Chapter Three
THREE
CHARLIE
The large linden tree out front of the house on Cemetery Street is the one thriving thing on this plot of land. It is a welcome burst of green in the last flecks of what little daylight they have between sporadic summer showers that turn the lawn to mud.
Charlie shortcuts through the still-damp, too-tall grass, making a note to break out the mower over the coming weekend.
The family car pulls up to the curb. Dad rolls down the window. A day’s worth of graying stubble dots his gaunt, pale cheeks. He does warehouse work for a beer company. “Sorry we’re running late, kiddo,” he says.
Charlie is twenty-eight. He will probably be retired by the time Dad stops calling him kiddo.
He gets it. He has got a boyish face. Thin with round cheeks and a smattering of charming freckles.
And he has never left home. Too needed around here.
Except when conversations turn to finances, clearly, judging by the hole the foreclosure notice is burning in his back pocket.
“No worries,” Charlie says, running through a list of ways to transition into this impossible conversation.
“Loving the new hair. Blue looks good on you,” Mom says from the passenger seat, sounding tired.
Her own hair is pulled up in a ponytail, which draws attention to the dark bags under her eyes.
Their hours are long in that flat, windowless building several towns over, but at least they ride to work together.
Country music—their favorite—spills out of the pickup truck’s radio.
“They’re cutting hours again, so we’re trying to stay a little after our shifts to show some initiative,” Dad says. Even in a senior position, he still gets paid by the hour. They live at the mercy of a time card and a changing schedule. Life can be unfair and unpredictable.
“Want a ride?” Dad asks, already reaching for the door handle.
Charlie waves him off. They can’t have this conversation about losing the house over a quick ride in the car. And, what? Was he supposed to leave the foreclosure notice for them to find in the center of the kitchen table as if it were a surprise bouquet of flowers from a secret admirer?
No, he will hold on to it.
At least for the night.
What can his parents do about it now when the bank is already closed?
Tomorrow, in the light of another sweltering summer day, things will be clearer, and he will know what to say. How to fix this. They can carry the burden together.
“Okay. Be safe,” Mom says, blowing him a kiss.
On the other side of trickling Trout Creek, Slatington stands stilled in a different decade. When the slate industry and opportunity up and left, so did advancement, modernity. Hope, too. At least that’s how it currently feels.
Past a gas station in a more open parking lot is an industrial space reminiscent of an auto body shop. It’s called Drink Dash. The road sign is partially burnt out but everybody who wants to find it already knows where it is. Charlie has not seen a new customer in nearly eight months.
Drink Dash is a drive-through liquor store. Because nothing goes together better than drinking and driving.
The same folks roll through like clockwork buying their Jim Beam and their Sam Adams. Charlie wonders if these men’s names are used to make the consumption of alcohol feel more personal. Especially if you’re doing it alone and in a high volume.
He veers up the center drive, kicking at a stray rock with his orange high-top sneakers. He pretends the rock is a miserly banker running scared from him and his inevitable, fantastic solution to this foreclosure fiasco.
After clocking in with his old-timey punch card— cha-ching—he takes his seat inside his glass booth with the sliding window. Beside him are the frozen cocktail machines, the munchy snacks and the cash register.
From his backpack, he pulls out his tiny sketchbook.
Ever since his school days, Charlie has drawn illustrations he thinks would make sick tattoos.
Everything from his sardonic cartoons to lifelike interpretations of animals or people.
Today, he uses the sketchbook for something entirely different—a list of ideas for saving his family home.
1. Get a second job
No, that won’t work. Caring for his grandparents takes up all his daylight hours. Even if he got a work-from-home gig, their internet service is spotty at best. He could never get any work done with all the outages and breaks he would have to take.
2. Start an OnlyFans
While Charlie likes sex, and showing off his inked-up body when the occasion arises, he shares a house with his parents and grandparents. Completely unsexy. Besides, privacy is in short supply. Nobody is going to pay premium prices for shoddily lit bathroom nudes.
3. Win the lottery
He makes tips here. They sell scratch-offs. If he did one a shift, the odds might be…pretty good?
4. Sell an inessential organ
He has at least one or two parts pumping away in there that he could give up for the right price. Speaking of parts…
5. Sell my sperm
Charlie bangs his head on the table, feeling lower than low and hoping the impact might pound a good idea into his brain. Somebody clears their throat. Charlie looks up to find a customer waiting to pay.
Not just any customer, either.
It’s Dennis, forty-two, from two miles away.
At least that’s how Charlie remembers him given what was listed on his profile for the hookup app he uses.
Dennis is a regular. He wears jeans, splattered boots and a stained T-shirt.
A toothpick dangles out of his lightly chapped mouth, remains there even as he smiles within the frame of his scratchy beard.
After they met up last, Charlie had a hard time explaining away the redness all over his mouth the next morning.
“Must be an allergic reaction to something I ate,” Charlie said, only to be met with his mother saying, “But you ate here, and we didn’t cook with anything new.
” His shrug seemed to stop the forward inquisition, but he was certain she knew what he’d been up to after his shift the night before.
“Rough evening?” Dennis asks.
“You could say that,” Charlie replies, not wanting to get into it. He closes his notebook so Dennis can’t see his sad list. “How are you?”
“Good. Family’s good. Work’s work.” His bulky body built by manual labor bursts from the confines of his T-shirt.
Charlie recalls how warm and eager it was against his own, yet also how impersonal the whole ordeal felt.
He could’ve been anyone in the back of that Honda parked alongside the trailhead, and Dennis would’ve been just as happy.
Charlie could’ve worn a cat suit, a ski mask and black gloves through the whole encounter so long as Dennis finished.
“When does your shift end?” Dennis asks. His true question is as explicit as Drink Dash’s neon signs advertising every alcohol brand known to man.
“I’m closing,” Charlie says.
He nods once. “What’s that? One a.m.? Two? You know I’m a night owl.”
“I’m pretty beat,” Charlie says. His mind is on everything but sex right now.
“Have one of these,” Dennis says, slapping a canned energy drink down on the counter. “My treat. It’ll perk you up before I do.”
Charlie resists the impulse to roll his eyes. “I’m good, thanks.”
“Aw, come on.” He sounds half-defeated. And already a little buzzed.
“Seriously, I’m good.”
“Another night, then?” Dennis asks.
“Another night,” Charlie says as noncommittally as possible.
Dennis sighs, pulls his purchases back through the cubby. “Just these, then.”
Charlie calls out his total.
“Did you get it all?” Dennis asks.
“Friends and family discount,” Charlie says, giving the guy a break alongside a warning. “As long as you promise not to open any of these on the ride home.”
“I’ll take that deal.” Dennis slips him some cash. “And you can keep the change for being so handsome.”
Once Dennis has driven off, Charlie debates what to do with the five-dollar tip. He could put it toward the foreclosure fund he has already begun cobbling together in his mind. But five dollars is a drop in the massive bucket of what those papers said his family owed.
Tonight, he could stand to treat himself.
From the snack display, he selects a fancy Italian chocolate bar called Amorina.
He’s loved it for as long as he can remember.
The rich bitterness of dark chocolate tinged with vanilla is to die for.
He will spread the squares out across the hours of his shift to savor it while he hatches a full-fledged plan.
He rings himself up with the employee discount and skins off the candy wrapping that is bulkier than usual. There is a big red word stamped on the inside that demands his attention.
CONTEST!
Intrigued, he reads on:
For over 100 years, inside every Amorina chocolate bar wrapper, we’ve written you, dear customer, a love note.
This tradition began as a nod to our founder and my dearest nonna, Eleanora Amato, who wrote letters to my beloved nonno, Vincenzo Cotogna, using the wrappers of candies just like ours. Now, it’s your turn to share the love.
Charlie undoes origami-style folds that accordion out until the wrapper is as big as an amusement park map.
My grandson, Dario Cotogna, is looking for his love match.
He seeks a spouse to share his life and fortune with.
If you’re single and twenty-one years of age or older with a valid passport, we invite you to write him your very own note.
Tell him what you love about Amorina chocolates and what love means to you in 1,000 words or less.
The five most compelling responses, judged by a panel of chocolate lovers and relationship experts, will receive one of five all-expenses paid trips to Perugia, Italy, to tour the newly reopened museum and stay in a luxury villa with a private chef for one week, all while vying for the heart and hand of one of the most eligible bachelors in all of Italy!
More information can be found on the Amorina website.
Rules and restrictions may apply.
Buona fortuna!
“Whoa,” Charlie murmurs to the empty store, “this is completely ridiculous.”
How strange, too, that he was just talking to his grandparents about going to Italy.
Together they fantasized about those cobblestone streets, beautiful fountains, marble statues and fresh focaccia.
Here, his favorite chocolate company is offering a chance to go for free.
Purely coincidence or a sign from the universe?
Curious, he goes into the corner outside the sightlines of the security camera and opens his phone to scan the QR code. Up pops the Amorina website with the contest rules. Entries are due tomorrow at midnight. There is a whole page below that looks like an online dating profile.
Name: Dario Cosimo Cotogna
Age: 31
Height: 5'5"
Eye color: Hazel
Sexual orientation: Pansexual
Next to the baseball-card-esque stats are several photos of Dario. He is debonair with chestnut brown, chin-length hair and a wide array of colorful suits that make him stand out in even the most crowded frame.
He isn’t unattractive, but he is hardly Charlie’s usually tall, burly, blue-collar, boot-wearing type.
He continues reading.
Dario Cotogna was born and raised in Perugia, Italy, where he presently resides.
He has worked for Amorina Chocolates since he was fifteen years old.
He took a small break from the business to study Food & Sustainability at the University of Perugia, where his passion for a more modern Amorina flourished, much to the chagrin of his stalwart nonno.
He is passionate, good-humored, hardworking, and loves to dress up no matter the occasion.
Likes: Menswear, sailing, hiking, bike rides, listening to music, watching TV, homemade pasta, time with family, his beloved dog, environmental advocacy
Dislikes: cold weather (you must love to cuddle), dancing (he has two left feet), crowded and small places (best he tells you about this one himself)
Charlie assumes Dario didn’t write this profile, or even approve it, for that matter. Why would he publicize so much personal information?
He also can’t help but notice one key detail is missing from the listing, so he launches a Google search and nearly chokes when he reads Dario’s net worth.
With money like that, Charlie could save the house on Cemetery Street with funds left over for a beach cottage and a cabin in the mountains and a penthouse apartment in whatever major city he chooses.
His whole family could retire on that money. They could travel the world on that money. They could frolic in a swimming pool of gold coins.
Do they even still make gold coins?
He reopens his notebook and writes: 6. Marry a billionaire chocolate maker
He likes hiking, bike rides, dogs, and who doesn’t like homemade pasta? He lives in shorts and T-shirts, so he’s no expert on men’s fashion and he’s never been much for music outside of what his parents enjoy, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t learn to love these things.
Then, feeling foolish, he immediately scratches the idea out.
There is a .01 percent chance they would even choose him if he entered. He should not waste his time on frivolities.
Who marries a total stranger anyway?
He leans forward in his padded rolling chair and looks out through the window, into the empty liquor store where the ancient fridges whirr and the sickly lights flicker. A metaphorical tumbleweed blows through the desolate, dusty space.
Honestly, if pressed, he could.
He could marry a total stranger.
Maybe it’s better when you don’t really know the person you marry, anyway. They can’t let you down when they inevitably unmask their annoying quirks and faults. Randomness could lead to happiness, couldn’t it?
At present, Charlie’s best romantic prospect is Dennis, forty-two, from two miles away, and his family situation is as dire as it gets.
He has so little to lose by entering this contest, and a whole world to gain if he wins.
Why not take a chance?