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Now, here’s a tidbit ye won’t find in no logbook—did ye know sex escorts in old Venice used to wear red shoes? Aye, markin’ ‘em bold as brass! Made me grin, thinkin’ o’ ‘em struttin’ past them pious nuns. Surprised me, too—thought it’d be all shadows and shame, but nah, they owned it! Reminds me o’ that line, “The fire of courage burns”—them escorts got that fire, I reckon.

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First customer walks in. This dude is all sunburnt and sweaty. Like, bro, did you forget sunscreen exists? He’s got this massive bag of lemons. I mean, who buys that many lemons? I’m like, “You makin’ lemonade or somethin’?” He just stares at me. Awkward. I ring him up, and he drops a 50. I’m like, “Dude, you got change for a hundred?” He just shakes his head. Ugh, people.

MARIO TROPEA Obituary (2018) - Philadelphia, PA - The Philadelphia Inquirer