Charlie Holiday Box Set

2. Is seeing believing or do you have to believe it to see it?

Is seeing believing or do you have to believe it to see it?

"I just would like a little WiFi, please.”

Kud-kud-dud-kud-kud-ka-dud-kud-dudd-kudd-ka-dudd.

That's the sound the rolling metal doors make when they are rolled up to open your city shop at seven in the morning. It starts out slow and speeds up until it stops with a ka-dud thud and it's all over faster than it started.

It was so close, it almost felt like it wasn't the bakery downstairs but Charlie’s eyelids rolling up in a bad cartoon version of his waking self. Maybe he just watched too many zany cartoons as a kid. Isn't that where words like zany come from anyway?

Apparently, no one else in his family of lifeless zombies heard the racket downstairs, but he already knew the feeling: he wasn't going to back to sleep. It was only seven and they didn't need to leave until nine. Perfect.

He quietly put on whatever clothes he could find, ideally of his own and not his 13-year old son's, although he was getting close to him in height. He found his laptop, checked the battery and headed out the door in search of tea, something savory, and a dollop of WiFi.

Like morning people, he wondered if there were morning countries or cities. Maybe it's active cities. Boulder, Colorado comes to mind. Imagine bakeries or cafés opening at six to cater to mountain bikers looking for a coffee or some energy-infused smoothie. Florence, Italy, was not a morning city.

He managed to find a café open and asked in part Spanish, part French and probably zero Italian, if they had WiFi. They not only had that, but they had pastries and tables and an old man sitting in the corner sipping his cappuccino as if he did it every single day--which he probably did. He looked straight ahead and only saw Charlie if he passed through his line of sight, which he did a few times. It wasn’t clear if he blinked. Ever.

He brought his laptop up to the counter so he could make sure the WiFi password would work. The woman was happy to give it to him and she started typing on his keyboard but wasn't getting very far. She turned to her pen and started writing on a receipt, but her pen conked out after the first few characters.

She then started talking in single letters, "M," she said. "Big." Charlie typed in a capital M. "A," she continued, "little." "Err, say, oh," and then she paused and said, "Eh," but he wasn't sure if that was a letter, maybe an 'a' or if that was her sound to search in her memory for the next letter. He didn't type more yet.

"Uno uno sei," she said. He typed 116. "Si," she seemed rather pleased with herself. They both waited for the growing and contracting little symbols to connect. He looked at her and she looked at him.

She had fully coiffed brown hair as if she had spent two hours even earlier in the morning at the hairdresser. Either that or she was just one of those Italian women who just wake up and walk onto the set of a modeling photo shoot and magically look radiant, perfect, and natural all without any effort.

Her brown eyes softened as he looked into them. They were motherly and loving and either she was quietly telling him that she loved him and wanted to run away to Venice with him or she was just hoping the WiFi would kick in so she could heat the water for tea. He'll never know.

But then she did something that threw him completely off track. She winked.

Poor Charlie Holiday. He had a thing with people who winked. More often than not, he didn't know what to make of it. First of all, he wasn’t a very good winker and usually had to scrunch up half of his face in the effort to make sure his eye is closed, which defeats the whole purpose of the entire subtle act of winking in the first place.

He was admittedly judgemental in his dislike for winkers. It seemed that those who did it well usually were in the movies, the mafia, or at the very least, trying to sell you something you didn’t want. Rarely was it the case that it was, oh, say, an Italian woman in a café who did it with such style and elegance she would have won over the defenseless American 40-something man standing in front of her even if she were in the movies, in the mafia, and selling him something he didn’t want.

She was a pro. She probably gave classes at the local night school in 'Winking for Professionals and Politicians.' She was that good.

Still, he needed to read the manual on winking because he didn't know what to do in return. Do you wink back? What kind of message does that send? What did hers mean in the first place? Is there a left-eye or right-eye hierarchy? He didn't know and he didn't have time to ask and that would have been in Italian and he was pretty sure he couldn't have explained this in English, so just forget it. He did what he did in situations of extreme caution, he smiled. Like Dopey or maybe Sleepy, he just smiled slightly and looked back to the screen.

The password was incorrect.

She went off on another long sentence that sounded melodious and extremely important--as most Italian does--but it didn't really move the conversation along as he had no idea what she was going on about. Then she brought her hand up and with her palm facing up and with a forefinger, made a motion for him to come closer or maybe come with her or maybe it was just a twitch and it had no meaning.

She turned and headed down the counter over towards where it opened up to the café. She turned her head towards him, looked directly at him and again with the hand, the palm, and the finger.

His eyes opened wide and he did what came naturally, he took his own forefinger and pointed at his chest in a completely idiotic gesture, internationally understood: Do you mean me?

She gave a quick nod of her head to confirm, not to mention that the only other live human in the place was the 93-year old cappuccino-drinking man in the corner who hadn't moved, breathed, or had another sip of his drink since anyone last checked.

Charlie couldn't think of a reason to say no or balk or question, so he did what any good soldier does when the commander says to come along, he followed her.

Behind the counter was a short opening that led down to a cellar. She barely fit into it but she moved with such grace and serenity that she slithered down the stairs before anyone might ask, Do I really need to go downstairs for a WiFi password? He followed.

There are certain people who have such confidence and control of a situation that you don't question or comment or even judge. You just know they are in command and you do as you are told. Yeah, that wasn't Charlie. That was her. In case there was any confusion.

The staircase spiraled down and down and soon the light of the day above was gone and they were only following what seemed like coal mine lights complete with the protective cages around them. Finally, they arrived in a collection of subterranean rooms that could have been used as a fantastic wine restaurant—or a torture chamber. Depending.

Deep red bricks vaulted up to points in the ceiling with white plaster lining on five sides like a spider's web.

She was no longer waiting or talking or even summoning with that powerful forefinger, but instead, she kept walking through one room and into another. In the third room, through two doors and another passageway, she finally stopped.

There were two bar stools, another relic of a mine in a lantern that hung from above, a small table and what looked like a cork board full of small notes thumbtacked to it. She sat on one of the bar stools and gestured for him to sit at the other. He did.

Charlie opened his mouth to say, well, he wasn't sure what he was going to say at this point, but probably something like Um, I'd really just like a cup of tea and I can do without the WiFi. Or maybe keeping it simple with something brilliant like I need to get my bag upstairs. Or possibly, using his more James Bond School of Interrogation skills, Do you take everyone who needs the WiFi password down the stairs through a collection of beautiful caverns and sit them down at a little interrogation table complete with light overhead at seven in the morning to do, well, I don't even know what we're doing?

But Charlie said none of that because he was just not that clever. He was too curious about what they were doing there, and he doesn't speak more Italian than hello and goodbye which can be the same word. Ciao.

He sat.

She pointed at the board. He looked at the board. He looked at her. She pointed at the board. He looked at the board.

There were a collection of maybe 20 receipts and on the bottom of each one was a word written in blue ink.

He looked back to her and finally, she warmed Charlie’s heart: she smiled. He was so relieved. She was so motherly and pure, somehow he felt at ease and safe and even at home. But still, she didn't talk. Then she did yet again something that he will never be able to un-see. He should have averted his eyes. He should read the manual. He should open his judgement and not think anyone who does this is about to murder someone.

She winked.

At first, he thought it was just another friendly wink like upstairs, but this time when her one eye opened, her eye was no longer the same. It was like the girl on the street the night before. It was warm and yellow and bright and mesmerizing. It was like a cat at night.

But she wasn't a cat. And it wasn't night.