Chagrin Confessions

Chapter Two: The Italian Stallion

"Miss, we're in the Fortieth street, mind directing me to your building?"

"What? Oh.." That was quick. Then again I only live a few streets away from work, something which I continuously count my blessings for. My patience for traffic is near to zilch, so sometimes when the streets are busier than a sale at Macy's, I tend to speed walk to work, which is located five streets away in Middle Manhattan.

Looking around, I see that Dill's Pub is nearby, which is about a few blocks from my building, "Sorry, I wasn't looking. It's three blocks further down, you can drop me off at the corner then. Thank you." I say, while looking at the cabbie in the rear view mirror.

"No big deal, Miss. You're welcome."

Taking a glance at the meter running, I take out the ratty old brown leather wallet from my bag, in order to prepare an approximate fare amount including a tip. Major General Henderson taught me to "always be prepared" for any emergency exit from a vehicle, that includes no dilly-dallying in a parked cab. Not that this is an emergency, but old habits die hard. Putting the letter in my cross bag, I sigh. I'll just have to re-read it again at home, I'm not so sure this is the type of letter to publish in a public magazine.

"Your stop, Miss. Fare is twelve sixty-five."

"Thank you, please keep the change," giving him the fifteen dollars I already prepared, and then leaving the cab without waiting for a reply.

Firmly placing my bag across my shoulder, I speed walk towards my building, while carefully assessing the area for any shady activity. My neighbourhood is decent, but New York is always full of surprises.

Entering the building lobby, I spot Tommy, the doorman, at the front desk. He is just about the one person in my life that always makes my day and night more pleasant. I could be as sour as a stripper on her period, but Tommy always manages to put a smile on my face. He's just one of those carefree and high-spirited people, everyone needs a Tommy in their life.

I observe him before he notices me. He's looking down at his mobile, furiously moving his slender fingers across the screen, with an agitated look on his handsome face. His short dark hair is tangled in a mess, each hair moving in every direction. His navy blazer wrinkled, as though a dog has been chewing on it, his tie loosened up and his not-so-white chemise has a mustard drop beneath his third button. The devil got some hot dogs without me again.

"You know, Tommy, just because we all love you here, doesn't mean that you can sit down looking like a beautiful mess while playing a mobile game."

Sprinting out of his seat and eliciting a little yelp, he looks at me and sighs from relief. Placing his hand on his chest, he breathes in and out deeply.

The drama queen.

"Cassie you freaked me out, baby. You can't do that to a man my age, you'll give me a heart attack. I won't be able to see your dazzlin' face again, bella", he says with an Italian accent.

Lord, have mercy. He's going for an Italian persona tonight.

Tommy has a hobby. Of course, we all have hobbies, while mine is reading and painting, Julie's hobby is shopping and spa therapy retreats, and my dad prefers to go to shooting ranges. Tommy, however, has a hobby for imitating personas. Every few days he pulls off a celebrity impersonation. What makes it so special is that he has an impressive talent. By that, I mean his voice. He can change the depth and pitch of his voice to imitate accents of multiple nationalities. And in both genders.

Quite a tongue. I often wonder what else it does.

Clearing my throat, and thoughts, I keep my cool and give him a small smirk. "A man your age? Tommy, you're twenty-nine. You're older than me by three years. And didn't you hear what I told you?"