A Little, Old-Fashioned Potboiler-Type Flash Fiction

He had not been expecting a letter. "What the h...?" he shouted over the buzz of talk radio. After all, he had just moved in and hadn't given the address to anyone yet.

"Alphonso Joseph D'Abruzzo Romano," he often spoke to himself, "There is no return address and the postmark is illegible. Should I open it?" Wiser than his thirty-two years but leaning toward drama queen status, he wondered if it might be a trick, either a subpoena to appear at Uncle Mario's racketeering trial or a toxic vapor released the second the envelope was opened. Either one of these would be deadly.

The envelope was square, requiring extra postage, and a deep shade of yellow so as to mask the contents. The handwriting was decidedly male and, though neat and consistent, slightly shaky like an older person who had studied penmanship in elementary school. Judging from the weight, it could not have contained more than a single sheet paper or two.

The longer he stared at the letter, the more anxious he became. "Porca vacca! Che cavolo?" Allie unconsciously slipped into Italian; early on, he found that he offended fewer people at times like this, and now it was a habit.

Allie furiously ripped open the envelope as though afraid if he took his time, he might change his mind. Something fell to the floor.

Convincing himself the world was about the end, Allie froze. "Padre nostro che sei nei cieli," he prayed, then skipped to the end, "Ma liberaci dal male" (Father of ours, who are in heaven... free us from all evil). Funny how he rarely thought about God, but now prayed like Jesus, Mary, and Joseph put together.

Afraid to move, he must have stood for at least ten seconds before forcing himself to look down. He was astonished to see nothing but the yellows and white of his Joseph-Albers-White-Line-Square-XVII inspired rug that he took with him wherever he went. "Porca va...," he stopped himself mid-word, realizing that a small, square, yellow paper was camouflaged in the rug.

"Thought you might like to see this," the sticky note read; signed, "dad." At 88, his father was only a hint of the powerful man he used to be.

Dad had gone to school via the GI bill and became a consummate professional in his field, with many rich and famous friends. When asked, Allie denied that his father had ever attended beauty school, and lied that he had become a make-up artist for CBS purely by happenstance. Yet, secretly, he admired his dad's friendships with the TV stars of the 50's, 60's, 70's, and early 80's.

The invitation itself read: "You are invited to the 73rd birthday and retirement party of Alphonso Joseph D'Abruzzo...." Allie was mystified, "My name! Not my birthday. Retirement?" Now, Allie had not yet started a career so this last part was really perplexing.

A knock on his door accompanied a familiar voice with an unmemorable name who oddly always dressed in white. The voice suggested that he get some sleep, and as it was near 10:30 p.m., reminded him to turn out the lights. Allie took his odd, yet thoughtful advice, but could not get to sleep.

His mind kept wandering to la misteriosa lettera (the mysterious invitation). Was his baby sister, Carol Burnett Romano, playing a joke? Maybe it was the twisted thinking of his brother, James Aurness Romano? "On the other hand, I wouldn't put it past her," he said out loud, referring to his older sister, Mary Tyler Moore Romano.

He looked at the envelope once more and noted his father's handwriting of his new address, 462 First Avenue, New York, New York, 10016. He resigned himself to the obvious, "Dad is out of his mind lately; he rarely knows where he is or what he is doing." With that settled, Alphonso Joseph D'Abruzzo Romano drifted off to sleep.

Soon after, the familiar voice with the unmemorable name walked past Allie's door, noticed that the light and the radio were still on, and quietly entered. He gently pulled the envelope from Allie's hand and couldn't help noticing that Allie's dad had not included the typical "c/o Bellevue Hospital" in the address.

The orderly turned out the light, and as he reached to silence the radio, Curtis Silwa announced, "This is 77 WABC New York, stimulating talk. Though I liked his politics more in his role as Senator Vinick on West Wing than in real life, I do want to wish a happy birthday and retirement to the star of the CBS classic show, M.A.S.H.,..."

List of Sources:

Italian Swear Words - Jessica's 8 Favorites. Why Go Italy.

The Lord's Prayer: Italian. Everything2.

Josef AlbersWhite Line Square XVII, 1966. Gemini G.E.L. Archive at the National Gallery of Art.

Bellevue Hospital Center. NYC.gov.

On Air Staff: Curtis Silwa. WABC Radio.

Alan Alda. Wikipedia.