Happy Father's Day to Dads everywhere. Here's an excerpt from the first short story I ever wrote, circa 1980. It's titled Rude Awakening:
Vito suddenly found himself wide awake. He was unable to recall having fallen asleep or dreaming or awakening. It seemed he'd just entered bed, yet a glance at the windows told him it was already the middle of the night.
The light in the kitchen sifted through the parlor, through the open door of his bedroom, in a dim, slanting ray. He heard his father's quiet rustling, and wondered how it ever could have awakened him. He was elated. It'd been days since he'd been awakened at this hour, and he'd experienced a sense of betrayal about it.
He lay still and listened, anticipating the gentle smack of a teaspoon against a raw egg and, seconds later, a sucking sound, as his father drained the gooey substance from the shell directly into his mouth. He shivered and clutched at his pillow, repressing his glee, lest he be heard, and did so again as his father worked at a second egg. He envisioned the dark head flying back in the downing of a shot of sweet vermouth, and heard the glass put down on the table. He conjured the scene so vividly he would swear he could smell the alcoholic substance. There was no mistaking the aroma of the espresso. It pervaded the four-room apartment. He wondered why its taste wasn't as wonderful as its scent. Just eight years old, his father's adult pleasures, so unlike his own, seemed strange and harsh. He detected the odor of a match and lit cigarette, which he hated. His father coughed. Vito worried about him. Smoking was another of the things he did not understand. He'd once sneaked a puff and felt as if he would choke to death, and vowed never to do it again. He'd tried to persuade his father to quit, without success.
It seemed a difficult way to start the day: rising long before daylight; eating a strange meal, which would be his only sustenance until midday when he would eat the sandwich his wife had prepared the night before; going out into the darkness, the sole passenger on the bus. Vito asked about these things constantly. He did not understand his father's passion for such a life. They cherished summer in separate ways - his father because he was free of the construction work he did during the cold months, and Vito because he was free of school.
Despite his youth, Vito knew he could not live such a life, no matter how he revered his father. Although quiet and shy, he enjoyed the company of people. His father's was a solitary life: up at 3AM, out to sea alone, in bed by 7PM, when Brooklyn's streets were just coming alive, about halfway through the last stickball game of the day. And his routine was not much different after summer. His lack of interest in others, in sports, puzzled Vito, who dreamed of becoming a major league baseball player. Vito loved America and was baffled by his parents' coolness toward it.
The light went out simultaneous with a flick of a switch. The apartment door was opened, then closed and locked. Vito listened to his father's progress down the hall stairs. He anticipated the squeak of the front door, which made him quiver. He was proud to be awake at this hour, proud he never tired of his father's routine. It made him feel grown up. He wished he was older so he could stay up late and not waste so much time in bed, awaiting the start of a new day.
With only the whir of the refrigerator for company, he soon fell asleep.
I opened the floating book shop two hours later than usual today and my lucky streak ended. I thank the woman who bought two novels in Russian.
U.S. Open golf in prime Time - yes!
Visit Vic’s sites:
Vic’s Third Novel (Print or Kindle): http://tinyurl.com/7e9jty3
Vic’s Website: http://membershttp://members.tripod.com/vic_fortezza/Literature/
Vic’s Short Story Collection (Print or Kindle): http://www.tiny.cc/Oycgb
Vic’s 2nd Novel: http://tinyurl.com/6b86st6
Vic’s 1st Novel: http://tiny.cc/94t5h
Vic’s Screenplay on Kindle: http://tinyurl.com/cyckn3f
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