Page 22 of Romeo & Antoinette

Both Nikki and Gary Green Shirt shrugged and put their hands up as if to say no problem, they’ll be there. But Tyler continued to complain.

“This sucks, come on…”

“I said enough. Now clean this area up. And go grab a rag. You got something on your face.”

7

Romeo stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. He dried his face and chest then wrapped it around his waist. As he turned he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. Not too shabby, he thought.

He was right. Romeo was a good looking guy with a chiseled body, wavy brown hair, piercing green eyes and a disarmingly sweet smile. Not too shabby at all.

He walked to the kitchen of his small, basement apartment and grabbed a beer. Stuck to the fridge was the check he had written to Frank a week ago, but had neglected to give to him. It was embarrassingly overdue.

He sighed heavily. The last thing he wanted to do was go up there.

He popped the top, took a swig and paused to look around. The place was a mess. Romeo could pretend it was shabby chic all he wanted, but really, it was just a mess. The kitchen was probably the cleanest room. Most likely because it was the one he used the least.

Romeo never cooked, at least not at home. He did that enough at the restaurant. And, though it was decidedly not his passion, he was pretty good at it. He found the repetition of prep to be almost Zen. He could just physically focus on the cut and chop and that left his mind free to wander. To walk the earth so to speak. So long as he didn’t slice off a finger while daydreaming, he was good.

His bedroom wasn’t too bad either. He kept his laundry in a basket inside the tiny closet so everything was out of sight. And while he had never, ever, in his entire life, made his bed. What was the point, really? The thrown about covers, sheets and pillows had a charming, lived in, even welcoming appeal to them.

The bathroom was okay too, at least on a macroscopic level. If you were to look closer, like, say, maybe on a microscopic level, things might appear vastly different. He was, after all, a guy. But as long as he put his toothbrush and razor back where they were supposed to go the bathroom remained passable.

No, none of those rooms were really the problem. It was the main living area that was the problem. You really couldn’t call it a family room or a living room, it was just the room. The room in the middle of the small, sub-level, only slightly bigger than a studio apartment where he lived and kept all his stuff. And that was the problem. He had a lot of stuff.

There was a couch, an insanely comfortable, super old, beat up, caramel colored, leather beauty that came with the place, and a nondescript, brown coffee table. Both of which sat on a well worn, faded teal area rug of some unknown, East Indian origin. A trio of floor lamps scattered about the room and a dresser on the wall just outside the bedroom. Because there was no room for it inside the bedroom. Because Romeo had stuffed a king size bed into a room built for a twin. Because the guy really understood some of life’s true priorities.

There was a bulletin board just above and to the left of the dresser. It held a hodgepodge montage of the last dozen or so years of his life. Family, friends, friends of friends, girls, galas… All piled one on top of the other, testing the integrity of the one lone thumbtack that held them all in place.

A picture of him and his dad and their “boys only” ski trip three years ago. A “revenge” picture his mom made him hang up after their “no dads allowed” food and wine trip two years ago. Really, Monty could totally have joined them if he wanted, but he chose to let them have their time together. Besides, somebody had to stay home and mind the store.

And in the bottom corner of the bulletin board, halfway hidden by a torn ticket from just last year when he slipped off to the city for a quick, romantic weekend with a girl named Cassie, was a ten year old photo from the day he got his black belt.

It was his dad’s idea at first. Monty wanted his six year old son to be involved with something. Some sport. Some physical activity. Something where he could be around other kids, outside of school. Romeo wanted nothing to do with soccer or tee-ball, but karate, that he took to from day one. He was a natural.

He had since gone on to get his second degree black belt, which is a pretty serious accomplishment. One could even say he made it halfway to his third, before he started to lose interest. And while he still practiced occasionally, and worked out often, he had not been to the dojo in quite some time. He knew he would catch serious static for it if he was to run into Master Marks on the street.

Regardless, while Romeo almost never lost his cool and tried to avoid fighting whenever he could, even without constant practice, he was, hands down, still, a seriously, well trained individual. Hands as lethal weapons and all that.

And while all those things, and the pile of books, and a dead plant, and an Xbox with all of its accompanying accessories, all contributed to the clutter in his apartment, it was really the paintings that took up the most room.

An entire corner, below and to the right of the only window, which hovered up near the ceiling at street level, was Romeo’s studio.

There were multiple raw canvases stacked up against the wall and next to them, a sister stack of those that were finished. An easel stood in the center with a stool in front of it. To the right was a table upon which sat all the paints, brushes, cleaners, scrapers, rags and tools that he used to complete his masterpieces. Which, in truth, weren’t masterpieces at all.

Oh, they were good, at least he thought so. And if you asked his mom they should be hanging in the Louvre because her son literally rivaled the likes of Michaelangelo, DaVinci and Rembrandt with a little Picasso, Pollock and Basquiat all rolled in for good measure. But they weren’t great. And he knew it. He didn’t need the latest gallery rejection letter he’d received which was currently sitting on the coffee table under a half finished Yuengling to tell him that. It stung, but it wasn’t necessary. He knew his work wasn’t great. He just wasn’t able to figure out why.

He pulled on his favorite pair of jeans and a clean white t-shirt, then slipped on a scuffed up pair of Van’s, all black background with a thorny, red rose snaking its way over the top. He grabbed his keys, his phone and that check and opened one of the two doors leading out of his apartment. The one he didn’t open led to the street. The one he did open led upstairs and into the main house.

“Frank?” he called. “Frank, you down here?”

No answer.

Romeo continued on through the first floor looking for Father Frank. Not only did they work together at the restaurant but Romeo had been renting the basement apartment in Frank’s modest, two bedroom, row house for the last couple of years.

Romeo was reasonably sure he was there, in the house. Frank really only went two places - work and the liquor store. And it was pretty late for him to be at either. Which meant he was probably home. The thing was, at this hour, if he wasn’t in front of the tv, he was probably up on the roof.

“Ahhh… nuts…” Romeo sighed, making his way upstairs, shaking his head the whole time.

---