No Cappuccino in the Afternoon

Michael Palmer

Description

This book is mainly fiction, although readers will probably be able to identify stories based on the author’s experiences.

Sujets

• Michael Palmer
• Collection
• Short Stories
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: AuthorHouse
• Date de parution: 29 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9798823008952
• Langue: English

Extrait

No Cappuccino in the Afternoon
A Collection of Short Stories
 
 
 
 
Michael Palmer
 
 
 
 
 
 
AuthorHouse™
1663 Liberty Drive
Bloomington, IN 47403
www.authorhouse.com
Phone: [phone]
 
 
© 2023 Michael Palmer. All rights reserved.
 
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.
 
Published by AuthorHouse 06/27/2023
 
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0891-4 (sc)
ISBN: 979-8-8230-0895-2 (e)
 
Library of Congress Control Number: 2023909600
 
 
The Gambler
Words and Music by Don Schlitz
Copyright © 1977 Sony Music Publishing (US) LLC
Copyright Renewed
All Rights Administered by Sony Music Publishing (US) LLC, 424 Church Street, Suite 1200, Nashville, TN 37219
International Copyright Secured. All Rights Reserved
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
 
The End
Words and Music by John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison Copyright © 1967 Doors Music Company, LLC
Copyright Renewed
All Rights Administered by Wixen Music Publishing, Inc. All Rights Reserved Used by Permission
Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC
 
Cover photo by Charmaine Miyoko Palmer.
 
 
Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
Contents
 
Dedication
Preface
Acknowledgements
No Cappuccino in the Afternoon
The Encounter
Peggy Sue
It’s a Matter of Time: Part 1
It’s a Matter of Time: Part 2
A Morning on the Lake with my Big Brother
Sheriff Gotham
The Special Coat Hanger
The Summit
Bahati and Milele Likizo
The Gloves
A Floppy Hat, a Plastic Fork and Susan
Even Monkeys Fall from Trees
The Last Performance
John Wayne
Hold the Vegetables
Baseball and Guns
The Sailing
Champagne Music
Control Room 27
This is the End, My Friend
The ’48 Woody
I’m What?
Red Sun
The Last Hurrah
The Fire
Marguerite’s Mirror
Joey
The Escape
Double Baksheesh
The Polar Man
Bug Juice
You’ve Got to Know When to Hold ‘em
The King
Pluto Returns
I Should Have Listened to Uncle Joe
The City on the Hill
My Best Friend
Southern Hospitality
The Eclipse
It’s all Part of the Experience
Checkmate
The Border
Olé
A Lesson in India
The Script
To Be or Not to Be
The Light
The Deer
Broken Promises
The Flight that Might have Been
Monday Morning
Author’s Notes
About the Author
Dedication
 
This book is dedicated to Kasumi Furukawa,
who was willing to share his story with me about that Monday morning.
I will forever remember our conversations and forever cherish his friendship.
Preface
 
My friends often ask me how I come up with the ideas for my stories.
I’ve thought about that a lot.
Here’s my take on that.
Some ideas originate from random encounters with strangers:
A conversation in I ndia,
And one in P aris.
Some from an experience a long time ago which suddenly and unexpected resurface:
A summer camp,
Shooting a gun.
Some from early childhood experiences which have had a lifelong impact on me:
A road trip to Flo rida.
Some later in life which were just as impactful:
An evening in Calc utta,
A story told in J apan.
Some definitely on the lighter side:
A traffic ticket in Cro atia,
A busboy in Califo rnia,
A can of paint in upstate New York,
A bazaar in Ista nbul,
The Pyramids at Giza.
Some very personal:
A visit to a cemetery in I taly,
A ride in a U- Haul.
And one which was the idea for the title of this book
But then many are just formed from thoughts that just seem to pop into my head and have no connection to anything or anyone in my life.
However they arise, I hope you enjoy them.
Acknowledgements
 
Thanks to Annie Barrete at AuthorHouse for her assistance
in making this book a reality.
 
Thanks to the copyright holders of the lyrics to The Gambler and The End
for giving me permission to use those lyrics in my story
You’ve Got to Know When to Hold ‘em and This is The End, My Friend.
 
Thanks again to Bob Jackson for his
masterful proofing of my second manuscript.
 
To my “brother” Keith Wells for the journey that we
traveled together to complete our second books.
 
Thanks to all my friends for their support and encouragement (and editorial comments).
 
To the real Koda, who was the inspiration for all the stories about a dog. You will always have a special place in my heart.
 
And thanks to my wife, Charmaine, for pushing for that important word change.
 
No Cappuccino in the Afternoon
 
I had just landed at Marco Polo Airport near Venice, and with my large suitcase in tow, I decided to stop at a small café before heading to the car rental.
It was a long flight, from New York, a night flight, made longer by my cramped seat in economy class and the over-weight guy next to me watching action movies across the entire ocean.
I looked at the clock. It was 10:30. It was the morning.
Since it wasn’t yet the afternoon, I could order a cappuccino. At least that’s what I had read on the flight. “No Cappuccino in the Afternoon, And Other Italian Oddities”, an article explaining some interesting aspects of Italian culture.
As for coffee, only a tourist would order a cappuccino after noon. A dead giveaway. Milk in the afternoon, according to Italians, is bad for digestion. That’s when you drink espresso.
The cappuccino was so smooth. The best I had ever had.
“What’s this?” I asked, holding up the coffee cup.
“Lavazza,” he replied, raising his arms to acknowledge a given, at least for him.
He was short and stocky. Dark hair, dark eyes, light olive oil skin tone. A few hours beyond a five o’clock shadow. Typical for Northern Italians.
It was my first Lavazza. I vowed it wouldn’t be my last.
“The coffee on the airplane tasted like dish water.”
“Yes, but this is Italy.” He smiled. “No dish water here. Just the best coffee. Il meglio, the very best.”
I’m going to love this place, I thought. Why did I wait so long before coming to Italy?
“Quanto?” I said with a New York accent, as I finished my cappuccino.
“Due euros.” He held up two fingers just to make sure I understood.
Putting two euros on the counter, I looked for the tip jar. But there was none to be found, so I put 50 cents on the counter.
He looked confused, then smiled and put the 50-cent coin back in my hand.
“No,” he said. “Not here.”
Oh yes, I thought, the article. No tipping in Italy. Yes, I had a lot to learn.
“Insurance, do you want insurance coverage on the car,” it was the young lady behind the counter at Euro Cars. Her English was perfect.
“Do you think I need it?”
“Have you been to Italy before?” she said as she rolled her eyes ever so slightly.
“This is my first time.”
“And where are you driving?”
“To Florence.”
“It’s called Firenze.”
“Oh.”
“On the motorway? Are you driving to Firenze on the motorway?”
“Yes.”
“Really.” She rolled her eyes again and smiled. “Then I definitely suggest you take full coverage.”
“Okay, sign me up.”
“You won’t regret it, believe me.”
As she handed me the keys to the rental car, I thanked her and then commented.
“Your English. It’s perfect. Where did you learn English?”
“Denver… Denver, Colorado.” She started to laugh.
“Huh?”
“Came to Italy right after college. Fell in love with the country and with my tour guide. That was ten years ago. Never went back. Don’t intend to.”
“Wow, what a story.”
“And you?”
“Just a tourist. A tourist, from the big apple. New York City.”
“Well enjoy, Mister Big Apple. Enjoy Italy.”
The Fiat Panda 500 was smaller than I had expected. Five-speed. I had not driven a standard since college. Struggling to reacquaint myself with a clutch, I eased the car out of the lot and pulled out onto the motorway.
I decided to stay in the far-right lane. Slower there. Not as stressful, I thought.
Everyone was passing me. Cars, trucks, buses, motorcycles. I expected to be passed by a moped scooter any minute.
The navigation system on my iPhone started beeping. Then a voice. Speeding. Speeding. Jesus, I thought if I’m speeding, what about everyone passing me. Then I remembered the article, Italians are crazy drivers. They don’t observe driving rules, or speed limits.
On my way to Florence, 260.44 kilometers. Christ, I thought, why is America not on the metric system like the rest of the world? I drifted out of my lane as I mentally wrestled to convert the kilometers into miles.
I glanced in the rear-view mirror. A speeding bright red Ferrari was closing in on me. Lights flashing too. I quickly moved back into the slow lane. As he passed, he gave me the most classic of all Italian gestures, with his fingertips touching and pointing upward. Not sure how to respond, I gave him the peace sign, even though I wasn’t sure that was appropriate.
I had been driving for two hours and was getting hungry. It was 1:30, approaching the latest time Italians eat lunch, and more importantly when restaurants close. 2 o’clock. And then they wouldn’t open until 7