Every Boy's Got One (36 page)

To: Jane Harris

Fr: Holly Caputo

Re: Where are you?

Sorry if there’s typos in this, I can’t really see very well, my head is pounding so much. But where are you guys? Frau Schumacher— who is being so sweet to us—says she doesn’t know, that you just took off without a word to anyone….

Well, I’m glad, anyway. I mean, that you’re not here to see this. I hope you’re off having fun somewhere. I’m so sorry for spoiling your vacation. And the wedding. I know how much you were looking forward to it. Almost as much as me—02q9375)(*&@

Sorry, I couldn’t stop crying there for a minute, and lost sight of the keyboard.

Anyway, I’m glad you and Cal seem to be getting along now, and hope you’ve gone to Loredo or somewhere. There really is some lovely sightseeing in the area. The Madonna’s house, for instance. Apparently angels lifted it and brought it from the Holy Land and dropped it here in Le Marche….

I was just wondering, though, have you seen Mark’s glasses? He swears he left them on the nightstand, but now they’re gone.

Not that it matters, since the only place he’s going is the bathroom. Still, it’s strange.

Well, write when you get a chance. Oh, God, not again—I have to go—

Holly

We’re here!!!! The US embassy!!! We made it with minutes to spare!!!! Cal took over the driving after the Mobil station, and we practically FLEW the next few hundred kilometers.

Plus, he insisted on taking this different route, which didn’t go through the mountains. Which was good, since I forgot my Dramamine. We reached Rome at five minutes to twelve.

And now we’re here!!!!

I must say, this place isn’t at all like what I would have thought. I mean, inside, it’s kind of like my dentist’s office. There are all these chairs and people waiting and a glassed-in reception desk and you have to take a number (well, that’s more like at my butcher’s than at my dentist’s, but whatever). Our number is 92.

I have to say, the Modelizer is being much better about this than I’d thought he’d be, judging by his initial reaction in the car, when he finally woke up. I admit I kind of shanghaied him. I knew he wasn’t really awake when I made him get in the car.

Still, he’s taking it like a total sport. He hasn’t uttered a peep of anti-marriage propaganda all morning. Maybe the guy’s finally coming around after all.

Fat-bottomed girls/They make the rockin’ world go round
—

Oh my God, I can’t BELIEVE that’s all we had to listen to the whole drive! We are heading STRAIGHT to a music store the minute we get out of here and buying another CD. I don’t care what. ANYTHING but Queen.

Although I have to admit, Freddy Mercury is totally growing on me.
We are the champions, my friends
—

Ooooooh, they’re calling a number. 92, 92, let it be 92!!!!!! 28?

28????

Cal just looked at me and went, “Looks like we’re going to be here awhile.”

Understatement of the year.

And all they’ve got to read is
International Time
magazine!
International Time
is like watered down real
Time
, which is already so watered down it’s like watching the local news, without the grisly power mower accidental decapitations.

I’m going to DIE.

But it’s worth it. It’s worth it for Holly. This is for her. And Mark. This is—

OH MY GOD, THIS IS MY WEDDING PRESENT TO THEM!!!!

YES!!! Why didn’t I think of it before??? Since I can’t give them this journal—um, especially not now that I’ve mentioned Cal’s pheromones—I’ll give them this… the form that will allow them to be married tomorrow.

Genius. Total genius. This is MUCH better than candlesticks or something dopey like that.

Oooooh, they’re calling another number… 92. COME ON!!! Maybe 29 through 91 left already.

Wait. That’s not a number. The guy’s putting a sign up on the glass. What’s it say?

PDA of Cal Langdon

 

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe this is what I’ve been reduced to. I’m in Rome, possibly one of the most gastronomically diverse cities in the world, renowned for its cuisine, the long and languid lunch hour…

And I’m having warmed over eggplant pizza at Amici Amore, a ubiquitous Italian fast-food joint.

There’s a VIDEO ARCADE in the back.

I should have put my foot down. I should have explained that when a Roman hangs a sign that says the office will be closed until a certain hour, he absolutely means it.

But no. She kept insisting. She’s convinced if we scarf down a quick meal and get back to the embassy, we will somehow move up further in the line. Even though there is no line, and she is, in fact, holding a number that will doubtlessly not be called until tomorrow, or possibly next week.

Why didn’t I insist? This trip didn’t have to be an entire waste. We could be having a leisurely, romantic lunch in some restaurant’s cozy back garden right now—listening to doves coo rather than the sound of asteroids being blasted by a computer-generated laser gun—enjoying the sunshine instead of the obscene purple neon of this place.

Why did I let her have her way? Especially when her way is so often so very, very wrong?

I don’t even like eggplant.

I have to take a stand. When she gets back from the ladies’ room, I willtake a stand. I’ll tell her this whole scheme is destined for failure. I’m going to tell her that this is a ridiculous waste of time, and that we’re heading back to the villa to salvage what’s left of our vacation time. I’m going to tell her—

Here she comes.

Oh. She says we’re leaving.

Stupid restaurant! Stupid Rome! Stupid Italy!

What is the DEAL with the bathrooms here???? Seriously. I had to go at that stupid Amici Amore, so I head on off to the ladies’, and first off, the whole place is lit by black light— why? Oh, because (Cal just told me) it’s to make it impossible for junkies to find a vein if they take it into their heads to shoot up in there.

But that’s not the worst of it. Oh, no!

THERE WAS NO TOILET. No. None. Where a toilet ought to be was a hole. A HOLE IN THE FLOOR. With two cut-out footprints on either side of it, and two bars to hold onto.

Okay, maybe ITALIAN WOMEN know what this is. But I’ve never seen anything like it, and I have NO IDEA what you’re supposed to do there. Obviously you put your feet on the cutouts. And clearly you’re supposed to hold onto the bars.

And then do what? Squat?

I DO NOT SQUAT.

Oh my God, what is WRONG with this country?

Cal says he knows of another restaurant we can go that isn’t far from here, and that he swears will actually have a toilet in the ladies’ room. I’m so traumatized, I’m actually letting him drive me there. A HOLE. A HOLE. What does Amici Amore even MEAN, anyway? BIG HOLE HERE?

Oh. Cal says it means Love Friends (
amici
= friends,
amore
= love).

Love Your Friends. Ha! Fuck Your Friends is more like it. By telling them to go there. TO SEE THE HOLE.

Where is he TAKING me, anyway? I told Cal we better not go too far from the consulate, since I’m SURE they won’t actually be taking a three-hour lunch. I mean, they’re AMERICAN, for crying out loud. That sign was probably just a scam to throw off the people with dumb, petty problems like lost passports or whatever. It won’t daunt ME. I’m in this for the long haul. I don’t care how long it takes. I’m going to sit there until I get—

Oooooh, what a beautiful building!

PDA of Cal Langdon

 

Now this is more like it. Sunshine. A nice prosecco. Panoramic views of the entire city. La Terrazza Dell-Eden at the Hotel Eden never fails in a pinch. Since 1889, it’s been pampering guests, battle-worn from Roman sightseeing and psychically scarred by the traffic. This is where we ought to have come from the start.

Let that be a lesson to us all: Never let an artist choose the restaurant.

Oh my God, I totally know this place! This is where Britney Spears and Pink stayed when they were filming that Pepsi commercial in the Colosseum, the one they showed at the Superbowl! And the photographers got all these shots of Britney up on this very sundeck, hanging out with that married dancer.