Have I mentioned the mysterious and somewhat creepy neighbor who lives across the street? He is a middle aged man, wears a thick gold chain, is balding and has a hairy chest and a hefty spare tire. I know this because he is constantly out on his balcony and seldom wears a shirt, thanks to the stifling August heat in Rome. See me secret footage photo above. His balcony is directly across the street and one floor above our apartment. I saw him out when we initially moved in and didn’t think much about it, other than a twinge of jealousy at his good fortune to have such an outdoor space in the city. As the weeks go by, he has become a source of annoyance and mystery to me. He is out smoking on his balcony at all hours of the day and night. Occasionally he is joined by a larger woman in a flowery dress, who I assume to be his wife. They don’t disturb me or make much noise, but it bothers me that they are out there peering off their balcony and by default, peering into MY windows. Of course, for me to notice this behavior, I am constantly looking up onto their balcony, curious as to their goings on. They don’t bluntly stare, but there isn’t much happening in our little corner of Rome, so here we are, day after day, in a neighborhood stare off.
Normally I would make up a name for him and his lovely bride, and after probably a funny story about this man does and how he has come to stay home all day. You see, I am home at all hours of the day, so I know that he is home… doesn’t he work? Does he work at night? I see him out there pretty late? He is a communist watching me and taking information about my democratic activities? You see, the possibilities for a good story are endless and so, before judging Mr. X for myself, I have decided to turn this over to you, my loyal readers to help me provide a name and story for this man.
Entries may be submitted via email, or preferably by posting a comment to this blog entry, so that all may enjoy and vote on your story!
Act now, don’t delay, big prizes will be awarded!
Normally I would make up a name for him and his lovely bride, and after probably a funny story about this man does and how he has come to stay home all day. You see, I am home at all hours of the day, so I know that he is home… doesn’t he work? Does he work at night? I see him out there pretty late? He is a communist watching me and taking information about my democratic activities? You see, the possibilities for a good story are endless and so, before judging Mr. X for myself, I have decided to turn this over to you, my loyal readers to help me provide a name and story for this man.
Entries may be submitted via email, or preferably by posting a comment to this blog entry, so that all may enjoy and vote on your story!
Act now, don’t delay, big prizes will be awarded!
3 comments:
how about colossi fumante- translated as the smoking colossus/giant?
Smokey McBlue Boxers
Lorenzo Ventiguimiliano, aka "Larry the Looker", thinks his nickname comes from his exquisite figure, which he proudly and shirtlessly displays on his deck every sunny day (and in Rome, every day is sunny, piu o meno), but in actuality it was given to him by his circle of friends with regards to his curious habit of watching out over his neighborhood for hours at a time, under the pretense of smoking a cigar or working on his tan. Of course Larry has some good reasons for keeping an eye on the street, as his wife's smallish retail business of knitted wares is a somewhat inadequate cover for his more substantial trade in counterfeiting Roman coins from antiquity, and shipping large numbers of illegal goats by boat into Croatia (how he got into these particular niches, and the intended purpose of the goats, is another story entirely). Although the carabinieri only a few doors down are generally lazy and/or unobservant enough to pose a threat, Larry keeps his own situation a bit more secure with a under the table payment of one goat and three counterfeit coins per month to the head officer on staff - he doesn't ask what the officer does with these items, in hopes that he won't be told, and for him it's a small price to pay for a relatively stable measure of assurance that the authorities will look the other way, when they look at all.
Larry has thought about getting his chest waxed, but his wife seems to like the gold-chained-hairy-beast approach, and he's not one to argue with whatever's working.
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