Gabriella picks up her cannoli and I notice she actually doesn’t look all that bad. I get the sense that she is sleeping okay. I’m a little shocked, since she’s usually the most sensitive one in our family, easily spooked and always urging us to try some new method to deal with generalized anxiety, a miracle food or breathing technique that she swears has changed her life.
Even though she doesn’t look visibly depleted, she seems distracted. She takes tiny bites of crispy pastry and glances around the room. She’s wearing bright red tennis shoes and red velour sweatpants, which I guess betrays the fact that she is getting used to having to walk everywhere in this game. All of a sudden, her eyes light up and she grins.
“I remember the smell of this place now,” says Gabriella. “Garlic, smoke, and fresh paint.”
“They invented Sea Farmers right upstairs,” I say. “They used to come down here to Little Bologna and playtest it after hours and the bartender would keep the place open. Old Eddie Rossi, who was the owner, would keep them full of free pasta and tell them they were all going to be rich and famous. Mom used to call him Eddie Spaghetti. Do you remember Eddie Spaghetti? He was tall as hell and had those long arms and hair so white it seemed like he dyed it?”
“I just remember the smell,” says Gabriella with a shrug.
“I remember Eddie Spaghetti,” says Alistair. “He was friends with Angelo, wasn’t he? That’s how they got the office in the first place, some kind of deal with Angelo’s uncle. They got really cheap rent on the place.”
“It was mostly just the three of them back then,” I say. “Mom, Dad, and Angelo Marino. They were actually doing really well and making a ton of money thanks to Sea Farmers, but they didn’t see any reason to expand. Angelo Marino wanted them to sell the business altogether. Mom wanted them to cash out, too. But Dad thought they were crazy. He loved making games and he was unwilling to sell at any price, not when he knew that all the money coming in could be used to hire more artists and developers.”
“Are you talking about old Eddie Spa-get?” interrupts the old waiter, who had slowly approached our table. “He is dead, you know, just like your father. He was a good man. When my brother went to jail for that thing with his wife, Eddie Spa-get paid his bills and made sure he got what he needed while he was locked up. There used to be an arcade around the corner from here and your father, and your mother, and Angelo, and Eddie Spa-get would go there and they would play games for free, because Eddie Spa-get would trade the teenagers working there pizza for tokens.”
“That’s how Dad decided that we needed to get into video games as well,” I say. “So many other board game manufacturers thought they were just a passing fad, but not Dad.”
“I liked to play the Space,” says the waiter. “I liked to play the Joust and the Asteroid. Eddie Spa-get was never any good at the Asteroid. He wasted so many quarters trying to beat my scores at the Asteroid, but he never got anywhere close. Well, now he’s dead. And now your father is dead, and what does any of that matter anymore? What does anything matter to anyone?”
The waiter wanders away as the security guards come back down.
“We checked the place out,” says Ed. “There isn’t anything up there but some old rat traps and a deflated air mattress. I think somebody must have been sleeping up there, probably breaking in at night.”
I look at my brother and sister.
“We’d better do it soon,” I say.
“And what about Bernard?” asks Gabriella.
“He’s got a life to burn,” I say.
We climb the stairs to the office above Little Bologna. The air is musty, the ceilings are low, and there isn’t much light, even though it is early afternoon. The walls are seafoam green. I can’t remember if that was the last color our mother painted the office or if it has been repainted since.
“There’s probably ten coats of paint on these walls,” I tell Alistair and Gabriella. “Our mom didn’t really know what to do with herself, but she wanted to be useful to the company so she kept painting and repainting the office, choosing the gaudiest and most inappropriate colors that she could find. The walls were bright orange once. Actually, I think she might have even painted them black at one point. And neon purple.”
“I like black paint,” says Gabriella. She touches the wall and I can see her struggling to remember this place. I know that she only remembers what life was like after Nylo was a massive success, when we never had to worry about money again. When it became an abstract concept for us, like process art or the phenomenon of divine grace.
I’ve often wondered if it is the fact that I watched our parents struggle, even slightly and for only a few years, that has given me such a rapacious appetite for business. If being privy to the sweat of their early years made me so dominant.
We take out our game phones and explore the office, looking for the place where they will interface with the hidden box.
“Over here!” yells Alistair, crouching down in a corner. “It’s under this window for some reason.”
Gabriella and I follow his lead, squatting beneath the window and holding our phones under the ledge. They bleep in turn, informing us that we have taken second and third place.
“Now what?” says Alistair.
“Now we’d better call the cops and get out of here,” I say. “They can come and investigate, just in case something goes wrong like the aquarium exploding. I want them to see for themselves that we are all in danger. Maybe then they’ll start taking this whole thing seriously.”
We return
