Cosmo's Tale

By Bennett Cole

"I'm gonna die," screams Cosmo, a failed Navy parachute streaming behind him as his body hurtles earthward. Yet he survives. How? Was his unlikely birth in an Italian farmer's field in 1922 an omen of the untoward circumstances that would later characterize his life? Ministered to in the critical moments of his life by a mysterious "spooky" lady, Cosmo stumbles through countless storms of life: forced to fight with the Italian Army in WW II against his fellow Americans, gut-wrenching failed romances, a daring escape from a Guatemalan jail, and more. In spite of it all, Cosmo experiences a meteoric rise through the ranks of corporate management. Later, as a widower in his eighties and living on a coastal island, he miraculously survives a storm-of-the-century hurricane, and his spooky lady makes an incredibly peculiar final appearance.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781611600810

Book preview

Chapter 1

I trekked through the muck and mire, slowly making my way toward the high front porch. I stopped momentarily and stared at the near-total wreck of a house—windows blown out, wood siding peeled off, debris everywhere. A large portion of one side of the house was nowhere to be seen.

The thin, gaunt figure of the old man seated on a porch rocker moved to-and-fro, to-and-fro, seemingly oblivious to my approach.

Mr. Frabizzio? I inquired as I neared the top step.

No answer.

Mr. Frabizzio? I repeated.

The old man slowly turned his head, his bleary eyes blinking as he mechanically intoned in a hoarse whisper, People hereabouts call me Cosmo. That’s my name—Cosmo.

"Glad to meet you, sir—I mean Cosmo. I’m John McCracken of the Coast Times newspaper. I’m wondering if you might consent to an interview?"

Maybe, maybe not. All depends. If it’s about my philosophy of life and stuff like ’at, forget it—I’m tired of making up silly answers for that question. Life’s a crapshoot—you just take what the good Lord gives you and make the best of it. Go ahead, son, have a seat.

I obliged.

With a quick glance I took in the old man’s appearance: a leathery, corrugated, bronzed face; a skinny, toasty-tan body, with stringy muscles that once may have rippled, clad only in khaki shorts and red tennis shoes. The look of a beach-comber at the end of a long summer season. But red tennis shoes?

"Mr. Frabizzio—uh, Cosmo—I’m a graduate student at Coastal State over on the mainland but I’m doing an internship with the Times. I’m majoring in Communications and so..."

Wait just a doggone minute, son. The old man’s voice gained strength as he drawled his interruption. You’ve done spiked my curiosity, he continued. Is that what they used to call Journalism?

Uh, yeah, I guess so, I mumbled uncertainly.

Well, the old man continued, why the devil did they change the name? Oh, never mind. I guess it’s like just about everything else today: garbage collectors became sanitation workers, waiters and waitresses became servers, etc. You know—change to make things sound more important than they really are, gender neutrality, political correctness, and all that baloney. He shook his head back and forth despondently. What a screwed-up society we’ve become! Does anyone really believe you can change the true nature of something just by inventing a more glamorous name for it? You know—‘A rose by any other name smells the same.’ I forget who said that.

If you want to hear about change, he went on, you’ve come to the right place. I could go on forever about that. I heard a good one just the other day. Some guy said that in primitive times, men used to beat the ground with sticks and they called it witchcraft but today they call it golf. Ain’t that a hoot? Another thing that’s changed a lot in my lifetime is meanness. People are so much meaner today than they used to be—I mean they’re more ‘right in your face’ mean when it’s uncalled for. I was watching some celebrity on television who was about to board a plane to go overseas, and when the reporter asked him why he always took his wife with him on his trips, he replied, ‘Because she’s too ugly to kiss goodbye.’ And she was standing right there beside him! Can you believe that? I later read someplace that they’ve gotten divorced. Small wonder! I’ll have to admit, though, sometimes the mean things turn out to be pretty funny. This one goes back a ways, so I guess I’m going to disprove my theory about uncalled-for meanness being a modern invention. Seems like Winston Churchill and Lady Astor were seated next to each other on some occasion. Lady Astor took offense at something Churchill said, so she said, ‘If you were my husband, I’d give you poison,’ to which he quickly replied, ‘If you were my wife, I’d drink it.’ Pretty funny, I’d say.

Okay, Cosmo continued, let’s get down to business now. What’d you want to interview me for anyway?

I paused briefly to consider whether I should comment on any of the old man’s opinions and jokes. Best to ignore them, just keep talking.

My editor wants me to do a story on you—about you being the only person who chose to remain on the island during the hurricane.

The old man’s eyes suddenly came to life, his previously vacant stare now gone.

Chose? he snapped. I got left on the island, man! Who told you I chose to stay?"

My editor. He said you were one of that hardy breed of locals who would rather die than abandon their property. His very words.

An incredulous look crossed the old man’s face. Now, look here, young fellow. You’ve got to get the facts straight. First of all, I ain’t exactly local, see? I’ve only lived here a few years. I come from other parts. And, oh yes, I know, I ain’t supposed to say ‘ain’t’ but I just like that word, don’t you? Never mind, son, that was a rhetorical question. You know that word ‘rhetorical,’ don’t you? S’funny—some people are surprised when I exhibit a little learning every now and then. Shucks, I was once even accused of having some culture about me. Now ain’t that a laugh? Ain’t it? He reached across the space that separated us, slapped me on my thigh, and simultaneously emitted a wheezy laugh.

I’m sure I must have looked perplexed. I’ve encountered mental zig-zaggers before but... And who would dare slap a stranger on the thigh? He’s likeable enough, but...

Cosmo, I finally managed to utter, somehow your southern drawl and your name, Frabizzio, don’t seem to match up too well.

Oh, that, he said. Lots of people are curious about my last name. Just bear in mind, son, that my last name ain’t my fault, he quipped. My folks came from Italy, see? I learned to speak Italian at home and I spent some time in Italy—that’s another story—but I was raised here in the deep south so I guess I’ll just keep on drawling ’til the day I meet my Maker. But, hey, boy, didn’t you come here to ask me about my hurricane experience?

Right, I replied. How did you manage to get left on the island?

Wait just a minute, young fellow. First things first: Didn’t you say you wanted my permission to be interviewed? Well, you’ve got it. You want me to sign some kind of release document or anything, like the TV and radio folks did?

TV and radio?

Yeah. They beat you to it—already been here and done a story on me. Got it all screwed up, they did. I heard it on my little portable radio. That little radio may be all that saved my hide during the storm. And those TV and radio folks are probably the source of your editor’s misinformation about me choosing to stay here.

The old man stopped rocking, leaned back, pulled a huge cigar and a lighter out of a little box on a nearby table, lit the cigar, and blew out a voluminous plume of smoke.

Well, it’s like this, he began. I don’t have a car nowadays; they took my license away, so my buddy Ralph who lives down on the next corner—well, he doesn’t live there anymore ’cause his house is gone—he had to go to the mainland to check on some relatives. He promised to return to pick me up, but when he tried to, they had already closed the bridge. He called me to tell me what’d happened and to urge me to hunker down real good ’cause the hurricane was expected to make a direct hit right here about suppertime.

So Ralph kind of ran out on you?

Oh, no. I can’t blame Ralph none. He had to check on his family—they’re elderly and he was worried about them. He did the right thing. And it wasn’t his fault about the bridge being closed. No, I don’t hold it against Ralph none.

Yeah, I see your point. What did you do then?

The old man resumed his rocking and took another big puff on his cigar. "Wasn’t much I could do right then but wait. Now, it was right after his call when the phone and TV lines went down and all I had was my little portable radio. When I turned it on, they said I was the only person known to be left on the island and that I was trapped. I don’t know how they found that out, but it don’t matter none. But it sure didn’t make me feel none too good, believe you me! Then, I thought, ‘Cool it kid, you’ve been through worse than this, much worse.’ But as it turned out, I might’ve been wrong about that, as you can plainly see from all the destruction. You know, I hadn’t thought about it until now, but I wonder why they didn’t send a helicopter for me? I guess the rescue helicopters were all too busy with other people, but hey, that would’ve been fun, wouldn’t it? Am I rambling too much for you? Some people say I ramble too much."

No, that’s okay, I assured him. "So tell me, Cosmo, how did you survive?"

"Mostly by the grace of God, I’d say. Do you believe in God, the God of the Bible?

Oh, never mind. We can talk about that later if you want to. Now, the storm, it came ashore that night, and the radio reported that it was spawning tornadoes. ‘Oh, crap’, I thought, ‘I sure don’t need any of them.’ So, just to be safe, I decided to move to the ground floor, which is actually a kind of basement on account of it being sort of half-sunk into the ground. There’s an old bed and mattress there, so I shoved it over under the stairs, got under it with the mattress on top of me, locked my arms around some pipes, and held on for dear life.

I was taking notes furiously. Can you slow down a bit? I can’t write that fast.

Sure, the old man said. Hey, you know something, boy? You need to use a tape recorder. Wouldn’t that work better?

Yes, in fact it would, but I don’t normally use one because it makes some people a little nervous. They kind of get stage fright or something. Now, another question: How high were the winds?

You ready for this? The winds reached well over a hundred and twenty miles per hour, they did. Sounded like it was tearing the hell out of everything. I came up here to the porch and took a peep with my flashlight—it was getting dark—during the lull when the eye passed over. Then back down to the basement, and when the winds came again I resumed my former position. Next, one side of the house collapsed. Blam! Boy howdy, part of the roof and the upstairs crashed all the way down to the basement! Man, that scared the bejeebers out of me.

Boy howdy? I asked. What’s that mean?

Oh, that’s just an exclamation we use in some parts of the south. You must not be from these parts.

No, I’m not, in fact, I said. That’s a new one on me, but go on. What happened next?

More of the same—wind howling and gusting just as fast as before, only from the other direction. I just buried my head and held on. Never did fall asleep that night, of course. Radio said all coastal residents should be prepared for serious flooding when the winds subsided, which should be about daybreak. They were danged right.

Bad, huh? I asked.

You’d better believe it. Water coming in everywhere, so I retreated up one level—those stairs hadn’t collapsed—came out here on the porch again, took a look, and that road right there in front of the house was already flooded and flowing like a river from left to right, and still rising. Why, I expect it was already three or four feet deep.

Were you still listening to the radio reports?

Sure was. They said the bridge between here and the mainland was already under about five feet of water and no sign of it cresting yet. Also said it looked like the whole island would be covered with water if the rain continued. See, I forgot to tell you it was still pouring down so hard I couldn’t hardly see even ’cross the road. Kind of reminded me of a bad storm that I was in when I was in Italy during the War—the big one.

You mean WW II? You were in that war? Didn’t it make you feel funny to be fighting against Italians, you being of Italian descent?

Hold on there! Did I say I was in the U. S. military? No, I didn’t. I was serving in the Italian army.

What? I exclaimed. I don’t get it.

The old man looked at his cigar, which had gone out, and relit it. Oh, it’s a long story. Right now, let’s just focus on the storm. That’s what you came for, ain’t it? Now where was I? Oh, yeah—raining cats and dogs, and flood waters rising rapidly, so...

I guess you were beginning to think you were a goner, I interjected.

Almost, but not quite. I figured I could float with the house or the wreckage if it came to that. The only question I had was where would I float to? The open sea?

So what’d you do?

Well, I sat right here—it was getting daylight—and watched the water just barely reach the porch level, and then decided to head for the attic. When I got to what was left of it, however, I didn’t like being so closed in and unable to see, so I squeezed through my little attic window with my radio—good thing I’m nothing much but skin and bones these days—and out onto the roof or what remained of it. From there I had a bird’s eye view of it all, and it was not a pretty sight, no sir, not at all.

Why? I urged. What did you see?

"Well, at first I noticed that everything was flattened like a pancake. My house was about the only thing still standing—well, part of it was still standing, at least. Then stuff started floating by. At first, small pieces of houses, some furniture, sheds, beach umbrellas, a few unoccupied boats, a dune buggy or two. Then came some chickens, dogs, cats—still alive and struggling to keep their heads above water. Poor things—no way they could’ve survived. Then I saw a refrigerator come floating around the corner of the house, and when I took a second look I said, ‘Hey, that’s my fridge!’ Now how do you suppose the water managed to disconnect it and then suck it outside and around the house? It just floated on downstream and out of sight. I remember saying right out loud, ‘Well, there go my TV dinners.’ It’s crazy the way a person can think of stupid things at a time like that, ain’t it? By the way, speaking of eating, son, have you heard the one about the two cannibals eating a clown? One looked at the other and said, ‘Does this taste funny to you?’ Get it? ‘Does this taste...’ oh, well. Enough of that. Got enough for your story yet?"

Plenty. Anything else you want to add?

Well, yes, there was one more thing came floating by. But I’m not sure I should tell you about that.

Try me, I said.

The old man looked at his cigar, which had gone out again. Durn cheap cigar, he said, then tossed it off the porch into the mud, took a deep breath, and released it. Well, it’s like this: I saw this woman, an old woman—kind of an old hag-like woman. I thought it strange in view of the report that I was supposed to be the only one left here. And to beat it all, she was sitting on top of—are you ready for this?—a casket! But like I say, you might not want to include that. Your editor or the public will think one of us is a certified looney.

Uh...I’ll put it down and decide later. Is this old geezer putting me on or what?

You do that—it’s your call. Now what did you say your name was?

John.

Right. John. Now I remember.

Cosmo, I said, I’m wondering if, after I wrap up my story, you’d let me come back to visit you some more. See, I have ambitions about being a writer—a novelist or biographer—some day. You’d make a real interesting subject for me. You dropped a few intriguing hints: Belief in God, your alluding to having been through worse things, being in the Italian army during WW II, and how you’ve seen society change in your lifetime. Not only that, I enjoy talking to older people. I learn so much from them.

Oh, sure, I think we could work that out. I’m a veritable font of wisdom, a kind of modern Oracle of Delphi, don’tcha know. The old man laughed his wheezy old laugh again and slapped his thigh. You know about that Oracle, don’t you?

No, I don’t think I do.

Hmmm, yeah, you’d better come back, the old man said. I see we’ve got some work to do. Just call me so’s I can put it down on my calendar. I have so many pressing appointments—social and business—don’tcha know. He snickered.

I stood up. "Thanks ever so much, Cosmo. I’ll call soon as your phone service is restored. Better, you call me. Here’s my card. You know something? You need a cell phone in case something like this hurricane happens again."

I descended the steps, heading toward my car parked in the muddy lane that had once been a street. I looked back and waved.

And, Cosmo shouted after me, bring a tape recorder next time. It won’t make me nervous none!

Chapter 2

You got that recorder running already, have you? Say, I appreciate that cell phone you brought me. Now I just have to learn how to use it. Just read the manual, you say? I reckon I can do that.

My buddy Ralph, now he’s quite a card. He said he wanted a cell phone to clip on his belt because they’ve become such a status symbol, but he couldn’t afford one. So what does he do? He put his garage door opener in a little leather case and strapped it on his belt, and now he feels like he’s come up in the world. Ain’t that a riot?

Hey, speaking of electronic gadgetry, I was listening to the news on my little portable radio last night. They were having a panel discussion on current political issues, unemployment, etc., when one of them said, What we need in this country is more unemployed politicians. Thought that was pretty clever, I did. Then another of the panelists said, Take Senator Smith, for instance. He’s an idiot and a member of Congress, but, wait, I’m repeating myself, am I not? I got a laugh out of that one, I did.

You know, I was thinking last night, what if I tell you something that turns out to be a little slanderous through my carelessness with details or bad memory? Can I be held accountable or not? Oh, what am I thinking? By the time you do all that writing, I’ll most likely be talking from the grave, so to speak, so no one can sue me, can they? Now that thought makes me feel a little better—kind of frees me up, don’tcha know? How’s that? Oh, you’ll be the responsible party. Fine and dandy!

Okay, let’s get started. You want to sit out here on the porch like we did last time? The weather’s real nice today. How long’s it been since your first visit? Two weeks? That long? So your article on me turned out all right and your editor was pleased. No, I didn’t get to read it—the newspaper service hasn’t resumed yet. Oh? So you brought me a copy? Hold on a few minutes while I peruse your article. Hmmm, yeah, I see. That’s good what you said there. Hmmm, you got that