The Cannoli Sisters, Parte Due

See yesterday's time slot for Parte Uno.

Anita Mangiamelli shot me a worried look as I followed her father down a long hallway and into the library. Which was actually more like an office, due to its lack of books.

Peter beckoned me to sit. And I did, deep in a ruby-red leather chair. More espresso and anisette magically appeared via a male relative.

The older man opened, "You like-a my daughter, Irish?"

I dived in. "Yessir. Now, we've been out only once, and ..."

"Good. You fall-a in love with her?"

Oh, shit. "Well, no, not yet. It's early."

"Molto bene. Very good. Because," he wagged his finger,"she's-a pain inna ass. She drink-a too much Sambuca, she flirt with too many boys-a. She like to show off-a the ... tetto, you know?" He didn't need to translate.

He went on,"You seem-a good young man. Take-a my word, Arlene, she not good for you. Anita, better, but maybe a little old for you, no? Now, we toast and I get Foofi take you home. But, Angela or no Angela, you come-a back, si?"

Relieved, I tried my best, "Si. Grazie."

I sat nestled in the back of a sleek Caddy as Foofi returned me to my Mom's. On instructions, I had left my car keys with the paterfamilas. Licorice-induced sleep came easily. When I awoke the next morning, my van was parked in the driveway.

I thought about calling Angela. Granted, she was a good time, in addition to very alluring. But every time I thought of her, Anita would be standing right behind her. I found this disconcerting, to say the least.

^^^

At the Sons of Sweden a few days later, the crew wanted every gory detail of my dream date with Arlene. I spared many details. Nonetheless, I bragged about the magnificent feast the next day.

O'D started with the treatment. "So Ace, is she a real redhead?"

"Leave it, O'D."

Cuh-cuh remarked, "Beef bajawly, too? Howdja say that last name again? Mangle-a-mello?"

I said, "Cuh-cuh, you're getting better."

I finally called Arlene, still debating whether to ask her out again. I didn't have to.

"Oh, goody, Ace! Me 'n Anita is trowing a party at my parents' on Sardy. They're goinna my aunt's upstate for the weekend. We got food, 'n swimmin' 'n other stuff. Oh, please come over." She went on.

I swore I heard the word "Anita" wedged in there. So I agreed instantly.

Arlene also told me that I was welcome to stay over in a spare bedroom, hinting lustily of some apres-party hijinx.

^^^

Just in case, I brought another bottle of Easy Ed's stash to the event. Lakeview Drive was starting to jump when I got there. Cars were strewn everywhere. Professionally painted signs pointed me down a side path to the rear of the house. I found myself staring into the glass wall that formed one side of the basement rec room. Behind me was a naturally formed in-ground pool, complete with a slide and waterfall. Abutting it was a hot tub. Beyond: the lake, with a dock and a boat house.

Liveried staff manned a huge grill. Canapes were being passed. An outdoor bar featured two mixologists whipping up frozen drinks. About thirty people cavorted in the pool and about the grounds.

Arlene found me first. She wore a minuscule bikini that left little to the imagination. She jiggled over and kissed me, fully on the lips. More pineapple than licorice. She said, "Ace, I'm so glad you're here. I'll bet you know summa da people!" I did. Quite a few musicians dotted the crowd. I did a quick look-around and saw there were no instruments set up anywhere, which calmed me. Too often, I had been invited to parties and was expected to play.

In a moment, Anita was at her sister's side. I wasn't surprised to see her clad more demurely. Hair tied back, she wore a tank suit, sufficiently clinging, and board shorts over it. As Arlene pranced off toward the bar, Anita said, "Arlene says you're staying. Good. Why don't you get your things, and I'll show you to your en suite." Man, she doesn't even talk like her sister.

After I retrieved my duffel, Anita led me through the rec room and down a long hallway. She pointed out an exercise room, whirlpool, a steam room that could hold a dozen, and a sauna. It was a veritable pleasure palace.

After one turn, we entered another area. She opened double doors to a sumptuous bedroom. Glass doors opened onto a private patio near the pool. A large bath adjoined. I almost gasped.

Anita read my mind. "I'm glad you're here, Tim." How did she know my real name? How did she know I liked it better than my nickname?

I smiled my thanks. She said, "Now go enjoy all of this."

I did.

The chefs were whipping up Italian sausages on the grill and plating them up on impossibly wonderful, garlicky rolls. Soon, they were fashioning skewers of filet mignon, with peppers and onions.

I splashed in the pool for a while, chatting up some of my friends. I didn't feel Arlene until she pretended to bump into me from behind. I turned around. She made sure parts us touched. "Oooh," she said, "I'm hopin' my man is ready for me later. I'm ready right now." Sure enough, this made me, er, somewhat ready, so to speak. She kicked away. As she flitted among the crowd, I could see she was happy being the center of attention.

Later, as I lolled in a chaise, Anita caught my eye again. She pantomimed drinking from a glass and raised her eyebrows. I nodded. She soon came over to my chair with two frosty delights, complete with umbrellas atop. She said, "You look like you need a banana daiquiri."

One sip told me it was memorable. How comfortable did I feel with this woman? How old was she? I don't remember what we talked about; I was too enraptured.

Anita suddenly said, "Oh shit. Look there." At one side of the pool, somewhat sheltered by conifers from the rest of the crowd (but in a perfect sightline to us) was Arlene. She wasn't alone, but locked in a wet embrace with the thin, wan lead guitarist from Satan's Sword, a local heavy-metal poser band. His usually bouffy hair was plastered to the sides of his head, making for a totally unattractive look.

I turned away. Anita said, "Tim, I'm so sorry. Arlene just ..." She patted my hand. I think I felt a shock.

"It's okay," I said, feeling only a hint of sadness.

"Then you're not serious with Arlene yet?"

"No. Especially not now." Then I got bold and added, "Not with you here. To talk to, that is."

She smiled that wide-as-the-world smile again. "You're a doll. She doesn't deserve you. But I must go back to some friends I've invited."

"Wait." I dashed into my suite and retrieved the bottle of Sangiovese. I proferred it to Anita. "For you," I said.

"Ooh, I love this grape. No, this is for us. Someday." That made me shiver, ever so slightly.

As afternoon gave way to a delicious sunset above the lake, I continued to enjoy myself. Small treats were passed about. I hadn't seen Arlene for a while. Which was fine. I did notice bottles of Limoncello and Sambuca appear on the bar. Which was not fine.

As night fell, the few that remained made the rounds from pool to hot tub and then inside to the steam and sauna. I hung with some couples from my neighborhood, successfully forgetting about Arlene.

After a while, I had the steam room to myself. I went into hallway and saw nobody around. I went back to the steam and dropped my clammy board shorts. I wanted to experience this fully. My thoughts drifted to Anita and how she filled out her Speedo. An inevitable stirring filled me. Just as I was deciding whether to do something about it, Arlene wobbled into the steam room.

I could smell the licorice through the vapor. Arlene nearly shouted at me. "THERE'S MY MAN. AND OH YOU'RE READY FOR ME!" In a trice she pulled some strings and posed for me in the buff. The angel on my right shoulder vanished.

She leaped into my arms and said, "WANNA DO ME? RIGHT HERE!" It was a Hobson's choice. And so we began the dance.

This lasted but a few seconds. "OMIGOD," she said. She got up and ran into the next room and, on her knees, put her head into the toilet. The view was anything but spectacular. My priapic moments over, I slipped into my shorts and sought Anita, who was out by the pool with friends.

She took one look at me and said, "Don't tell me. Arlene's getting sick." She dashed into the house. I went to my room and put on Bermudas and a polo shirt.

Anita's friends asked me to relay their good-byes as the caterers and bartenders packed up. I suddenly realized that the Mangiamelli sisters and myself were the only survivors.

I sat alone by the pool for a few minutes, nursing a beer and my ego. I felt strangely at peace, despite the tumult of the last half hour. Anita came out to join me. She said, "I got her to bed. Are you all right? Let's go into the rec room." She held my hand as we walked. I felt that tingle again.

The night had cooled, Anita turned on a gas fireplace and some soft jazz. It floated from hidden speakers. We sat on one of the huge leather sofas. She made decaf espresso and produced an ancient bottle of brandy. The two combined wonderfully.

Anita, after a sip, said, "My sister's a pain in the ass. I don't know what you see in her."

I said, "That's what your father said to me a couple of weeks ago. Yes, I think I am through with her."

Anita said, "Good. You're better off. Now, let's talk about anything but her."

And we did. For a long time. She asked about my upcoming tour and music in general. She told me how she did the books for her father's business but wanted something different out of life. The topics swam by: food, travel, relationships, Mozart.

We both decided--almost on cue--that we had had enough. She walked me to my room and said, "Watch, I'm going to turn the air down to its lowest. There's a featherbed on the bottom and a comforter for the top. You will love it."

I changed into cutoff sweats and a tee. She was right. I felt as if I were lying on a cloud, and started to doze immediately. A knock on my door snapped me out of it. Anita, wearing a plush terry robe, appeared in the doorway. A hall light haloed her. She looked like a dream. What was underneath? Damn, gotta stop thinking that way.

She said, "I just wanted to check on you. Everything ok?"

I said, sleepily, "Better than that." I don't know where my next words came from.

"Would you tuck me in?"

She laughed, "Oh, you're such a boy!" Then she scooched the covers over me and brushed her lips to mine, ever so slightly, a mere touch. I slept the sleep of angels.

The next morning, Anita made me breakfast. Arlene was obviously sleeping off the previous night. I munched on luxurious, pillowy scrambled eggs, dotted with pancetta and fontina. We ate in silence.

She walked me to my car and said, "Promise me you'll come back before you leave for Canada. Promise."

"I promise," I said.

^^^

The next session at the Sons was a doozy. Elmo tried to drink a shot from the top of the glass to cure his hiccups. Total fail, thus ruining a dose of Jaeger and a fairly clean Izod.

Jenny Moriarty complained that a man had been in the Ladies' Lounge since a toilet seat had been left in the "up" position. "I nearly fell in," she groused.

Joe the bartender commented, "That would be anatomically impossible." This was an unfortunate truth since Jen consumed a box of Breyer's every night.

O'D couldn't stop asking me about Arlene Mangiamelli; I was already forgetting her. I finally admitted, "Okay, O'D. The collar and cuffs matched." He had obviously not seen Diamonds Are Forever.

"Whuh?"

Bear said, "Dumbass. Ace is saying she's a real redhead."

O'D: "I KNEW it!"

Cuh-cuh chimed in, "Not so fast guys. I was talking to Tony Falzone, who works down the Beachside Cafe."

The crew: "FALCONE. SURFSIDE!"

"Anyways, he says he seen yer girl Darlene Whatsername in there, muggin' it up with that skinny guitar player Scorpion from that metal band, Satan's Sword."

"ARLENE. SCORPIO. SATAN'S SPEAR!"

This was becoming enervating. Scorpio was, of course, the same pallid guy with whom Anita and I had seen Arlene at the party. Said Scorpio, whose given name was Hilary Kolbuzcewski, was the issue of a Polish-American father who had met his bride in England during the War. I would have changed my name, too. Perhaps not to Scorpio. At any rate, Satan's Spear--and Scorpio--had lots of hair but little technique.

To this, I remarked, "Well, she's not my girl." I flashed back to Arlene losing her stomach contents, but then quickly to Anita.

^^^

The phone call came not a week later.

"Oh Ace, you ain't called me, and I gotta tell ya I met another guy, and we have to break up." Arlene.

I said, "Is that right?"

"Well, anyways, you're goin' away soon, and he's a hot guitar player for--get this--SATAN'S SPEAR! His name is ..."

I broke in, "Sisyphus." This was turning into fun.

"What? No. Scorpio. Anyways, they gotta new CD coming out, called Metal Laundry. They're making it themselves!"

"That's remarkable, Arlene."

"I know, I'm probably breakin' your heart, 'n I don't wanna. But he's gonna be a STAR!"

I had to say, "Well, Arl, I had high hopes for us, but I guess it's not to be."

"I'm so sawry, Ace. But I gotta go. See ya."

I sent a silent thanks out to Scorpio, who was probably not practicing his scales.

^^^

I had a few weeks left before my tour began. The band's management sent me work visas and other paperwork. I shopped for new stage clothes.

And I received another call. This one from Anita Mangiamelli.

"Tim, have you talked to Arlene lately?"

"Not really. She called me to break up, so to speak. I was crushed."

"Hah. I'll bet. But this is serious. Arlene is pregnant."

Oh boy.

Anita went on, "Yes. By that guitar player. He wants to have nothing to do with her; he's moving to Florida with his band. And my father is pissed!"

"Does he know--"

"Of course, he knows it wasn't you. He still thinks highly of you. But he's taking Arlene upstate to live with his sister. She'll have the baby there. But listen, are you free a week from Saturday?"

I said, "Well, yes. I leave the next Monday for rehearsals in Montreal."

"Would you like to come to dinner? Smaller this time. My dad wants to see you before you go. And I really want to see you. We can have a swim after dinner. And you can stay over. Please say yes."

I wanted to leap through the phone and ravish her. Quelling my voice a bit, I said, "Yes. Of course."

^^^

I was so excited about the dinner that I forgot to bring some wine. Anita greeted me at the door, wearing a thin sundress and a glowing tan. She hugged me, holding me for a few wondrous moments.

"I'm so glad you're here. Let's make this a memorable night."

Words eluded me.

Her father came into the foyer. He, too, hugged me, kissing my cheek. He motioned me toward the library. I knew I had to follow.

As we sat, he poured us each a tot of bourbon. We toasted, silently.

Pete took the floor, "Lissen, Irish. I'm-a sorry what happened with my Arlene. I knew right away, that it wasn't you who knock-, who made her gravidanza. It was that cazzo, that Kolba- guy." He bit on his thumbnail. Hard.

I said, "Pete, I want you to know that she and I never--"

Tears welled in his eyes, "Si. I just knew. She be-a fine with my Paulina up dere. But I hear you gonna go away."

"For a while. It's job."

"Si, si.The baterista, no? Never mind. My Anita, y'know, she got the eye, know what I mean?"

"No, I don't think so."

"She gotta her eye on you, Irish. I know she's-a little older. But,what can I say?"

I just smiled.

The meal, while less complex than my previous one, was a dream. A simple salad, dressed with a tasty vinaigrette. Then some linguine al'oglio, in oil and garlic. The entree was chicken rollatini, stuffed with prosciutto, sage and fontina.

I had a difficult time keeping my eyes off Anita, who sat next to me. Much of the conversation centered around my tour and Pete's talk of retirement. Every once in a while, Anita would put her hand under the table and give my knee the slightest caress. Finally I reached down and clasped her hand. Magic.

Pete shot us a smile for a moment. And winked at me.

Before the chicken came out, Anita excused herself. She returned with the bottle of Sangiovese from the pool party.

Smiling, she said, "Dad, do you mind if Tim and I have the first glasses? He bought this for us, special."

Pete said, "Sangiovese? Red wine with chicken? No problem. But you keep givin' him the sguardo di amore, we no gonna eat at all."

"DAD!!"

We postponed dessert until after a swim. Anita and I had the pool to ourselves. The late August night was a tad brisk and brimming with stars. I noticed Anita wore a two-piece this time, but it was conservatively cut. I also noticed she turned off the patio lights, as well as those submerged in the pool.

Once in the water, I tried to keep a chaste distance from her. She was having none of this. She yelled to me. "Get over here. Now." I obeyed.

I asked her, "What was that sguardo comment your dad made?"

Even in the gloaming, I could see her blush. She stammered, "Well, to be honest, he said, 'the look of love.'"

Jesus Lord.

She grasped my elbows with her hands as we stood in the shallow end. I did the same to her. Pecking me on the cheek, she said, "I don't want to--"

I cut her off, "I understand."

She laughed and gently pushed me away, "No. I don't think you do."

We moved to the hot tub; she went into the house and returned with the rest of the wine. I tried not to x-ray her swimsuit. Instead we laughed and joked--even a little bit about Arlene.

Anita said, "Dessert. We should."

Changed, we rejoined the elder Mangiamellis for espresso, biscotti and anisette.

Pete said to me, "Hey, Irish. I gotta get Mama in bed and take care a her. We leave-a early t'marrah ta go see Arlene." Mrs. Mangiamelli crossed herself.

Pete came around the table, and gave me another hug. As did his wife. "Buona fortuna, Irish," he said. I thought I saw a tear in his eye. He followed with, "Now, you two, sleep-a tight," punctuated with a laugh.

"DAD!"

Anita and I repaired downstairs. She unearthed the same brandy we had drunk, seemingly so many nights ago. We sipped and talked for a while.

She said, "I know this seems silly, my being older than you, but I'm going to miss you, Tim. You have to do this, don't you?"

I said, "Yes, I have to drum. It's a part of me. And tours like this help boost my career."

She leaned over and kissed me. On the lips. As light and fleeting as before. I think I said something.

Pulling back, she said, "I think we'd better call it a night."

I was fine with that. I could see this was not a night to get overly emotional. Or something more serious.

She hurried upstairs, leaving me to my chamber. I remembered to turn down the air conditioner before I got cozy.

Then I heard a knock at my door. I knew.

Anita came in wearing a robe. No sturdy terrycloth, but flimsy silk.

She just said, "Well, I have to do this." She flipped a switch and the main room lighting extinguished, leaving a stripe of dim blue lights limning the cove of the ceiling. She dropped her robe, leaving nothing but Anita. And then she slid under the covers.

Without touching me, she said, "In the pool, when I said, 'I don't want to,' I meant, 'I didn't want to get intimate in the pool.' I knew my father would be watching and probably approving. Lord, I wanted you to take me right then and there. I want you to take me now."

I shuddered, barely able to speak. "How about we give to each other, Anita.?"

She murmured, "Yes. That sounds even better. Please."

We didn't speak for quite a while as the dance really began.

In the morning, she pulled me into the adjoining shower. And we danced again.

And again in the steam room.

We napped during the afternoon. Then, we both knew it was time.

Upstairs, she fixed me a sandwich. Somehow, we kept our hands off each other.

She walked me to my van. She gave me just one of her small, cautious, feathery kisses.

"No big good-byes," she said. "Now, go drum your ass off."

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Epilogue: 

While on the road, I received a letter from Anita. Two pages. One took my breath away. The second told me about Arlene. She had borne a son, named Hilary. Eventually, she met a Harley-Davidson dealer. He sold his business and married her, adopting the boy. They changed his name to Flintlock. They now live on a farm in Vermont and make artisanal goat cheese.

Mr. and Mrs. Mangiamelli added five new stores, then sold the Pietro's chain to a consortium from Arizona. They live in Palm Springs, California. I have visited them a few times. The food is still excellent. And my Italian is getting better.

Hilary Kolbuzcewski, alias Scorpio, was mugged in a Days Inn parking lot after a gig in Melbourne, Florida with his lounge band, Hilly and the Velvetones. Attackers broke most of his fingers and various bones both hands. Police never found the perpetrators, saying the crime looked "professional." Unable to play guitar, he moved back home and now works at Wal-Mart in frozen foods.

Cuh-cuh finally met the girl of his dreams, well into his forties. His new wife calls him Howard.

Elmo died after a year on the job as a firefighter while rescuing an infant from a blazing building.

I am still drumming, off the road, playing sessions only. My wife, two children and I live in Santa Monica, California.

Anita Mangiamelli moved to New York and became an interior designer. Did I ever see her again?

That, dear readers, is another story. Perhaps I'll relate it someday.

The Cannoli Sisters

In which our hero avoids butter, uses his fingers adeptly and eventually sleeps well.

I told the guys, "I'm thinking of asking Arlene Mangiamelli out."

We were at the Sons of Sweden. Our fathers were members, beckoned by the club when real Swedes began to flee the neighborhood. As legacies, we also joined once of age, just for tradition. And the seventy-five-cent Narragansett drafts.

Inky said, "She's pretty hot. And rich. Her old man owns all the Pietro'ses." Pietro's was a small, county-wide chain that plated up serviceable Italian food.

He added, "What, does she come see the twelve different bands you're in?"

I nodded.

Elmo remarked, "I like redheads. I'll betcha she's a natural."

O'D said, "No way."

Cuh-cuh said, "Who's this Darlene Mangatelle anyways?"

The four of us, in unison, "Arlene. Mangiamelli."

Cuh-cuh had a penchant for mangling proper names. Once, looking at sports scores on the club's TV, he said, "What team is Mowakiki?"

Elmo told him: "That's Milwaukee, Cuh-cuh."

O'D said, "Some guys call Arlene 'Wannadome' cuz she went after Joey Carbone and said, 'Hey Joe, you wanna do me?'"

I pondered this for a moment.

Elmo added, "I hear she's got an older sister that's a knockout."

We all loved Cuh-cuh; he was a sweetheart. He earned his unfortunate nickname in the fourth grade at St. Dymphna's when, after a trencherman's lunch at the monthly Quarter Hot Dog Sale To Benefit the Pagan Babies, he unintentionally dropped a prodigious Cleveland Steamer in his uniform pants. He subsequently ran from the room screaming, "CUH-CUH!"

^^^

I was back at mom's that summer, sitting in with local bands, waiting for a fall tour of Canada with a Quebecker pop idol. My favorite group, The Jive Bombers, would hire me for the full night occasionally. It seemed their regular drummer's wife was trying to wean him off the tubs and into her father's plumbing-supply business.

On the Friday after my session with Cuh-Cuh, Inky, Elmo and O'D at the Sons, I had a Jive Bombers gig at the ridiculously faux-Gaelic T. J. McFinnerty's Pub in Eastport. Let's just say the joint was wallpapered in green velvet and leave it there. Then again, the owners were Howie Finkel and Nathan Mintz.

The Bombers were so popular at the Pub that they needed to perform only two fifty-minute sets, with a half-hour break. An easy gig by nightclub standards. There was always a line outside for this horn-powered, high-powered funk band.

After closing a set with Tower's "Don't Change Horses," I headed for the dressing room, which was stocked with a light buffet and a case of Rocks.

Arlene Mangiamelli intercepted me. "Hey, Ace! Youse guys's soundin' good tonight."

I immediately remembered that syntax, usage and grammar were not her strong suit. I barely thanked her before she jumped in.

"Hey, we should go out sometime. Just you and me. Like the movies or sumpin'. It don't matter what we see."

I said,"That sounds great."

She took an emery board from her purse and scribbled her phone number on it, using an eyebrow pencil. "Cool, tammarh nite, then. Call me." She pecked me on the cheek. I smelled Good 'n Plenty.

That was easy.

When I called her, she asked me to pick her up at her father's store in Bayfield. Food, to my dismay, was not mentioned. We agreed on seeing "Prizzi's Honor" at the Community.

She waited until ten minutes into the film before the questions came:

"Whoozat guy?"

"Izzy a bad guy?"

"Oh, so she kills people, too." She being Kathleen Turner.

Arlene moved closer to me, grabbing my hand during a wild, raucous bedroom scene with the aforementioned heroine and Jack Nicholson.

She leaned over next to me, nibbled my ear and whispered, "I have better boobs than that. You'll see."

After a few more plot-related questions, a few necks in our vicinity craned. I leaned over to Arlene and nibbled her ear, saying. "Just like you, I'm seeing this movie for the first time."

Then she started kissing me for real, and as the plot congealed on screen, it vanished for us.

We came up for air along with the house lights.

In my car, Arlene said, "Let's go to my father's club. It's free."

Our eyes met a few times as I drove. She had a roundish face, framed by a red page-boy coif. Her locks were a rusty shade of auburn. The streetlights raced by them, giving me brief glimpses. She was perhaps a scoche on the plump side, but carried it well. I found her oddly attractive, just a little off-kilter from true beauty, but in a delightful way.

We headed up Madison Avenue to the city's Little Italy. She directed me where to park. She led me to a darkened doorway. No sign. The place looked like a small store, but a rollback door was pulled over the front window. Arlene produced a key from her purse, and we walked into the noise.

Glaring fluorescents. Tile floors. A large-screen TV (showing soundless soccer), flanked by sofas and easy chairs. Older men at tables playing cards. Some well-dressed women in black hose drank cocktails. The smallish, six-stool bar was empty. Everybody, it seemed, smoked.

We grabbed two stools. Almost everyone greeted Arlene, mostly in Italian ("Como se dic'?"). She introduced me with "Questo è il mio amante, Ace. Suona la batterista." This was greeted with some "oooh's" and kneeslaps. I had to wonder if her Italian was in better fettle than her English. And, what had she said?

The bartender, Dominick, immediately poured us each a small snifter of Sambuca Romana. Arlene called it "Zambuca Romano." We toasted and talked about the Jive Bombers and my upcoming tour. I asked for a beer and a cold Peroni appeared. Then came large plates of small food. Mozzarella bocconcini, marinated in olive oil, garlic and spices. Small cubes of sweet melon toothpicked with translucent slices of prosciutto.

I could get to like this.

Arlene had no trouble downing more Sambuca. Now they came in little aperitif glasses which she threw back in quick fashion.

I stayed with my single and the beer. I saw Dominick motion to me, holding up five fingers and motioning his head toward the door.

Arlene did not object when I suggested making our way out. I reached for my wallet, and she gave me the stinkeye. In fact, I didn't see any money change hands during our visit.

On the short drive to her folks' house, Arlene was on about Kathleen Turner. "Hey Ace, she got nuttin'. Okay, she's a big-time actress 'n all, but she ain't got these." With that she cupped each of her breasts from underneath and hefted them. I caught a brief glimpse. Yes, sizable.

I could see she was waiting for a reaction, so I said, "Twin orbs of delight."

"Wha? Wuzzat?"

"Lovely."

Soon, she was snoozing, her head against the window of my Econoline. I had looked up her address on a map that afternoon, so I knew I was headed for Lakeview Drive in Northport. The "Eyetalian Alps," as my father used to call the town.

I could barely make out the house, but Arlene came to as I pulled into the curved, graveled driveway.

"Ohh," she said. "Geeze, thanks Ace. Guess I drunk too much Zambuca. Call me, 'kay?" She leaned over and bussed me sloppily. It was then I realized where the Good 'n Plenty waft came from. She alit before I could open her door and staggered into her house.

^^^

I didn't have to call her. She phoned me at about noon the next day, apologizing profusely.

"Lookit," she said. "My folks wanna meet you. Can you come up tidday fer Sunday gravy? It's at four."

I hesitated.

Arlene said, "See, there's no trouble. I got my own way up to my bedroom, so nobody don't know that I went out and got buzzed last night. Please come. Lotsa good food."

Remembering the small bites at the No-Name Italian Club, I assented.

But I had to bring something. It being Sunday, liquor stores were closed. Off to the Sons of Sweden. I was fortunate that Easy Ed was tending bar. Ed also happened to work for a wine distributor as his day job. I told him of my plight and he descended, without question, into the club's cavernous basement, returning with a dusty bottle. As he wiped it down, he said, "If these people are real paisans, they will love this. It's a Montepulciano d'Abbruzzo. A nice syrupy red."

"What do I owe you?"

"Come down and play at one of our Wednesday night jams."

"Deal." Saved.

I got up to the family manse in the nick of time. Pietro Mangiamelli greeted me at the door. I shook hands with a jolly, slightly graying and rotund man. I gave him the wine.

He said, "Benvenuto. Welcome. You our honored guest tidday. An' lookita dis, Montepulciano. Nice-a, nice-a. We just siddown. Now, tutti a tavola a mangiare!" His jollity placated me.

As we walked through the house, he said, "Wassa you real name. No Ace?"

I told him, including my Confirmation name.

"Ess too long. I call-a you Irish, hokay? You call-a me Pete. No mister nothing."

And Irish it was. As it was Pete.

Arlene bounced into the foyer and kissed me on the cheek. She escorted me into a huge dining room. Over the racket of a dozen and a half people, she attempted introductions. Grandmothers, uncles, aunts. Names like Cheech, Boompa, Foofi, Strunzie. I needed a scorecard.

A redheaded woman--obviously the missus--bounded in and out of the kitchen. Wearing a sauce-stained apron, she waved to me.

Then came food. My Lord, mountains of it. Bean soup. Various and sundry antipasti.

Pete, of course, sat at the head of the long, rectangular table. Arlene flanked him at one hand, and I sat next to her. The chair next to his other hand was empty. I ate.

Red wine flowed from unmarked bottles. Light chatter ensued as we tucked in.

Then someone walked in. Pete stood up, "Anita, cara, come sit. I know you was doin' books for me."

I gulped. She was definitely Arlene's sister. With a face less round. Tresses of dark hair, almost blue. The eyes, a navy the likes of which I haven't seen. Taller, fuller, splendid. Almost large--just short of that.

I stopped eating. A lone shrimp caught in my throat. Arlene paid no mind; she was immersing herself in the food.

Anita allowed me a brief, incandescent smile. "Hello, Ace," she said softly. I was glad I wasn't standing.

Out came the pasta. Hollow spaghetti. Already dressed in a thick, red sauce, laced with shards of meat. Three big platters, family style. When it was my turn, I dug into the noodles, using the tongs to grab a large portion. Once again, Anita caught my eye. She shook her head from side to side. I halved my portion. That merited me a nod and a wink.

A cheese grinder was passed around. Real Parmigiana Reggiano. The dish almost made me dizzy.

Freshly baked bread was also on hand. Pete looked at me and said, "Hey, Mama, bring-a some butter for Irish here." Once again, Anita signaled me. Don't do it.

"No thanks," I said, starting to get the gist of things. I swabbed some bread in the sauce, mimicking the others.

Arlene hadn't spoken in a half hour. She gulped splendidly.

Before I knew it, more dishes were marched in.

"Aaah," said Pete. "Zuppa di pesc'" This was a fish stew in a lighter red sauce. Clams, mussels, crab. Anita and I shared winks.

Then, Pete stood up, magically producing the wine I had bought. He clinked his glass and the room was blanketed with silence. "Thees Irish here, he gift us with a fine bottle a vino rosso from the old country." New wine glasses magically appeared. He opened the bottle with aplomb and continued.

"Now, thees not fer everbody. Boompa, you get none, cuz you just like-a the cheap stuff. The nonnas, you busy chattin'. I pour."

At the same time Mrs. Mangiamelli (Did she eat?) and her minions brought out the centerpiece. Beef braciole. Flank steak stuffed with prosciutto, salt pork, tons of garlic, breadcrumbs and herbs. Then tucked up like a jelly roll, tied and braised. When I took a second piece of this heaven, Anita nodded. The big food was done. And the wine, I knew, was a cut above the red we had been drinking.

Before the cannoli, cheese plate and other desserts, Pete took the floor once again. "All-a the men, downstairs for dessert, coffee, brandy and-a aniset.'" He looked at me with a stern glance. "Hey Irish, you ever heard a Morra?"

At that moment I had my lucky stars--and Guido Buonicontra--to thank. Guido was my accountant and--some years before--had taught me the Italian "fingers" game. The concept was simple: You faced an opponent, and each person threw out a handful of digits. The object: Shout out a number, in Italian of course, that predicted the total number displayed between the two players.

I said, "You play with zeroes?" This was a variant on the game. Two fists (zeroes) meant a do-over, no winner. Two fives resulted not in dieci (the Italian ten), but a deathlike rattle,(brrrrrrrrrrrr).

As the eight men repaired to the basement, Anita pulled me aside and whispered, "Dad always leads with a four." Arlene was into her third cannolo.

The "basement" was another pleasure palace. The huge room was lined with leather sofas. A massive TV filled one corner. The place even had a small kitchen along one wall. Another was all plate glass, offering a view of the lake. Pete started the proceedings. "Ah first, we gotta see if the Irish know howta play. Jus' me anna him. No money."

I led with a four. So did Pete. I shouted, "Otto." Eight.

He bellowed, "Sei," at the same time. Six. I won. Anita was right

We tried again. I felt he was going to stay with the four. I threw a one. My cinque beat his sette (seven). After I had him seven out of ten, he gave up.

"Now-a we do two teams a four each. A dollah a trow. An' I wanna Irish on my team."

As we played, the pot grew. As did the volume. Women would hustle down with cannoli, sweet wine, cheeses, brandy, coffee and anisette. Then they would just as quickly leave.

My team with Pete won the evening. I think I stuffed close to twenty bucks in my pocket.

On the way upstairs, Anita pulled me aside. "I heard," she said, gripping my upper arm. "You did good."

I spotted Arlene in the dining room. She was chugging a clear liquid.

Pete came up the stairs behind me. As I started to thank him for the meal, he put his hands to his lips. "Aspetta. Let's go talk, Irish. Inna libary. Follow me."

to be continued

That Dance

The night was innocent. I was a guest at a private club—a low-end one at that. Dinner was thick and weighty: haunches of meat, potato alps, iceberg floating in thousands of islands with hints of pseudo bacon. The wine was sweet and cheap, a horrid accompaniment.

And yet, I was at peace on this gently breezy summer's evening. My hosts were Lori and Jack, two staunch, laughing friends. Jack had a voice like a broadcaster. He was a plumber. Lori did not know how to complain. I could not tell her how much I liked her sturdy legs and single dimple.

A member set up a CD player and tunes ensued. Tables vanished. Jack bought after-dinner drinks. I settled into an Irish Mist. Happily.

You're a musician, right? said a voice. Why aren't you dancing? I looked to one side and saw her. A friend of Jack and Lori. She told me her name was Monica. I said that musicians are usually lousy dancers, especially drummers. We'd rather be playing.

Monica laughed. A tiny, tinkling laugh. Contagious. Lovely.

Quite suddenly, I liked her.

Monica produced a Little One. A five-year-old miniature of her mother. Hello, said the girl. I'm Mary.

Introductions followed from Mom. I'm gonna call you Mr. Tim, said Mary. I quietly celebrated her name. Not Destiny. Or Savannah. Mary. It's a grand old name, and this little one deserved that.

Monica and I talked as if we were age-old friends. Topics didn't matter. Her words and laugh wriggled their way inside me. The more we chatted, the more beautifully Monica shone. Myriads of blonde curls, piercingly warm blue eyes. Tall, sturdy. Like Lori. Monica dressed quietly, suitably, modestly. Demure, sandals. Perfectly painted toes. I noticed everything.

How quickly love can surface! Not unctuous love. Not Hallmark love. A simple, liberating love, shackle-free.

Monica stole my words. I feel like I met you years ago, she said. I thought: Forward? No, noble. She touched my wrist as if I had cued her. Mary smiled and told her mother she liked Mr. Tim.

The DJ played Sinatra. "Summer Wind." I mentioned that this was a favorite of mine. Mary came over and stood in front me me, hands on hips. Demanding. She said, Mommy, Mr. Tim and I are gonna dance. Should I? Monica smiled, nodded and gestured toward the dance floor. Mary took my hand and led me out.

She stood on my shoes as I held her shoulders and upper arms. Clumsily. Monica solved this. Just as the vocals began, she picked up Mary with her right arm. Then she reached for my left and we formed a cradle. Monica slung her left arm around my shoulder. I encircled her waist with my right. She pulled us all closer.

And I began to sing: And then we strolled that golden sand. Mary giggled at this and commanded me to keep singing.

Then I felt Monica's head on my right shoulder. I could feel the curls flirting with my cheek. Delightfully, ticklingly. She smelled of a clean, starry night—a night where I could see the world. Her lips, butterfly wings, whisked my neck. She whispered, I don't want this song to end.

I came close to swooning. My backbone jellied. My gait almost failed. We three were welded. In the fadeout, Mary keep saying summer wind ... summer wind.

I had perhaps another half hour with Mary and her mother. Finally Monica told Mary that they had to get home. The child objected. She flung her arms around my neck. I could feel the tears. A moist gift from a tiny wonder. Monica held my hand, looking at me long and hard. Her eyes welled. And then they were gone.

I went outside and sat for a while. And cried. Quietly. And thought about how people can stroll into each other's lives. And, no matter how briefly those walks last, they are worth every step. Moments big as years.

^^^

Two weeks later, I sat in with a band at a local band at a local outdoor festival. Although I had to concentrate on my playing, I noticed three people at the edge of the crowd. The blonde curls first. The woman was restraining a child who wanted to move closer. A square-jawed man with a disdainful, cold look stood near. He scowled. Oops, time for a fill into a guitar solo.

At the end of the tune. I searched for those people. Gone.

Two days later, I found a note in my mailbox.

Dear Mr. Tim,
We saw you at the concert. You played great, and I was proud. When Mary saw you, she went crazy. She kept shouting Mr. Tim! Mr. Tim! My husband thought this was silly and wanted to leave. I want you to understand that Mary and I can't see you anymore. Thank you for a night, for a dance that I will never forget.

Love,
Monica

^^^

I weaned myself from that night. Two years passed. A lover came ... and left abruptly after a time. I felt confused, alone and empty. My thoughts returned to Monica and Mary.

One night, Lori called me. She and some girlfriends were convening at a local pub. They were going to meet Monica, who was moving to Colorado with her family. Monica had asked for me to come.

I had to.

I was the only guy at the large, round table. Monica sat on the opposite side. I could hear her laugh as the rest of the room muted. I could see no one else and soaked in every wink and smile.

As all shared good-byes, Monica hugged me and asked me to meet her in the parking lot.

I stuttered under the canopy of a maple on the edge of a car park. Monica moved close enough so that I could sense the cool, starry night once again. Silent, she took my hand and pressed it to her heart. Then put her hand on my own.

I tried to say, IunderstandaboutyourlifebutIcan'tforget ...

Stop, she said.

And then she kissed me. Not a hot, passionate, prurient pucker. But a firm, silvery buss, suffused with true romance. In a few seconds, I felt that butterfly again; Mary's arms about me; her mother's tears this time; Sinatra crooned in my head. She separated, gently. And then curls bounced away, the head bent downward.

I didn't cry.

Before Mork...

A buddy and I stopped at the Improv in L. A. many moons ago. Just a few people were in the bar. Owner Budd Friedman shooed us all into the showroom, insisting that we go in to see this comic.

Perhaps a dozen folks littered the showroom. Within a few seconds, the comic had us all mesmerized. Of course, it was Robin Williams. Pre-Happy Days. Pre-Mork. He careered about the stage, as manic as you've ever seen him.

I must mention race here, because it adds to his prowess. Right in front of the stage was a huge black guy with a white chick. Williams must have riffed on them for a good fifteen minutes—and had them both howling.

John Travolta sat across the room. The comic skewered the actor, with the same results.

He quoted Shakespeare, Roth, maybe Kafka. His energy actually made me feel tired. My jaws and sides ached. He seemed to pluck jokes from thin air.

Ask any comedian: To be a "nobody" and work a small, scattered house—it's nigh impossible. And Williams didn't just work it. He killed it.

Finally, due to the late hour, someone gave him the "cut" sign. He looked drained, defeated. I'm betting he could have done another hour.

He followed us into the bar and kept up the hilarity. He went to everybody, shook hands and introduced himself. He and I chatted for a few minutes.

Finally he said, "You're a funny guy. You do shtick?"

I deadpanned, "No. 'Fraid not. Roman Catholic."

Robin Williams howled. Clapping me on my back, he said, "Hilarious. Can I steal it?"

I said, "Sure."

I Read Somewhere ...

Ah, summer reading. Beach books. The Shur, as they say in Jersey. And another thriller by Steven King.

No, I don't read Steven King. But I do my share of library visits. I take out six books and like two. Or fewer.

Ahoy the cliché frigate! Avast ye copycats! Raise The Sameness Ensign!

In every Western, there's a guy named Kincaid. And a dusty courtesan in a musty saloon, dying to quit the life and get back East to her ailing aunt.

Bathrooms are not for evacuation, only quick showers (and possibly couples' water sports).

Every British spy belongs to a posh private club, where he meets with his graying, astute handler over sole fillets or kidney pie. The spy's wife was murdered by terrorists, but he has a beyond-cute toddler. In steps a nanny to watch the kid. Then the spy falls in love with nanny and has some Sealy Calisthenics with her before he heads off on his perilous mission. Every person in such books is rich, even The Bad Guys.

Among cops, there is always one fat Irish guy who is afraid of action. He sits at a desk and swills Jameson all day from a bottle he pulls out of a drawer.

Action heroes do not eat.

Only women strip to the buff and peruse themselves in full-length mirrors. This usually ends with a "I'm not so bad for forty" line.

Every American cloak-and-dagger dude either works for—or is pursued by—a super-secret organization with a cloudy name such as The Group. This cadre has headquarters hidden in the bowels of a building. Or the earth. Not even the president knows about them, but they always have a ton of money and unlimited resources.

The first two paragraphs of every book are filled with fancypants language. E.g., "Ominous clouds scudded over the inky ocean." Then these contrivances vanish.

Whenever a man cooks, he is grilling a steak.

Often, a waifish woman appears. It is not evident whose side she is on, but she needs The Good Guy to shield/hide her. He takes her under his wing, but she always impedes his Good Guy derring-do. She eventually saves his bacon and they finally engage in some canoodling of a quick, unemotional manner. He leaves her at the end. His job is too dangerous.

Every male lawyer is unkempt and disorganized. The chair next to him is filled by a younger woman who does all the dirty work so that the guy can eviscerate the key witness. She is from a well-off family and broke their hearts when she quit her prestigious job at a well-heeled firm to take up with The Hero. She is overworked and underpaid, but knows she is doing The Right Thing. If the pair hook up, it is brief, and both deem it a mistake.

Add lawyers: In the early goings-on of every trial, the Hero Defense Attorney realizes his case is worth shit. The snotty D. A, pokes fun at him, telling him his case is worth shit. Then the same female assistant finds a surprise witness, and the tide turns. In the end the D. A. doesn't just lose; he is humiliated.

Every high school teacher is a woman who never marries, but was engaged to Doug, who was killed in a war. She ages, becomes dowdy, and her students love her.

If there is a woman cop, she is loathed by all the men in the precinct. She eventually kicks the shit out of a bad guy to prove herself, and the wise-cracking men now admire her.

No villainess is ever blonde. She is a sexy, leggy, dark woman who may bed The Hero before she tries to kill him. She has only one name, usually Vesta.

No one eats hot dogs. Or takes out the garbage. Or has diarrhea, acne or lice.

At the violent climax of an action book, the police always show up too late. Even though Bad People have been massacred and property destroyed, the whole shebang is sorted in a jiffy. No charges are filed, and the book ends with The Hero's arm in a sling as he plots his next caper.

It's still okay to have an Asian villain. His name is Wang. He has amassed scads of Bag Guys and ill-gotten wealth, but The Hero and six other allies take out the entire fortress of evil.

As the highly paid assassin—who is an ex-military sharpshooter gone rogue—is about to the pull the trigger and dispatch a Kashgiristani pacifist clad in robes, a car or other impediment gets in the way. Every one of these gunslingers is mentally unstable and never goes to trial but is killed by Good People.

Pre-teens—a boy and a girl spending a summer together—can't stand each other. They will eventually kiss once.

People who have been shot or stabbed can miraculously diagnose their own condition. "You guys go ahead. I'm not gonna make it, Charlie. Give this letter to Vicky."

Novelists who shy away from graphic Naughty Bits will put a couple in the percale right near the end of chapter. There will be one kiss and then the pair fall into an "eddying whirlpool of delight." Here, the chapter ends.

As does my blog. I have to go put my arm in a sling and get nursed back to health by a reasonably starched nurse named Jillian.

The Magic of Saint's

Yes, the apostrophe is valid. Saint's is more than a place. I'll 'splain.

Saint Mary's by-the-Sea actually refers to a non-denominational chapel, built on a spit of land that surrounds my old neighborhood of Black Rock, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Now, people take the title to mean an entire roadway, walkway and seawall that rims the thumb-shaped Rock where it abuts Long Island Sound, Black Rock Harbor and Ash Creek.

The original chapel--from the Wayback machine.

Newcomers to The Rock never call the place "Saint's," but we back-in-the-day folks do.

My first memories were of the beach. Well, kind of a beach. That little spit where the chapel once stood (allegedly built by a well-to-do local in honor of his widow) was our beach. My mother would trundle my brother and me a good half-mile with all sorts of impedimenta: food, drink, blankets towels, a transistor, you name it. All in a red wagon. Somehow, we fit.

Bathing was a dicey thing. The tide had to be high. We would tiptoe over the rocks into a narrow strand of water between the beach and the swampy terrain of Ash Creek. Sometimes, Mom—bathing cap and all, would brave the waters. She was our float. Even though the channel was never more than three feet deep, Tom and I had our life raft.

The circuit was a great bike ride. Sunday mornings were the best times to collect bottles discarded by weekend revelers. We'd see Coney Island Whitefish too, remnants of intra-vehicle canoodling. I had a vague idea what the nasty things were used for. Oh, I would learn.

When we got older, we'd brave The Current. This was a wider channel off the beach—and a challenging swim—that led to Fabulous Fairfield. And Jennings beach.

We knew we were interlopers. Somehow, the locals did, too. Nonetheless, we'd use the snack bar and ogle Perfect Blonde Fairfield Girls with their seamless tans and skimpier suits.

Summertime evenings spent at The Point. This was the elbow (far left in photo) that adjoined the beach. "Goin' down Saint's?" was the standard query. Dozens of cars would park. Discreet beers, with Bridgeport's finest looking the other way. I smoked my first joint there, peering up at the stars, trying to talk myself into an ersatz high.

Beach and "The Point" on far left

Saint's was definitely my sexual primer. A phone number written with eyebrow pencil on an emery board. My hand slipping onto a no-can-touch place on Mary Pat Maloney's blouse. Then a half-hour of explaining it away. I almost lost my virginity there. Wha? Alas, the Volkswagen was too damn small.

Or sometimes, we'd just sit and watch the sun go down. Or rise behind Fayerweather Lighthouse.

Of course, all this has changed. The beach—much larger—has been taken over by Chard-sipping, hand-wringing do-gooders who now call it The Sand Spit Sea Sanctuary or somesuch fancypants moniker. It is evidently the home of the the endangered Blue-tailed, Snot-nosed Petrel. Fun is not allowed. Either are People from the Wrong Side of Town, if the parvenus had their way.

Park police make sure all vehicles are gone by dusk. People ride carbon-fiber bikes, often wearing silly, nut-crunching Tour de Sainte's shorts. Others with Just the Right Shoes walk their flawlessly groomed Schipperkes, tailed by spouses toting biodegradable fecal-disposal bags.

But, to me—and many others—it's still Saint's. A walk or drive around there makes memories erupt.

The walkway today. Look Ma, no Shih Tzus!

Once, after arriving home at the inanely named Fairfield Metro—it should be Black Rock—train station, a friend picked me up. Before we got to my destination, she said, "Once around Saint's, Ace?"

Yes, indeed.

15 Things To Know If You're Friends with a Writer

Yes, we are different. So are you.

1. We don't all write books. Some of us do. Others write ad copy, webicles, columns, poetry and the like. If I had written "Just do it," I'd be blogging from somewhere in Kaua'i, with my toes in the sand and a liveried servant bringing me tall, rummified tropical drinks with umbrellas in them.

2. Writing is work. If you think all we do is lounge around and pick up a pen when we get a great notion, think again. Ask a reporter who has a few minutes to dash off 500 words. Term papers were a walk in the park compared to this. Although we don't wield pickaxes, after a few hours of agonizing over a short story, we are fried. And so you would be.

3. "Will you put me in one of your stories?" No.

4. We notice things. It might be the wrinkle of a nose or the cranky sound of a beat-up Pinto. We will use it all. Or not. I recently copied a friend's appearance as a model for a character in a short story. She was flattered.

5. "My cousin's husband writes poetry." Swell.

6. We are pretty much like you. Not all writers wear berets and chug absinthe in an atelier on La Rive Gauche. We need charcoal for our grills, have thimble collections and emit flatus. But what we do might be more intense and personal than your job.

7. We get paid for this. A far-from-BFF acquaintance once asked me to pen a cover letter. I quoted her a price. When she got her panties in a knot, I said, "You work for the cable company. Can I get a free box for my sunporch?"

8. Yes, we bristle at bad grammar. It's our nature. Words are our currency, our Linus blanket, our friends. If we write, "They should have went elsewhere ..." an editor might have our heads on a platter. Or force us to watch Swamp Bachelors. So when you speak or write in this fashion, it raises flags. Like white socks with a tuxedo.

9. Not all writing is "fancy." Neil Peart of Rush has 387 drums and plays them loud and fast. He's not the best drummer. Pick up anything by Elmore Leonard. You won't need a dictionary. And you will be enthralled.

10. When we use an unpopular word, there's a reason. Sometimes will agonize over a single adjective. So, a weak descriptor like "pretty" becomes stronger with "winsome." Once, a woman slapped me because I said "milieu." It was the exact word I wanted to use in the situation. And she hit hard, too.

11. This gets to us. Perhaps we are moodier, more introspective or more fragile than, say, mechanics. But we are both trying to fix a Bentley. Bear with us. Most writers—heck, just about all truly creative people—I know have poured their lives into what they do. This path is not for everybody.

12. "What are you reading?" Sometimes nothing, especially if I'm in the midst of a major project. My brain just gets too tired. A Yuengling or two will do. But we read people you read. With the possible exception of some of the white-zinfandel writers. If you want to delve into some serious writerly writing, try Don DeLillo.

13. No, you can't read what we're working on. It isn't done yet. When we make love, we usually undress. Yes, I trust my WIHL (woman I hopelessly love) with snippets. If we do share something with you, we need a reaction.

14. Yes, the rewards are fabulous. There is no joy I have experienced that even touches on the frisson I feel when I truly reach a reader. An ex-con once told me (early in my career) to drop everything in my life and keep writing. A dear cousin—whom I have met just once—said she feels she knows me after reading my scribbles. You can't replace this.

15. "I always wanted to be a writer." To quote the great H. L. Mencken, "Go write."