Piper Square - Chapter 5 - Sam Gardello
The breeze from the Caspian strikes his face, stinging briefly, before passing by. The smell of of salt hangs in the air, reminding him of his youth spent along the shore. The distant sound of laughter sings in his ears, getting closer and closer. This is a good day, he realizes; a day that should last an eternity.
Eyes open and twenty five years had passed; the fleeting memory, like all good things, lasts far too briefly.
A customer approached, cash in one hand, vegetables in the other. Pleasantries were exchanged as he dove into the front his apron; fumbling through the small bills as he looked over her over.
The face was familiar but he had yet to learn her name. Faces like hers were common, permanently pressed smiles, walking around in vague denial, trying to keep unaware of their own displeasure, trying hard not to choke on the lie. Faces like that had nothing worthwhile to say, so he tried not to speak to them at all.
Sam Gardello was all too familiar with faking of happiness; having successfully done so for far too long.
The bed shakes repeatedly, little feet press into the mattress with just enough force to wake him. Her jumps are accompanied by sweet giggles. His wife wakes up and heads out to prepare breakfast. Pretending to still be asleep, he allows the little girl to come closer, and closer, and closer... then stretches out his hands and begins to tickle.
A cough.
Another invitation to the present.
Another customer.
Another smile.
Another lie.
Then the questions began, stupid and anger inducing; about seasons, and apples, and taste and quality. And like any good proprietor Sam Gardello answered each question with well informed honesty. And like most customers, the man ignored sam completely, apparently wanting only to hear himself talk before choosing the prettiest fruit and moving along.
Most people tend to choose the prettiest ones.
Asleep in his chair, he is oblivious to the music coming from the record player; a birthday gift for his daughter. He had given her the gift earlier in the day, and the smile on her face made that February twenty seventh better than any from the years prior.
Resting on the couch, he did not realize it would be hours until the the screams began, and the doors broken, and that the world would come to an end.
When the renovations came, Sam Gardello’s business thrived; due mostly to the appeal of his shop, an artisan butcher and organic food seller that predated those terms. The makeover of the area covered up his weary, beloved neighborhood, giving it a shiny veneer; a smiling facade to accommodate the liars.
Sam Gardello had moved here when the buildings were rundown, the center dilapidated and filled with migratory trash, stray animals and peeling paint. The concrete and plaster spoke of a loneliness that appealed to him, a mirror held up to his inner world.
The changes made him prone to contemplation, especially during the closing hour, when he would separate the rotting from the saleable, take note of new orders, review his sales for the day, and finally bring down the iron covers before heading home.
Droplets of water strike his face, rousing him. His head is aching, his vision blurry. He can hear muffled crying from across the room, but he is pinned down; a knee pressing strongly against his neck. The voices of multiple men surround him as he struggles for freedom. Someone smashes a cognac bottle against the piano, picking up a shard and holding it against his neck as someone else approaches the record player, lifts the needle and raises the volume.
Slowly they bring him to his feet, their laughter uncontrollable. They point to his wife and daughter. He wants to help but they restrain him. the glass lightly cuts him. The want him to watch.
These were his neighbors.
These were his friends.
Tears. Blood. Instinctively he pulls forward; the glass pierces his throat. He drops to the ground, unable to reach them. He gasps for air, realizing with his last thought that there is no limit to the cruelty of men.
Sam Gardello rubbed the scar when the glass had punctured him. Seated in his basement apartment, he checked his watch to see if the time had come for his nightly ritual begin anew.
Seeing it was so, he pushed a hand into the cushion of his chair, producing a nickel plated revolver; followed by opening the chamber to ensure the three bullets were there. He placed the barrel into his mouth, clamping down with his front teeth, tasting the bitter metal.
Closing his eyes he hoped that this was his final pull; that he had finally atoned; that he could stop pretending he was Sam Gardello; becoming Samvel Gardilian once again.
He looks into the crib, unable to hold back the joy she brings him. Small hands cover her eyes, as she tries to sleep. His wife slips quietly behind him, running her arms across his waist, sliding her fingers into his palm and giving a gentle squeeze.
Perfection...
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| Gardello's - Art by Jake Hair |
A customer approached, cash in one hand, vegetables in the other. Pleasantries were exchanged as he dove into the front his apron; fumbling through the small bills as he looked over her over.
The face was familiar but he had yet to learn her name. Faces like hers were common, permanently pressed smiles, walking around in vague denial, trying to keep unaware of their own displeasure, trying hard not to choke on the lie. Faces like that had nothing worthwhile to say, so he tried not to speak to them at all.
Sam Gardello was all too familiar with faking of happiness; having successfully done so for far too long.
The bed shakes repeatedly, little feet press into the mattress with just enough force to wake him. Her jumps are accompanied by sweet giggles. His wife wakes up and heads out to prepare breakfast. Pretending to still be asleep, he allows the little girl to come closer, and closer, and closer... then stretches out his hands and begins to tickle.
A cough.
Another invitation to the present.
Another customer.
Another smile.
Another lie.
Then the questions began, stupid and anger inducing; about seasons, and apples, and taste and quality. And like any good proprietor Sam Gardello answered each question with well informed honesty. And like most customers, the man ignored sam completely, apparently wanting only to hear himself talk before choosing the prettiest fruit and moving along.
Most people tend to choose the prettiest ones.
Asleep in his chair, he is oblivious to the music coming from the record player; a birthday gift for his daughter. He had given her the gift earlier in the day, and the smile on her face made that February twenty seventh better than any from the years prior.
Resting on the couch, he did not realize it would be hours until the the screams began, and the doors broken, and that the world would come to an end.
When the renovations came, Sam Gardello’s business thrived; due mostly to the appeal of his shop, an artisan butcher and organic food seller that predated those terms. The makeover of the area covered up his weary, beloved neighborhood, giving it a shiny veneer; a smiling facade to accommodate the liars.
Sam Gardello had moved here when the buildings were rundown, the center dilapidated and filled with migratory trash, stray animals and peeling paint. The concrete and plaster spoke of a loneliness that appealed to him, a mirror held up to his inner world.
The changes made him prone to contemplation, especially during the closing hour, when he would separate the rotting from the saleable, take note of new orders, review his sales for the day, and finally bring down the iron covers before heading home.
Droplets of water strike his face, rousing him. His head is aching, his vision blurry. He can hear muffled crying from across the room, but he is pinned down; a knee pressing strongly against his neck. The voices of multiple men surround him as he struggles for freedom. Someone smashes a cognac bottle against the piano, picking up a shard and holding it against his neck as someone else approaches the record player, lifts the needle and raises the volume.
Slowly they bring him to his feet, their laughter uncontrollable. They point to his wife and daughter. He wants to help but they restrain him. the glass lightly cuts him. The want him to watch.
These were his neighbors.
These were his friends.
Tears. Blood. Instinctively he pulls forward; the glass pierces his throat. He drops to the ground, unable to reach them. He gasps for air, realizing with his last thought that there is no limit to the cruelty of men.
Sam Gardello rubbed the scar when the glass had punctured him. Seated in his basement apartment, he checked his watch to see if the time had come for his nightly ritual begin anew.
Seeing it was so, he pushed a hand into the cushion of his chair, producing a nickel plated revolver; followed by opening the chamber to ensure the three bullets were there. He placed the barrel into his mouth, clamping down with his front teeth, tasting the bitter metal.
Closing his eyes he hoped that this was his final pull; that he had finally atoned; that he could stop pretending he was Sam Gardello; becoming Samvel Gardilian once again.
He looks into the crib, unable to hold back the joy she brings him. Small hands cover her eyes, as she tries to sleep. His wife slips quietly behind him, running her arms across his waist, sliding her fingers into his palm and giving a gentle squeeze.
Perfection...
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