That something being a peaceful way to die versus whatever else awaits him.
But I’m not giving life to those nightmares. I’m going to live the dream.
“Take me home, Valentino.”
Frankie Dario
6:24 p.m.
This day can’t get any worse.
First, that Decker tenant of his went off and died, killing Frankie’s dreams.
Then his wife’s best friend quit his job at Death-Cast, making himself useless to Frankie in the future.
And then Joaquin Rosa went on air and admitted that his company isn’t the godsend he claimed it is, ruining Frankie’s chances of capturing the shock of any Deckers who survive.
Frankie feels stuck, as if he’s unable to evict himself from this life the way he can tenants in his building. He wishes he could get rid of everyone. That way he could go hide out on the first floor whenever Gloria is getting on his nerves; he’d essentially be living downstairs with that in mind. This building . . . why couldn’t his father leave him a better legacy to inherit, like a Fortune 500 company? Instead, Frankie has to deal with unclogging pipes and burning himself on radiators and being made out to be the bad guy because other people can’t pay their bills on time. How is that his fault? Pay up or get out. This isn’t a homeless shelter.
Frankie is watching the evening news in his living room, where the topic is Death-Cast. Surprise, surprise. His apartment door has remained open since the morning, even when his downstairs tenant decided to blast some bachata this afternoon; he was ready to put an eviction notice on her door just because. But Frankie has been hoping that maybe Valentino Prince somehow survived this deep into his final day, though that seems unlikely given how the newscasters are talking about Death-Cast’s successful predictions among the registered users they did call. Still, he keeps his door open, knowing that there’s less than six hours before midnight.
A lot can happen in that time.
The lobby door all the way downstairs slams shut, a complaint often made by the first-floor tenants, and Frankie continues claiming he’ll get around to it and never does and hopes he never has to. Could it be Valentino? Then he recognizes the fast footsteps running up the stairs and he sighs in response.
Paz runs inside. “Dad! Dad! Dad!”
“Yes?” Frankie asks.
“I booked the commercial! I film next week!”
Frankie turns to his son, not giving him his full attention but just enough. How is it possible—how is it fair?—that a child continues getting closer to his dreams than his own father? First it was a small role in that movie, and now it’ll be some commercial, and next it’ll be a starring role in some TV show. Why is the world ready to show this child more love than a man who has done his time, who has worked hard, who has hustled?
“Good job” is all Frankie says.
“It was so fun,” Paz says, plopping down on the couch next to him. “Then we all went to get ice cream. I got a brain freeze.”
All?
Frankie can hear Gloria’s keys jingling as she climbs the stairs slowly, like usual, as if she’s walking up some steep mountain. He will punch a wall if she ever complains about the elevator not working again. He’ll also punch a wall, maybe even Gloria herself, if she doesn’t have a good answer as to who was hanging around his son today.
Then he hears the man’s voice. It’s Rolando.
Why are they together?
If she’s having an affair, so help them . . .
Hell, Frankie has cheated on Gloria a few times with the broad on the third floor, but that was different. Gloria has no idea, and Frankie would never flaunt that in her face. But bringing Rolando into his home? As if Frankie hasn’t voiced a thousand times to Gloria that he doesn’t fully trust Rolando only has friendship on the brain?