My friends, Laughter is sometimes a reprieve from severe despair, however temporary. Let me offer my own brand of dry humor to get our minds off of the oncoming onslaught in our near future, maybe a last chance to smile, under the safety of our ignorance of the designs against us. so wed better grab it. This is a short story I wrote in Italy in between tours back in the day. I hope you enjoy it. My longtime pals will all get the era references. Its about Show biz on the global scene. Hope you Like it. (If you know of a magazine that would like to have me write for them, please forward it. Thanks! So without further ado..... Love in the Piazza by Leon Rodriguez I woke up in the Italian Hotel room with a big, hairy tarantula in my mouth. I thought, “I’d better not move or it will crawl down my throat. “ It was fortunate for me that my head weighed five thousand pounds and could not be fork lifted from the pillow. There would be no movement, not anytime soon anyway. Then I recognized that this was a very familiar situation that I found myself in. I was being plagued by the excesses of the previous night. Experience told me that it would pass. This feeling would soon be overcome by the need to fix my addictions of nicotine and caffeine which stabilized me while my nocturnal demons slept and took a well deserved break. Then I remembered! I was on tour with Herbie Hancock and the Headhunters. We had done all of Scandinavia, then the UK, and being the storm troopers that we were, a blitzkrieg through Germany, France, Switzerland, and Belgium. We had been allowed travel days but no days off. Now we were in Italy with a real day off, after which, we were to do the European Latin countries, North Africa, Eastern Europe then home for a break. So of course, anticipating a scheduled day to heal from injury we proceeded to injure ourselves the night before. Today, I thought, “I can heal”. I reached over to the nightstand, picked up my, “ 101 useful Italian phrases” book in one hand and the telephone in the other hand, ready to manipulate the big, hairy tarantula into the annunciation of the words, “room service” in plain English. In my mind, Italian mandolins played amorous ballads. Italy was a place for romance. In fact, I thought that I had almost got some the night before. Everything was headed in that direction, I wondered what happened. Since I didn’t remember, even though I’ve been told by trusted sources, that I can pursue romance without the benefit on consciousness, it must not have ended well because I woke up alone. This made me very happy since I didn’t have to sneak out of my own hotel room. I was ready to start my day. After a continental breakfast, which, to an American, is not really a breakfast but a breakfast appetizer, I looked out the window and there was a beautiful piazza with tables, chairs and white tablecloths beckoning. Today I would write and taste wine and cheeses until my nocturnal demons came out to play. I picked out a table and I set it as an objective. Once there, I opened my journal manuscript and broke open a brand new fountain pen that I had purchased for too much money at Heath Row. I love the flow a fine fountain pen. I’ve always felt that the beauty of a fine fountain pen would curtail the brutality of my horrendous handwriting. The waitress approached my table. Sophia Loren, wearing a too short and too tight skirt and a bit too much make up for that early in the day. In short, a goddess. I wondered inwardly if she was a bad girl. I sincerely hoped so. A tall man with a Van Dyke driving a very small car pulls into the piazza. His passenger is a pretty blond girl. She gets out and together they industriously set up a portable magic show set. The premise of magic is comically supported by the fact that his tiny vehicle has limitless trunk and back seat capacity. An impressive procession of equipment and paraphernalia parade out of the car. Once set up, the showmen disappear into the tiny car again and reappeared again fully costumed and ready to perform. Ta da! My confidence in them was solidified. I hear them talking and they’re clearly American. More showbiz folks! My god, they’re everywhere. Dammit, this is a day off! The romantic mandolins in my mind screech to a halt. A flock of pigeons fly overhead in a ‘v’ shaped formation like a motorcycle gang. They must be the “will call’ crowd, in early for the free tickets and the good seats. A big band blues arrangement of “Born to be Wild” with a screaming electric guitar solo is now kicking off in my head as I watch them circle the piazza before finally landing on the ledge of an on looking building. I notice that they have a leader, a large, good-looking, male pigeon cock who puffs out his chest just to let everyone know who is boss. His head moves right and left barking out orders to the restless lesser pigeons. Perhaps the public perception was that the pigeon gang had already taken all the good seats or maybe their very presence invoked the fear of tough-guy outlaws, because the children’s attendance was very low. A total of three, according to my math, and I’m very good at math. The jittery gang relaxes only when their leader, whom by now, thanks to my gifted ability to understand pigeonese, I’ve discovered is named ‘Tony’. My guess is that’s just a nickname. I mean, this is Italy, Right? Tony notices that to one side of the performers, a beautiful white female dove is backstage in a golden cage. She disappears and reappears inside a red silk scarf on her master’s arm. “Whoa!” The pigeon posse gasps with wonder. The fine looking fowl sashed’ down the length of the man’s arm before flying to a roost on the makeshift stage. Her little roost was downstage left, closest to me. She was a beautiful bird. From his rooftop perch Tony mocks the proceedings down on the piazza. “A shameless exhibition!” Tony announces. The other pigeons shush him. They’re waiting for the next trick. Tony’s friend, Vinnie is not in agreement. “Wassa matter? She’s a doll!” Tony’s body language clearly expresses an inner struggle. One of the gang molls pecks at Tony menacingly, “She an Americana! She’ll break your heart and leave you”, she warns. Tonys friend Vinnie confesses that he has always felt the call of the stage. “Hey, Tone, I could do that! How can I break into show business?”, wondered Vinnie. “I’ll bet she knows. Maybe she’s got an agent for me.” Vinnie convinces Tony to fly down to the piazza floor so they can talk to her. The two Italian toughs fly together to see her. The magic show goes on. The white pigeon performs her magic tricks with flair and allure. The children love her. I see that Tony, who is now very near my table, is being transformed into mush. By intermission, he is entirely smitten by love. A thunderbolt booms and lightning flashes inside the tiny cavern of Tony’s twitterpated brainpan. The boys step up to her perch. “Americana?” begins Vinnie. “She flutters her eye lids and coos an “Uh huh”. Tony is too flustered to speak. “I want to get into show business. How do I do this?” asks Vinnie. Her attention is on Tony. “Who’s your friend?” she wants to know. She is aloof to the sidekick. Tony steps closer to her and blurts out a single word, “Tony”. “Shirley” is her response. Tony finally speaks, “I don’t like you exposing yourself in front of everybody”. “It’s just a show” says Shirley. Tony breaks down and professes his love for her. Tony is even willing to let her join the gang with no initiation. He is prepared to take her away from… all this! She gradually seems to acknowledge, and then reciprocate the handsome cocks feelings. He begs her to leave her life of shameful exhibition and fly away with him where he can make her happy and give her a lot of eggs. She is torn between a sense of loyalty to her trainers and her unrequited love for this urban ruffian. She walks over to the ladys open purse she pulls the wallet which spilled open on the bench. In the wallet is a family portrait of her trainers and her in a diaper and baby bonnet as an egg. With tears in her eyes she rejects his offer. He searches her beautiful face for equal pain. It is simply not there. Tony experiences the pangs of unrequited love. Oh Fie, Poor Tony! He flies back to his roost a defeated bird. Then I notice the beautiful waitress standing next to me with her hand on my back. “Why are you crying señor?” I can only blubber out two words, “So Alone!” She tells me in her poor English that she is: “...off work and would like to take me out.” “Can you tell your agent about me?” Vinnie asks Shirley. I stand up to leave with the beautiful waitress. I summon my courage to speak to her. “Did I mention I was in Show Business?” I asked as we walked to the taxi stand. From the periphery of my hearing I hear the same female pigeon pecking at Tony. “Stupido!!” And the romantic sound of mandolins began playing in my mind again. The End Leon Rodriguez Blue Hill Drive Austin, Texas 78736 (512) 288-9456
Posted on: Wed, 12 Nov 2014 17:07:44 +0000
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