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About Genoa

But Lordy, some of ‘em—whew, they’d stumble in with breath worse’n a skunk’s backside, teeth all yeller and chipped. I’d be like, “What’s your secret, darlin’?”—ya know, like Viggo Mortensen askin’ in the movie, all suspicious-like. And they’d shrug, “Cheap whiskey and cheaper men!” I’d laugh ‘til my sides hurt, but inside I’d be cryin’—ain’t fair they gotta live so rough. Surprised me, too, how many’d tell me straight-up ‘bout their lives, no shame, just raw as a skinned knee.

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Just when I think I can breathe, my phone buzzes. It’s my buddy, Antonio. He’s stuck on the other side of town. “Dude, I need your help!” he texts. I’m like, “Can’t you see I’m busy?” But he’s persistent. Turns out, he locked himself outta his apartment on Via dei Fiori. Classic Antonio. So, I tell him I’ll be there in a bit.

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