Piñata Belly

By Joe Novara

Harry, a retired African American high school history teacher turned D.C. tour guide, decides to explore guiding opportunities in Guatemala. On an outing to Mayan ruins, the life-long bachelor with a rapport with teens, connects with Bryn and through her, with her ex-pat grandmother, Cobi. Surprised by love, so late in life, in a cultural s

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gypsy Shadow Publishing
• Release date: Aug 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781619506473

Joe Novara

A former corporate trainer and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, anthologies and articles. Nine of his young adult novels and stories are accessible through http://www.storyshares.org/users/view. He maintains a web/blog: Writing for Homeschooled Boys on his Wordpress blog that includes his publication list. Another blog, Free Floating Stories+ posts a short story every week. A novel, Come Saturday...Come Sunday and a novella, I'm Here, are available through Amazon by searching for Joe Novara.

Book preview

Contents

Copyright Page

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

About the Author

Piñata Belly

by

Joe Novara

All rights reserved

Copyright © February 20, 2021, Joe Novara

Cover Art Copyright © 2021, Charlotte Holley

Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

Lockhart, TX

www.gypsyshadow.com

Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.

No part of this book may be reproduced or shared by any electronic or mechanical means, including but not limited to printing, file sharing, and email, without prior written permission from Gypsy Shadow Publishing, LLC.

ISBN: 978-1-61950-647-3

Published in the United States of America

First eBook Edition: April 6, 2021

Chapter 1 Harry

It was 4:30 am, Flores, Guatemala, and I was bouncing in a suspension sprung bus with a dozen other tourists on our way to Tikal and the ancient Mayan ruins located there. So far so good, except for the man seated behind me who was talking a couple decibels louder than necessary to Kerstin, his female seatmate. He was carrying on in that droning, aggressively all-knowing, professorial tone of a lecture hall warrior. I should know. I used to be one. And to my surprise Kerstin, the social worker from Minnesota, whom I had just met in the hotel lobby while waiting for our bus, seemed to be encouraging him with softball questions. That didn’t seem right. She had seemed smart, her Nordic, open face alert and perceptive while the rest of us huddled under blinking blue fluorescent lights trying to suck color, if not life, into our sleep drawn cheeks. I wondered why she was either flirting or being polite with this obviously obnoxious guy?

I kept wanting to doze off as we hurtled over pock-marked roads in a tunnel of darkness, but the megaphone behind me seemed to be directed at my right ear. I was just about to lambaste his pontificating on everything and anything Guatemalan in a constant data dump that violated every principle of gauging audience interest and patience. I mean, you learn that being a teacher, a coach and a guide. Guide. I suddenly realized he was a brother in the fellowship of tour guides and Kerstin had engaged his services. I sighed. Professional courtesy prevailed. You never disrupt another guide’s gig.

Actually, I hadn’t always been a guide. I had taught American History in high school until I retired. And I predictably chaperoned yearly senior trips to either our nation’s capital or Civil War battle sites. If you think about it, historical tour guides and history teachers have a lot in common. When you’ve taught in a classroom long enough, you can practically run any given day’s lesson on auto pilot: the Constitutional Convention, the battle of Mobile Bay, Gettysburg and Appomattox. Professional tour guides have their spiels as well, including site-related jokes and quips to keep their clients smiling. So, not surprisingly, while teaching, I looked forward to retirement and becoming a guide myself. Which is what I did… have done for the past dozen years. I have my specialties and favorite tours around D.C. But lately, as I span my early seventies, I’ve been plagued by a restlessness to explore new venues, to guide in new places, like Central America.

Which brings me to the pre-dawn bus ride. I had to chuckle to myself. Have you ever heard of a bus driver taking a bus ride for his vacation—the proverbial busman’s holiday? That was me—a tour guide on a guided tour. On this trip however, I was doing background research, scoping local talent for patter and style while sizing up the competition in case I decided to join their ranks.

Slowly, slowly as morning sun crept into our bus, I was able to make out a woman my age across the aisle and a girl, probably her granddaughter, sleeping against her shoulder. I noticed an iPad in the aisle under the girl’s dangling hand. I reached down and gently placed the screen in her lap. Gramma made squeezed-eye contact. A striking woman, perhaps in her later sixties, she sported outdoorsy clothes and her trim, no-fuss, silver-helmet hair suggested an active lifestyle. Everything but a retractable walking stick… probably had one in her backpack. I took the girl for a junior, maybe a senior. She was tall, taller than her grandmother, reminding me of so many of the kids I had taught, counseled, or coached… volleyball. I was the girls’ volleyball coach. All of us teachers had extra-curricular commitments. I didn’t mind. I had played setter in college.

Gramma offered a winced smile wrapped in a thanks, but that’s close enough mister look. You get that a lot when you’re black. Down here, in these south-of-the border countries, I found myself blending in a lot better with the dusky-skinned population than up North. Can’t say I’ve missed getting a reminder of my place, Gramma.

Here’s the thing. I’ve always liked working with teenagers. Not everyone does. They are so unformed. Searching so hard for self, for acceptance, for a place of comfort and support outside of their families. And they have such great radar. They can tell immediately if you like them… get them. You can’t fake it. I got them and they knew it. Trouble is, with all the news about priests and coaches and Boy Scouts these days, people might wonder if you’re weird or dangerous. Okay, I’m an only child. I never married or had children of my own. And, yeah, I rely on my roles as teacher and tour guide to give me context and access to kids. But I’m okay, normal… whatever. I just plain like teens and enjoy helping them mature. So, don’t worry, Gramma… I’m not going to offer your granddaughter candy.

At the ruins, a site-escort, Miguel, took over our group and preempted Kerstin’s guy. Being kind of stocky myself, I can’t look down on many guys, but I could look down on Miguel. Bandy-legged, twitchy and restless, we teachers could spot a Miguel the first five minutes of the first day of class. You’re sure they skipped their Ritalin that day as they tic and wriggle as fast as they talk. And in Miguel’s case,