Arma Is a Bitch

The Universe Realigns.

Once again I find myself in the position of being a mere scribe, presenting a story which was told to me by a friend-of-a-friend. Introductions were made and an interview conducted by phone. The story is not mine, I merely set pen to paper and added structure and punctuation to strings of words that were torn from the soul. I am the omnipotent narrator, not the judge of morality.

Did it really happen or am I a gullible romantic? The protagonist swears the story is true. I will leave that to the reader to decide. Keeping in mind the old adage, the story was so good that if it didn't happen it should have, I present for your consideration Karma is a Bitch.

Constructive criticism is always welcome. Ad hominem attacks will, of course, be deleted.

All names and locations have been changed.

*****

Chapter I, Death

How many angels can dance on the head of a pin?

How many stars are in the heavens?

How long is forever?

I can't answer the first two but I know the answer to the third; four years, three weeks, five days, two hours, ten minutes, and fifty seconds, give or take a tick.

Foolish me, I thought 'till death do us part would last a lot longer. But I'll be damned if at 3:14 on Friday June 15th a sheriff's deputy didn't walk up to my desk and hand me an envelope. "You've been served," was all he said before he made a crisp turn and walked out of the bank. Every eye was upon me as I opened the manila envelope and read the words Petition for Dissolution of Marriage. I felt a tightness in my chest as though I was having a heart attack. I wasn't that lucky.

It got even better. There was also a Restraining Order prohibiting me from going home...to the house which I owned before I got married. It said I couldn't even call Breanne to find out why she wanted a divorce. My wife of four years swore under oath that she feared for her safety if I were to contact her. I guess she forgot to tell the judge we had made love the previous night. Twice. Change that, I made love to her; she screwed me.

I had to go to my mother's house with only the clothes on my back and ask for my old room back.

To say I never saw it coming would be the greatest understatement ever uttered. I was a blissful idiot making plans for our future...dreaming dreams of babies yet to be born and looking forward to growing old with my best friend. Everything I knew was torn asunder. The next month was a whirlwind of hell...my finances were examined with a fine tooth comb lest I be hiding a dollar to buy a value meal for lunch. Depositions followed . As Dante Alighieri wrote in the Divine Comedy, each level of hell was worse than the last. I got to see them all.

Through it all I kept asking only one question. "Why?"

You don't do your best thinking when you're spirit is broken so I agreed to everything. All I asked from my soon to be ex is that she answer my one question.

When our court date came she didn't even have the class to do that to my face. Instead her slick lawyer handed me a single sheet of paper. Not even handwritten but typed, double spaced, with wide margins. What a relief, I hadn't done anything wrong. She just reconnected on Facebook with Charles Winston III, her first love from college; her soul mate. The very one who had taken the virginity which I had been assured had been my wedding present.

It seems they were a modern day Romeo and Juliet. CW the second forbade his only son to marry Breanne. Four years later fate intervened and he died of a massive heart attack. The day after the old man's funeral the son went searching for his former lover.

The next paragraph damn near knocked me on my ass. "I'm divorcing you because I respect you too much to have an affair with Charles." Boy am I lucky she held me in such high esteem or she might have stripped me of my soul and kicked my corpse to the curb. Oh wait, she did.

I was crying too hard to read the rest.

Chapter II, Overcoming Pain

Our no fault divorce was finalized two days later.

I left the courthouse, drove to the bank, and tendered my resignation. I was no longer able to think rationally so I decided to quit before I got fired and drive to No Where in Particular, California. Why California? I always wanted to see the Pacific Ocean.

My next stop was the Ford dealer where I traded in my Mustang convertible for a late model 3/4 ton pickup truck with a slide in camper.

A moving van had showed up at mom's house while I was gone and dropped off six cardboard boxes which contained all of my possessions.

It took me a couple of days to get the camper ready for cross country travel. It would be my home for at least the next year. Mom tried to talk me out of leaving but my mind was made up. I told her I needed to do this if I was going to survive. I promised to call on a regular basis.

I decided to stay away from the interstate and drive west on back roads until I was low on gas and see what fate had in store for me. My plan was to find a menial job, something which required more back than brain, and stick around for no more than two weeks in any one place.

I pulled into a small town just as the sun was setting. The only thing open on Main Street was a down on its heels bar which served food. I noticed a handwritten sign in the window; HELP WANTED.

Over a cold beer I talked up the bartender/owner about the job. I told him I was just passing through but was looking to make a few bucks for gas. He eyed me nervously before he said, "What the job is is a hard day's work for minimum wage. You get your lunch and dinner and any tips that come your way . You pay for your own beer."

I replied, "If you've got a place I can park my camper I'm your man."

"Right out back on the gravel. Then put this apron on and get started by busing them tables."

And so I began my new career.

On day seven of my odyssey I met a woman, maybe ten years older than me but not at all bad looking. That night I had sex with only the second woman in my life. It felt good. Very good.

True to my word I left after two weeks. Phil, the owner, handed me a pay envelope and said, "You got a job anytime you want one."

Over the next six months I worked at twelve different restaurants/diners/dive bars and met a dozen different women who heard my story and wanted to cheer me up.

Then I ran into an unexpected obstacle; winter in the Rocky Mountains. The snow was blowing so thick I could barely see the road as I pulled into a nameless Colorado town. From the lack of traffic it looked like everyone with a lick of common sense was tucked snugly in bed to ride out the storm.

The only lights I saw were the police station. I parked out front and explained to the deputy I needed a place to park until the roads were clear. He was a nice guy and said I could park in their lot; he even made a call to the restaurant across the road so I could get something to eat.

The owner was an older woman who spoke with an Italian accent. She eyed me up and down. "My grandson says you're looking to ride out the storm in a tin can on a pick'em up. You look like a nice boy. I got a cot in the stock room that will be a lot more comfortable."

I thanked her as I wolfed down some of the best cooking I had ever eaten.

The next morning I was woken before the sun rose by the sounds of Mrs. Villano cooking.

I looked out the window; all I could see was snow. As I got dressed I noticed a stack of several dozen cans of paint stacked against the wall. After we exchanged good mornings I asked about the paint.

"My late husband, God rest his soul, bought them about ten years ago. Silly fool never painted anything in his life."

"I worked my way through college painting houses and would be glad to swap my labor for your cooking."

A deal was struck, one that changed the course of my life. I would paint the entire restaurant to work off room and board. I would also be helping in the kitchen to prepare for the dinner rush. Each afternoon I quit painting, washed up, and donned an apron to learn the secrets of authentic Eye-talian cooking.

I spent the next five mornings on a ladder, washing the stamped tin ceiling than painting a base color. An accent color made the ceiling look worthy of the Sistine Chapel.

"My, my Peter. That looks so beautiful. You are an artist."

The next day the roads were open and customers began to wander in. To a one their heads snapped back and they admired my effort. Quite a few young ladies also stopped by to admire the painter and I soon had a full social calendar.

I didn't get much painting done over the next few days as Mrs. Villano's waitress never showed up. I assured her I was an experienced waiter and took over the front of the house while she ruled the kitchen. We made a very good team.

I slept like a rock that night. It was the first time I hadn't read Breanne's letter before I went bed (notice I didn't say went to sleep, a commodity which had been eluding me).

The next morning I was woken up by an honest-to-goodness rooster crowing. Later I learned Mrs. Villano woke the rooster up.

In the lull between lunch and dinner I stood at her elbow and learned her secrets. Mrs. Villano loved to sing, mostly Italian love songs. Soon she had me harmonizing with her. She also decided to teach me to speak Italian while she cooked. I was a quick study and soon we were conversing in her mother tongue. Well maybe conversing was a bit of a stretch but I was absorbing everything she said. She was the most patient woman I ever met.

The lessons kept coming; in the spring we planted an herb garden...in the fall I learned how to make wine and can produce.

I broke my rule and stayed on for eighteen months, learning how to cook like the master...and speak like her too.

I finished painting on a warm spring day and told Mrs. Villano it was time for me to move on. She smiled and said she understood.

I was given a going away party worthy of a victorious general. Mrs.Villano gave me several presents including a hand copied recipe book and a case of homemade wine. After she gave me one last hug she handed me an envelope with a name and address on it, "When you get to San Francisco see my cousin Anthony. Tell him you're the son I always wanted."

I decided to do some sightseeing and took the long, tourist, route to the coast. I even won a few bucks in Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World and spit into the Grand Canyon.

Four weeks later I was having lunch at Fisherman's Wharf.

Chapter III The Legend is Born

The next morning I showed up at the address on the envelope. It was a very nice looking Italian restaurant nestled in the center of two dozen other very nice looking Italian restaurants. It seems Nob Hill was the mother load for lovers of Italian food. The neighborhood smelled like heaven.

The restaurant was dark so I knocked on the door. A short bald man all dressed in white peeked out of the kitchen and shouted, "We're not open."

I knocked again. This time he opened the door. "Wahdda you want?"

I handed him the envelope.

"It's about time you got here." Then he shouted in Italian, " Hey boss, that guy that knows everything is here."

Tony looked at the note than roared with laughter. Evidently they didn't know I could understand Italian as he read the letter out loud. "That crazy cousin of mine says I should turn my kitchen over to this stranger and let him cook."

His staff howled and made some very unflattering comments about how could a man who looks like white bread thinks he can cook like one of us. I decided not to let on.

Tony noticed the large cardboard box and two overstuffed shopping bags on the ground next to me. "Whatsa you got in there chef? You moving in?"

The employees taunted me in Italian.

"A present from Mrs. Villano." I opened the box and showed him four bottles of home made wine.

Tony called for a glass and uncorked one of the gallon bottles. He poured enough for a taste. Then refilled the glass and took a swallow. "Who made this?" The bottle was passed around and everyone got to sample the wine..

"Mrs. Villano taught me how last fall."

"If you can cook as good as you make wine I might keep you around."

Tony called for his daughters and I was introduced to Gina and Ann Marie, the two most perfect, stunningly beautiful, raven haired, twins I could ever imagined. I stammered a "pleased to meet you." Ann Marie smiled and said, "Nice to meet you too." Gina instead, gave me the evil eye and said, "So this is the legendary cook from Colorado."

I heard someone behind me laugh, then declare, "The legend... Ha! Him! A legend!" This was followed by a wall of laughter. Thus I was anointed with my nickname..

Tony announced in Italian, "Fine, let's see what the legend can cook. I may be crazy but I trust my cousin. Tonight San Francisco will be his judge."

Gina was staring daggers at me. "You understood every word she said." My smile had betrayed me. She began to berate me in Italian until I defended myself in her mother tongue.

The kitchen staff watched in amazement as we went toe-to-toe. Tony finally separated us saying, "Save it for later. Your boyfriend has work to do."

"Boyfriend!' She spit at my feet. "Tomorrow he'll be lucky to be the dishwasher. Then she uttered a few choice epitaphs and stormed off.

Tony laughed and said, "I think she likes you. Now get to work. ..you're doing the soup and two specials for tonight. "

I picked up my bags, which were chock full of herbs and spices, said a quick prayer, and greeted my staff. For the rest of the night we spoke Italian.

That night my Cioppino, a traditional Italian fisherman's soup made with fresh Dungeness crab, bay scallops, shrimp, and clams, sold out in an hour. We ran out of my Linguine alle Moleche, made with Dungeness crab caught within sight of the city, a few minutes later. My evening was complete when a waiter told me two people almost came to blows over the last order of my made from scratch basil pesto Gnocchi.

Tony walked into the kitchen and threw his arms around me. Ann Marie proclaimed, "Tonight a legend was born." Gina, however, stayed in her office doing the books. She never said a word even though I had one of the waiters bring her samples of both.

I thanked everyone in the kitchen and knew I had found a new home. The only change I would have to make was to play music and encourage my team to sing while they worked. As Mrs. Villano always said, "Music makes the food taste better."

Chapter IV How the other half lives...and dies

The Winston fortune was made in real estate. The grandfather, Charles Winston I, specialized in foreclosures. He bought, many would say stole, dozens of farms during the great depression.

After World War II he began subdividing corn fields and building cookie cutter houses which the government would finance for returning GIs. He had one set of blueprints and each house, other than the color of the shingles and shutters, was a clone of every other.

The old man, Charles Winston II-"Don't call me junior- followed in the family tradition and bought options on a number of farms ringing the city when times were bad during the OPEC recession in the early 1970's. He quietly sat on them until the late 1980's when the real estate market became white hot. Construction trailers were followed by model homes and the money came pouring in.

CW the third and Breanne wasted no time in getting hitched. Their honeymoon on a tropical paradise didn't go quite as the brochure promised when both were felled by an intestinal parasite. The resort disclaimed all responsibility saying they hadn't heeded their warnings not to eat food from the vendors who plied the beach.

On their return the cock sure kid called a meeting and announced he was changing the direction of the company. "My father had his day but the time for being conservative is long gone. Effective immediately we are getting more aggressive. I want you out there shaking the bushes to find farmers who are looking to cash out."

Unfortunately, CW III lacked his old man's business acumen and vision. He was a narcissistic egomaniac who thought he knew more than everyone else...and now nobody could stop him. He began buying farm land outright at historic high prices.

When the real estate bubble burst in 2007 he had leveraged everything he owned. The Great Recession strangled the economy; people stopped buying new houses. Where everyone else saw trouble and pulled back CW imagined opportunity and borrowed even more money to buy out his biggest competitor; he now owned over 500 vacant acres as well as more than fifty houses under construction.

The only thing he didn't have were customers. He tired every trick he could think of to move inventory with nary a nibble.

Soon the mail was thick with mechanic's liens from unpaid contractors.

Nervous bankers saw the value of their collateral plunge and called his notes, demanding payment in full.

The Third was confident he could weather the storm and liquidated everything including the modest stock portfolio he inherited. He even cashed in his insurance policies. His last gasp was to raid his safety deposit box of every piece of his mother's jewelry. But it wasn't enough to buy him even a month's reprieve from his creditors.

The day his house was going to be sized by creditors he poured himself a glass of scotch, took his father's finest twelve gauge shotgun out of the gun cabinet, and blew his brains out. His casket would not open at the wake.

Breanne found him minutes before a sheriff's deputy arrived to serve eviction papers.

It was, she thought, the worst day of her life. Unfortunately many more were ahead as her late husband's fiscal malfeasance came to light.

Chapter V Resurrection

"You promised dad you would walk me down the aisle."

My sister Danae's wedding date was drawing close and she was demanding I honor my word.

I wanted to go to her wedding but there was one problem. My ex Breanne was the groom's cousin and would be there with her mother. I hadn't seen her in over five years and would prefer to keep it that way for the rest of my life.

My sister, however, was relentless and finally wore down my resolve.

And so plans were made for me to take a weekend off to fly to Chicago. I had been working out at a health club and had to admit I looked pretty damn good in a tuxedo.

The limousine driver timed it perfectly. The groomsmen and bridesmaids were milling around outside of the church, no doubt wondering if the wanderlust brother would actually make an appearance after five years.

I could hear the organ playing as I got out. I was followed out by my dates, Gina and Ann Marie. The two incredibly beautiful twin sisters were wearing designer dresses that fit them perfectly; each had a thigh high slit which showed of their lace topped stockings.

A month earlier when I told them I couldn't go because I didn't have a date both offered to accompany me and play the role. I teased I that loved both of them equally and couldn't make that decision. Gina, the older twin by almost five minutes, suggested I change my response card from plus one to plus two. Ann Marie seconded the idea and said I was outvoted. My sister asked who was the third person on my response card. I told her she would have to get married to find out.

The bridal party looked on in stunned awe as I took one beautiful woman on each arm and escorted them up the aisle to the bride's family pew. The look on mom's face was priceless. Damn they looked hot. More than a few people must have gotten whiplash as their heads wrenched around to see the long absent brother strutting towards the alter. Cameras were flashing from nearly every pew. A group of high school friends applauded and whistled as we walked past .