SETTING: Printer’s Row is a neighborhood south of the Chicago downtown area known as the Loop. Many buildings in this area were once used by printing and publishing businesses but have since been converted to residences.
It was warm this evening, the air still playing host to remnants of summer’s humidity, and Aldo opted to take advantage of an evening run. He didn’t live particularly far from the lake path
THE NARRATOR, AN OVERZEALOUS CUBS FAN: Nowhere in the city of Chicago is ever too far from the lake path!
but he often preferred to run on city streets. The beat of his stride against pavement was too similar to a pulse sometimes. Without interruption, it was disquieting. Made him too conscious of his breathing.
That, and the path was often occupied.
After his run was shadow boxing, bag work, occasional sparring. Aldo wasn’t training for anything, as such, but he supposed he was ready if it came. He’d always been naturally wiry and thin
THE NARRATOR: One of them skinny little shits like my cousin Donnie, eh?
and lacking much in the way of ego or temper. Generally speaking, Aldo was unlikely to get into any sort of street fight, much less a formal boxing ring. He just liked the reminder that, from time to time, he retained the option of adrenaline and pain.
After three or so hours he’d come home, locate a couple of chicken breasts, probably some spinach, and definitely some garlic, for which he didn’t use a press. （Diced garlic was an outrage, as his father had told him many times, an abomination for its lack of taste. When it came to garlic, Masso said, it would have to be crushed or whole—no exceptions.） Few people ever came to Aldo’s apartment, but the ones who did had commented without exception on the sparseness of his possessions. It was an open-air loft with red Ikea cabinets and modern stainless-steel appliances, and Aldo owned exactly one pot and one pan. Two knives: a Santoku knife and a paring knife. His father had always said that was all anyone ever needed. Aldo did not own a can opener or an ice tray. He did own a pasta maker, though he preferred to make ravioli or tortellini the way his nonna had insisted. Adalina Damiani had taught both her son and her grandson to cook, but while Masso found cooking to be a religious experience, Aldo considered it something best reserved for special occasions, or homesickness. Though, in his experience, most people considered religion precisely the same way.
On nights when Aldo couldn’t sleep （i.e., most of them）， he would head up to the roof to light whatever remained of the joint still languishing in his jacket pocket. He specifically chose the type of marijuana reserved for bodily aches and mindlessness, soothing the prattling going on at the back of his head. His bones would cease their frantic motions for the evening, and inevitably his body would buzz, searching for something new to fill its vacancies.
AND NOW, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, we are proud to present … Aldo Damiani’s thoughts!
Buzz. Bees. The honeybee’s wings flapped 11,400 times per minute, which was what created the buzzing sound. Bees were known for industriousness and organization; see also, the phrase ‘worker bee.’ That, plus determination; a beeline. Aldo was similarly single-minded, even if he was many-thoughted. He floated out on an exhale, adrift and out to sea.
He would have to try something different tomorrow, since his problem solving had not been particularly fruitful that day. He had a number of favorite places within the hive of the city, and typically bounded around between them. The top floor of the public library was an atrium called the Winter Garden, though Aldo couldn’t understand why. There was no particular season involved, but there was a pleasing vastness, a certain proximity to the heights and the heavens, and it was frequently empty. The concrete beams lofting up the glass ceiling would descend on him in hexagonal shadows, and if he positioned himself correctly beneath them, perhaps something new would occur to him. Otherwise, there was always the Lincoln Park Zoo, or the art museum. It was often quite busy, but to the right eye, it still contained places to hide.
THE NARRATOR: Foreshadowing, baby!
Aldo exhaled the taste of burning, the film of it coating his tongue, and then put out the smoldering end of the joint. He had as much of a buzz as he needed, and sleep felt pointless for the night.
Aldo disliked the sensation of being asleep. It felt something very close to being dead, which was an uncomplicated and therefore troubling state of being. He wondered if bees felt that way when their wings stopped beating. Though, he wondered if they ever did. He wondered what a bee would do if it knew its life’s work was contributing to the ecosystems of fancy toasts. Would that be enough to compel it to stop?