Chapter 9 Madmiral Briggs #2
As the line started to move, a young couple snuck in front of them. Bianca wasn’t that bothered. These things happened, but George puffed up his chest and said loudly enough to hear in Venice, “No, sirree. The line starts way back there.”
The couple, both with large matching Fuji cameras around their necks, ignored him.
Little did they know that George was all about right and wrong, and cutting lines was one of the Seven Deadly Sins in his world.
Bianca set a hand on his shoulder to prevent an altercation, but George stepped forward anyway. Mortifying her to no end, he knocked on an imaginary door only inches from the man’s shoulder while making a knocking sound. “Excuse me.”
The couple finally turned.
George aggressively gestured with his thumb. “Back of the line, please. We’re not savages.”
The couple attempted to play dumb.
George wasn’t having it. “I don’t care what language you speak, Italian, English, German. You can see where I’m pointing. Now go.”
Bianca was pretty sure no one in the vicinity had taken a breath.
Thankfully, the couple finally moved away from the line with halos of shame glowing over them.
George coached them along with, “There you go, keep going, keep going. All the way to the back.” He didn’t take his eyes off them till they reached their rightful place at the end of the line, and as he turned to Bianca, he had the proud look of a man who’d saved a drowning victim.
Bianca tightened and questioned whether she was truly ready to face this battle, this attempt to help a man who’d lost his life rudder. He might be her toughest client yet, and that was saying a lot. What was that saying? That guests smell like dead fish after three days?
“Can you believe the nerve?” George said, as if Bianca had been cheering him on. As if he’d saved the lives of everyone there.
She focused on her steps as they followed the slow-moving line.
“What?” George said. “I don’t like people breaking the rules.”
“We can see that,” Bianca whispered.
He nearly flew through the museum, leaving dust in his wake. He’d attempted to read a few of the signs on the various exhibits but had clearly given up. In the Etruscan-Italic section, George got tired of waiting for Bianca and flipped through his phone while she took her time studying the pottery.
She found him twenty minutes later waiting under an Exit sign. “You blasted through there.”
He scratched his head nervously. “Great museum; I enjoyed it.”
“Yeah, looked like you were pulled in.”
“You know me and museums. They’re fine. Just getting hungry.”
She didn’t mention that he sure had been eager to get in. Also, she was loath to tell him, but lunch was hours away.
As they returned to the plaza, a text message from Corrado came through.
How’s your visit with your father?
She started to tap out a response but then slipped her phone back into her purse. Not responding was the only way she could think of to establish boundaries. He was the last person on earth who should see her at rock bottom.
Back on Via Giulia, Harold was having familial troubles of his own.
“Mom,” he said, video-chatting with her via WhatsApp, “I mean this with love. Please get off my back. I’m figuring it out.”
It was half past three in the morning in Denver. She’d always had trouble sleeping, which is probably why Harold did too. She lay in bed with her head sideways on the pillow; her violet reading glasses rested on her nose.
“What do you mean, you’re figuring it out. I’m worried about you.”
When was she not worried about him? With all due respect—especially after sharing all the money she didn’t have to support his adventure—she needed to get a life of her own.
“Mother, I’ll be back soon enough, but I have unfinished business here. Believe me, she’ll come around.”
“I hate to break it to you, but she might not. You didn’t know each other that long.”
“I refuse to accept that.”
A coughing fit seized her. He didn’t bother giving her a hard time about starting to smoke again, namely because he’d picked it up too! She’d spent a lifetime stopping and starting again, and he’d sworn it off himself till Alice had come into his life.
When she’d finally gotten it together, she said with a craggy voice, “If only Alice could see the man that I see. And if she doesn’t, then there’s someone better out there.”
“Thanks. I have to run, but I’ll be around later, okay?” He didn’t have to run. He had nothing to do today, but her mommying was making him squirm.
Hanging up the phone, he fell back onto the couch. He hadn’t dressed yet for the day, and it was approaching noon. Actually, he still hadn’t dressed for yesterday or even the day before. All he’d worn were his tighty-whities.
Tissues that he’d cried into lay wadded up on the glass table next to his Xbox controller and an army of pop cans.
He’d been playing Call of Duty all morning, wishing that he could sleep, but his schedule was totally out of whack now.
Sometimes, he couldn’t even drag himself out of bed at the usual hour to join his gamer friends online.
Additionally, Duolingo was stalking him, and yet he refused to turn off the push notifications on his phone and watch. He’d given up on speaking Italian. Who was he kidding? What was the point without Alice? But it was something akin to self-flagellation to endure the constant Duolingo reminders.
Hi, it’s Duo. Looks like you skipped another day of Italian lessons.