The Vow

One

A year later, pop never came home and my mother had a breakdown in front of our tiny black and white television.

The newscaster was an ordinary guy relaying the news of an extraordinary event, and from that day forward, I could envision an exploding capsule in the pupils of my mother’s eyes.

Once again, we threw my father a party. I remember standing in front of the casket and feeling guilty instead of sad.

It was empty, for Christ’s sakes. Pop wasn’t even close by.

He was playing among the stars, laughing at all of us and especially his sister, Marie, my favorite aunt, who wore so much white powder beneath her black veil, she looked like the corpse that belonged in the wooden box.

I think it was her stint at the bar that made me want to become a crime reporter so that I could be worshipped, like pop.

I wanted to become a hero, not to the grieving mothers and distraught fathers, but to the victims themselves; so that I could immortalize their names, and so that I could bury guys like Vinnie Marconi, who regularly left a hickey on ma’s neck before tipping her generously.

I never made it that far. It was too late for higher education, not that we could afford it.

By the time I turned twenty, words were no longer necessary.

“Hey, Pippo! Another beer, or are you going to write love poems all afternoon?”

“Shut the fuck up and pour.”

The city shut down Hardball ten years ago after a bar brawl left two guys dead. Nicky’s became the new watering hole in town, named after my childhood friend – the hoodlum behind the bar whose heart is bigger than his bark.

“Writing your last will and testament then? I’ll never understand why you wear a suit in this dump. It’s fucking summer. Trying to fool the ladies?”

“What ladies?”

My version of a little black book is filled with incoherent ramblings.

I carry it with me everywhere I go so that if I show up dead one day, there’ll be a record of my life.

Ma will share baby photos of me with her blue-haired friends, but baby pictures say nothing about a man except that at one point in his sorry existence, he was truly innocent.

Sometimes I do write love poems, but most of them are scribbled over because someone who has failed miserably in the love department has no business writing about love.

“Well, shit. Here comes one now.”

“One what?”

“Shut it. Play cool.”

The woman who sat down next to me reminds me of Anjela with a “j”.

Anjela was the only girl I ever wanted to be with until she slept with her math tutor and told me about it, boasting as if she had won first place at the Science Fair.

Anjela ruined me. Whenever I’m in the ring, I picture her face when throwing a punch.

I box, weaving my way through life by using my fists, and everything unspoken ends up in my little black book.

“What’ll it be?”

“Beer.”

“Which kind?”

“The cold kind.”

Nick’s brows did a little dance, but he poured a cold one, set down a coaster, and then a pint of beer.

This is the part where I make a fool of myself, like the time I was grocery shopping and a short, blonde woman asked me to help her reach the top shelf.

Security escorted me out when my hands encircled her waist, ready to lift her.

It was humiliating, and I spent the rest of the day in the ring shadow boxing.

“My neighbors play their music all night long.”

“And?”

“And I can’t sleep,” I said, twisting in my bar stool to face her. I was distracted by the highest cheekbones I’ve ever seen and fell silent.

“Fascinating. Then what happened?”

“Well,” I said, clearing my throat, “I banged on my ceiling with my baseball bat, swore a bit in Italian, and then covered my ears with my pillow, but it was no use.”

“That’s terrible,” she said, gulping from her mug until it was empty.

“Yeah. Except then I got up for a glass of water and realized I’d left my Panasonic on all night.”

Nick was at the beer taps pretending not to listen, but he shook his head ever so slightly.

Even though he hates to admit it, he’s happily married and has three young kids, and he once told me that I should consider joining the priesthood.

Anjela’s doppelganger stared at me stoically, tapped her mug to indicate she was thirsty, and lit a cigarette.

“Did you apologize?”

“What?”

“Did you apologize to your neighbors? Because now they think they have an asshole living downstairs who likes to wake them in the middle of the night by banging on the ceiling with a baseball bat. In fact, they could probably hear the radio too.”

Nick was right. I should become a priest. I made a mental note to research where the nearest seminary is located. “I made it up. I live in a bungalow. I was trying to break the ice.”

“With a lie? Let me guess? Lawyer?”

She gave me the once-over, and I never wanted to strip down to my boxers so fast in my life, and it had everything to do with being aroused.

“No.”

“Did you just come back from a funeral or something? My name’s Alexandra Adams, by the way. No A.A. jokes,” she said, raising her fresh mug to her luscious lips.

“Phillip. But my friends call me Pippo.”

“This bum bothering you?”

“He’s fine,” Alexandra told Nick.

“I was talking to Pip. I’m joking, lady. Enjoy your afternoon tea.”

When Nick was out of earshot, the lady had more to say. “Pip?”

“Short for Pippo. Which is a nickname for Filippo. Which is Italian for Phillip. Phillip Conti. What do your friends call you Alexandra?”

Her raven hair fell to the middle of her back. I wanted to run my fingers through the silky strands. Even beneath her long peasant skirt, I could tell she had curves to rival Ginger Grant, but what intrigued me most was her smart mouth.

“What friends? I work too much to socialize.”

“Well, we’re socializing now.”

“That’s because I needed a mind eraser.”

“Bad day?”

“That’s an understatement. Alex... you can call me Alex.”

Growing up without pop meant that I had to learn about the fairer sex from my buddies, my Phys Ed teacher Mr. Conroy who smelled like a mix of Old Spice and bourbon, and my mother who told me that rule number one was to remain a gentleman, and gentlemen treat ladies to drinks.

“Would you like another beer? You can tell me about your bad day.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I understand,” I said, feeling like I was sucker-punched.

“Talk about my day, I mean. But I’ll take that beer if you’re buying.”

I caught Nick’s eye and waved two fingers over both our mugs. Every ounce of protective instinct in me kicked in – as an Italian, a boxer, and a man – but I tried to ignore the pained look on her face and changed the subject.

“What do you do for work, Alex?”

“I’m an author.”

“Impressive,” I said, not-so-discreetly tucking my little black book into my suit jacket pocket.

“Not really. I epitomize the starving artist.”

To illustrate that point, she grabbed a handful of peanuts from the bowl Nick had left on the bar and stored them in her cheek like my grandfather used to do with his chewing tobacco.

She was hungry, and she was a kindred spirit.

I was remembering when I was fifteen and landed a job as a valet at The Grand, the city’s fanciest hotel.

I had lied about my age to cover up the fact that I didn’t have a driver’s license.

They must have been desperate for help because it was obvious that I was too young.

I hadn’t even learned to shave. Since then, I’ve lied a lot, but not for any nefarious reason; to help people.

Parking cars meant that ma didn’t have to work so hard, and what I said next was meant to give Alex a break.

“What if I gave you everything you needed? A house, money, time. Would that help?” Nick shot me a what-the-fuck-are-you-up-to-now? glance but stayed at his end of the bar until Alex started choking on her peanuts. “Are you all right?” I asked, slapping her back.

“I need... wa... water.”

“Nick! Water!”

“Jesus Christ, I can’t leave you alone for a second,” he said, quickly filling a glass and placing it in front of Alex.

The song on the Jukebox jumped from Rick James’ “Super Freak” to Bon Jovi’s “Born to Be My Baby” and if I believed in that sort of shit, I’d say the universe was trying to tell me something. “Are you okay?”

Alex nodded, Nick grunted, and I resumed my speech. “It’s hard trying to be creative and make a living on your own. You are on your own, I take it?”

“Yeah. Yes. I’m alone. Who are you? My fairy godfather?”

“Magic has nothing to do with it,” I told her, enjoying myself. “There’s one catch.”

“I’m not sleeping with you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said with a huge smirk on my face.

“Your story has to be about us falling in love.” They say that good things come to those who wait, but her silence was excruciatingly painful.

It felt worse than when Tommy the Knocker hit me with an uppercut that left me unable to chew for a week.

“Um... you do write love stories, don’t you? ”

For some reason, she blushed. Or maybe it was the effects of alcohol that reddened her cheeks. “I write all kinds of stories... when I’m not working odd jobs to pay the damn rent. You don’t even know me,” she added. “Why would you want to help me?”

“Why does Jerry Lewis host a telethon every year?”

“Are you calling me a charity case?”

Jesus Christ. Smooth, Pip. Real Smooth. So much for Conti men being charming.

“No. Not at all. My dad died when I was six, and I guess... I guess I’ve gotten used to helping people.

” A group of little old ladies were leaving the bar.

One of them patted me on my back implying that even at her age, she had supersonic hearing and she knew I was drowning in a sea of my own words.

Alex, on the other hand, was fishing through her purse.

“Well, I’m sorry to hear that... Phillip, is it? But I don’t accept help from strangers. In fact, I don’t accept help from anyone.” She dropped some cash on the bar and stood from her stool so that her perfume was somehow released from her body. The scent was intoxicating.

“I’ll be here tomorrow.”

“So?”

“If you change your mind. We can discuss the terms of the business agreement.”

She laughed. I soaked in that laugh. It was nourishing. “Is that what you call this? What do you get from the deal?”

“A book.”

“Listen, Jerry,” she said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. “I’m not sure if you’re aware, but there’s this thing called a library. You can get all the books you want... for free.”

“Tomorrow,” I said, casually sipping my beer. “One o’clock.”

“Hey, bartender,” she said, never taking her eyes off me.

“Yeah.”

“Your friend here is nuts.”

“Tell me something I don’t know, lady.”

Nick was leaning on the bar with both hands. Alex mimicked his stance. I sat staring at the bottles of booze lined on the shelf waiting for a few choice words to tumble from her beautiful mouth, but she simply walked away. I didn’t turn to watch her leave, although I wanted to.

“What crazy scheme are you concocting?”

“Just trying to help.”

“How? You’re broke.”

“I’ll win.”

“The big fight?”

“No, the lottery. Yes, the big fight.”

My plan was simple enough. There was ten grand at stake, and a “For Rent” sign just went up on the lawn of the house next to mine.

Ever since pop died, I vowed to myself to walk the road of life as if I was teetering on the edge of a precipice.

The danger is always present, but the thrill of avoiding that fatal fall is exhilarating.

“And what if you lose?” Nick asked.

“I won’t lose.”