Timepieces

By John Lacognata and James Classi

On a July afternoon, Danny Fisher, Tripper Harrison, and Vincent Sarenzo, gather for a summer barbecue celebrating Tripps first real venture back into the world following heart surgery. Near evenings end, a call from San Diego shatters the festivities. The wife of their closest friend, Henry Pratt, informs them that Henry has been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and is refusing the treatments needed to possibly save his life.

The friends rent a Mercedes convertible and drive from New York to California to confront their friend. The road trip takes them deep into a Kentucky forest where Bigfoot sightings are abundant, to Gilleys in Texas for some hard-hat days and one honky-tonk night, and under the Nevada nighttime sky where no one knows whats flying overhead.

For a humorous, yet bittersweet, story of true friendship and personal growth, get in the car with Danny, Tripper, and Vinbefore the clock stops ticking.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781546214557

John Lacognata

John Lacognata is a graduate of the New York Institute of Technology with a Bachelor’s degree in Communications. He is the writer and director of the independent film, The Art of Spooning. Timepieces is his first novel. He lives on Long Island, New York, with his wife, daughter and dog.  James Classi is the author of both Nine Lives, a collection of short stories, and the novel, Heatseeker (also published in paperback under the title, The Last Prizefighter). Timepieces is his first collaboration. Classi, like his co-author friend of nearly forty years, also lives on Long Island, but with his own wife, sons and dogs.

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© 2017 JOHN LACOGNATA and JAMES CLASSI. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 10/27/2017

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1456-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1454-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5462-1455-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017916422

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments

Prologue

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

Epilogue

In our lives, we never had any better friends than the ones we had in high school.

This book is dedicated to David Abrahamson, Brian Adams, Vito Camarda, Thomas Fierro, Alan Henderson, Bob Leto, and Brian Miller. Even though we no longer see each other every day, you are thought of often and will always have a place in our hearts.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

John Lacognata

I’d like to acknowledge my wife, Anita, for supporting me through the creation of both a novel and an independent film; without her, neither one would have been possible. My daughter, Tara, for making me so proud of the beautiful young woman that she has become. I hope all of her dreams come true. My mother, Theresa, for her loving support. Even though she has never fried a chicken cutlet in her lifetime, she still has the flame-red hair. My father, Sal, for remaining as my true inspiration even after his passing in 2004. He was actually offered baseball contracts with the Giants, Dodgers, and Yankees in the 1950s, but instead joined the Navy. My co-author, Jimmy, for beginning our two-year odyssey by saying: We should write something together. I thank him for inviting me into his creative world. After almost forty years of friendship, he is the brother that I am lucky enough to have. It could not have been more fun to work together and, if possible, become even closer friends. And, finally, to all those who have ever shown me how to be a friend; right, wrong, or indifferent. Our encounters over the course of a lifetime helped to shape the characters and stories in this book.

James Classi

I’d like to acknowledge my wife Laura Savino-Classi for looking out for me, loving me, and, of course, for editing this book; my parents, Thomas and Michaelyn, for their constant love and support; Glenn Ohlsen for suggesting that a Bigfoot sighting may work well within the confines of this story; and, of course, John Lacognata for being the best friend anyone could wish for…I raise a glass of Pappy to him.

PROLOGUE

T hrough the dim lighting and the love only friends could feel, the music filled the room.

The thunderous, rolling drums from the DJ’s sound system rushed out around the multi-colored balloons and hanging streamers that had been spread throughout the rental hall earlier in the day. The aged structure had a small, wooden parquet dance floor and was equipped with half a dozen cafeteria-style tables. There was a small kitchen and an even smaller bathroom.

This was suburbia in the northeast region of the United States and these were blue-collar students. All of their money was earned working full-time jobs while attending college. They didn’t use their savings on drugs. Marijuana just wasn’t their thing. They used it to have a good time.

Tonight, the cash for this party was donated by the evening’s host and self-proclaimed Party King, Danny Fisher; a fact proven by the paper replica of a red velvet Victorian crown that graced his enormous head like a golden doughnut resting on top of a jack o’lantern.

Fisher stood smiling under the huge black and white 1986 banner in the center of the room, amongst the seventy-plus guests, with both arms above his head. The Bermuda-blue designer shirt that had been neatly tucked into his pants earlier was now running down the front of his body like a frozen waterfall.

The fancy sport coat he’d began the evening in was long gone and wouldn’t be found and returned until almost two days later by a couple of neighborhood kids searching the bushes for treasure behind the old building. Dried vomit was pinstriped up the back of the jacket like a car’s skid mark. When asked how that could have happened, the most Danny would ever disclose was, the story was better left untold.

Fisher dropped his arms like twin guillotines, marking the song’s end. He twirled around on wobbly legs without a care in the world, his eyes slowly scanning the crowd. The smell of alcohol in the room was abundant. What seemed like an endless throng of friends shuffled around him. Magic Power by Triumph pushed out of the speakers. The song started slowly but quickly gained momentum. Frankie Leto high-fived Fisher while walking past.

Girls wiggled out of their shoes and gyrated barefoot in dresses and short skirts around the dance floor, young and wild and free. Some of the women thrust their bodies in ways that would make a grown man blush. In just about a year, John Fogerty would coin the term perfectly: Rock and Roll Girls.

Danny finally located him, the one he’d been searching for.

Tripper Harrison was near the bathroom door talking to Bobby Bernhard, Brian Dunn, and a couple of females he didn’t recognize. Fisher caught his friend’s eye, pointed to his wrist and tapped rapidly. Tripper looked at the wall clock from where he stood.

Five minutes to twelve.

He smiled and gave a thumbs up sign to Danny, who returned the gesture while he spun quickly around and disappeared back into the crowd like smoke on the wind. Harrison, who had been drinking a bottle of Budweiser, rested the half-finished beverage on the table closest to him and excused himself from the small gathering. It was now his turn to search.

In front of the building just outside the entrance, Tripper unearthed Henry Pratt making out with his party date, Dorothy Silverstein. Pratt’s fingers were tangled in the pile of brown hair that sat on top of her head. Earlier that day, Henry, who was affectionately known to his friends as Hank and sometimes Frankenstein or The Monster, called Fisher to tell him he couldn’t make the party. He must’ve contracted something during the Christmas break leaving him bedridden for days. He was weak, five pounds lighter and spending this New Year’s in bed. Yet, under the faint bulb, which showcased the Hall for Rent sign, Henry stood in the ten degree December night. So, while this wasn’t the miracle of the 1980 Olympic hockey team, it was pretty close.

Hey guys, Tripper said to both Henry and Dorothy before turning his full attention on Pratt. Listen, Hank, I’m sorry to break this up, but it’s almost midnight.

At first, he didn’t think his friend heard him, and then Henry leaned back, untangled his hands from Dorothy’s hair and kissed her gently on the forehead. Gotta run, beautiful, but I’ll be back. He looked over at Harrison and winked before looking Dorothy in the eyes, Come inside, darlin’, or you’ll miss the show.

Miss the what? Henry, where you going? Dorothy said, her voice a pleading whine. What show are you talking about?

Oh, don’t you worry about that. He smiled like the cat that ate the canary. In three minutes, you’re gonna find out.

Henry looked at Harrison with a marked urgency and still smiling said, Let’s go, buddy boy.

The two friends ran inside the building like an offshoot of Batman and Robin, but this dynamic duo was full of secrets and mischief. Dorothy, lipstick smeared from her lips, clicked quickly behind them in black, stiletto boots, first on stone and then on wood. She followed in quick, curious, nearly-tiptoed steps. All three cycled the crowd back past where Bobby, Brian, and friends were standing just a few moments earlier.

The two friends pushed open a door that seemed to be waiting for them, inviting them inside. They entered the tiny bathroom leaving Dorothy teetering outside in her boots with nothing more than a puzzled expression. The room was empty and, for their purposes, this was good. Harrison closed the door and made sure the access was completely sealed. He scanned the room a final time before engaging the small lock.

Outside, the current song was ending and they could still hear the somewhat muffled music through the walls. The singer crooned about having the magic power of the music in him and that it was never gonna stop.

We haven’t much time, Hank, Tripper said to his friend. We gotta hurry.

Pratt quickly removed his cowboy boots before tugging off his jeans. The boots were an anomaly. There was no reason for a guy who was born and raised on Long Island to consistently wear cowboy boots as part of his daily ensemble. There was just no significance. It was not a fashion statement. It was simply Hank.

Harrison opened the door to a small supply closet that was embedded in the bathroom. He grabbed the box that had been hidden there earlier: A Baby New Year Costume. In truth, this was marketing brilliance. The costume was really a large piece of white cotton towel simulating a diaper and a satin sash. Seventy-five cents worth of material cleverly packaged for $19.99. For Tripper, he would’ve easily paid $100. This was going to be a classic moment. The two friends were so drunk they could barely stand but, through several stumbles, somehow managed to get the huge diaper on Henry and the New Year banner across his nearly hairless chest.

Through the door, they heard Magic Power ending, as Fisher yelled into the wired microphone.

Ladies and gentleman, in just twenty seconds, we are going to start counting down the New Year! Please join me and let’s bring this bastard home! He pointed to a large carton. Everybody grab a blower, or whatever you call these things, from the DJ stand. He held up the small horn for all to see. Oh, yeah, and when the clock strikes midnight, check out the bathroom door. Now pointing toward the back of the room. We have a little surprise for you.

A few people looked back anticipating what Fisher had up his sleeve, what the term little surprise might mean.

Come on, guys, Danny yelled into the microphone, fifteen seconds! Grab your noisemakers!

The carton with the small plastic items was passed around and the crowd had no trouble grabbing at the noisemakers with greedy hands. Vinny Sarenzo, or Sarzo as they called him, sat in the back of the room and was actually writing part of a report that was due when college classes started again in a few weeks. Upon hearing Danny’s words, Vinny attempted to rise from his chair and fell from his seat, dropped to his knees and started puking. Yeah, now we have a party, he thought.

In the bathroom, Henry was basically naked with the exception of the white baby diaper, cowboy boots, a small paper hat, and a New Year’s banner that fit tightly across his chest.

Physically, Henry Pratt was an enigma. He was a gifted athlete who had lettered in both baseball and football during high school. He also worked out religiously with free weights and hit the heavy bag with a force that rattled the bones of his parents’ house from the garage to the upstairs bedrooms. All of this somehow enabled him to eat anything he wanted without gaining an ounce. He was muscular, lean, and always first at the dinner table for whatever Mama Pratt was serving. You could take all your fancy chefs and your froo-froo food. You can train at Le Cordon Bleu in Chicago or somewhere in Europe. It didn’t matter. Nothing on this planet was better than whatever Mama was making that night. In some strange and ironic way, all of that training and all that food perfectly prepared his body for the diaper he was now wearing.

Tripper was bent over laughing at the sight of his friend. Outside the door, they heard Fisher’s amplified voice, now with more clarity, leading the crowd.

Ten…nine…eight… A few people were already blowing their little horns and cheering.

Tripper unlocked the bathroom door and grabbed the knob. He caught his reflection in the mirror. What they hell are we doing? He ran a nervous hand through his hair. In just three years, he would start to see his first grays but, right now, all was right with the world.

Seven…six…five…four…

He looked at Henry who had a huge sweaty smile tattooed across his face.

Are you ready for this? There must be seventy-five people out there.

Ready as I’m ever gonna be, Pratt said, looking his friend in the eyes before adding, no retreat, no surrender, buddy.

Tripper, through a huge smile, repeated the four words. No retreat, no surrender.

Three…two…one!

Danny screamed, Happy New Year! as the crowd roared. Simultaneously, Henry Pratt kicked open the bathroom door with a single cowboy-booted foot.

Multiple horns sounded off and the masses burst into cheers. Red, gold, and blue paper streamers were being thrown around the room like rolls of Halloween toilet-paper bombs. Most of the people were blowing their noisemakers, red-faced with serious intent. Balloons were floating above the crowd like beach balls at a rock concert.

There was a major party going on here.

Fisher, who was standing in front of the table that housed the sound system, pointed over to the bathroom. Oh my God! he screamed into the microphone, the extended cord tangled around his legs. Look! It can’t be…but yes…it is! Look, everybody! It’s Baby New Year!

Heads turned toward the disturbance at the hall’s rear, and it wasn’t long before the whole place was looking in that direction. In Danny’s estimation, he would have sworn he saw the backs of about two hundred heads. He dropped the microphone on the floor and bent over laughing, a huge bellowing sound, his outstretched finger still directed at the back of the building.

Pratt and Harrison were next to each other, framed by the bathroom door and backlit by the room’s soft light. They pushed their way into the gathering. Balloons and streamers seemed to spiral downward in slow motion above them. Tripper had his right arm around Henry’s waist almost guiding him into the crowd that was now closer to the two as they emerged from the doorway.

Camera bulbs popped and flashed as Tripper raised his left arm, posing. Henry’s face was all smiles; the guy was basically on stage naked, wearing only a diaper for all to see. People were cheering and clapping as the two moved into the pack. When they were far enough away from the sanctuary of the bathroom, Harrison let go of his friend and gave him up to his adoring fans. Auld Lang Syne eased out of the speaker system slow and steady.

Everybody seemed to want to touch Henry or at least hit him on his back. Dorothy’s hands were on her cheeks that were now a deep shade of crimson; she stood pigeon-toed in her black boots with her mouth locked in a giant O. Even Vinny Sarenzo, who was still on his knees dry heaving, clapped from that position. Friends were slapping hands above each other’s heads, pointing and guffawing at the rare sight that would certainly be the talk across multiple campuses when classes were in session again.

Tripper made his way over to where Danny was still positioned backed by the sound system. They basically fell over one another laughing, trying to capture this vision, burn it to their memory banks. Neither friend thought they could ever get Henry Pratt to do such a thing again…probably a one-shot deal.

As the final notes to Auld Lang Syne petered out on the pre-recorded cassette tape, Danny snatched the microphone from the floor. Now there’s something you don’t see every day, he said through a controlled fit of laughter. Let’s hear it for Baby New Year!

Henry, still smiling, pointed at Dan from across the room amidst paper streamers, balloons, raised beer bottles and clapping hands. Danny pointed back.

I love you, buddy! Happy New Year! Fisher said, his voice filling every inch of the place. Then, like an ending scene from some B horror movie where the killer springs to life one more time, the first song of the New Year exploded from several speakers that were arranged around the hall. The first guitar notes were clear and crisp and, of course, loud: Bruce Springsteen’s Rosalita.

This was Henry’s song: it basically defined him. All eyes watched the six-foot plus Baby New Year. They all knew what the playing of this song meant and it was, by God, no mistake that Fisher waited until this exact moment to cue the DJ.

Henry looked over at Danny, who was now standing up next to Harrison. Both friends started to clap their hands. Pratt, who was smiling so much his face hurt, looked at the floor and shook his head.

The chant started out low, or maybe it wasn’t as audible at first due to the music’s volume, but Henry knew what they were saying. It grew louder and gained drive with a harsh quickness like a brush fire rolling across a boundless sweep of yellow grass. In seconds, the entire building was chanting the same, single word. The entire place, every soul in attendance, clapped their hands in rhythm.

Henry Pratt, still shaking his head, brought his gaze back up to Fisher and Harrison, who were now both moving their open palms at the end of outstretched arms in an upward motion.

Ah, what the hell, Henry thought, his motto tumbling through his head. I ain’t here on business, I’m only here for fun.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE! The crowd sung this word with a fury; fists were now clenched and pumped into the air.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

Rosalita played on, the chant continued and a path cleared for Henry Pratt.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

Only a slow-motion camera could have recorded what happened next. Henry bent down, the smile gone from his face. Things had just become serious.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

He looked like a runner at the start of an important dash race. His hands pulled into fists and his knuckles almost touched the alcohol-drenched wooden floor. A path widened before him; friends, most he knew and some he didn’t, were on both sides of the hall screaming and clapping.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

Guitars, Drums, Bass and the voice of the Boss urged the doctor to come and cut loose Mama’s reigns.

Henry’s eyes narrowed down into slits. The giant baby diaper he wore shone white as moonlight on fresh-fallen snow.

Pratt started to run.

His cowboy boots dug into the hard wood floor and his legs churned. He covered the short distance in no time. A springboard must have been secretly secured into the flooring, but whether it was with the help of Peter Pan’s lost boy pixie dust, or maybe some other New Year’s magic, Henry suddenly rose. He glided over spilt beer and discarded shoes. With his arms still pumping, his legs locked in an Olympic-style spread, he approached the table in the room’s center. He was airborne.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

Henry Pratt rose over the crowd, among the cheers and shouts; he seemed to go up and up, and one wondered if he would ever come back down, above the heads and raised hands, through balloons and party streamers.

Henry landed on the table hard, glasses and beer bottles vibrated off it from the crash of the two hundred pounds of muscle and cowboy boots. Fisher and Harrison, still in front of the DJ booth, were now both on their knees falling over and hugging each other with tears of laughter streaming from their eyes.

Henry threw his arms in the air as a crack of thunder sounded outside the hall: someone had set off fireworks.

TA-BLE! TA-BLE! TA-BLE!

The chanting and the clapping and fist pumping went on. The crowd surrounded Henry, pulling in close around him. He stood above everybody, his arms now held out from his sides like Jesus over his disciples; or maybe it was the devil and his minions, one couldn’t be sure when so many drinks were involved. Hank was smiling again and his thoughts echoed those of Bruce: Don’t call me lieutenant, Rosie.

All the weeks of pre-planning from Tripper paid off with absolutely no hitches. The months of gently mentioning the idea of Baby New Year to Henry, first in a passing, joking fashion, and then more seriously, finally reaped its benefits. Harrison knew it wasn’t an idea that could just be thrown out there casually. When you’re seven years old and the teacher asks you what you want to be when you grow up, there is no check box for Baby New Year. No, an idea like this has to be approached slowly and methodically, like dipping a single toe in the cold water of a swimming pool. Fisher was immediately in, but he had the easy part. He would cue up Rosalita after Tripper did the impossible task of getting their friend into a diaper, which was a side bet of theirs; Danny now owed Harrison a late-night dinner at Taco Bell.

When Tripper first mentioned the idea, in a matter of fact way, Henry was defiant but, in truth, the deck was stacked against him. Harrison had been born with a gift for the art of persuasion. He could encourage people to do things they would seemingly otherwise never do. There was a time he’d asked a colleague at work to dress up like a clown and deliver a dozen roses to an old girlfriend who worked at the local mall. The plain delivery of roses at her job site would be enough for most people, but why have anyone walk through the mall with his face painted and dressed like a clown? The girl would certainly remember the oddity of the delivery forever, but Tripper would never forget the faces of the mall patrons as they watched his costumed friend stagger awkwardly through the establishment in huge red shoes.

So, after months of using words like legendary and iconic to describe this New Year’s event to his friend, Harrison’s greatest achievement to date stood high above the rest of the room: A large, sweaty, giant baby dancing a two-step on a table in front of a throng of supporters.

But for Tripper, this moment needed a bit more.

Danny Boy, he shouted over at Fisher, come on!

Tripper put his arm around Dan’s shoulder and pushed him through the crowd. As they moved passed the DJ booth, a large cardboard box of novelty party props remained. Tripp rapidly went through the container, pulling out a blow-up saxophone, a blow-up guitar, two pairs of sunglasses and a bandana. Jack the Rabbit and Weak Knees Willie were now here.

Henry was completely immersed in the table dance. The familiar saltiness of his lips didn’t bother him, nor the sweat raining down his torso. Still, he thought, this was a fair price to pay. He could pause in another ten seconds, when the instrumental break in the song would allow him to step off the table. Damn, I hope Tripper didn’t hide my clothes.

Instrumental break coming and Henry was ready to step down. Suddenly, the rectangular table buckled under the additional weight of Big Man Clarence Clemons and Little Steven Van Zandt.

What the hell? Henry spun around to see Harrison sporting a bandana and inflated guitar while Fisher emulated the Big Man’s saxophone solo with his own party prop from the box. The two men had donned sunglasses and walked the length of the table, hamming it up for the crowd. For Henry, he was invigorated. He spun around and started a feverish two-step with some very inventive, and never before seen, dance moves while his bandmates backed him up. And while it wasn’t exactly the Stone Pony, it was good enough to be fondly remembered for decades to come.

Walking past the hall under a partial moon that was tacked way up in the black forever, a passerby might hear, though somewhat muffled by the walls and the distance to the street, a party going on. They would hear music and laughter, friends singing and clapping. If the passersby were of an older sort, they would most definitely envy the sounds and maybe think back to a similar day and time from their pasts.

It was a new year, a very big year. In a few months, college was ending and the class of 1986 would graduate along with hopeful and possible sport figures, actors, CEOs, rock stars and millionaires…but for now, nobody wanted to go home. Nobody wanted the night to end.

The crowd went on drinking, singing, and partying until patches of sunlight broke through the morning’s cloudy breath of sky and pockets of yellow tinged with orange light touched the ground, warming the new morning.

When you were young, nothing mattered. Time stretched on eternally and, anyway, who wouldn’t be up for a little extended fun, especially when you were going to live forever.

CHAPTER 1

T he festivities took place during a picturesque summer afternoon. The sky was wide and sprawling, devoid of clouds. A warm breeze sifted through the treetops that lined the white vinyl fence surrounding the yard. It was actually hot in the shade.

The yard smelled of newly-cut grass and, while the trees offered privacy, they also seemed to stand guard behind a pool that was put in ground just a year earlier. In its furthest corner rested a huge gazebo alongside a children’s redwood play set, fully equipped with three swings, two slides and a crow’s nest. A few of the visitors set to enjoy the afternoon were already nestled in the comfort of their surroundings.

Danny Fisher stood at his outdoor kitchen and cleaned the barbecue grill with a brush of steel wool. While he flaked off any remnants of previous usage, a small bead of sweat took up residence on his forehead. His cold bottle of imported beer dripped with condensation. Hot one today, Tripp, he said, wiping the corner of his brow.

Tripper Harrison was seated ten feet away at an oval-shaped, ceramic patio table. The men had known each other since childhood and, together, had survived grade school, high school, and college. Over the years, girlfriends came and went as quickly as their variety of adolescent jobs, and they watched friends get married and have children. While life tried to pull them in different directions, they managed to continue the same kinship as they got older. Through the events of all of those decades, it may have been today’s get together that was the most meaningful celebration of all: It was Tripper’s first post open-heart surgery appearance.

Yeah, well, just keep on scrubbin’, I’m starving, Tripper said through a sly smile and a sip from a plastic bottle of water.

At least we’re done with winter. Danny stopped cleaning to grab a gulp of beer and continue his stream of consciousness. It was a bad one this year, too. Why don’t we ever just get three inches of snow anymore, ya know? I mean every time it comes down, we get a foot or two. Always a Nor’easter or a Polar Vortex…it wasn’t that way when we were kids. A snow day from school took an act of God. I’m tired of shoveling; my body can’t take it anymore.

Winter was bad for you, huh? Too cold, you say? You didn’t like all the shoveling? Tripper asked. I almost died.

"Well, you didn’t almost die. I mean…you could have died, Danny acknowledged over Bobby Bloom’s description of the right side of Montego Bay. He paused a moment and nodded his head in acknowledgement. Ok, you almost died."

The screen door from the house swung open as Danny’s better half, Elizabeth Fisher, along with Melissa Harrison, bounced out of the kitchen and down two steps into the yard. The Wives, as they were affectionately known, sported age-appropriate denim shorts and vibrantly colored summer tank tops. As they juggled trays of assorted chips, dip, and pretzels, the backdoor closed behind them.

Hey, there’s no talk of dying today, Elizabeth said in an almost chastising tone.

Today’s a celebration, boys, Melissa reaffirmed, as the women walked to the table and arranged the food items. Let’s treat it that way, okay?

Ok, Beth, what’s next? Melissa queried her friend. Anything else to bring out? What about drinks?

Usually, in spousal friendships, most women were cordial and receptive to each other, but rarely do they ever maintain a true independent friendship of their own. Melissa and Elizabeth were something of an anomaly: They both had developed a kinship just as strong as their husbands. Having met each other only during the dating portion and subsequent marriages to their men, they each managed to form a close bond consisting of lifelong secrets, endless days of laughter and shopping sprees, as well as numerous girls’ nights out. In truth, friendship had made them sisters.

No thanks, Missy. You sit and relax. Everything’s under control at the moment.

Wow, Melissa paused, staring at Beth. Out here, I can really see the highlights in your hair. It brings out all the different layers of blond. I didn’t even know you got it done. It looks great.

"Now, you know that I would have told you if I went. This is au naturel, she stated, as she flipped her hair across her eyes and laughed. Now that we have the pool, I’m religiously outdoors with the kids. She motioned her head toward Tara and Michelle, who were exchanging screams while doing cannonballs into the deep end. The chlorine and the sun are saving me a few hundred dollars a month."

I am so jealous. I’m going to see Antonio next week and get my roots touched up. I’ll tell him that you said hello, she said with a smile. They giggled incessantly as the clicking of the self-starter flame on the barbecue signified that food was imminent.

Antonio? Tripper asked. Is this someone that I need to be worried about?

The girls laughed a second time. Worry? Beth looked at Tripper smiling. No, you don’t need to worry. Believe me, neither one of us is his type…but he might just like you, she said with a wink.

The girls returned to their seats, each dignified with a sixteen-ounce plastic red cup already placed before them. Adults often justified the red cups as a methodology for limiting any additional future dishwashing. In reality, the cups expertly camouflaged any alcoholic drink that it might contain. No one knew if you had two ounces or ten. Unfortunately, it was also a well-known illusion.

When asked to name your favorite thing in the world, the most popular response to this query was food. Of course, this is not written in stone. There is no slab of granite from a mountain with this declaration chiseled into its face recording the information. Other answers follow as well: Sex being very high on the list, money, puppies, and children also sit near the top. If you asked this question to Danny Fisher, his answer, without a moment’s hesitation, would be music.

Since an early age, music had been some sort of cathartic magic for Fisher, working on his senses, wrapping around and warming his soul. The digital age gave Danny the greatest gift of all: the playlist. Gone were the days of the mix tape and the endless hours of recording and pausing the fragile cassette film. Now, it was drag and drop and Dan was the world’s heavyweight champion when it came to this commission: the maestro.

He pre-planned all of the music for an entire evening from beginning to end, almost like a complicated math equation. He would add up all the numbers and factors in the problem: estimated duration of appetizers, dinner and dessert, plus weather, plus seasonality. Last but not least, the most important denominator of all…the guests. What kind of music did each person like? He’d combine everything into his mind’s tumbler based on how well he knew everyone and their musical preferences, mix the ingredients, pour everything into a mental blender, and hit puree. After this act was complete, just press play. The music for the entire seven-hour evening, with special selections tailored for each individual, would be enjoyed by all.

The afternoon gave up its ghost, as music charged through the outdoor speakers that were neatly hidden around the patio. Moments later, Vinny Sarenzo entered the backyard holding a silver gift-wrapped bottle of something that was probably Scotch.

May your madness run with mine, brother! he yelled across the yard, as he lifted the bounty above his head. Affectionately known as Sarzo, he approached the table to share hugs, smiles, and handshakes all around.

Good to see the wives, Vin smiled, as he first kissed Elizabeth then Melissa. This was the age of the Bro hug: a handshake, combined with a left-handed embrace and two pats on each other’s back. This was how Dan greeted Vinny, as he had also done with Tripper sometime earlier. Good to see you pal.

Vinny waved a hand in a silly, child-like manner at the two young girls splashing around in the swimming pool. How are my two favorite chickadees? he shouted to them.

Hi, Uncle Vinny! echoed both girls in unison. Vinny wasn’t technically their uncle, but Dan was an only child and two of the three brothers that he always said he was lucky enough to have were now in his backyard.

I’ll put this inside for later, Danny said smiling, as he disappeared into the house with Vinny’s gift and Elizabeth following close behind.

Vinny went over to Tripp’s seat, threw his arms around him and kissed his friend on the cheek, purposely making a loud, smooching sound.

Ok. Easy, Sarz, Tripper laughed.

Missed ya, pal.

Vinny sat down across from the Harrisons and placed his Blackberry on the table to the right of the placemat that had been laid out sometime before his arrival. He looked across at Tripp, smiled and winked.

How ya feeling, Holmes? How’s the ticker doing? Vinny said, pointing to his own chest.

Well, I’d say I like the old me better, but not too bad. Tripper tapped his breast plate. Things are coming along.

I’m just happy to have my man whole again, Melissa said smiling, as she moved her raven-black hair away from her eyes.

As he elevated his hands above his head in jubilation, Tripper said, And by that, she means that her husband had an erection today.

Tripp! Melissa screamed out a bit louder then she meant to through a small laugh.

Danny came out of the house smiling and carrying a tray of burgers, hotdogs, steaks, and sausage. First one ever, Tripper?

First one since the surgery, Tripp nodded in self-affirmation. Good, solid wood today.

Proud of you, pal.

Thanks.

Melissa’s complexion yielded a slight reddish tinge as she buried her head in her hands. Oh, God, she muttered, as Elizabeth returned to the table carrying a large bowl of U-10 extra colossal shrimp and cocktail sauce.

So, you finally got wood, dude. Very nice! Vinny added. Laying pipe will help you feel a hundred percent in no time, ya know.

Could we not…please? Melissa added, speaking through her hands and shaking her head in embarrassment.

Now, there were three known sounds in the entire universe that could unilaterally bond all men on a primal level. Republicans. Democrats. Black. White. Yellow. Green. It didn’t matter. Rev the engine of any 1960’s muscle car and men will flock blindly to the calling. Start the scream of any power tool slicing through wood and men will walk miles like the undead to get a glimpse of the activities. Unknowingly, Dan had just initiated the third: the sear and sizzle of raw meat touching scorching irons over an open flame. It was what musicians called perfect pitch. It was Bo Derek running on the beach in the film, Ten. Tripper and Vinny, as well as Dan, paused and reveled for a moment at the sound.

So, how’s work goin’, Sarz? Tripper said through a mischievous smile. Always good to see Sally again. I may have missed her most of all.

Sally was Vin’s blackberry. Since he spent so much time with it, the group decided years ago that it should have a name. She’s like those old American Express traveler’s checks…don’t leave home without it.

Vin gave the phone a quick glance, grabbed it and held it up, almost as if showing it off. Hey, this job is 24/7. Investment banking never stops.

As Danny continued to place the assorted meats on the grill, he sarcastically agreed. Yes, even on a Sunday afternoon.

Hey, everyone thinks the financial world rises and sets with the stock market, Vinny explained, as he so often had. Stocks trade weekdays from 10-4, but most of what happens is after the bell closes. Everything is driven after hours. Asks. Buys. Shorts. Sells. Market Makers…all that shit. Other world markets are still operating through the night. You have to stay on top of it or else you fall behind.

As he finished a dialogue that almost seemed rehearsed, Vinny scanned the table to see Tripper’s head down and his chin on his chest, feigning sleep. Danny repeated this pose at the barbecue.

Assholes, he said. I just got here. You gotta break my stones already?

All three friends laughed, as Tripper continued on. If you ask me, you should throw that thing in the pool…would do you some good. Liberation, ya know? He paused for a tick and yelled, Freedom!

Vinny glanced over his shoulder at the splashing noises the girls were making. Sometimes, I think that, too, he pondered. Well, maybe one of these days… Ya know, Danny actually thinks he could get me ta come work with him…do the nine-to-five thing. Work on some location shoots…assist in the studio, ya know, that kinda stuff…said they’re looking for someone and he could put a word in.

That would be great! Melissa said. Might do you some good, not working 24/7. It isn’t healthy for you.

Forget it, Tripper said, looking at Vin. He’s never gonna change. As long as I’ve known him, even back to the high school days, he’s had a bug up his ass about good work ethic or something. All I know is that it’s gonna kill him. You gotta realize something, Sarz, Tripper spoke the next sentence to Vinny very slowly, there is your job and there is your life. One is important and one pays the bills. Don’t ever confuse the two.

Danny smiled. Yeah, I think I read that on a fortune cookie once.

Tripper then added, What was it that Ferris Bueller said? He thought for a second before reciting the movie quote. "Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Tripper nodded slightly at his friend before adding, "Sorry to preach, buddy. I said my