Limoncello for the Boy, Aperol Spritz for the Girl
Discover more from Tony Zentelis
Picture this. No, you don’t need to picture it at all actually, because you all know it well - the dainty, family owned Italian joint in or around your city, the one with dim lights and waitstaff dressed in ebony and ivory, as if they are keys on a Yamaha, the one where the owner might make rounds and ask you if you’re enjoying your dinner, to which you will answer to that greasy fuck (an endearing term in Sicilian families, trust me) yes mister Scalvini, the veal bolognese is delicious; it’s the place where the wine is served in a cup, not a glass, because drinking a table red here is a requirement, not an indulgence; it’s where the disgruntled lawmen and frisky housewives come to enjoy half off martinis and calamari from four to six; and, for this night and this night only (unless I opt to return on similar nights in the future, which is a strong possibility), it was the place where I was celebrating my birthday.
I was cropped up at the pasta merchant on a Tuesday evening, sitting at one of the tables situated in the center of the dining room, with my back to the door; you should never sit with your back to the door, but on this particular day, I paid it no attention - after all, if someone did make an attempt on my life, I at least would find my name on the Wikipedia page listing famous people who died on their day of birth. Of course no one in the establishment knows the occasion is my 26th consecutive trip around the sun; no one but the lovely gril in a flowing sun dress who is seated to my right; always to my right, as my left hand is the dominant one, and I would feel claustrophobic otherwise. Our waiter had already made his initial rounds to our locale, collecting our beverage orders, to which I had opted for the Limoncello cocktail (a potent potable, I must say), and she landed on something fruity, to which I do not recall the name, but I can assure you dear reader that it was fruity. Rest assured, my heart appreciates this quality in sun dress girl (who will come to be known as Greek girl) amongst other attributes, most notably her death black hair, olive-tinged skin, and vast curiosity for life.
This particular birthday has been magnificently uneventful, which is ideal at this stage in my life - call me an old man, but I do not with to relive the last eventful birthday I had, which ended with my head in a trash can in front of a world-famous nightclub as my battalion of friends fought with another group of gentlemen crossing paths with us. The best nights out are not the ones where everyone is focused on you, but rather the ones where no one seems to care, and you can meander around the shadows and sew yourself into an unbeknownst fabric of life. Lest I have become more contemplative in my old age, and I wonder if I will even remember my name day in future years! I should go around to all humans with living knowledge of the date and flash them with a Men in Black memory eraser, and burn my birth certificate with a Zippo lighter, and send a gag order to the obstetricians that delivered me on that gloomy summer night some one score and six years ago, and delete all social media accounts reminding me of the day, and soon enough, I will become known as the man without the birthday. The man who one day just strutted through the gaping door of existence one day, and on another day will strut right back through the swinging saloon doors, after I have acquired my bag of riches. Dreams, and many of them!
But tonight, there was no mental bandwidth available for dreaming, as I was brooding, but in an optimistic and lightly inebriated way. After sifting through the various birthday calls, texts, and instant messages, my weary mind needed a break, and despite my prior resistance to a meal out earlier in the week when asked by Greek girl, I was grateful I had come around on the idea, and more so, I was grateful she had offered in general.
If nothing else, it was another opportunity for us to converse about anything and everything, as our conversations often covered a dizzying array of topics, from vascular system design to cat antics, and everything in between. Tonight we were discussing my blossoming writing vocation (or wilting, depending how you look at it - we all are dying, after all), a subject I am (almost) always willing to discuss, despite being a self-proclaimed and intentional amateur who refuses to explain why. She asks good questions though - ones that force me to explain myself:
So are you more of a sit down and write it all at once kind of person, or do you prefer to work on it in bits and pieces? Because I feel like it would be hard to pick something back up in the middle of a story once you stopped.
Yeah, I agree. I tend to do most of the writing and thinking beforehand and then just sit down and let it all out when the time is right. The first word out is usually the truest. But don’t tell editors that…. Also, that method won’t work with novels. Can you imagine if Dostoevsky tried to write War and Peace all at once?!
I don’t know who Dostoevsky is.
Yes you do, he’s the Russian guy I told you about. The once who wrote Crime and Punishment, my favorite novel of all time.
Oh yeah, I do remember that. It’s the murder mystery one.
Well, not really, but yeah more or less.
Do you know what my favorite book is?
I don’t know, you probably told me, but I forgot…. sorry.
No I never told you. Honestly, I don’t know if I have a favorite of all time. When I was younger, I really enjoyed the Percy Jackson books. Anything Greek Mythology really.
Makes sense.
And Harry Potter, of course. I loved Harry Potter.
Never read it.
What?!!!?! You’ve never read Harry Po-
Hey guys, I have a veal bolognese.
Yep, that’s me. Thank you.
And then the penne alla vodka.
Yes. Thank you!
No problem! Let me know if you guys need anything. Enjoy!
Thank you!
No, I have never read Harry Potter. Sue me. I’ll get to it one of these days. But for now, the veal bolognese. It is a good thing the waiter had come around with our entrees, as my focus was beginning to shift from the discussion about popular teenage literature towards the voluptuous cavern that stood underneath that flowing midi sundress. Perhaps it was the Limoncello calling the shots. Either way, wandering eyes is enough to send any honest man to the outskirts of his imagination. But no need to worry, there would be no emergency washroom hookup, as the aroma of the perfectly braised baby cow and handmade pasta had wrastled my undivided attention from Greek to Italian, sort of like what happened in the 3rd century BC. As I chowed down on my meal, my mind wandered to the Tuscan countryside, where a modest yet fleet sports car, red in color, hopped and skipped over those rolling hills. One day Tony….
….But is it what you really want….?
….there is nothing worse than being nestled awake by an amassing feeling of looming urination. Man, I really am getting old. A quick check of the time showed the numbers 2, 1 and 4, in that order. Just a few more moments until witching hour. I rolled out of bed and stumbled across her bedroom and towards the invisible stairs that led downstairs to the bathroom. As I walked, I heard a familiar rustling coming from the other side of the room, and soon that rustling turned into quaint, dainty footsteps, one only a petite, domesticated feline could make. Except this time, she didn’t scurry away from me, but rather stood directly in my path. The moonlight peering in from the windows reflected off her yellow eyes, and I could faintly make out her stunning silver coat. I stopped for a second, and then slowly knelt down, and offered my hand. Hey there miss, what are you doing up so late? Huh?
But all she could offer me was a somnolent meow.
I graced my hand over her silky smooth fur, and she cooed and rubbed her head against my outstretched hand, the universal sign that for a brief moment, the feline doesn’t want to carve you up and eat your liver, and as I did so, I couldn’t help but shake my head and let out a wry and earnest smile.
Yes, I know that I have no idea what I’m in for in the coming months, feline, but I’m ready for it. And so is she.
Party drugs and limousines, oh mama this is killing me
I'm half the man I used to be, oh-oh
Tequila, lust and gambling, oh mama I need rescuing
What 16 years has done to me, oh-oh (ooh)
Onward,
Tony
Humble Wordsmith
Writer Boy
Pasta Purveyor
Wanderer