he called it: a lighter-weight Oster machine, stand, foot pedal, and oiler. Studying the diagram specifications exactly, he then chose a head for a three-quarter-inch cut. Spinning the back to adjust to the length of the pipe, he put the machine in the forward setting and let it work the pipe against the cutter to make each piece. Once he was satisfied with the cut, he stopped the machine, inserted the screw-like reamer, and turned the Oster on to polish the inside of the pipe. He did this several times, designing the overall construction for a typical residential natural gas pipe fitting. Using black malleable unions and elbows to construct the system, he marked the final product with the yellow warning tape and installed it. The examiners rushed to check his work and method using compressed air, telling him to continue with the copper sweat as they measured his pipe according to the provided diagram and made notes.
Breathing a bit easier, Luigi moved on to his preferred demonstration. Checking the clock above, he saw that he was just under two hours. He cut his copper pipe into the correctly sized pieces and, using a drill and brush, spent fifteen minutes polishing and deburring them. Next, he applied a thin layer of flux on the polished piece and cut a piece of plywood to hold up the three-inch-thick pipe. Marking the middle portion, Luigi lit his blowtorch to solder the first joint at a slight angle, heating it from the opposite side to control the temperature; he immediately removed the torch once the solder had started to melt, and traced the liquid around to seal the pipe joint. He repeated the action for the remaining joints until the pipe assembly was finished. Once the solder sufficiently cooled, Luigi employed a damp cloth to thoroughly wipe off the excess.
At roughly three and a half hours, he signaled to the examiners that he was done. Teles was approximately halfway through the copper sweat, and Luigi observed that he would likely finish near or at four hours. Having concluded their furiously scribbled notes on both of Luigi's pipe demonstrations, Mike calmly waited for him to gather his equipment and signaled with his pen to move out into the hallway. Anxious to hear the result, though tired from the exam, Luigi leisurely pulled his lighter cart behind him. Outside of the testing exam room, Mike spoke, "Okay, Mr. Masciarelli. So, here's the deal: equipment and procedure followed OSHA to the letter; your black steel was very good and up to code, though your technique needs a little more refinement when it comes to the installation, less hesitation, y'know; copper sweat was perfectly executed. Congratulations, it's a pass." He offered his hand, which Luigi happily took. "You'll get the official report in three to four weeks, then the DOB will follow up with a background check for your license. Davonte will take you out." He gave a final smile and re-entered the exam room, presumably to wait for Teles's copper sweat.
The administrator approached the grinning Luigi and shrugged, "So, I take it that you passed?" Unable to speak, he nodded excitedly. "Congrats! Let me get the doors open for ya. You think that you can handle the Big Mouth? If you need me to …"
Shaking his head, Luigi found his voice. "No; thanks, though. I'll be okay."
With a brief nod, Davonte re-assured Luigi that he would intervene if it became necessary. The man rushed in front of Luigi and walked to the doors. Waiting until Luigi indicated that he was ready, the administrator then pushed them open to reveal a horseshoe-shaped crowd consisting of Slaughter, Mario, Giuseppe, José, Sal, and several journeymen and apprentices whom he knew from his former shop. Luigi pushed the cart outside and maneuvered it to a stop in front of them. The remaining materials nevertheless heavy enough to keep the cart from rolling away, he stepped a short distance away and crossed his arms. "It's a pass," he said.
Slaughter scoffed as several journeymen snickered and clapped. Mario and Sal flanked the still livid Giuseppe who glowered hostility and hatred toward the fat man. "Well, faggot, there's that. But you'll never work in the city ever again. I'll make sure of it. You'll be nothing but a fucking scab," spat the union representative.
Upon hearing the man's hateful words, Mario and Sal immediately seized each of Giuseppe's arms to keep him in place. However, to everyone's surprise, Luigi burst out laughing at Slaughter's threat.
"What's so funny?" demanded Slaughter.
His blue eyes blazing, Luigi shook his head. "You know that may be true. But … I got three familiar words for you, Slaughter: suck my dick!"
The pack of plumbers erupted in hoots, cackles, and applause. Some made blowjob gestures at Slaughter while Sal and José bent over in a full belly laugh. Whereas Mario blinked in shock and amazement at his brother's particular use of vulgarity, Giuseppe's lips parted in recollection and pride. Leaving Slaughter to stand in the midst of continued mockery, Luigi resumed his trajectory toward his rented pick-up truck, both heart and cart significantly lighter.
