Empire of Light (3 page)

The Fellows cheer in revelry.

“Tonight, we celebrate our god, Caravaggio!
Salute
!”

“
Salute
!” responds the entire room, raising their plastic cups into the air.

We drink.

We sit.

We chat like none of this silly bullshit every happened.

My line of sight clears as everybody settles back into the comfy couches, and I spot Dani Gruber. When did her sexy little ass arrive on the scene?

Sky notices her, too. “Drop your cocks and pick up your socks, the dreamiest dame on campus has arrived,” Skylar says as he nods in Dani’s direction, her long black hair cascading towards her perfect tits.

“Eh, if you like that type,” Pan says as he takes a sip of his Blue Cream soda.

“You’re such a beach bum, man,” says Skylar. He turns to me to explain. “Pan can’t dig on girls east of the Pacific Coast Highway.”

“Goddamn right. Blonde hair and beach volleyball abs.”

“A nice Aryan girl to take home to mother,” mocks Skylar. “You have the same taste in women as Joseph Goebbels. How’s that make you feel? In fact, with a name like
Gruber
she’s probably perfect for you.”

“Screw you, Sky. Besides, that girl is off the boat Italian.”

This grabs my attention. “How do you know?” I ask.

“We made small talk at the bar,” says Pan.

“And how did that work out for you?” I ask.

“Shot me down like a Kennedy.”

“Jason, don’t
you
parli the eye-talian?” asks Skylar.

“A little,” I respond.

“Really?” Pan asks with surprise. “How the hell does a black kid from Cleveland know Italian?”

***

I first met Jimmy Palladino when I was a kid as I stumbled into his backyard chasing my Super Ball. He was fashioning a cannon out of tennis ball cans and duct tape. I didn’t think the damn thing would work, but before I knew it the two of us were firing tennis balls into the church parking lot from the tree line. The Pastor cursed us to hell. Seriously, he cursed us to damnation. And Jimmy and me became fast friends.

Italian was the first language of Jimmy’s house, his parents being from Campobasso, Italy, and I hung out at his crib so much that I ended up picking up the language like a sponge. I was able to curse out my teachers in
la lingua volgare
and leave them with a smile on their faces.

“Morning, Jason,” my teacher would say.

“
Buon giorno, Insegnante! Chiudi quella cazzo di bocca e va' all'inferno!”

“How lovely! Go to your seat now, dear…”

Not only had I gotten away with telling my teacher to shut the hell up, but the woman actually smiled while I did it. Beautiful language.

But that all ended when Jimmy’s family moved to a neighborhood that was straight up Italian turf, and back then, the folks didn’t take kindly to the brothas wandering into the territory. I didn’t see Jim again.

That is, until years later when I snagged a job at this joint called Record Revolution. There I met this frosty cool art student named “Giacomo.” It was Jim. The guy had embraced his roots and directed his destructive talents into painting and filmmaking. When I wasn’t helping him pilfer CDs from the store inventory, I was wrangling cable for his student films at the Cleveland Institute of Art. We became fast friends, again, and I found a new passion. Thanks to Giacomo, I’m here at
the
American Film Institue, and, just maybe, I can maneuver Ms. Dani Gruber into some black mamba love after I dazzle her with my knowledge of her native tongue.

Strong work, Giacomo.

Almost all the folks from Cleveland’s Little Italy are from that small Italian town called Campobasso. I don’t know why these folks decided to adopt Cleveland, of all places, for their American dream, but not a week goes by that I don’t thank God they did, ‘cause Giacomo is my nigga.

And that’s a true story.

***

“Can you make that mocha to go?” I bark at Jimbo, the barista, after spotting Dani through the giant plate glass window standing outside The Pig all by herself.

This is my shot, but Jimbo is too busy screwing around, flirting with some skank, while the seconds tick away. Dani could be ghost at any moment.

What the hell? He left my cup sitting under the damn machine, just sitting there getting cold!

Dani’s on the corner.

My coffee’s getting cold.

“JIMBO! WILL YOU GIVE ME MY GODDAMN MOCHA?” I scream, catching the attention of everybody in the Pig. “Please.”

I snatch my mocha from him and slap a ten spot on the bar.

“Thanks, my man,” Jimbo says of his 250 percent tip.

Once outside, I try to act like I’m just casually running into her.

“Oh.
Ciao
!” I say.

I have absolutely no game, by the way. Did I mention that?

“Hi,” she responds coolly in her Italian accent.

“
Lei Italiana? È vero?”
I ask, confirming that she’s Italian.

“Yep,” she responds.

“
Brava! Sono
Jason
,”
I say, offering her my hand.

She shakes it with a sly smile, as if to say,
I know what you’re up to. Ah… No.

“Danielia,” she finally says.

“
Piacere, Danielia,”
I say a bit too enthusiastically.

“Nice to meet you, too. Bye,” she says, dismissing me and dropping my hand.

“Okay… Bye.” I begin to walk away, but curiosity is getting the better of me. “Excuse me, but did I do something wrong?”

“Wrong? I don’t even know you.”

“We go to school together.”

“Okay?”

“Okay, so how come you won’t speak Italian with me?”

“Look. I’m sorry. It’s just that my ride is late. Plus I don’t speak Italian with Americans I don’t know.”

“Really? Is that some kind of intimacy thing or something?” I ask a bit sarcastically.

She faces me for the first time, the cool night air blowing her bangs away from her eyes.

I could melt.

“Yes. Sharing Italian is absolutely intimate with me. The day I speak Italian with you is the day you taste me, the sweetness of me, in a kiss.”

“Whoa. Are you serious?”

“
Che cretino
,” she says under her breath. “No. I’m not serious. Look, people start speaking Italian to me, and I assume they are fluent. I prattle on like a jackass, and five minutes later they tell me they didn’t understand any of it. I’m just tired of the embarrassment.”

“Oh, and the
taste me
tease certainly didn’t embarrass me or anything,” I say.

“My ride’s here,” she says as a car pulls to the curb.

I bend down to see who’s in the driver’s seat.

Goddamn it.

“Hey, Maal,” I say meekly.

The asshole doesn’t even acknowledge me. Dani jumps in, shuts the door and rolls down the window.

“So are you fluent?” she asks me.

“If you drop me in Florence, I can follow directions to a toilet, sure.”

“A little advice. We Italian women don’t mind you butchering our language, as long as you do it like you got a pair of balls. Don’t speak to a girl as if you’re her child looking for validation. Who would want to screw that guy?”

“Thanks?” I say.

And with that, Maal speeds away and leaves me on the curb with a mocha in one hand and my dick in the other. I honestly can’t think of anything more depressing than this.

Okay. The genocide in Darfur is more depressing. Someday I’m going to allow myself pouting time without screwing it up by putting things in perspective.

I drag my ass home and decide to cure my rejection blues by calling a girl from home. It’s a little of the hair of the dog that bit ya, mentality. Leia, my first girlfriend.

Leia has this awesome mane of red hair, made up of these celestial curls that caress the side of her face. And her skin glows like an Earth goddess in a pre-Raphaelite painting. Her eyes are pretty damn dreamy, but not always all that inviting. There were times when I would roll up on her and she would give me this cautious sideways glance as if she knew that if it weren’t for civilized society, I’d hump her in the middle of the street.

The gal sees right through me.

We broke up a couple of years ago, more because of distance than anything else, so we’re not above the
friends with benifits
role. She’s my safety net.

“Hello?” she says, her voice like Christmas morning.

“Hey, it’s me!”

“Jason. I was just about to call you. I have some news.”

Uh oh. I know that tone. This is
not
going to be good news.

“Avi asked me to marry him,” she says calmly.

I feel my cheek beginning to stick to the face of my iPhone. I grip it tightly, as if it’s a live grenade.

“And I said, yes,” she says. “The wedding is in June!”

It explodes.

“Leia, that’s great news! How did he ask you?” I say feigning joy.

How did he ask you?

Wow. So the first grenade didn’t kill me, but instead of walking away happy, I pull the pin on a second grenade, like an asshole, and ask a stupid question like that.

“Jason, I swear it was the most romantic thing I’ve ever experienced. He had this whole drama planned out that spanned the entire day! It started with this sweet breakfast in bed.” She babbles on as I slowly disentigrate.

Instead of exploding and giving me a quick death, this grenade malfunctions and bathes me in a phosphorus spray of white fire and cooks me slowly to a crisp.

Ugh.

I could kick Avi’s ass, not so much for proposing to Leia, but for designing a proposal that lasted for twenty-four goddamn hours. As I listen to this epic proposal, I curl into the fetal position and slide between my bed and the wall.

“Say, Jason, I don’t know really how to ask this, but…I was wondering if you would be our wedding videographer?”

No. Did bitch really just ask me to shoot her wedding?

“Are you kidding? Of course I’ll do it. I was just going to volunteer.”

“Are you serious?” she asks.

“Of course I am.” I’m sincerely shocked at the words vomiting from my own mouth.

“That’s great!” she squeals.

“It’ll be my wedding present to you and Avi.”

“Deal!” she exclaims.

Okay, there’s some serious fucked up psychosis going on right here.

“Enough about me. Jason! You just shot your first project! I bet you tore the roof off of it, right?”

“Damn close,” I say with my teeth clenched into a gruesome smile.

“I’m so proud of you. You know, it’s funny. You have this year of intensive training in front of you and your first job will be
my
wedding. Isn’t that funny?”

Lady, I’d rather have a catheter jammed up my dick by a nurse with the yips than shoot your goddamn wedding.

I’ve got until June, almost an entire year to come up with an excuse to back out of this thing.

2 

How to Light Black People

SON OF A BITCH 
it’s June.

Seriously, no year should be allowed to fly by like that. No, I didn’t figure out how to back out of the wedding. Freud would say that subconsciously I want to shoot the damn thing, but why would I trust a subconscious that had me dreaming of getting a lap dance from ass-faced Anne Coulter?

“JASON!”

The director, Williams, screams my name, snapping me out of my reverie and back to the set.

“What’s up?” I say with a mouth full of Pollo Loco.

“You’ve just been promoted to first chair. You have to DP this scene,” he demands.

“Me? Where the hell is Graham?”

“Graham screwed up and rented the production van in his name. Graham had to leave set to pick up the van. Graham is a moron. I’m not waiting for him. You’re my Director of Photography for this last set up.”

“Cool!”

I screwed up all of my projects this year, too intimidated to make my own mistakes. Instead of me being the sole cinematographer and dictating what I wanted, I allowed my sets to become democracies. Everybody had a goddamn opinion. Way too many cooks in the kitchen is the receipe for dishes that taste like balmy ass. My photography was a mess.