Danny Lucci, Writer

The garlic smell hit him first. As his eyes cracked open, it was penetrating everything. He smiled, the noises from downstairs making everything feel alive. He grabbed his phone from the nightstand. Just after eleven. Perfect. He slid into a pair of gym shorts and a form-fitting white tank top. The sounds increased as he moved.

The kitchen bustled with activity. Nonna Russo stood at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, wielding it more like a samurai sword than a spoon. His little brother, Vito, backed away from the stove slowly.

“Look at you, Mr. Sleepy Head,” his mother said with a smile. She moved in, smooshed his cheeks and kissed him.

“Mornin’, Ma.” Alessandro said.

“Where were you ‘til all hours last night?”

“With the guys after work. We stopped by this little diner off South Street. You were asleep and I didn’t wanna wake you and Pops

“Always so considerate, this one,” she said as she turned to Vito. “Unlike someone else.”

“What?” He said, shrugging.

Nonna Russo didn’t look back, she just raised the wooden spoon. Vito sighed.

“You. In the living room. Go watch TV with your cousins.” Gabriella said.

“Ma, you have no idea what you’re askin’ me to do,” Vito said.

“What, would it kill you to spend time with your cousins?”

“It just might,” Vito said.

“Go,” Gabriella replied.

Vito turned and went into the living room.

“Ale,” Nonna Russo said, her accent thick, a piece of Italian bread in her hand with some sauce on it. “Come, taste.”

Alessandro walked over and took the bread. As it hit his tongue his eyes closed and he smiled.

“Oh my God, Nonna,” Alessandro said, “the best. Hands down.”

She smiled and then went back to her sauce. A normal Sunday at the Esposito house. Nonna Russo, Gabriella’s mother, commanded the kitchen. It started early. Braciole was rolled, then browned. As were sweet Italian sausages and short ribs. Always put to the side. The sauce was then made in the same pot to deglaze it. After four hours of simmering the sauce, seasonings, and meats, the flavor was something to behold.

As the kitchen continued to work on making food for a small army, Alessandro stepped into the living room. The TV on full blast. Vito sat on the couch afraid to move. Two younger teens lie on the floor on their bellies watching the pregame show. On the couch beside Vito were Nonno Russo, and Alessandro’s father, Antonio. Tony for short.

“Hey, Ale,” Vito said.

“Yeah?”

“You got twenty I can get?”

“Vito…” Tony said with a look.

“What?”

“Stop asking people for money. You want money? Get a job.”

“I’m 17.”

“When I was 17, I was bagging groceries at the grocery store. You can do that.”

“Hey, when’s Nonna and Nonno Esposito comin’?”

“Later. You know how it is when she’s in the kitchen with her.” Tony said, rolling his eyes.

Alessandro laughed, “Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad.”

“You don’t remember Lasagna Night 2008.”

“Nobody wanna remember that,” Nonno Russo said.

“You mind if I dip out for a little bit?” Alessandro asked.

“Nah, I don’t care. But ask your mother,” Tony said.

#

Alessandro strolled down the street, the breeze catching his hair causing it to dance. His black jacket, white T-shirt, dark jeans, and clean white sneakers cut through the Earthy tones of dead leaves and concrete. A few people waved as he walked, he waved back. Vito was heading towards him, a large plastic bag in his hand. Alessandro smiled, then stopped him as he approached. He rubbed his hands together in the chilly October air, then stuffed them in his coat pocket, the breath visible in the cold.

“You know the drill,” Alessandro said.

Vito shook his head, “I can’t catch a fuckin’ break.”

“Hey, watch your mouth. You know Ma’s got supersonic hearing.”

Vito opened the bag; Alessandro picked through it. He grabbed a box of Tic Tacs. Popped them open and shook two into his mouth, pocketing the little plastic container.

“That’s it?” Vito asked.

“Yeah, light Big Brother tax today,” Alessandro said.

Vito tilted his head slightly, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Alessandro nodded.

Vito shrugged. “See ya at home. Don’t be late.”

“I never am,” Alessandro replied.

Alessandro walked to the corner and turned right. A few blocks down he stepped into a corner store, the signage all in Spanish. The sound of reggaetón filled the store, the beat almost a cadence with his walk. He pet the cat sitting on the beer display, then walked over to the register—the smell of Fabuloso and beer blending into an oddly captivating mix. Behind it, a young Puerto Rican man. Clean shaven, curly hair neat. Alessandro smiled slightly.

“Hey,” Alessandro said.

The young man turned and smiled back, “Hey. Had fun last night?”

“Oh yeah,” Alessandro replied. “Was wondering if maybe tonight we could, you know, maybe hang out?”

“I get off at 9.”

“Okay, meet you here?”

“Sure,” he said as he smiled brightly at Alessandro. “See you at 9, Elías.”

“You coulda called,” Elías said.

“Where’s the fun in that?” Alessandro said with a smile.

Elías shook his head, “You’re trouble.”

Alessandro chuckled, “You’ll have to find out.”