(no subject)
Carmine Calamari took a shower at the garage in Romulus. Pinky and Carmine had a makeshift shower in the back room of the garage, a tile floored cinderblock room, with a hula hoop attached to a vinyl shower curtain. There was a hose screwed into the faucet of a poly ethylene utility basin. Carmine, Pinky, Zufo Baruca, Lenny Ndrangheta, and Sammy the Plumber used the backroom of the garage to interrogate, and on very special days, dismember people.
Carmine hit the five holes with the yellow orange Dial bar. He scrubbed the scum from the bus trip. The filth from almost two weeks as a Clifton street punk. His armpits he lathered with a thick white foam, and scrubbed that implausible area on his chest more than he needed to.
As he scrubbed, he meditated, and thought about the Lake Me situation. About the wager. That’s why he went to Cincinnati in the first place. The whole trip was a bust. Getting mixed up in a squatter punk scene. Sleeping with dad hating Goth girls on soiled mattresses in abandoned buildings. Then the vicious journey to get coffee with Pete Limpelli. Fucking crazy New Yorker. In his goddamn Towne Car. What was it all about? This trip? This naval battle wager?
Carmine slipped out of the hula hoop shower curtain enclosure, and padded heavy wet steps over to the utility basin. He turned off the faucet and picked up a Holiday Inn towel draped over the edge, and dried himself off.
In the tiny broken mirror leaning against the back of the basin, Carmine saw his jowly face hung in sad, defeated pouches. The gold malocchio dangled from his gold rope chain around his neck. It was supposed to ward off the evil eye. He pawed his face with the Holiday Inn towel. Then looked in the mirror, then back at the towel.
In the towel, Carmine Calamari saw the wet frowning imprint of his face.
William Comparetto
© 2007
Carmine hit the five holes with the yellow orange Dial bar. He scrubbed the scum from the bus trip. The filth from almost two weeks as a Clifton street punk. His armpits he lathered with a thick white foam, and scrubbed that implausible area on his chest more than he needed to.
As he scrubbed, he meditated, and thought about the Lake Me situation. About the wager. That’s why he went to Cincinnati in the first place. The whole trip was a bust. Getting mixed up in a squatter punk scene. Sleeping with dad hating Goth girls on soiled mattresses in abandoned buildings. Then the vicious journey to get coffee with Pete Limpelli. Fucking crazy New Yorker. In his goddamn Towne Car. What was it all about? This trip? This naval battle wager?
Carmine slipped out of the hula hoop shower curtain enclosure, and padded heavy wet steps over to the utility basin. He turned off the faucet and picked up a Holiday Inn towel draped over the edge, and dried himself off.
In the tiny broken mirror leaning against the back of the basin, Carmine saw his jowly face hung in sad, defeated pouches. The gold malocchio dangled from his gold rope chain around his neck. It was supposed to ward off the evil eye. He pawed his face with the Holiday Inn towel. Then looked in the mirror, then back at the towel.
In the towel, Carmine Calamari saw the wet frowning imprint of his face.
William Comparetto
© 2007