Tony had been at the job far longer than most. Considerably longer than his predecessors, of which he had personally witnessed the demise of over two dozen in the span of a decade. Longevity, however, wasn't the name of the game here. Sooner or later your number came up. Regardless of whether or not you kept head down, asked no questions, did what you were told, or begged for mercy. All of that was well-intentioned, yet ultimately useless advice.
It's not exactly like he had any alternative options. Porto Vista wasn't a town rife with opportunity. If you weren't one of the fortunate few to break out and away, then you were absorbed into the system. Don Acerbi's system. There were no exceptions, just countless forks in the road leading to -- literal -- dead ends.
In a rare stroke of "luck", Tony was spared from the fate of becoming a mule, foot soldier, or even hitman. Instead, at the age of 10, he began working as an assistant in kitchen of the Don's personal food taster. Part cook, part guinea pig - it was the food taster's job to make sure that Don Acerbi's meals were poison-free and fit for consumption. Most lasted on average around six months.
Tony, on the other hand, had held the job for 10 years (and counting) after Guiseppe, the previous food taster, succumbed to a tainted batch of Tiramisu. However, Tony had not escaped unscathed over the years. He had experienced his fair share of crippling stomach cramps and vomitting. One time, he was even in a coma for a week. Somehow, he always managed to continue. It earned him the nickname L'uomo di ferro, the Iron Man, for his "iron" consitution and the play on his first name. Porto Vista mafiosis weren't exactly known for their literacy.
But this time, this time it looked like Tony's number might be up. Lying on the hospital gurney, slipping in and out of consciousness, he went through the mental checklist that he had cultivated throughout the years. From the simple and obvious, "Does it look and smell ok?" to the less-obvious, poison-specific characteristics that he had taught himself.
A wry smile crossed his face as he thought of an old black and white comedy film, in which the main character, a heavyset slapstick buffoon, stumbles out of a restaurant grasping his stomach and pleads to patrons entering the restaurant, "Non mangiare il pollo!"
Don't eat the chicken. Pollo alla parmigiana. Fuck.
Tony's eyes fluttered closed as he drifted off again. Breathing slow, but steady, he added that gem to the seemingly endless list of well-intentioned, but ultimately useless advice.
Backstage
"Yo...yo, man..." *ssthp* *sssthp *sssssthp* Punch takes three more quick hits off the blunt and holds it out to JoJo. "Yo, man, you wanna hit this?"
"Naw, man, I'm good," replies JoJo
Right at that moment, Steve the Tour Manager charges into the makeshift dressing room, an almost comical mixture of panic and rage streaked across his face.
"Just what in the fuck do you guys think you're doing?!" yells Steve. "Y'all are up next and you're back here dickin' around like you've got all the goddamn time in the world. And weed?! Seriously, save that for the bus. Are you guys trying to never get another gig booked again? Because if that's the case, then-"
"Then what, motherfucker?" JoJo snaps back. He bolts up from the couch; standing toe to toe with Steve, he asks incredulously, "Are you my doctor?!" Turning to his bandmate, he continues, "Yo, Punch, did Steve here get his medical license and not bother to tell a motherfucker about it?"
Cackling from his spot on the couch, Punch replies, "Yo, that's messed up, Steve. You shouldn't be fuckin' around with us like that. We got cards for this shit. Real medical shit."
"Yup. Real medical shit," JoJo echoes.
"Like what?" challenges Steve.
"Plantar fasciitis, motherfucker," Punch retorts.
"Booyah! Eczema!" proclaims JoJo.
The cramped, musty space is silent, as Steve sighs in defeat. He lowers his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the alternating sharp inhales and luxurious exhales as Punch and JoJo pass the blunt back and forth.
"Fuck you guys. I quit."
"Naw, man, I'm good," replies JoJo
Right at that moment, Steve the Tour Manager charges into the makeshift dressing room, an almost comical mixture of panic and rage streaked across his face.
"Just what in the fuck do you guys think you're doing?!" yells Steve. "Y'all are up next and you're back here dickin' around like you've got all the goddamn time in the world. And weed?! Seriously, save that for the bus. Are you guys trying to never get another gig booked again? Because if that's the case, then-"
"Then what, motherfucker?" JoJo snaps back. He bolts up from the couch; standing toe to toe with Steve, he asks incredulously, "Are you my doctor?!" Turning to his bandmate, he continues, "Yo, Punch, did Steve here get his medical license and not bother to tell a motherfucker about it?"
Cackling from his spot on the couch, Punch replies, "Yo, that's messed up, Steve. You shouldn't be fuckin' around with us like that. We got cards for this shit. Real medical shit."
"Yup. Real medical shit," JoJo echoes.
"Like what?" challenges Steve.
"Plantar fasciitis, motherfucker," Punch retorts.
"Booyah! Eczema!" proclaims JoJo.
The cramped, musty space is silent, as Steve sighs in defeat. He lowers his head, pinching the bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. For a moment, the only sounds that can be heard are the alternating sharp inhales and luxurious exhales as Punch and JoJo pass the blunt back and forth.
"Fuck you guys. I quit."
My Invisible TV
On its own, stop-and-go rush hour traffic is bad enough. That combined with an unrelenting summer heat wave, no AC, and a broken radio is nothing short of pure torture. Gas, brake, wait. Sigh.
With all of the car windows down as far as they can go, there's really nothing else to do except sit here stewing in my own juices and entertain myself with the human dramas occurring around me.
The vehicle directly in front of me is a late-model minivan with out-of-state plates. A family of four sits inside. Obviously on vacation, by the looks of their over-packed trunk. On the one hand, I envy the the artificial freon breeze that is likely circulating inside. On the other hand, the children -- one is definitely younger than 10, the other around 13 or 14 -- seeming to have devised their own game. It's a mixture of what looks like the classic "Punch Buggy" and "Simon Says". Although, I can't hear their actual words, I can tell that it's loud. And testing every bit of their parent's willpower not to murder their offspring.
*Zap*
I turn to my left upon hearing a pounding bass sound eminating from the car next to me. The driver, oblivious to the traffic jam and other cars all around her, is holding her own private sit-down dance party. She alternately puts one hand in front of the other in a motion that makes it look like she's pulling a rope or a cart of some kind. Sounds like that YOLO Drake song, but I can't be sure...
*Zap*
The driver on my right looks to be suffering just as much as I am, if not worse. The windows of his ancient pickup don't even go down all the way. I can nevertheless hear strains of the local news and traffic report coming from his radio. Bottleneck approaching due to a freeway accident less than a mile away. Traffic may be backed up at least 5 miles behind us, but we're almost through the worst of it. We exchange weary glances. Solidarity, my sweat-covered comrade.
*Zap*
A peek in my rear-view mirror reveals a driver applying (or re-applying) make up. Could be worse, I suppose. Still, I could probably make money hand over fist, if I could invent a product that allows women to apply make up in the car, without sacrificing safety...or fashion. I imagine it would be some type of mask-like contraption. You'd have to choose the makeup combinations in advance, but then you could just put it on your face and drive. Set it and forget it, as the great Ron Popeil always says.
Money, hand over fist...maybe that's the name of the dance that the woman was doing.
I sit forward in the driver's seat and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The air around me is so thick; it's the kind of heat that makes you feel like you're somehow outside of yourself. I put my car into park and close my eyes for the briefest of moments.
*HONK*
Jolted awake, it takes a microsecond for me to recall my surroundings. Minivan family and YOLO are already gone. Comrade Pickup has already merged in front of me. Set-It-And-Forget-It is the likely honking culprit.
I glare back at her through my rearview, put the car into drive and start rolling forward.
With all of the car windows down as far as they can go, there's really nothing else to do except sit here stewing in my own juices and entertain myself with the human dramas occurring around me.
The vehicle directly in front of me is a late-model minivan with out-of-state plates. A family of four sits inside. Obviously on vacation, by the looks of their over-packed trunk. On the one hand, I envy the the artificial freon breeze that is likely circulating inside. On the other hand, the children -- one is definitely younger than 10, the other around 13 or 14 -- seeming to have devised their own game. It's a mixture of what looks like the classic "Punch Buggy" and "Simon Says". Although, I can't hear their actual words, I can tell that it's loud. And testing every bit of their parent's willpower not to murder their offspring.
*Zap*
I turn to my left upon hearing a pounding bass sound eminating from the car next to me. The driver, oblivious to the traffic jam and other cars all around her, is holding her own private sit-down dance party. She alternately puts one hand in front of the other in a motion that makes it look like she's pulling a rope or a cart of some kind. Sounds like that YOLO Drake song, but I can't be sure...
*Zap*
The driver on my right looks to be suffering just as much as I am, if not worse. The windows of his ancient pickup don't even go down all the way. I can nevertheless hear strains of the local news and traffic report coming from his radio. Bottleneck approaching due to a freeway accident less than a mile away. Traffic may be backed up at least 5 miles behind us, but we're almost through the worst of it. We exchange weary glances. Solidarity, my sweat-covered comrade.
*Zap*
A peek in my rear-view mirror reveals a driver applying (or re-applying) make up. Could be worse, I suppose. Still, I could probably make money hand over fist, if I could invent a product that allows women to apply make up in the car, without sacrificing safety...or fashion. I imagine it would be some type of mask-like contraption. You'd have to choose the makeup combinations in advance, but then you could just put it on your face and drive. Set it and forget it, as the great Ron Popeil always says.
Money, hand over fist...maybe that's the name of the dance that the woman was doing.
I sit forward in the driver's seat and rest my forehead on the steering wheel. The air around me is so thick; it's the kind of heat that makes you feel like you're somehow outside of yourself. I put my car into park and close my eyes for the briefest of moments.
*HONK*
Jolted awake, it takes a microsecond for me to recall my surroundings. Minivan family and YOLO are already gone. Comrade Pickup has already merged in front of me. Set-It-And-Forget-It is the likely honking culprit.
I glare back at her through my rearview, put the car into drive and start rolling forward.