Damian lost his cherry at the tender age of thirteen- and ‘lost’ is putting it delicately.
More appropriately, it was ripped from him by Tommy Patrianni’s older sister Nucci, the night she gave him a ride home from the college campus where he had been setting baseball bat precedent for prompt payment- making mincemeat out of a local football hero- who owed him money for the Civic’s paper that had made possible his retaining a starting position on the team.
In the months that followed, Nucci made herself available to Damian at his every convenience. Despite his having little interest in her in the upright position, she was a soft touch when it came to copping a couple a bucks on a regular basis, and she did have a car she’d let him borrow if he timed the asking just right, so he strung her along like the hungry little puppy she had fast proven herself to be.
Saturday mornings, Nucci opened the dry cleaners where she worked, alone. So Damian took to waiting for her at the back door. She’d start up the machines, and put the coffee on. He’d bend her over the folding table, and walk away with the keys to her car.
One Saturday afternoon as Damian was dropping the car back by the dry cleaners, Nucci happened to be taking in four suits to be cleaned and pressed. All tailor made. All the finest Italian silk. The kind of suits only a guy that was ‘somebody’ could ever hope to wear.
The thought that he should be able to wear such a suit to his upcoming Confirmation occurred to him, and just as quickly, he decided it would be so. That same afternoon Damian broke it off with Nucci.
By the end of the week, she was begging for it. She’d do anything. Anything he asked.
So he asked.
The following Saturday, he was back in Nucci’s car, driving to his families tailor with a $5000.00 charcoal gray, two button, notched lapel Stefano Ricci.
The day of his confirmation, when Damian entered the church dressed like a Don in his precision cut Italian silk, it mattered little that Nucci had been sent off to Boston in disgrace following her being fired from the dry cleaners. Nor did it matter that half the neighborhood was silently aghast that he should enter into the Holy Sacrament of Confirmation in the same Italian silk suit Nucci had been accused of stealing.
In fact, nothing could have been further from his mind. That is until his grandma Abruzzi put her arm around him in the vestibule of the church and whispered, “Peccatorino, la notte dorme la sola.” – My little sinner, the night sleeps alone.
For weeks, as Damian lie awake in bed, he heard Grandma Abruzzi’s words being whispered into his ear. And although his grandmother Abruzzi would die many years before Damian would ever really feel the weight of her words, pondering them did bring him to a life altering conclusion.
A real man should never find it necessary to shit where he lives.
This piece, which includes Misky’s twiglet #149, ‘the night sleeps’ is a follow up to Las Donnas Fatales. The serial, should it continue will be available by following the Las Donnas Fatales category header.