As for my novel, well, I am struggling with that as well. I can’t seem to make time to work on it. But I’m still going to go through with finishing it. Perhaps doing it off the Internet will be better for the whole project.

I thank you all, however small in number, for patronizing my infrequent posts throughout the past year. I hopefully will have produced my first novel in a few months. After that, who knows? Thanks again.

She collapsed at the family altar, which was near the flat-screen television. She picked herself up, just, and knelt down to pray. But she didn’t pray in the classical sense. She clasped her hands together and mumbled something that was neither Italian nor English nor Latin, and made the sign of the cross with a half-hearted effort. At her bathroom sink, she opened a bottle of Listerine, poured a cup, and downed the contents.

A few minutes later, Nadine was walking slowly down the staircase when she saw Joseph walk in. “Oh, Joseph, it’s you,” she said, clutching the rail.

Joseph looked chipper and neater than his wife. “Did you have a good night’s sleep?”

“Yes, in fact,” she said with an attempt to be straight-faced. “How was it with Melanie?”

“Oh, the same. Dinner, dancing, but no nookie.”

“Right. I’ll get on with breakfast.”

Joseph walked over to escort Nadine, but she brushed him off. “I’ll be fine.”

A short while later, Nadine and Joseph were seated in the breakfast nook. His eyes were glued onto the National Post, and she was drinking coffee, which was unusual for her. And there were no bottles of liqueur in sight. Usually, she would “Irish” up her coffee, but this time, there was nothing but sweetener and cream.

“How’s your coffee?” Joseph asked.

“Delicious. It’s been over a month since I began the morning with something other than alcohol.”

“I can tell. The rosiness in your cheeks is back. I haven’t seen you like this since you were pregnant with Charlotte.”

Nadine put her cup down. “I can’t believe that Graziano is alive, and happy.”

Joseph nodded. “I can’t believe we ever had him in the first place. But my plan is going to change everything.”

“What plan?”

Joseph put down his paper. “Well, I don’t think it’s enough to get rid of him in one fell swoop. That would be too easy. No, here’s what I envision: on the 13th of December, we’re going to attack the very people that he loves the most: his teacher, his shrink, and his current whore.”

“Why December 13th?”

“Because it’s the feast of Saint Lucia, the patroness of the blind. None of them will see it coming at all.”

“Oh, that’s GENIUS!” Nadine exclaimed giddily.

“I know,” Joseph responded confidently. “I haven’t worked out the details just yet, but I figure that we can work with your private eye.”

“Sure thing,” Nadine said, sipping her coffee. “I have a meeting with him later today. After I fuck him, we’ll talk about it.”

“Good.”

The two continued their breakfast rituals: Nadine with the coffee, and Joseph with the paper. This went on for a few minutes, and then Nadine said, “Just one thing.”

Joseph looked up, worried. “What?”

Nadine walked over to the refrigerator. “Michael and Denise hate Graziano’s guts, too. They’re still pissed about what went down at Ashley’s party. Why don’t we get them in on it somehow?”

Joseph thought about it for a few minutes, and then nodded in agreement. “Ashley was really upset. She was crying a storm after that monster left. She hasn’t gotten over it, poor thing.”

“That boy has ruined too many lives in this family,” Nadine said as she took out a chilled bottle of Grey Goose vodka. “He’s ruined my life, your life, Charlotte’s life, Michael’s life, Denise’s life, Ashley’s life… the only way that any of us can get a good night’s sleep is if he’s done with once and for all. The best way to do that is to take out his ‘loved ones’, as you propose. We’ve done it before, and we can do it again.”

Nadine sat down and poured some of the vodka in her coffee. She drank it up, and said, “Now, THAT is going to make my cheeks rosy.”

Joseph chuckled. “You’re a lot more intelligent than people give you credit for, Nadine.”

“I know. Besides, Graziano has more suicide attempts than Princess Diana did. Eventually, something has to give.” Nadine leaned in toward her husband. “I haven’t felt this optimistic in years.”

“Who knows?” Joseph said. “Maybe we’ll be able to fuck each other for the first time.”

They looked at each other, and laughed.

I’m just frustrated with myself. The truth is, I have massive writer’s block. It takes so much time and effort just to sit down in the hope of writing, that I end up skipping it altogether. I’m actually scared of writing. I really want to put stuff down on paper (or post online), but I am so worried that it will come out disjointed, nonsensical, and not worth people’s precious time. My worst fear is that someone will say that I’m the worst writer he or she is ever seen, and that they wouldn’t even consider me to shine their shoes, let alone for a publishing deal. That’s why all the blogs that I’ve started over the years have failed big time. Well, in part. I don’t have a laptop and almost all the work that I do manage to put out, is in my family’s living room desktop computer. Perhaps if I had a laptop, I could get things done faster.

Once again, I’m sorry.

I thought of the name “Good People in Bad Times” as an homage of sorts to Toronto’s LGBT theatre, Buddies in Bad Times. But I’ve never really been easy with it. It just seems so cumbersome and blah. Therefore, I have come up with these alternate titles:

1. I Deserve Better
2. How Graziano Buonfiglio Reclaimed Himself
3. G.T.A.
4. The Italo-Canadian Experience as Seen Through the Eyes of a 28 Year Old Gay Boy/Man
5. The Good Son of Toronto
6. Family Portrait
7. Seasons Change
8. Three Months in the Life of Graziano Buonfiglio
9. 28YO
10. My Name is Graziano Buonfiglio
11. In Bad Times Come Good Things
12. Brawn and Bruises: A Love Story
13. Insert Pretentious Coming-of-age Story Title Here
14. My Family HATES Me
15. Me vs. Them

However, in reading these, they too seem lame. I’m not really good with titles. It’s definitely harder to come up with a title than it is to write the whole story, or poem, or whatever. I suppose that’s what publishers are for. However, I’ve been in bookstores and libraries enough times to find many of the titles either too on-the-nose or just plain ridiculous. Especially books written by celebrities. This Time Together by Carol Burnett. Out of Sync by Lance Bass. Life is Not a Fairytale by Fantasia Barrino. Gag me with a spoon. Fiction titles aren’t any better. Have you read Stieg Larsson’s The Girl Who… series? No offense, but titles like The Girl Who Kicked the Hornet’s Nest sound like episodes from America’s Next Top Model.

If anyone wants to contribute a possible title, send me a message.

I shiver whenever I think of that house. I have been known to become physically ill at the sheer mention of the words “Ascot” and “Nairn”. Whenever I am in Corso Italia, I have to steel myself whenever I am within 100 feet of that intersection. Even though the intersection lies in the western end of Corso Italia, and just a stone’s throw from Prospect Cemetery, I still am creeped out.

Sure enough, I found myself in the neighbourhood Wednesday morning. It had snowed overnight, and everything had a thick cover of the stuff on it. What was I doing here in the first place? I could have been at home, playing with Britney or working on a few other things. But I had woken up with this strange urge to head back. It was as if something from my old stomping grounds was saying to me, “Come back, even for a while.”

I took the subway and got off at St. Clair West Station. The streetcar was out of commission, as the tracks were being repaired. I hopped on the bus and rode along St. Clair Avenue West. I hadn’t been in the neighbourhood proper for some time, but it still looked familiar. Even in the snow, life was happening. A few kids, off on a snow-day, were building a snowman in front of the Oakwood Collegiate Institute. Further on, at the intersection with Dufferin, I saw two old men have a lively conversation in Portuguese, and a few feet away, two old women were having a similar conversation in Italian. I think a few swear words were on the menu.

I got off at Earlscourt Avenue, and immediately, I began to tense up. I’m used to the cold weather in Canada. I’m an all-weather person, with a special reverence for snow and ice. However, that wasn’t what tensed me up. Nairn Avenue was around the corner. I sucked it up and slowly walked up the street.

I was going at a slow pace, but it felt like a glacial one. I passed by children who were playing in the street, parents who were keeping an eye on children playing in the street, and others who were shoveling their driveways and sidewalks. Five minutes later, I stood face to face with the house at Ascot and Nairn.

I just stood there. Outside, I was stoic, but inside, my body was shaking like a vibrator. I could feel my heart beat rapidly, my pulse beat rapidly… everything was beating rapidly. This was the house that I had grown up in, and also the house that played host to a cavalcade of horrors. I could still hear myself screaming to get away from Joseph, Nadine, or Charlotte. I could still hear my cries as I hid in the closet. And then…

“Scusi?”

An old man came out of the house. “Scusi? Cosa fa?”

I shook myself out of it. The old man looked like Giorgio Armani on crack, with an extremely weather-beaten tan. His hair was whiter than the snow. A relatively younger woman with black hair rushed out and grabbed him. “Papa!” she exclaimed, dragging him towards the house. She looked at me and asked, “Can I help you?”

“I used to live here,” I said.

“How long ago?”

“Until 2000.”

“Is your last name Buonfiglio?”

I nodded. “I’m Nadine and Joseph’s son.”

“Ryan?”

Shit. They didn’t know about me. “No. I’m Graziano.”

“They didn’t tell me about you,” she said. She managed to bring her father back indoors. “Ti prendo del tè!” she exclaimed. Turning back to me, she said, “They didn’t tell me anything about another child. They told me about Ryan and Charlotte though. Are you really their son?”

“Yeah. They don’t want to admit it, though. We’re estranged.”

“I’m Carolina,” she said, extending her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

I shook her hand back.

“I’d invite you in to look around, but my father doesn’t like people he doesn’t know. It’s the Alzheimer’s.”

I nodded. “I should be going.”

Carolina nodded back and said, “Can I have your contact information?”

I took out a card from my wallet. It had my e-mail, home address, and phone numbers on them. Handing it to Carolina, I said, “If Nadine and Joseph come by, don’t say that you have this.”

She nodded. “I should get inside. Have a nice day.”

“Have a nice day.” I waved back as she headed inside the house. Carolina seemed like a nice woman.

I turned around and walked down Nairn Avenue for the last time. I had no intention of being in the neighbourhood again. Once again, I passed by kids playing in the snow and parents watching over them. I played in the snow lots of times as a kid, but usually alone.

I walked along St. Clair Avenue West for ten minutes, and then I happened upon my paternal grandparents’ old deli. Back in the day, it used to be known as Buonfiglio’s Delicatessen. Now, it was Scavotto’s Fine Italian Meats and Cheeses. Even in the frigid weather, I could still smell the delicate flavour of prosciutto as it was being sliced. It warmed my heart.

I dropped by the deli at least once a week as a kid. Nonno Pietro would be the first to greet me, even as he sliced a ham. He always worked hard, but was never too busy to extend a warm welcome to anyone who came in, family or not. I never did learn how to process meats. I was always scared of blood. But I did develop an appreciation for the process, even though as I grew older, I preferred organically and ethically grown and processed foods. Nonna Annunziata was the cashier and an expert on cheeses. She too welcomed me whenever I stopped by, and I was usually the first person she enlisted to taste-test a new acquisition or recipe. German potato salad, Jarlsberg cheese, tripe… I hated and still hate tripe, but I enjoyed the bulk of the foods there.

This time, however, I couldn’t bear to walk in. Too many memories. But that was nothing compared to what happened a few minutes later, when I found myself at the foot of A Confeitaria Betancourt (The Betancourt Pastry Shop). Why was this important? Because the confeitaria used to be La Libreria Italiana Alighieri (The Alighieri Italian Bookstore), which my maternal grandparents ran. It was also the place where they were murdered. This was the first time in nine years that I had set foot even near the place.

I learned to read in this place. While Italian children’s books were relatively scarce at the bookstore (my grandparents dealt mostly with contemporary and classical literature), I was never bored here. As Nonna Maria Grazia attended to customers, Nonno Pietro would sit me on his lap and read me a variety of books, from the works of the bookstore’s namesake Dante Alighieri, to Italo Calvino, one of the most prolific Italian authors of recent times. Admittedly, a lot of the material went over my head, and it wasn’t until I majored in Italian Studies that I began to grasp it. But at that point, I simply enjoyed being in the bookstore.

After Nonno Pietro and Nonna Maria Grazia were murdered, it took me a while for me to even step foot in a bookstore, or even a library. I almost didn’t get my textbooks because of this.

What was once filled with books and bookcases was now a showroom for Portuguese delicacies. The walls from which posters of great Italian luminaries hung, were now dotted with pictures of Fatima and blown-up shots of cakes and cookies. The very spot where my maternal grandparents were found dead, was now the cashier’s spot.

It was too much for me to bear. I turned in the opposite direction and ran, the tears pouring down my face and freezing as they came in contact with the bitter cold. I bawled as I ran westward on St. Clair Avenue West, only to stop at the foot of Centro Trattoria & Formaggi. I let out a few deep breaths and wiped my face with a towel. I let out a sigh and entered the trattoria. It was 11:30am. I was sad and depressed, and only some pasta al forno would even temporarily calm my nerves.