Chapter 13 Killing Peggy Meh #3
He happened to be in his tighty-whities and nothing else, which was par for the course with him lately.
He stood in front of the mirror and examined himself.
The peach fuzz that Sandy had called a miserable beard.
His scrawny frame with a slight belly from carbo-loading since the breakup.
Hairy, skinny legs with knobby knees. Thick hair that he didn’t ever brush.
And an imperfect face, slightly wonky with an off-center nose.
Chest hair that Alice had once run her fingers through.
He zoomed out with expanded pupils, taking in all of himself.
“Aroldo,” he said, testing it, blurring his vision, dulling it from seeing the body that he’d always loathed, trying to see it morph into something spectacular.
He lowered his voice. “Io sono Aroldo. Piacere di conoscerti.”
Flexing his biceps that barely rose at his best effort to squeeze them to life, he spoke even lower, this time with an international accent. “I am Aroldo Gibler, digital nomad expat, world traveler, and lady-killer.”
Music played in his head, gamer music with piano and synth, a heavy drumbeat exciting him at the idea of coming alive as a new person, a new flavor. Vaniglia no more.
He couldn’t keep sitting around and growing his belly and living like his life was on hold. He was now Aroldo, a flavor of which Alice would never tire.
Pointing his index finger at himself in the mirror, he said in this new accent, “You are Aroldo, and you are irresistible.”
Charged with newfound hope, he scrambled into the bedroom and pulled on his shorts and tennis shoes and a T-shirt and ran down the steps like the building was on fire. He slowed down as he hit the street, adopted an Aroldo swagger, and walked under the scaffolding to the bookstore.
Aroldo is not afraid of Sandy, he told himself, as he took a breath and pushed through the door, sounding the bell. It was a busy day, a group of teenagers hanging around the comic section, a handful of solo shoppers weaving through the aisles.
Moira stood at the cash register and waved. “Hi, Harold.”
“Buongiorno.” Aroldo is not afraid. He rested a hand on the counter. “How are you today, Moira?” What eased from his lips surprised him. There was a note of confidence he wasn’t used to. There you go, Harold . . . er . . . Aroldo.
“I hadn’t gotten a chance to tell you,” Moira said. “Sandy’s letting me start the book club; it’s the Only English Book Club in Bologna.” Aroldo chuckled with her at that one. “First one’s June 5,” she continued. “I’d love for you to join.”
Harold thought it would be a terrible idea. He had no time to read a book right now. But Aroldo stepped in and thought, A man must grow his mind, and a man must be a part of his community.
“You know what,” he said, his deep, worldly voice feeling more comfortable. “I don’t believe I have any big meetings that day. I’ll make it work.”
Moira lit up as if she were about to launch into space. “I’m delighted. Thank you, Harold. We’ll decide on our first book at the meeting. I’m secretly hoping I can convince Bianca to join, and we can do her book first. Have you gotten a chance to read it yet?”
“I . . . I . . .” Harold started. But then Aroldo took over. “Started it today. Wonderful writing. A fascinating angle.” His accent had a British edge to it now, perhaps soaking up some of Moira’s, and that was fine. Aroldo would have studied in London, perhaps at Oxford.
Moira blushed, her cheeks swelling. “You’ve made my day.”
Aroldo winked. Harold started to match Moira’s blush, but then Aroldo stepped back in, asking with absolute confidence, “Is Sandy around? I wanted to follow up on a previous discussion.”
“She’s in there, helping a customer.”
“Perfect, thank you, my dear.” My dear? Wow, Aroldo. He knocked once on the counter, found Moira’s eyes again, noting how supremely happy she looked, then strolled with a discerning sensibility under the archway and into the main room with the cathedral ceiling.
He waited patiently until Sandy’s customer found what she was looking for, then stepped up to her. Aroldo had to work hard to hold eye contact, as Harold kept emerging. Duo was also in the mix: Hey, it’s Duo. You have serious problems.
But Aroldo stuffed the timid Harold and persistent Duo back inside like a jack-in-the-box, and said, “Pardon me, might I have a minute?”
Harold was gobsmacked by how easily he’d mutated into Aroldo. He could hear the alien voice and noticed how he carried his body differently, and though it felt strange, the pleasure outweighed it all. He’d basically fallen into a video game he’d been playing.
“I have exactly one minute,” Sandy said. “And you’re ten seconds into it already.”
Aroldo snickered. To him, her sassiness was a virtue.
“I thought I might go see your tailor, Giovanni, per your mention, but I’ve no idea how to contact him.”
Sandy loosened. Was it his new voice, his posture? His confidence? Aroldo stood taller.
“He’s three doors down, the only clothing store on the block. But he doesn’t speak English. How’s your Italian?”
“Simmering but not quite boiling.” How clever, Aroldo.
“Right,” Sandy said. “I’ll call and let him know you’re coming. And for God’s sake, let me set up a hair appointment too.”
“That would be lovely, bella!” Had he just called her beautiful? Why yes, yes he had. Take that, Duo.
She seemed as surprised as he did, and all he could do was toss a shrug. Aroldo was about to reclaim what was rightfully his.