New York City. He’d heard about it from another paisan who talked about it with reverence, like the Big Apple was the friggin’ holy land. His fingertips flooded with electricity and his blood boiled hot, only two years of high school down but ready.
He quietly hums a new number, one verse then a pause. He pushes a wooden broom across the smooth barbershop floor, gives it an extra oomph at the end. Polishing his lyrics, sixteen years old with a dollar to his name. Sick of bootlegging and counting cards.
He wants a stage to fit his frame. He’s never heard applause that rattles the rafters. He wants to read a review, raise a glass, rehearse in the rain. He wants to stand up straight and tell tales come Christmastime. Wants to be a man, talk shop with Poppa.
He wants to be seen from the moon. All he needs is a train ticket, his notebook, his good scarf and a dozen squares of Nonnie’s sausage pizza jammed together in tinfoil.
A sharp cologne of cigars and roasted chestnuts thickens the passenger car. All bobbing porkpies, trilbys and fedoras absorbing pocked cheeks and poker-faced jaws. The rustle of newspaper, the rip of a lighter, the thwack of a suitcase being thrown overhead.
How does a city bend and point at you so that everyone knows your name? He doesn’t want to be like his Poppa, a barber with an Italian name no one in America can pronounce. His heart sings when he finally sees the skyline that pulses to the beat of the song in his head.
His life is all swift maneuvering and fast-talk. He sleeps on a cot in a restaurant basement and takes the odd job to get by. Sees the skyscrapers wink as he hoses down filthy concrete.
At nighttime, he squeaks into venues to watch his heroes sing; clubs of angels descended from the heavens all gleaming teeth and bow ties. Twelve-piece big bands swinging so hard the walls throb with envy. He keeps his hands on the insides of his pockets, drinks Martinelli’s in a scotch glass with ice. Slips backstage with a crisp pack of Marlboro’s ready to grease.
His career reaches further than his capacity allows. Leaves the stage with his head down. “Don’t worry kid, you’ll hit it next time.” Burns both ends hard, writes all night. Mops a line of sweat from his brow. Forgets to write his momma.
Feels the spotlight, not pointy but warm. Hears a rippling of applause and comes alive. Hits his marks, stands up straight. Something unlocks and he walks off-stage, doesn’t talk to no one, goes right to the piano to sit and take notes.
Frank steps from the shadows and sees the young man scribbling in his worn notebook. PROPERTY OF DINO in bolded underline across the front. “Gotta light?” he asks, all silk and swagger. He tilts his hat, relaxes against the piano. “What’s your name?” Takes a drag, looks around and leans in.