Life Aches: In and Out of the Fishbowl

By Tim Toterhi

Sometimes it takes a little magic to mend a broken heart.

Thomas Fenelli used to be a winner. Then he hit bottom and kept digging. His best friend’s a fish. His brother’s a philandering bully. And he’s haunted by a girl who ghosted him. He’s lost his career, his self-respect, and all hope of maintaining his sanity.

He’s about to give up on life when he meets Noelia, a Spanish beauty who exists only within the walls of the Thomas Paine Cottage Museum in New Rochelle, New York. She leaps from the paintings and into his heart, restoring his self-confidence and teaching him how to move forward.

When Noelia’s museum is marked for demolition, her existence is threatened. Now Thomas must struggle to rebuild his life while rescuing the spirit who saved him from himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tim Toterhi
• Release date: Sep 25, 2020

Tim Toterhi

Tim works as an organization development professional with a focus on talent management, leadership development and large-scale change. He is also a sought after executive coach and speaker. He holds a BA in Communications and an MBA in International Management from Iona College. To learn more visit www.timtoterhi.comFictionTim’s fiction has been described as part philosophical adventure, part paranormal crime, with just the right amount of offbeat humor. His works include:• Both Sides of Broken• Lunches with Larry• The Amazing and Somewhat Sarcastic Tad• Two Minutes Too Late: Stories of Lost Love and Missed OpportunitiesNon-fictionTim has authored over 20 articles on business best practices. His books include:• Strategic Planning Unleashed: An Applied Methodology and Toolkit• Defend Yourself: Developing a Personal Safety Strategy. 50% of profits from this book will be donated to RAINN, the nation's largest anti-sexual violence organization.• Fast Cycle Strategic Planning: An Applied Playbook

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

***

A pure heart will never cease to speak.

You, however, may cease to listen.

***

His mobile phone was on the third ring, but Vinny Fenelli wasn’t about to spoil his nooner to answer a call from some lounge lizard who couldn’t figure out the financing on a pogo stick. He closed his eyes, pushed the day’s demands from his mind, and continued rear-ending Tracey, his gum-cracking booty call.

She was a bad girl in a good way, but even with her prompting and panting, the moment was lost, and the session concluded without ejaculation punctuated by the beep of his voicemail. Vinny extricated himself from the floozy, playfully smacked her ass as if it were a proper apology, and knee-walked his way to the edge of the bed.

The wife? asked Tracey.

Vinny thumbed through the call history as he ditched the spent Trojan. No, just my idiot brother. If he screwed up another—

Jeez. Cut him some slack. He’s been at the dealership what, two months?

Two months without a sale. I gave him the job out of pity, but pity don’t pay. Vinny checked his watch and sighed. I gotta run. Dibs on the shower?

Go ahead. My shift don’t start till two and I’m in no hurry to help with the lunch crowd. Unless you want to go together. Maybe a little makeup game?

Vinny smiled despite himself. He wasn’t sure when women started playing like men, but he was a fan of the game. You’d never start a chicken head like Tracey, of course, but she was a damn good pinch hitter, a great clutch fuck. No time, babe. Thursday?

Sure, but let’s do the Ramada. This Motor Inn business has to go. I feel like I need a tetanus shot.

***

Vinny arrived at the dealership to find his cast of Costellos doing a big bunch of nothing. Fat Billy was sweet-talking the same old lady Johnny had wasted time on the week before. Hank was chatting up a skinny twenty-something with anatomically improbable breasts. And the rest of the lot lizards were jockeying around the watercooler talking shit.

It was slow even for a Tuesday afternoon, with the lot void of customers save for a pair of newlyweds talking with Jesus about a pre-owned Mazda 3. Vinny watched them awhile and silently celebrated when the trio shook hands and his favorite little Mexican strode proudly through the showroom door.

That’s another one, bitches. Jesus in the house! He tossed the paperwork to the finance guy, high-fived Vinny, and shot a double bird at the competition. "You putas are in my rear view."

Billy walked over, having been unsuccessful with the geezer. You and that pre-owned crap. Shouldn’t even count. This is a Ford dealership. You know, American cars.

"A sale is a sale, cocha. Am I right, Vinny?"

Hell yeah. I can always count on Jesus.

"Yo, man, it’s Hey-Zeus. You got to be respectful on that shit, homes."

Vinny notched the sales board. Where’s Tommy?

I think he’s taking a shit, bro, said Jesus. Most productive thing that guys’s done all month.

Hey, dick bag, called Jesus, turning his attention to the break room. Your brother wants to tear you a new one. Come on out, probie.

Hank said goodbye to the Barbie and inserted himself into the conversation. Vinny, could you tell your amigo here to clean it up? This is a business, not a locker room. Our customers expect—

What customers? asked Jesus. The place is dead. Besides, looked like you were the buyer in that exchange. What’s her hourly rate anyway? Just curious.

Screw you, wetback.

Oh, now that’s professional. Vin, can I sue for harassment?

Vinny smiled. Only if he tries to bend you over. Now go sell something, will ya?

Vinny walked past the finance desk to his office. As he pushed through the door, he caught sight of his brother, donut in one hand, coffee in the other. Thomas transferred the pastry to his mouth and tried not to spill the coffee as he adjusted his fly.

You’re a train wreck, said Vinny. What’s the problem, bro? Job too challenging for an MBA . . . or maybe just too real?

Thomas’s posture deflated further. He hated having to ask his brother for a favor, but he needed the work. Eight months of unemployment preceded by two years of piss-poor choices had killed his credit, ravaged his savings, and made a mockery of his once-promising consulting career.

Not today, okay?

Vinny cast him a disgusted look. Okay, when? When are you going to take your head out of your ass and get back in the game? She’s gone. Hell, she was gone before she left. So snap out of it.

Thomas tossed the donut into the trash. I know. It’s—

Nothing, said Vinny. You two were over in grad school. What happened later was a shame. She was a sweet kid, but it’s history and you need to deal with it.

Thomas started to protest but thought better of it.

Actually, what you need to do is sell some cars. No more free rides, Tommy boy. Our numbers suck and you’re screwing the pooch on sales the Mexican could close in his sleep.

I, um . . .

No, forget it. I hate to be a prick, but you’re officially off training pay. That means full commission like the rest of the lizards. Put some points on the board by the end of the week or make tracks.

Vinny spun on his heels and marched toward the showroom. Thomas slumped in his chair and caressed his coffee cup as if the container would spawn a generous genie. It didn’t.

CHAPTER 2

The day concluded without event. Vinny talked briefly about keeping the place open till nine after the owner called and gave him grief about the monthly projections, but it was dead, dark, and unseasonably cold. When an icy rain began, dotting the windshields of his overstocked inventory, he signaled to Jesus to shut her down. Another two hours wasn’t going to help anyone at Sal’s Auto Mall. Besides, given his afternoon shenanigans, he needed to put in a little face time at home. Flowers, sweet talk, and a nice bottle of red. Gianna was a pain in the ass, but she was predictable. He’d push the right buttons.

***

Thomas was initially pleased with the decision. Though, as the new guy, he had to help the closer. That meant an hour of taking shit and running cars for Jesus. Thomas dreaded the chore, but the Mexican was uncharacteristically gracious, limiting his insults to three pendejos and a maricón. By eight thirty the pair parted, and Thomas went to the local bodega, searching for sustenance.

Completing his mission, Thomas paid the grocer, collected his bags, and stepped onto the rainy sidewalk. The wind pressed hard and cold through the tattered awning, turning the droplets to slivers of ice. The pellets bounced and crackled on the street. He sighed at the darkened sky and tried to remember sunshine.

A familiar patch of blinking neon called him from down the street. He didn’t want to spend another weeknight on a barstool. He was supposed to turn things around today. Dinner, a movie, maybe a plan or two . . . But by the time his consciousness retook the yoke he was staring at a small tower of shot glasses and the empty end of a beer, his fifth.

He sat in silence, swishing the last swallow about the bottom of the bottle. He picked at a tattered label, then lifted the beverage to his lips. A shiny metal beer tap offered a distorted reflection. The sight amused him. Sometimes busted mirrors give the most accurate accounts.

The bartender motioned at his glass, but Thomas shook away the offer. He slid a pair of twenties he couldn’t afford under the bottle, shrugged a goodbye, and pushed through the door. The rain had let up a little, but it had gotten colder. He was shivering by the time he reached his apartment.

His knuckles scraped against the metal door as his frozen fingers awkwardly attempted to guide his keys. They finally found their place and released the bolt with a thud. Tired, tipsy, he tripped into his studio. He pushed the door closed, shed his clothes down the darkened entryway, and parked his heavy head on the pillow.

He eased into a moment of tranquility, sinking deep into the plush pillows. He wanted the feeling to last forever, but the room had other plans. It began to spin and bob, jostling his stomach contents. They rose up his esophagus and he tried to swallow, but it was too late. Green, heaving, he sprinted to the bathroom and lurched over the bowl.

Christ.

He sank to the floor, legs straddling the toilet. He hit the flusher, but the smell stayed. It made his stomach tighten, but there was nothing left to lose.

Thomas rose slowly and tried to brush the taste from his mouth. No luck. He gargled. Nothing. He reached for the brush again but stopped himself. Guilt and booze never mixed too well for him. And there was always something to feel guilty about.

He washed his face with hot water, then cold. He shook himself dry, popped a pair of aspirins, and slapped his face, a bit harder than he’d intended.

He retrieved a pistol from its spot under the sink and watched himself in the mirror, rubbing a finger along its barrel. He imagined himself wrapped in a moment of foolish bravado. He’d swallow the tip and squeeze the trigger with an authority he could never muster in reality. Finally something finished, something done. He closed his eyes and imagined it complete. He could almost taste the warm residue of a wasted round. If only he had the courage.

Coward, mumbled Thomas.

He clicked on the safety and replaced the weapon.

Dejected, he walked back to the bedroom and collapsed. There was work to do. A million things, if only he had the motivation. He searched for a reason, but not too hard. Soon he was drifting, trying not to think and doing a good job of it.

He fought off slumber long enough to grab a framed picture from the nightstand drawer. He caressed it, then laid it flat. He wanted so much to speak, but sleep stole him away.

CHAPTER 3

Lou glided over the polished purple stones that comprised the bed of his synthetic sea. He moved through a tunnel of gray slate, past a mermaid who never smiled, and hovered over a plastic treasure chest.

The filter’s steady stream of white noise eased him into the morning. He closed his eyes and bounced in time with the humming. His belly rumbled, shaking him from his thoughts. He checked the clock. Breakfast. Precisely sixteen minutes from a tender young guppy. Lou swam to the edge of the tank and smiled at the thought of his drunken benefactor. Another rumble and the smiled faded.

Wake up, snapper head! shouted Lou.

His voice was muffled by the water but retained a brassy tone that carried clear to the bedroom.

Thomas stirred, then sighed at what sounded like the bellowing of a charismatic Darth Vader. He pictured Barry White behind the famed mask and quickly shook the image away. He was all too accustomed to the oscar’s wake-up calls and he was in no mood for it. His clock flashed six and the alarm filled the air with adult contemporary.

You’re early, called Thomas to the fish at the center of his studio apartment.

I’m hungry, said Lou.

Thomas rubbed the itch from his head and the sleep from his eyes. Of course you are, he mumbled. He showered, changed, and ambled over.

Where’ve you been? asked Lou. I’m starving over here.

Christ. All right already. In a minute.

Thomas clicked on the coffee maker and retrieved a plastic fishnet from the cabinet. Capturing an unlucky goldfish from the bait tank, he tossed it to Lou.

Yeah, baby. Come to Papa.

Lou giggled as the tiny critter tried to hide. It was useless. The tank was small, and after eighteen years he could navigate the terrain backward and blindfolded. He watched the goldfish scurry behind the treasure chest. Bad move. He might have added some seconds to existence if he’d gone for the cave, but the chest? No chance.

Boo! said Lou, startling the goldfish into motion.

Lou watched the little one bolt from his hideout, swimming on instinct, propelled by fear, sensing this trip around the proverbial pond was about to end. He backpedaled and bounced off the glass. Panicked, the goldfish swam straight at Lou. Mouth open, eyes wide, Lou almost laughed as the dopey thing shot straight into his mouth.

Lou belched an air bubble that wobbled to the surface. Now that’s what I’m talking about. Goldies are some good eating.

You’re disgusting.

The hell I am. It’s the natural order of things. Can’t get upset about nature.

So you wouldn’t mind if I threw in a piranha?

Lou pouted and shrugged his fins. You wouldn’t do that to me would ya, buddy?

Thomas offered the oscar a playful glance and threw his hands up as if he could go either way on the subject.

By the way, handsome, said Lou, you look like a blowfish that was gang raped by a school of furry trout.

What?

You need a shave.

Thomas, unusually baby-faced given his Italian heritage, was surprised to feel the stubble. Yeah, guess I’m due.

Looks and brains, ladies. Watch out!

Thomas ignored the insult, loosened his tie, and walked to the bathroom. The mirror wasn’t kind, offering bloodshot eyes, tousled hair, and a puffy, red completion. He went to work on his whiskers and emerged a few minutes later, ready for breakfast.

Now there’s my George Clooney, said Lou.

Give it a rest, fish brain.

Thomas grabbed a bowl and slumped onto one of the two space-saving stools tucked beneath the counter of his kitchenette. Cornflakes and milk. Every day the same soggy slop. He pushed it aside and opened the fridge. Ketchup, flat soda, and an unopened jar of sweet gherkins. He considered tossing them all but didn’t. They at least had the decency to stick around. He ran a hand through his thick hair.

You’re doing it again, said Lou.

Doing what? asked Thomas.

Wishing her back.

Silence crept over the room and hushed even the buzzing of the filter.

She’s not coming back, you know. She can’t.

Thomas’s face grew cold. The woman was holy ground to Thomas and the fish had no business bringing her up.

Oh, come on, said Lou. Don’t be sore.

Thomas rose from the table, grabbed a briefcase he didn’t need, and left without a word.

***

March was still masquerading as January and a swirl of arctic air assaulted Thomas as he pushed through his apartment door. He fumbled his coat buttons into place and searched his pockets for the gloves he’d forgotten. Snowflakes swarmed about the gray morning, filling his hair. He hated winter. Everyone did, or so he thought. But there was something about the whiteness that made it bearable.

Thomas scooped a handful from his windshield and patted it into a sphere. It had snowed more when he was young, enough for forts and fights and even an angel or two when no one was looking. He tossed the ball at a nearby sign and missed. There seemed to be a lot more of everything in the past.

The weather increased as he pulled to the highway, forcing him to click on well-worn wipers. They grated across the gritty surface, coating the glass with a thick layer of brown sludge. He pulled an inoperative spray lever and sighed. Figures, he said.

He slowed and veered right until his tires met gravel. Hazards flashing, he jammed the car into park and walked to the rear to examine the trunk.

With all the shit I got in here you’d figure there’d be something useful.

He slammed it shut and began searching the roadside for a newspaper or decent-sized scrap of litter. A quick scan revealed only a plastic sandwich bag and some broken beer bottles. He slumped onto the hood and watched the sky. It grew darker as the size and quantity of the flakes increased. His Monte Carlo handled like a skateboard in wet weather. Accumulation or not, the ride home would be rough.

A horn sounded, shaking him from his thoughts. Eight o’clock was approaching faster than he anticipated. The last thing he needed was another run-in with Vinny. Desperate, he hopped off the hood and used his tie to clear the windshield. He examined the damage and tossed the stained accessory to the street. Dry cleaners can only do so much.

Ten minutes of local traffic guided him to Westchester’s only auto mall. The sprawling campus sported six dealerships, two traffic lights, and one very wealthy owner. Thomas had never met him and didn’t care to. Engaging the successful never proved the inspiration he hoped. It just made him feel like a loser.

He hurriedly maneuvered about the main service road, ignoring the ridiculous five-mile-per-hour speed limit. The second light turned red as he approached, and he reluctantly slowed. Most of the salesmen treated the lights with casual indifference. They could afford the artificial traffic tickets liberally distributed by Mr. Roach, the complex’s glorified meter maid. In lieu of a decent salary, Sal furnished him with the right to distribute speeding, parking, and what jokingly became known as stupidity tickets to the lot lizards, who wagered on who got the most and most creative fine each month. Thomas had had the honor of winning both titles in his brief tenure, a feat he could ill afford to repeat.

The light changed and Thomas eased the ancient Chevy into motion. Dozens of overpriced vehicles dotted the used-car lot. He scanned them slowly as he drove. One more trip to the repair shop and he’d be at the ass end of a negotiation with Jesus.

He pulled into his usual spot next to the front of the Ford showroom. An unfamiliar sign confronted him as he exited the vehicle.

Reserved? asked Thomas of no one in particular. Reserved for who?

Thomas removed his coat, tossed his keys on his desk, and scanned a surprisingly busy showroom for signs of an explanation. Katie, the dealership’s girl Friday, met his glance and approached with a smile.

She wore an inexpensive but form-fitting navy skirt suit paired with black shoes that were sensible without making her look like a truck-stop waitress. She was slim, with warm eyes and long brown locks that would put those Herbal Essence shampoo girls to shame.

What’s with the sign? asked Thomas, pointing toward the parking lot.

Forget that. Sal’s here. Vinny’s pissed. And they’re both looking for you.

Me? Why me?

Don’t know. You had a run-in with Vinny yesterday?

Thomas dropped his eyes, embarrassed. It’s okay to be a coward in private, but to be publicly bitch-slapped by your brother was too much to bear. He wasn’t ready to entertain the thought of a romantic relationship, but he’d come to appreciate Katie’s friendship. The thought of losing that over an idiotic exchange was unbearable. He could already count his friends on one hand, and had enough digits left over to hitchhike, pick his nose, and flick off the world.

It wasn’t like that, said Thomas. He’s just under a lot of pressure. Sal may own the place, but he’s a figurehead. Vinny runs the day-to-day.

Katie patted his forearm and offered a smile neither of them believed. You give him too much credit, Tom. He’s not the boy you looked up to as a kid.

Thomas shrugged off the comment and snagged his coffee mug from his desk. Speaking of kids, how’s Bobby doing?

The remnants of her smile faded, leaving a hint of a frown. Could be better. Had another teacher conference yesterday. Seems he’s still getting picked on.

Why? He’s a good-looking kid. Smart. Personable enough.

He’s eight. That means Little League and Boy Scouts and father−son picnics. I try to be the cool mom, but . . . Her voice faded to a whisper.

Thomas wanted to comfort her, but he hadn’t held a woman even in thought since the day he got the news about Vicky. He mumbled a note of encouragement, but it was so soft Katie didn’t notice.

She shook off the melancholy and focused on Thomas. You look a mess, she said, straightening his hair and smoothing his shirt.

Thomas was taken aback by her touch and smiled briefly as an image of his mother darted across his consciousness. She caught the expression, but let it slide.

Where’s your tie?

Car trouble. Don’t ask.

Jesus. Here. Wait a minute. She walked to her cubicle, rummaged through her drawers, and produced a light-blue tie accented with gray stripes so fine you had to peer to notice them. Not a perfect match, but it’ll do.

Thomas worked the cloth into a half-assed double Windsor and laughed for the first time in months when Katie smacked his hands away and straightened it into a proper knot.

There. Now go get ’em. She gave him a playful punch to the shoulder and darted back to her desk.

***

Thomas took a quick detour on the way to Vinny’s office, stopping at the bathroom to empty his nervous bladder and admire Katie’s handiwork. She was such a sweetheart. He couldn’t understand why someone would run out on her. Sure, eighteen and pregnant is no easy road, but it’s not unheard of. Whoever the bastard was, it was his loss. Katie was a gem and Bobby was quite the kid. He’d grow up fast, but he’d grow up well.

He splashed his face with icy water, washing the image from his mind. He thought about giving himself a pep talk, but there were no words. Instead, he looked deeper into his reflection, struggling to see the man he was when things were fine. Reality shone mercilessly through the façade, so he showed it his back and walked through the door.

Hey, dick boy, said Jesus, meeting him in the hall. Sal and Vinny are waiting for you.

You know what it’s about?

It ain’t good. Word is Sal hired some new guys to push the numbers. Reserved parking spaces as a perk for the big guns. What bullshit. I got the big gun right here, said Jesus motioning to his crotch.

But why?

We came in last again. That’s why.

Last? How?

"Seriously? You’re supposed to be some kind of fucking genius and you can’t figure this? Come on. I kicked ass, but Fat Billy, Johnny, and Hank missed quota, much like the rest of those putas, and you didn’t sell shit. No offense."

The door to the back office flew open and a fat man emerged. He chomped on a cigar as he scanned for his prey.

Fenelli, get in here, said Sal.

Good luck, probie, said Jesus.

Thomas slumped into the office.

Sit, said Sal, motioning to the office’s sleeper sofa.

Thomas did so reluctantly. It was common knowledge that Vinny made liberal use of the tattered couch with his conquests and it gave him pause to cozy up on a CSI nightmare.

Look, I’ve just gone over the numbers with Vinny and, as you know, things ain’t so good. Sal motioned to the corner of the room and for the first time Thomas noticed his brother. He was standing quietly, thumbing through the pages of a sales report and pretending not to notice either man.

So, here’s the thing, said Sal. You’re out.

What? asked Thomas, rising to his feet. I just spent two months learning the business. You have to at least give me a shot. He glanced at his brother, but Vinny refused