Otis

Chapter One

Lionel squinted as the mirrored windows on the Bidessy Hotel reflected the setting sun into his eyes while he made his way home. When he opened his eyes again, he saw a young girl pause near the revolving doors into the hotel, giggling joyfully, and push through them three times in succession before going inside. Lionel had never been inside the building himself, but everyone in the surrounding two or three blocks knew the building’s architect.

Old Man Santucci lived around the corner in the basement of the United Methodist Church on Third Avenue. After the Bidessy was built, the market crashed and no one wanted to hire him anymore. His ideas were too radical, his architecture too expensive because of its environmental edge. It was an investment no one was willing to make. After the eleventh rejected proposal, he simply gave up.

Supposedly, he sent all his money to an illegitimate son in France before going to live in the church’s basement. His graying, gnarled hands reached out to every passerby between the hours of 8:00 AM and 3:14 PM during the weekdays. On weekends, he took out his best, and only, suit and ate lunch in the Bidessy at precisely 12:12 PM.

Lionel knew all this because he worked in the restaurant inside the Jefferson Hotel across the street from the Bidessy. The chef at the Jefferson, Anton, was fired from the Bidessy for giving Old Man Santucci extra food in his to-go box, and his respect for Santucci led to gossip amongst the staff in all the local hotels. It didn’t take long before Anton was hired at the Jefferson, and that was when the kitchen talk started getting interesting. Almost every day there was a new story from Anton, mainly having to do with Santucci’s love life.

“That Santucci… Such a gentleman. He would bring in such woman, ah,” Anton would begin, “Just… the biggest tits you’ve ever seen.”

Tales would be spun imaginations filled with Jack Daniels and steak, wine and cannoli, the sounds of jazz bands and late-night crooners. Women in brilliant, swooshing dresses of every color. Long hair, short hair, wavy, curly, straight hair. Busty women, skinny women, curvy women. The way Anton would describe these nights, the seductive nature of his speeches, every man around the stove would dream his own dream of the perfect night with the perfect woman.

“One day,” Anton told the group recently, all of whom were listening with rapt attention, “Santucci walked in with a young woman. Such a gentleman. Brought in this… this angel, ah. It was obvious how much he loved this one. Even wore new shoes for the occasion.”

Lionel was thinking of this latest tale as he walked home. This story was particularly interesting to him. Lionel never knew his father, and his mother never wanted to talk about him. She taught her son to hate the man who paid for his education, the man who paid for them to move from Bourges to the States, the man who bestowed upon Lionel his dark eyes and full mouth, and the reason his mother had trouble looking at him during certain parts of the year. Since he was young, Lionel had been curious to know what kind of person would leave a lover and a son alone with mere money for relief. Old Man Santucci was his chance. He was sure that to learn about him would lead Lionel to some insight on his father.

He nodded at the old man as he passed the church and received a glare in response. Chuckling to himself and shaking his head, Lionel walked on and reached his own building. When he pushed open the door to his third-floor apartment, Koshka, Lionel’s beagle puppy, yelped and ran forward to greet him. Lionel stepped aside and closed the door, and the dog’s paws slid on the checkered linoleum floor, sending his body straight into door. Jumping up and flipping his body around, Koshka ran at Lionel again. This time, Lionel squatted and greeted him, who, body shaking with delight, proceeded to pee all over the floor.

“Oh come on, not again! Shit.” Lionel stood, reaching for the paper towels on the counter. “Okay, calm down. Koshka, come over here, c’mere boy! That’s it. Good boy!” Lionel held the wriggling, jumpy animal back as he patted the floor with the paper towels. “Good boy. Okay, calm down now, that’s right.”

Lionel finished cleaning up after his puppy and began preparing dinner. He had recently received a raise, so he bought some salmon to make for himself tonight before heading back to work at the Jefferson. His plan was to spend the rest of the week eating ramen and macaroni and cheese, to save up the extra money, and then take Old Man Santucci out for lunch at the Bidessy on Saturday.

It was time to be formally introduced.