The Writer's Life 8/3 - Sal Buttaci

To my regret, I never met Sal Buttaci in person. We communicated via email and social media. We shared the same publisher, All Things That Matter Press. I was saddened to learn of his passing. Born in Brooklyn, he received a BA from Seton Hall and an MBA from Rutgers. He taught at various levels, middle school, high school and college. 76, he was living in West Virginia at the time of his death. Here's a blurb from the Amazon page of one his books, Flashing My Shorts:
"The poems, letters, and stories of Salvatore Buttaci have been published in The New York Times, Newsday, U.S.A. Today, The Writer, Cats Magazine, and widely elsewhere in America and overseas. A retired teacher and professor, he was the recipient of the $500 Cyber-wit Poetry Award in 2007. Buttaci has lectured on Sicilian-American pride and conducted poetry workshops and readings." 
He loved what's called flash fiction, short pieces of 1000 words or less. Here's the first tale from the aforementioned book:

At the MirAMAr CAfé 
Till dark I riveted my eyes on Maria and the dream-like flair of her red skirt as she tangoed with Carlos. Accompanying my pounding heart were the whining pangs in my belly from all the crisp-skinned sardines and the fresh oysters I had ingested beyond count. Miramar Café was a haunt of mine since first I saw Maria and though we so far never met, something in me was certain if I could not somehow pry her from the clutches of suave and debonair Carlos very soon, I would go tango-mad, be driven perhaps to unleash my alter ego, a not-so-amicable American from Paducah, Kentucky. I poured the rest of my Malbec, tossing the wine down as if it were Kentucky scotch, and then stood slowly to my wobbly feet. “Garçon!” I called. My waiter lifted the corner of his thin lip the way folks do when they’re exasperated; I knew he preferred ‘Señor,’ but if I could summon the waiters in Paducah with ‘Garçon,’ sure as hell some faggy oil-haired Buenos Aires pretty boy could skip to the loo and respond to any name I damn well chose. “Si, Señor, more wine?” I nodded, sat down again, gave him back my own sneering lip. When he asked if the clean plate of sardines and oysters needed replenishing, I let my mouth crumble into a drunk man’s frown, my heavy head falling chin to chest for a sleep-hungry moment. When I looked up, Garçon was swishing towards the bar, Maria and Carlos had vanished, and San Cristóbal was just a barrio of loud diners and foul-mouthed drinkers, so I threw down an undeserved tip of eight pesos and headed out the door pretending Maria was tugging my arm towards the Hotel San Cristobal.

Here's his amazon author page: https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=sal+buttaci&rh=n%3A283155%2Ck%3Asal+buttaci

Rest in peace, sir. Hai fatto bene.