The Kangaroo Handler
Despite the darkness, I can imagine his shadows stretching underneath the door. He had been pacing for three quarters of an hour, frantically chattering on the phone as he did so. The clock’s red numbers change; it’s Thursday now. Who the hell decided a connecting door between hotel rooms was a good idea?
My eyelids are heavy. The scratchy sheets wrap my legs, the tangled mess a result of tossing and turning. I had clicked the TV off ninety minutes ago, when I had first attempted to sleep, but my eyes still burn from its light. Ambient noise at night isn’t an unfamiliar experience for me—my flat is situated above a bustling pub—but the man’s voice irks me. There are brief silences as the person on the other line responds, but then the man’s fervid speaking resumes.
The room is simple. The clock’s 1:29am illuminates the bedside table where my disposable reading glasses are folded. The unfinished crossword puzzle had fallen between the table and the bed, tossed aside in my frustration. Moonlight streams in freely, the crumpled blinds ineffective. The air seems alive, activated by the buzzing of the man’s voice as it carries through the door.
His accent is indiscernible. His tone is eager, as though he’s flinging the words from his mind as soon as they occur to him. My neck strains as I crane to listen. Our reception is bad, I can only catch a stray sentence here and there.
“They’re what? Why are they not in the cages?”
The other person responds.
He continues, “They have got to be in the cages, okay? They can’t just roam around, that’s ridiculous and unprofessional and ….” The words grow fuzzy again as he moves further into his room.
I consider pursuing one of two possible options. I could rap on the door several times and ask him to “kindly, shut up.” Or, perhaps sitting by the door would be interesting. I’m awake already, aren’t I? Any conversation loud enough for an outsider to hear is fair game for eavesdropping. The issue at hand however, is getting out of bed. Maybe he’s not worth the effort. I can barely hear him now anyway.
My mind is foggy. I’m warm, content even. There’s a low mumbling—early risers, possibly, making their way through the hallway. The mumbling grows clearer, the haziness morphing into concrete words. I rub my eyes and they sting with remnants of scant sleep. The words are growing louder on my right side, not the left where the hallway is situated. I glance at the clock. 3:57am.
The peevish voice is next to the door. “No. I don’t care that they were imported from Germany, if they’re not good then they’re not good.” I wonder if he’s curious who I am or aware that I can hear everything. I doubt it. Anyone who speaks as freely as he does, especially at this hour, doesn’t give a damn about whether or not he’s being listened to. There’s a chance he welcomes an audience, relishes in it. Who I am doesn’t matter to him.
“I don’t want cucumbers, Linda. I want pickles. There’s a fucking difference, that’s why they have different names.” The tense silence resumes; I imagine Linda scrambling to reassure him about cucumber quality.
“A ‘hint of pickle’ won’t work. What’s a ‘hint’ mean Linda? Just get it fixed…”
His voice trails off as he walks off into the bathroom, door slamming behind him. I’m deciding to call him David. I’ve never met a pleasant David and this man is no exception. The name suits him from the few things I’ve ascertained. First of all, he’s clearly high-strung. Or on coke. It could be either one, not sure which is worse. Second, he and his assistant Linda are involved in some freaky business regarding cages and pickles. Or he just works at a zoo. He seems insufferable; he probably has watery grey eyes and a weak jaw, acne rimming his thinning blond hairline. He’s in his clothes from yesterday, but he doesn’t seem like a suit-kind-of-man. Drugs aside, if I’m sticking with the story that he’s a zoo director, or does whatever one does in the operation of a zoo, then he’s definitely wearing something practical.
Halloween night ‘94 was when I last wore the outfit I envision David to be wearing. In my mind’s eye, I’m wearing khaki cargo shirts with a matching collared button down. Large laced boots cover my feet and a key ring hangs from my belt. I had seen this outfit in the San Diego Zoo’s gift shop, immediately decided I had to have it, and presented my case to Mum. The condition was that I wear it for Halloween, ensuring it’d get used on more than one random July day. I’ve decided that David is wearing this outfit, just twenty feet to my right. It’s feasible that he works at the same zoo, another foreigner in San Diego. A weird connection between two strangers sharing a wall in a crappy Tokyo hotel.
He’s been in the bathroom for an hour. It was four when he slammed the door and his voice is now muffled due to the various layers between us. Like a Charlie Brown adult, he’s become merely background noise; he’s undoubtedly still talking about various zoo-operations.
“….told her that she can’t just grab it from his hands. She has to ask, like any decent person would do. I mean she’s not a person, you get what I mean, but that’s what was going on with her before I left last Sat…” His voice trails off again, as soon as it had reappeared. The dingy little lamp that’s in every room is switched on—his, not mine. I’m curled in a fetal position, my right cheek squished against the deflated pillow. Sleepiness ebbs and flows, but it overwhelms me right now and pulls me under. I dream of cageless animals and pickle purveyors and mannerless gorillas.
My sleep is fragmented. Dreams intertwine with reality, David’s nonsensical sentences drifting in and out.
“Coming home tomorrow. One of them hurt their legs last week, they’re too bouncy for their own good. Keep an eye on that situation for me…”
The newest development. My dream takes me inside an enclosure where I stand opposite David. We’re surrounded by hundreds of baby kangaroos, one of whom wears a little cast. David doesn’t notice me, but speaks—not to anyone in particular, just aloud. He says, “It should be ready next week, when they come to visit. Haven’t seen them in a while, you know how it is, hectic schedule…” The baby kangaroos disperse, the injured one hopping slower than the rest. David and I are left alone, he stares right past me. The greenery around us flips upside down, throwing me off my bed.
I’m back in the real world, but on the floor this time. The rug is coarse; I notice he doesn’t have one because his shoes wouldn’t make their clacking sound if he did. I grab the digital clock, it’s 6:47am. Still too early to be up, but this time there are sounds of actual early-risers out in the hallway.
“Linda. Linda, Linda, Linda. What have I told you?”
Linda’s back. I wonder if she’s gotten the pickle-issue resolved.
“Yes. Exactly. They’re not supposed to be blue, they have to be pink. It’s not a circus for god’s sake. Also, the Harrisons need the west wing to be reserved for next Thursday. Write it down this time.”
My story is slowly being fleshed out. Together, David and his sidekick Linda overcome various obstacles: uncaged mystery animals—meerkats, perhaps—fickle pickles, impolite gorillas, estranged family members, and blue flamingos. The Harrisons thicken the plot: who and why? My brain is still foggy, I’ll continue when I’m doubtlessly woken, probably for the final time, by David.
Brrrrrng! Brrrrrng!
I’m sweating, heart fluttering, palms clammy. I glance at the clock, it’s now 11:30am. It’s also silent on the other side of the door. Strange.
Brrrrrng! Brrrrrng!
From my place on the rug, I crawl to the desk and reach up, grabbing the phone; the cord is taut as I stretch it to my ear.
“Hello?” I say.
“Good morning, Mr. Popplewell. This is your wakeup call that you requested.” It’s a woman from reception.
Part of me thought it would be David calling. Asking why I was listening to him all night and what assumptions I made. As Mum liked to say, “To assume makes an ass out of you and me.” She was right and they rarely are. In my disappointment, I hang up without a thank you.
Despite my scattered belongings filling the room, it feels quite empty. The absence of David’s voice might signify sleep or an earlier check-out. He’s coming home today though, right? I think I heard that correctly. Unless he actually meant tomorrow, since he was speaking at 3am and that was technically today.
Suddenly, the sound of suitcase wheels on hardwood floors slips under the door. He’s awake! And it sounds like he’s leaving. I want to catch him in the hallway and see if my story holds true. I scramble to pack my bag, haphazardly stuffing everything inside. I sit on the suitcase to zip it shut, as it’s somehow become twice as large since my arrival.
Wheels roll, shoes clack against the floor, and the door unlatches. David’s exiting his room and I’m standing with my hand on my door handle. Hesitance grips me. I know I’ll miss him if I don’t open the door right now, but do I want to know who he actually is? Perhaps I’ve learned more from listening to him than I will if I see him in person. I’ve become somewhat attached to my version of David; his name might not even be David, but I’m not sure if I want to find that out. Would I say something to him?
“Hey, sounds like you have a crazy sleep schedule, I heard you talking all night.”
No, that’s too weird. Maybe just saying, “Hey good morning”, but I feel as though that’s too nonchalant. I know him now, though that feeling isn’t reciprocated. Would I just trail behind him as we both roll our suitcases down the long hallway? Give him a half-smile as we silently wait for the elevator?
The moment passes and he’s gone. I yank the door open, lugging my bag out with me. A tray, holding one porcelain plate and an empty water glass, sits outside his room. The plate is covered in bits of soy sauce-soaked rice, but nothing else.
The stairs are empty so I rush down them, my suitcase clattering against each step and causing me to stumble at the bottom as it hits my ankles. The lobby is surprisingly lively, businessmen pacing every which way. No one is blond. No one is wearing a zookeeper’s outfit. I enter the queue, scanning the men in front of me. David left his room several minutes before I did, but the queue is long so he can’t be far ahead. He’s not the man directly in front of me, but is he the next? The one with the red briefcase? Or is he the one at reception wearing a Bluetooth earpiece? Bluetooth man might be my David. He turns around and I avert my eyes.
He brushes past me, his navy suede shoes clacking on the vinyl floors. He vanishes with one rotation of the revolving glass doors. W His plane departs soon, back to San Diego where a baby kangaroo sits patiently, waiting for his afternoon snack.
Filipelli
Machine eleven hummed and drummed, the plate of aglio e olio resting atop it. This was Filipelli’s favorite time of the day, with the monotony of work behind him and a spare two hours until he was to return home.
Filipelli, who prided himself on being an astute observer, noticed that today’s pasta was light on the red pepper flakes. How unusual. He had requested, as always, that extra pepper be added to this otherwise amiable dish. He liked it when each spaghetto was wrapped in its own coat of flakes, ensuring that every bite caused his throat to prickle and eyes to water. Filipelli had no patience for bland food, not on his coin. In two hours time he would be subjected to that night’s serving of diluted chicken stock, soggy strands of spinach, and whisked egg floating at the surface.
He considered walking back to the trattoria, which sat twenty-two cobblestones across from the laundromat. Filipelli wasn’t one to confront anyone, certainly not Luigi, the man responsible for this woeful amount of spice. The wall clock ticked louder, reminding Filipelli that his dawdling was costing him precious time. Ninety minutes until Lucia would expect his presence in the attic they rented…eighty-nine now! Time was of the essence. With a rush of uncharacteristic boldness, Filipelli made his decision.
Several minutes later, with a pepper shaker in hand and Luigi’s yells ringing in his ears, Filipelli leaned against machine eleven, which still sloshed with Signora Carmela’s linens. Eyebrows furrowed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, Filipelli proceeded to pepper his pasta with vigor. A storm of red flakes rained down on the oily spaghetti until a small mountain had formed. Content with this tantalizing amount of spice, Filipelli went about meticulously spooning and twirling the pasta until each prong was snugly enveloped in a noodle. He then crammed the forkful into his mouth, barely bothering to chew.
Filipelli was an odd man. He knew this of course, how many times had his wife and daughter told him so? Any onlooker might agree with this assessment. Woolly clouds crawled through the sky, ushered along by the gentle April wind. The evening sun scaled the orange fronts of the apartment buildings surrounding Filipelli’s laundromat. Each window had cast its shutters aside, beckoning in the warm breeze and caramel light. Put simply, it was a lovely day. Very pleasant, and yet Filipelli was inside, solitarily slurping spaghetti and doing the crossword.
Early on in Filipelli’s time at the factory, before his olive skin resembled that of a dried apricot, he had craved nothing more than fresh air. The warehouse in which he worked was permeated with an aroma of artificial mint, nauseating in its cleanliness. For eight hours Filipelli stood by the conveyor belt. It trudged along, carrying a line of fresh toothpaste tubes. Every few seconds it paused, allowing Filipelli to attach the little white caps. He didn’t mind the repetition, his stringy form was better suited for it than physical labor anyway. He was a wisp of a man, dominated by the thick square glasses he wore. Filipelli thought that perhaps his appearance had something to do with his love for nature; light and lithe, he was carried by the wind rather than by his own feet. The wind was what he missed most while standing inside the factory each day. So, going back to those initial working days, when Filipelli was more youthful in body—his wit remained as fresh as ever—he had decided to take two evening hours for himself. Lucia didn’t leave the office until her boss did, often not until after seven, and Valentina preferred to bike around the piazza while throwing Filipelli’s hard-earned coins into the fountain. As a result, five to seven was Filipelli’s time of solitude, a time he relished. It had been important for him to find the perfect place in which to be alone, somewhere fresh and free of fake mint.
Il parco was a brief walk through the twisting alleys behind the warehouse. Filipelli had daydreamed of it often, of the crisp air and the sun’s non-fluorescent light. He had already claimed the triangular pine tree in the park’s center as his own, planning to stretch beneath it as he mulled over the day’s puzzle. Having expectations was Filipelli’s mistake. After his first week of capping toothpaste, Filipelli ventured into the park as the autumn sun began to set. What good his daydreaming turned out to be; he hadn’t even thought about the early darkness! Slightly disgruntled by the annoying reality of seasonal change, Filipelli picked out his preferred pine tree from the crowd. To his delight, a streetlamp sat in the vicinity, casting a warm glow onto the scattering of pine needles around the tree’s base. He circled the tree, poking and prodding the ground before settling in front of a small arched alcove. Filipelli unfolded that day’s newspaper and rustled through the pages until he found the crossword. Finally content, though he wished he had something to eat, he sat back and began to work.
Barely three minutes had passed before Filipelli felt eyes on him. Even stranger was that the stare didn’t feel as though it belonged to a fellow human. Reluctant to take his eyes off the clue “best aglio e olio in town,” he glanced sideways. Stubby and squat, a squirrel sat to Filipelli’s left. It gazed unblinkingly at him, an acorn clutched between its tiny paws. It was cute, thought Filipelli, albeit slightly creepy. Signaling that he was in fact busy, Filipelli turned back to the clue at hand. There were several places in town that made perfectly good spaghetti…how was he supposed to know which was “the best?” What if his opinion differed with that of the author’s?
Filipelli’s ponderings were, again, cut short by the intrusive feeling of eyes on him. Lifting his focus away from the paper he looked up and let out a cry of surprise.
“Agh!”
Nine squirrels sat staring at him, all stubby and squat like the first—who appeared to be their leader. Each one had their head turned slightly to the side, so that their left eyes, large and black, were fixed steadily on Filipelli.
“What do you want from me?” asked Filipelli, very much unnerved.
Their silence wasn’t surprising—what had he expected?—but their collective step forward, done so suddenly, caused Filipelli to scramble onto his feet. Immediately, they began piling into the tiny alcove, which had been blocked by Filipelli’s back, until only the initial squirrel remained. It gazed up at Filipelli, dropped its acorn as if thanking him for finally vacating their entryway, and sprung inside.
Filipelli bent down and pocketed the smooth acorn, slightly mollified by this gracious gesture, yet frustrated at the loss of his prime location. Where was he to go now?
The sun had set and a cool breeze had arrived in its absence, ushering Filipelli back through the neighborhood towards the attic he called home. He supposed that he would try again tomorrow, perhaps scout around for a replacement tree, though he knew that there wasn’t one. Kicking a pebble across the water-worn stones that paved the street, he made his way down the hill, feeling somewhat dejected at the prospect of returning home before his wife and child.
Turning left onto the narrow road that he always rushed through on his morning walk to the factory, Filipelli was suddenly confronted by a red awning with the sentence “Best Spaghetti Aglio e Olio in Town!” written in a swooping font. Of course! How had he not remembered Luigi’s? Six letters! How many times had he passed by? How many times had he indulged in that very plate of pasta?
Feeling slightly abashed at his own forgetfulness, Filipelli yanked the newspaper out of his back pocket and made to fill in the boxes. The words were illuminated by a warm light and Filipelli spun around to see the source. The laundromat, which he had never paid any attention to before, looked paradisiacal against the dark backdrop of the September evening. The scent of freshly washed clothes wafted out to greet him, enveloping him in its warm embrace, and pulling him inside. He walked along the rows of bustling machines, before stopping at the machine branded “11” and placing his puzzle upon it. Looking out through the window of his new sanctuary, Filipelli thought that he would be the true judge of Luigi’s spaghetti and had vowed to get himself a plate after he finished the crossword.
***
His mouth burning from pepper and his plate empty except for a light sheen of oil, Filipelli folded up his completed puzzle and checked the clock above the door frame. Six thirty-seven. Signora Carmela’s arrival, signaled by an incoming gust of wind, saved Filipelli from deciding how to spend his remaining minutes and he didn’t mind because he quite liked her company. Elderly and old fashioned, Signora Carmela preferred to line dry her laundry rather than let a machine do it. Filipelli found this amusing. Why spend more time and effort on a task a machine can do for you? Though, he supposed that if this were always the case he would be out of a job.
“Buona sera Filippelli!"
“Signora Carmela! Come sta?” Filipelli asked with a matched enthusiasm.
She took a minute to respond, depositing her damp clothing into a basket and appearing not to have heard his question. Her initial cheery demeanor had disappeared, replaced with an uncharacteristically strained expression.
“Fanta disappeared four days ago. No clue as to where he’s gone and I’m getting worried.” Her face drooped as she said this, the sleepless nights appearing as mauve rings around her eyes.
“Aren’t cats fairly independent creatures?” Filipelli asked. “He probably wanted to fly the coop…or maybe ‘stretch his legs’ fits better. Leave the nest? The litter…?” Filipelli, lost in thought over the proper way to describe Fanta’s departure, forgot all about Signora Carmela’s presence. She stood there in silence, patiently waiting for him to make his way back to reality.
“But he’s so domesticated! Who will bathe hime? Feed him?” she exclaimed.
“Oh don’t worry, Signora! I’d bet my life’s savings on his reappearance! Just you wait, I say that he’ll show up tomorrow with a large fish in tow,” Filipelli said.
His assertiveness was a result of not actually having to bet on this possible, and frankly unlikely, outcome. He couldn’t afford to lose his life savings, not that he had much. How else would he fund his evening routine? If Filipelli was to be completely honest, he thought that Fanta would probably end up squished by a Vespa sooner or later. Thankfully, Filipelli had enough awareness to not voice this particular thought aloud.
Signora Carmela looked somewhat reassured. “I hope you’re right, Filipelli,” she said.
“I’m never wrong!” said Filipelli, knowing full well that this wasn’t true. He didn’t view it as a lie, merely empty words that might momentarily assuage Signora Carmela’s worries. Not having heard this last part, Signora Carmela absently waved a goodbye before picking up her basket of dripping linens and nudging the door open with her hip. Another gust of wind and she was gone.
***
“You _ _ _ _ a steak.” Four letters, across, an “e” overlapping.
Filipelli didn’t enjoy steak, too chewy and tough like a stale piece of gum, so he was stumped. In the thirty minutes since licking his plate clean, Filipelli had found nine words—seagull, wetlands, pesticide, Puccini, berserk, tiger, lightning, SPQR, vitamin —before hitting this roadblock. He had tried “cook,” “grill,” and even “bake,” to no avail. Trying his hand at a different word wasn’t an option until he solved this four letter mystery. He never liked to leave business unfinished.
“There he is!”
“I told you he’d be here, not at work!”
“Can I go first?”
Filipelli lifted his head at the sound of these shouts, which were muffled by the laundromat’s thick windows. The sight he was met with left him feeling very sympathetic towards goldfish. A dozen eyes were peering in at him, accompanied by wide smiles and enthusiastic pointing. Filipelli surveyed the room…still empty. He picked up his spoon and bared his teeth…clean. No stray pepper flakes in sight. So why were they all leering at him as if he had sprouted a dorsal fin?
He hesitantly waved, supposing that perhaps all the people wanted was acknowledgment of their existence, and returned to the task at hand. The jingling of the door and a warm rush of outside air interrupted his ponderings once again.
“Filipelli! Why were you keeping your talents hidden from us?”
Anthony Alioto, known by those close to him as Al, was striding towards Filipelli with his arms outstretched. He had an incredulous look on his face, as though he couldn’t fathom Filipelli’s lack of transparency.
“Talents?” Fillipelli said, racking his brain for any special abilities he’d forgotten about. None came to mind, unless solving intermediate-level crossword puzzles counted. “Do you mean this?” He held up his paper, suddenly insecure at the amount of words he had left to find.
“Wha—no! We heard what you told Signora Carmela yesterday and wanted you to do the same for us,” Al said. Filipelli vaguely recalled his encounter with the old woman, but he was unable to see what had been remarkable about it. “You want me to comfort you about your missing cats?” he asked.
Al gaped at him. “It’s like you don’t even know what’s going on—”
“I obviously don’t!”
“—even though Signora’s been shouting it all over town. Her cat came back today with a giant bass in its mouth. She said that you said that this would happen today! She’s saying you’re a seer!” Al, his exposition finished, closed his mouth and waited for Filipelli’s response.
Filipelli had never heard anything so ridiculous in his life. Sure, he had hoped that he would be right about Fanta’s fate because the last thing he wanted to see on his morning commute was a dead cat, but a seer? Really? Absurd. The only thing more absurd was the fact that Al and posse believed it.
“I hate to break it to you all but I’m…” Filipelli petered off. Seer. He glanced down at his puzzle, mentally locking the letters in place. Simply replace the second “e” with an “a” and there it was: You “sear” a steak. Filipelli wasn’t a superstitious man, but this looked like a sign sent straight from God himself (Filipelli wasn’t very religious either). Realizing that he hadn’t finished his sentence, he looked back into the half a dozen pairs of eyeballs blinking at him in anticipation.
“ … going to be charging for every prediction. These powers don’t come cheap you know…they need a lot of nurturing. Proper nutrition and such, but don’t worry! Just one coin and I’ll tell you all I know,” Filipelli said. He had tried to make the last sentence sound enigmatic, but felt like it came off a bit flat. However, no one else seemed to notice and with a clap of his hands, Al stepped to the front of the quickly forming line.
***
A sign…not so much. Filipelli quickly realized that it was a matter of pure coincidence as soon as he began making his “predictions.” These sacred hours of solitude became filled with inane conversations, yet Filipelli found himself enjoying it. The first day he played it safe, answering people’s questions with somewhat dull answers. Al had wondered what the result of his upcoming job interview would be; Filipelli, after feigning a look of deep concentration, had said, “My dear friend…I see you getting the job! Not only that, but you’ll be promoted within the first month!” Filipelli knew this was an overstatement, and that it would’ve been wiser to not have said it, but his exuberance at the prospect of extra money overpowered all logic. The coins quickly piled up on that first business day, so much so that Filipelli instructed people to toss their coin into an empty hamper.
He came better prepared the second day, bringing with him a sign that read, “5:15pm to 7pm. You ask, I answer. Fee: 1 coin.” The piece of cardboard was propped up against a sizable glass jar, and these both sat next to the aglio e olio. This set-up gave Filipelli a sense of legitimacy, which led him to place the utmost trust in his supposed prophetic abilities. An odd impulsiveness had taken over Filipelli, causing him to, at times, question if he really was clairvoyant. Why else would he have told young Marco that his lisp would miraculously disappear in his sleep? Or that Signor Ricci would lose his precious aquarium to a home invasion? To Filipelli, there was little difference between spouting the first image that came to mind and being a genuine seer. Listening to his intuition surely had to count for something, right? The growing stacks of coins, and free pasta promised by Luigi, did wonders in easing Filipelli’s lingering guilt.
By the time Saturday rolled around, Filipelli was sure that he had received a coin from nearly everyone in town. The one jar had turned into three and he kept them stored under his and Lucia’s bed. Though the looping lines had shortened in length over the past five days, Filipelli knew that he was only just getting started. Seeing possible futures—Filipelli never claimed to see the future—was revitalizing his imagination, more so than the crossword puzzles ever had. These ninety minute sessions were mind exercises for Filipelli, who viewed himself as a glorified therapist. And why not? Wasn’t he, in a way, helping these people? Tonight, an overworked banker had confided in Filipelli that he had yet to buy his wife an anniversary gift and what did Filipelli see him buying? Filipelli had answered, “My dear man…” Here, he had scrunched his face in false concentration. “I see you purchasing the most beautiful and phenomenal feathered top hat.” The man, perplexed but engrossed, had asked, “What kind of feathers?”
Filipelli rubbed his temples slowly and said, “Peacock.”
Filipelli enjoyed speaking in this grandiose manner, as he felt it added to the overall wise man persona. The persona needed rest however, a day to recuperate and concoct riveting prospects.
***
Clutching one of his hefty jars, Filipelli practically skipped over to the supermarket. Sunday was shopping day, a task usually undertaken by Lucia. Today however, Filipelli had enthusiastically offered to do the shopping so that he could surprise his family with a basket of novel treats. Lucia was not yet aware of Filipelli’s side hustle and she had demanded to know why he was so eager. Why had he never offered to do this errand before? He had told her not to worry about it, that she would be pleased later, and that he really must get started!
He bypassed their usual market— a small, dimly lit place where the “fresh” apples were mottled and the spice aisle nonexistent—on his way to the adjacent neighborhood. The area in which Filipelli resided was by no means an unfavorable one, but it was noticeably shabbier than where Filipelli now found himself. The roads, though still cobblestone, glistened from their morning wash. Like in Filipelli’s neighborhood, these streets were also lined with apartments. Instead of the walk-ups that Filipelli knew all too well, doormen in freshly pressed suits stood inside sleek lobbies from which smart looking men and women came and went.
Filipelli wandered amidst the buildings, taking note of their colorful facades with a pleasurable familiarity. These seemed to receive routine exfoliations, unlike the ones surrounding the laundromat—those suffered from extreme peeling. Filipelli rarely ventured into this area, as he never had reason to, but today was different. Today was the day he got to be a customer— not merely an observer!—at Piacevole, the nicest supermarket in la città.
An emerald green awning gave shade to the barrels of sparkling fruit that surrounded the entrance. A medley of vibrant oranges, bold magentas, and deep purples greeted Filipelli, who could have spent hours gazing at each individual fruit and their unblemished, almost reflective, rinds. A polite “scusa” from a woman passing Filipelli, snapped him out of his oblivion. Grabbing a full-sized cart, a thing exciting to Filipelli in and of itself, he rolled through the double glass doors. What a sight to behold!
Rows upon rows of more glowing fruits sat in the middle of an expansive room. Ceiling sprinklers dusted them with water, making each appear shiny and plump as they vied to catch the eyes of passing customers. Past this rainbow of produce stood a maze of shelves, towering over the shoppers who wove in and out of them with a prowess Filipelli hoped to emulate. Large wooden signs marked the varying sections, with Meat and Seafood to Filipelli’s left, Bakery straight ahead, and the Deli section, which housed the largest collection of cheese Filipelli had ever seen, to his right. His mind in overdrive, Filipelli clumsily pushed his cart over to the array of cheeses. A large wheel, forty-five pounds to be specific, of parmigiano reggiano stared up at Filipelli. Imagining Lucia’s delighted reaction if he were to arrive home with this majestic cheese in tow, he turned it over and upon viewing the price tag, immediately withdrew his hand. A small ball of mozzarella would do just fine.
Forty minutes passed before Filipelli finally made it to the last aisle of the maze. His cart was piled high with anything of mild interest to him, ranging from the lone mozzarella to a box of candied chestnuts. The current problem was that everything was of interest to Filipelli, which meant that his cart was much too full and he was taking much too long. To him however, this was a great problem to have! It was a new problem, one he hadn’t previously dealt with, and he was ecstatic about it. His coin jar rested in the child’s seat of the cart, its contents anxious to be spent. Despite the entirety of the store existing inside of Filipelli’s basket, he felt that something was missing. Spices. The last aisle was teeming with spices of every kind imaginable; there was an entire shelf devoted to Filipelli’s beloved red pepper flakes!
He proceeded to read each label, deciding which spices he most wanted Lucia and Valentina to try. Which spice would liven up that dreary soup they ate each night? Which would Valentina most enjoy on her morning toast? Overjoyed by this flavorful future, Filipelli gathered jars of cinnamon, cumin, oregano, paprika, rosemary, and catnip, the last one purely because he enjoyed the name. This foray into the spices and herbs aisle added a solid twenty minutes to Filipelli’s adventure, but left him feeling utterly satisfied by the end of it. Over the course of the past hour, he had gotten awfully skilled at wheeling his cart around and he showed off these newfound skills as he approached the counter.
Although his tatty pants and worn face made him stick out amongst the other shoppers, Filipelli felt no sense of imposter syndrome. His days of playing pretend had ended, so when the cashier announced the final price, Filipelli was elated to unscrew his jar and begin counting his coins.
***
The uniformity of work had been alleviated over the course of the previous week as Filipelli had spent his time fabricating interesting outcomes to people’s inquiries. With this to keep his mind occupied and the knowledge of a flavorful family dinner, Filipelli rose from his warm bed with ease.
He crossed over to the attic’s single window and flung it open, expecting to hear the morning coos of nearby pigeons. Instead, his appearance had seemed to bring about a loud commotion from the sidewalk below.
“FILIPELLI!”
“You’re a liar!”
“I thill have my lithp!”
Startled beyond belief, he leaned over the windowsill. He took in the mob below, which featured every face from the prior week. They were clearly unhappy. Filipelli spotted Al towards the front of the clamoring crowd and yelled down to him, “Al! Mio amico! What is the problem?!”
“You didn’t tell us about your lack of talent, Filipelli!” shouted Al, his neck craning.
Filipelli felt that “lack of talent” was a bit harsh. Some of his answers were fairly creative…and the time pressure! He had come up with some of his best responses in seconds! Was that not a kind of talent?
“Your words wound me, Al!”
“Oh, stop being so dramatic Filipelli! Give us our money back!” called a voice.
“Our money! Our money!” the throng chanted.
From behind Filipelli came the sound of stirring. Lucia and Valentina had awoken due to the immense sounds issuing from the street, adding to Filipelli’s stress. He couldn’t bear to see Lucia’s disappointment, which had been delight only hours before. Still, he decided he would argue his side to the people first and explain to her later.
“I never confirmed your suspicions! Not explicitly!” Filipelli reasoned.
The overworked banker stepped to the front, wringing his hands. “You told me I’d find a magnificent hat for my wife! The hat store was closed and I went home empty handed! On my anniversary!”
“Signor! I was only proposing a possible gift that you might get for your wife. I was giving you ideas! Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
This was the wrong thing to say. An uproar of complaints and rude names drifted up to the fifth floor attic. Even the birds on the telephone wire gazed disapprovingly at Filipelli.
Reluctantly, Filipelli withdrew from the window and reached beneath the bed. Lucia stared at him with a mixture of confusion and exasperation. He then went about the room, gathering his purchases from the day before. Goodbye, candied chestnuts. Goodbye, luscious plums and smooth apples. Goodbye, expensive olive oil.
Laden with his returnables and the coin jars, Filipelli left the modest attic and made for the stairway. Although the day was to be filled with angry stares and many apologies—most made out to his wife—Filipelli suddenly felt hopeful. A weight had been lifted off his shoulders; his secret, which shouldn’t have existed at all, had been discovered. His celebrity had crashed and burned, leaving him at square one.
Square one however, consisted of aglio e olio and crossword puzzles. Filipelli decided that he wasn’t cut out for a life of fame and fortune. The only thing he asked for was sufficiently peppered pasta.