Absolute Zero_Misadventures From A Broad

by Margaret Lashley

  Past disappointments buzzed around my head like a swarm of angry bees from the second I woke up in my little room at the Hotel Bella Vista. I reminded myself I wasn’t in Italy to reminisce about the casualties of love and war. I was here to remember who I was, to reinvent myself, and, if possible, to finally get my pipes cleaned for the first time in like, forever. I snickered at the idea, and made myself blush.

  Even though my luggage was missing in action, I still had all my travel documents. I’d carried them in my purse, thank goodness. I crawled out of bed to check for the thirteenth time that my pocketbook and passport were still on the nightstand. I pulled the cruise brochure out of a side pocket and studied the happy people on the front cover. Their smiles made me homesick for something I couldn’t name. I stuffed the brochure back in my purse and sighed.

  I checked the clock on the nightstand. It was almost 7 a.m. I was supposed to meet the other volunteers at 7:30. Without luggage, I’d been forced to sleep in the nude last night. It had been weird and unfamiliar, and I knew Grandma Violet would have disapproved. But I’d found it kind of thrilling, in a new, exotic kind of way. Maybe that’s how the Italians did it.

  I snuck, butt-naked, outside onto the balcony to retrieve my only set of panties. I’d rinsed them out in the bathroom sink last night. They were still damp. I had no choice. I pulled them on anyway, then slipped into my bra, wrinkled brown skirt, and coffee-stained white blouse. I fluffed my hair with my fingers and sighed. Stop sighing!

  The full-length mirror in the corner taunted me like a piece of Eleanor White’s chocolate cheesecake delight. I fought off the temptation to take a peek. I was better off not knowing. I stepped out into the hallway and clicked the door shut behind me. The smell of fresh-brewed coffee urged me on as I ambled toward the elevator.

  AFTER AN UNSETTLING, jerky ride down three stories in an elevator the size and shape of an apartment refrigerator, the door opened begrudgingly and I stared into the Hotel Bella Vista’s odd lobby. It was sparkling clean. But it most certainly wasn’t what I’d call fancy. A mish-mash of contradicting styles gave it an eclectic, cobbled-together feeling. The traditional, coffered ceilings were high – maybe twelve feet. On the east wall, gloriously tall wooden windows afforded a fabulous view of the pool area and the sea beyond.

  The old-world, romantic feel of the building itself was in stark contrast to its furnishings. The prim, tailored curtains were of a garish, modern print. Huge, geometric shapes in red and blue competed fiercely with the sea view for attention. The square, low-backed, black-leather chairs and couches grouped along the walls looked as if they’d been manufactured in the 1960s, complete with spindly looking, stainless-steel legs.

  One side of the lobby featured a sleek front desk of onyx-hued marble. In the middle of the reception area stood a barista-style coffee counter that doubled as a cocktail bar by night. It was constructed of dark, chocolate-stained wood and clear, plate glass. Curiously, there were no chairs at the bar. (I later discovered Italians typically stood while having an espresso or a beer.) An assortment of clear cocktail glasses hung at arm’s reach above the bar’s glass counter top, illuminated by the bluish light emanating from recessed ceiling lamps.

  My kitten-heeled sandals made a hollow clicking sound as I walked across the lobby’s terrazzo floor toward the Internet room. This was the rendezvous point stated on a flyer handed to me yesterday, along with my keys, by the drop-dead-gorgeous front desk manager, Antonio. I yanked open the oversized, wooden door. I wasn’t sure what I’d expected to find, but my gut reaction told me I’d been wishing for something different. I unconsciously blew out a disappointed breath, then quickly forced a smile to compensate for my undeliberate rudeness.

  Sitting around the oval, mahogany conference table were five completely unremarkable Caucasians. Probably all Americans. There were two, men and, counting me, four women. I thought about complaining to the company about the lack of diversity. But how could I? I was as white and American and middleclass as the rest of them.

  No one said a word as I stepped inside. The room was crowded with silent anticipation. I nodded respectfully and took a seat at the table.

  As my fanny hit the cushion, the door flew open again. A short, plump woman bustled in. Her beige skirt and jacket were so tight she appeared to have swollen to maximum capacity while still inside them. Her jet-black hair was twisted carelessly into a loose bun. She exuded a harried, put-upon air. Sizeable sweat stains deepened the color of the fabric under her jacket armpits. She sighed loudly, then looked up at us, wide-eyed, as if she’d just become aware of our presence.

  “Buon giorno. Good morning. I am Monica Mozzarelli,” she said, as if for the millionth time this morning.

  One of the guys in the group, a dumb-looking bald man, snickered loudly. I was instantly embarrassed to be an American. Monica Mozzarelli didn’t seem to notice. Either that or she didn’t give a crapoli.

  “So, everybody, let’s get to know each other, yes?” Ms. Mozzarelli nodded with minimum effort toward an old lady in an orange pantsuit. “You first.”

  “I’m Berta,” the woman said in a crusty voice like a toad’s croak. She was skeleton-thin and somewhere between seventy and a hundred and fifty years old. “I’m a psychologist. Retired. From Manhattan. I –”

  “I’m a lawyer. Name’s Frank Templeton, Esquire,” interrupted a pompous-faced man of around sixty. He had a greying comb over on top of his round head and a ruddy complexion compliments of high blood pressure. He looked as if he could blow at any minute.

  Berta pursed her lips and shot Frank a hard glance that, in my book, only had one possible interpretation. Two points for you, Berta.

  The man who’d snickered spoke next. “I’m Peter Axion, senior accountant with the IRS,” he said in a half-apologetic, half-proud tone. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.” Peter was tall, balding, and pasty – the perfect poster child for his profession.

  I took my turn at bat and bunted. “I’m Val Jolly. I’m....” Oh my gosh! What are you? Think of something!” I’m a former...uh...I’m retired.”

  “My name is Val, too. Val Finnegan.” She said her last name as if it was better than mine. “I’m a professional beauty consultant from Ocala, Florida.”

  I noticed Frank eye Val II’s fake boobs as the last woman introduced herself. She was a slim, tattooed, black-haired woman in her mid-twenties.

  “I’m Tina Taylor. From Jersey.” Her surly, dark-brown eyes glanced around the room with jaded curiosity. “What’s up?”

  At the end of the introductions, as if on cue, smug-looking Frank stood up, cleared his throat and puffed out his chest.

  “I’ll be taking charge,” he announced. “I’m a veteran of volunteer vacationing. I know all of the correct procedures.”

  Frank. A control freak. What a surprise.

  Everyone, including Monica Mozzarelli, seemed relieved someone else was going to take the lead. The weary Italian and blustery attorney got down to business, pairing up teams and organizing assignments. I got busy doing nothing. I had to sit on my hands and bite my tongue, but I did it. It was a strange feeling, not taking on responsibility. I hoped I could get used to it.

  While I waited for my fate to be decided for me by strangers, I studied my fellow volunteers. Peter looked to be about my age, probably six feet tall. He had the kind of bluish-white skin that wouldn’t tan, and a long face with thick, livery lips. Even though he had a lanky, athletic build, there was something awkward and ungainly about his body. I watched flop sweat glisten on his bald head as he tried to make small talk with Tina.

  “Where’d you get those tats?” he asked the Jersey Shore wannabe.

  “From the tattoo store,” Tina replied curtly. She rolled her eyes and returned to chewing her black-polished, bitten-to-the-quick fingernails.

  “Oh, right.” Peter was undaunted by Tina’s dismissive tone. The poor guy had to have been clueless not to get the hint. “I’ve been thinking about getting
a tattoo myself.”

  “Yeah? You know it hurts like crazy.”

  For her young age, Tina’s attitude came off surprisingly bitter, like my third-cousin Martin Mercer who’d once scaled a prison wall only to find an even higher one on the other side.

  “But you IRS guys, I guess you’re into pain.”

  As Peter pondered her meaning, I glanced over at Berta and did a double take. The old psychologist had been watching me watch everyone else! Berta shot me a dirty grin that made me feel oddly like a kid caught red-handed eating somebody else’s candy.

  “Okay, everyone, listen up!” barked Frank. “I’ve got your assignments here. Read ‘em and weep.”

  Frank laughed stiffly at his own joke, then passed sheets of paper around the table. When I got mine, I read it and groaned. I’d been paired with Frank, the humorless, controlling, attorney-at-large. Crap on a cracker!

  According to the list, Frank’s and my assignment was at a technical school for kids who weren’t going on to college, but wanted to learn vocational trades. The other volunteers were assigned to high schools. Berta got paired with Tina, Val II with Peter.

  “It is Sunday, Domingo,” said Ms. Mozzarelli, with all the enthusiasm that could be stuffed inside half a cannoli. “So, you see, you all have the day free to enjoy the beauties of Italia.” She hastily gathered up her things to make her getaway.

  I wanted to ask Ms. Mozzarelli a question, but someone hooked me by the arm and stopped my traction. The frazzled Italian woman disappeared out the door. I turned around. It was Frank.

  “Work starts tomorrow,” he informed me, as if I was now one of his flunkey employees. “Let’s meet in the lobby at 8 a.m. tomorrow morning. Sharp.”

  “Yes sir,” I replied, matching Ms. Mozzarelli’s enthusiasm to a tee.

  WHILE THE OTHERS WENT off exploring the city, I spent my free Sunday afternoon poking around the Hotel Bella Vista and adjacent seashore. I liked to travel, but I’d been afflicted with perhaps the worst sense of direction to be bestowed upon a human being since my infamous Uncle Larry Jolly. One year, when he was nineteen years old, he’d gotten lost at the state fair for nearly three days. He’d survived on rainwater and half-eaten corndogs, according to Grandma Violet. I must’ve inherited his genes, because I’d been known to get myself all turned around on my way home from work, inside peoples’ houses, and even in two-stall public restrooms.

  When I’d arrived last night, I’d discovered that my hotel room was right in front of the elevator on the third floor. The ancient contraption grumbled and squeaked like a gaggle of angry geese every time somebody used it. That didn’t bother me a lick. My room was a straight shot in – no confusing hallways or turns to navigate. If I hadn’t been so ass-dragging tired, I’d have jumped for joy.

  My bad sense of direction wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want to stray too far from the hotel. The other one was a tad more obvious than the first. I’d begun to look – and smell – worse than Uncle Larry did when Aunt Patsy had finally found him by the Tilt-a-Whirl eating half a chocolate moon pie he’d filched from a trash can.

  It was just my luck that not a single blessed store in Brindisi was open on Sunday. I couldn’t even buy a toothbrush! The horrors! I could almost see Grandma Violet rolling over in her grave when I went to bed last night with dirty teeth. This morning, my nasty breath was vile enough to melt a 64-pack of Crayolas. Almost as bad, my armpits and legs rivaled Sasquatch’s. And my hair? Well, it was beyond mentioning in polite society.

  And there was one more thing. I figured if I’d messed around and got lost, I was a goner. I didn’t have a clue how to ask for directions in Italian. I decided to play it safe and keep close to home, so to speak.

  With my Italian phrasebook in hand, I left the hotel and limped barefoot across the street. I scrambled like a badly-dressed, middle-aged circus chimp onto a cream-colored boulder a few yards from the sea. Sitting there all alone on that rock, I suddenly felt the hollow drum of loneliness begin to beat in my chest. I stared out into the water and sighed. What was I doing here with all these strangers? From my boulder-high perch, the Adriatic Sea took on a strange, artificial shade of blue that reminded me of...Oh my gosh! Ty D Bol toilet cleaner! My Grandma Violet swore by Ty D Bol, and had taught me to do the same. I relaxed and stared out at the hypnotic blue sea and felt like I’d found a little piece of home.

  I WOKE TO THE SOUND of someone calling my name. I tried to get up but it felt like my spine was broken. The sky overhead was purplish blue. I realized I was still laying outside, on the boulder. The voice called my name again.

  “Val Jolly?”

  “I’m here!” I called back.

  “There you are,” Berta said. “You’re late for dinner.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks. Be right there.”

  The skinny old woman watched as I slid gracelessly down the boulder like a handicapped sloth.

  “Nice drawers,” she said dryly.

  I turned around to make a snide retort, but Berta’s startled face stopped me in my tracks.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I hope you packed some aloe, kid. You’re fried to a crisp.”

  Chapter Four

  I’ve always been one of those annoying morning people. But I came by it honest. I spent the best part of my childhood in a place most people never noticed, even when they were driving right through it. Greenville, Florida was where my Grandma Violet and Grandpa Hue build their family farm back in the 1930s.

  As a kid, I’d spent every summer there since I was old enough to remember. That was where I’d learned to pull my own weight. At the farm, as soon as a kid could walk, he or she’d get a list of chores to do. The summer when I was seven, the job had fallen to me to get up early and snatch a dozen warm brown eggs from under extremely suspecting hen’s bottoms. Grandma would fry them up, two at a time, and serve them with grits and buttermilk biscuits. Grandpa, Pa for short, was always the first to get served. We kids never tired of laughing at Grandma Violet’s joke when she’d say, “I’m fixin’ to make possum eggs.”

  I loved the farm, but not farm boys. My starter marriage to Ricky Benjamin had gone south quicker than an autumn goose on the Concord. I’d filed for divorce and to get my maiden name back. It’d hardly seemed worth it to have to carry around a reminder of a union that hadn’t lasted any longer than a tube of toothpaste.

  I wasn’t the first in my family to get divorced, but I was the first to run off to college afterward. The choice to get a higher education had set me apart from my family in ways I’d never expected. When I moved to Tampa to attend university, in their eyes, I’d become a “fancy person.” After I graduated, they’d started treated me oddly, like I was some kind of traitorous reality-show celebrity or something. Six years later, when I’d married Jimmy Johnson and kept my last name, my Aunt Patsy had held a prayer vigil for my soul. Going to Italy last fall had jet-propelled me to the status of “international fancy person.” That time, even my cousin Tammy was jealous.

  AT THE FIRST HINT OF morning light, my mind revved to life, in full gear, like it had since I was a child. “What’s on the to-do list today?” my grey matter would ask. For the first time in forever, I didn’t have much of an answer.

  By 6:30 a.m., despite my sunburn, I’d already showered, ironed my yucky, coffee-stained blouse, and wriggled into my rinsed-out panties and skirt. I’d also snuck outside and spent an hour sitting on the rocks across the street from the hotel, staring out at the friendly Ty-D-Bol sea. I was grateful for the cool wind blowing across the water. It eased the throbbing heat that pulsed from my nuclear-red face, hands and the fronts of my legs.

  With nothing but a buttered roll and a glass of wine for dinner last night, my throat ached from hunger. Italy was six hours ahead of Florida, so it was only half-past midnight back home. But my stomach didn’t care.

  The night clerk was exactly where he’d been when I’d snuck out an hour earlier. Dressed in an olive-green suit, the slim young man lay sp
rawled out on a black leather couch like a drunken wedding guest. I took a seat across from the couch and waited for him to wake up. He snored like a buzz saw. My empty stomach growled like a pit bull. At precisely 7:03, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I woke him up by clearing my throat – loudly.

  “Ahem....”

  The man snuffled mid-snore, then opened one bleary eye. He looked at me, puzzled, as if he was wondering how I’d gotten into his dream. He blinked and looked at me again. To his disappointment, I was still there. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. I gave him my best apologetic look and tried out the Italian I’d been practicing all morning.

  “Mi dispiache,” I said. “Prego, cappuccino?”

  He looked at me as if he hoped it was a scherzo. When he realized I was serious, he forced a weak smile and bobbed his head once. With Herculean effort, he dragged himself off the couch and stumbled toward the coffee counter. I followed behind him, my Southern guilt only slightly overruled by hunger. I stood at the barista bar and smiled so brightly at the poor guy he squinted as if to escape the glare.

  He ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and sighed. Then he turned and studied the huge, copper-and-steel contraption behind the counter. Finally, he began working the controls on the monstrous, hissing, mechanical beast. Like a mad scientist, he pulled a lever, scratched his chin, twisted a piece of the machine loose, pushed his hair out of his eyes, dumped grounds in the trash, coughed, rattled some dishes, bit his fingernail, turned a dial that sent out a jet of steam, cursed under his breath, scooped foam from a small stainless steel pitcher, sucked on his scalded thumb, and sprinkled something from a shaker.

  With an apologetic shrug, the young man handed me a large, steaming white cup perched on a saucer. As I reached for it, he looked at it with a dissatisfied scowl and pulled the cup back from my greedy hands. He set it next to the hissing machine and squatted down behind the counter. A moment later, he popped back up like a disheveled Whack-a-Mole. He dropped a small, hard cookie onto the saucer and handed back the steaming cup of cappuccino.