One Night at Giovanni’s

Giovanni's Dining hung inconspicuously in a small alley on 4th Avenue in New York City. To a random passerby, it would look like one of those alleys you see in the crime dramas; where the opening scene takes place and someone gets murdered. For the venturous and well-informed, it was an intimate little Italian restaurant with the best foods from every region of Italy.

Marco Eris was a regular. He sat in the far right corner of the restaurant, away from the entrance and opposite to the kitchen. A seat designed for lovers, newlyweds and those hoping to spark up their romance. It was housed in a cocoon of twinkling lights wrapped along faux grape vines with a mural of the Adriatic Sea painted along the walls. For Marco, he took it as his own. A place not of love, but escape.

"Some more, sir?" asked the waiter, holding out a bottle of Brunello. Marco nodded while staring idly at his phone.

There was always something to check. Always someone that would be expecting him to know something or solve this and that problem. Marco earned his life this way and even in his escape, he was bound to it. Like a symbiotic relationship, his work kept his wallet healthy so long as he gave it the attention it needed.

"Your appetizer will be out shortly, sir," the waiter said as he was passing by. Then he paused. "And I hope you won't mind, but tonight the chef wished to do something different. He is wondering if you would mind having all your courses out at once? He feels each dish may enhance the next."

"Yes, sure," muttered Marco as he responded to another inquiry on his phone.

After the waiter left, he put down his phone and scanned the restaurant. There was the usual crowd. The extraordinarily wealthy businessmen, in black suits and shiny bald heads with their trophy women, all at least 20 years younger. Whether they were their wives or mistresses, no one could ever be certain. But this was not a place for questions like that. This was a place to enjoy luxury. To feel like the world was at your fingertips.

Marco's phone vibrated. He picked it up and saw it was his wife, Fiona. She hoped he was having a good night and not to get too rowdy while she was away. As of now, she was in their villa in Mexico. Probably about to get fucked by the pool boy again as she did last night and the night before. Marco saw it on the hidden cameras, but he could not blame her. He was no better.

"And we have the bruschetta topped with grilled prosciutto, sliced parmesan, and tomatoes," said the waiter, placing the first dish in front of Marco. He walked back to the kitchen and brought out a small bowl of soup. "Fresh Italian Wedding with handmade orzo, housemade meatballs."

"Hmph," scuffed Marco. He did not enjoy having soup before a meal. To him, it was a waste of stomach real estate.

"Is everything alright, sir?" the waiter asked.

"Yes, just hurry up with the main dish."

The waiter briskly walked towards the kitchen, ignoring a request for water from a couple along the way. Out he came with a steamy plate, ignoring the couple once again and placed it on the table. It was chicken parmesan and looked like something from any rundown diner in the city.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

The waiter appeared distraught and stepped away to help another table.

"Hey!" yelled Marco. "You better tell that dickhead chef I'm not paying for this garbage. I don't care how it tastes, this is ridiculous!"

The waiter was finally flagged by the couple needing water and went to the kitchen to retrieve some.

"Really enhance the dish, huh?" Marco muttered to himself. "Yeah, this other stuff might help make up for that shit." And Marco began to eat.

He started with the soup. Despite his disposition, it was incredible. The broth was balanced as if on a tightrope that never teetered too far from the center. Then he crunched into the bruschetta. It sang melodies that brought his taste buds to tears. Finally, there was nothing left to try but the chicken parmesan.

The idea of eating it almost brought pain to Marco's chest. It was almost an insult to fine dining, to all his loyalty to this hidden eatery. He picked up his knife and fork and placed them aggressively on tomato-sauced chicken as if he were a serial killer about to disembowel his victim. As he cut, a blackened sludge from the inside poured out.

Marco sat back, aghast. "What the fuck?" he said loudly, but no one in the restaurant turned their head.

The meat appeared rotten. There was an algae-like fuzz among the black flakes of meat. Marco pushed the meat apart with his fork, separately the pieces of rotten flesh.

"Waiter!" he called. But the waiter kept running his rounds.

"This is ridiculous," said Marco and he tried to stand but his legs wouldn't let him. It was as if he glued in place. No matter how hard he fought, his legs would not lift.

As he pressed himself against the edges of his chair, he watched as the rest of his food began to turn. The bread of the bruschetta grew moldy, the broth of the soup went pale, and the aroma of death began to waft through the air. Even the restaurant began to change.

First went the trellises. The great network of white-painted scaffolds that supported the faux grapes vines through the restaurant began to break apart. Most fell without consequence, but some landed on tables and knocked over glasses. Still, the patrons carried on as if nothing happened. And that was when the place began to crumble.

The walls of the building collapsed, followed by the building on the other side of the alley. Then, the streets lay exposed but continued to run with the hustle and bustle of traffic. Beyond, one by one, the buildings New York fell to the ground. And with nothing left to protect Marco from the elements, the cold winds of the night blew through.

"What the fuck?" cried Marco as he shook in his chair.

His phone vibrated. He checked it. "999 missed messages, 999 missed calls." Marco flipped through and checked each message and call. They all turned up blank. Every message was empty and every missed call had no number. In a bout of desperation, he tried dialing his wife.

The phone rang and rang once more before connecting. It switched immediately to facetime and Marco watched the moaning face of his wife and the pool boy having his way with her. She looked at Marco for a moment and smiled before throwing the phone on the ground. It rested, looking up at the two-headed beast.

Marco threw his phone onto the ground in repulsion. It landed on the concrete, scraping against the light coat of sand that blew along the ground. Through his tears, Marco gazed around at what was once Giovanni's Dining to find a desolate landscape of sand and broken rock. The patrons were reduced to skeletons, yet they still seemed to be smiling.

Marco, broken and alone, cast his head into his hands. He wept like he never had before. He felt the sum of all his parts come to life. For all he planted in life rotted beneath him, for all he neglected to nurture lay withered at his feet. Wrapped in his despair he heard the patter of footsteps.

The waiter stood next to his table with a bottle of Brunello.

"Some more, sir?" he asked.

Marco seemed to awake from his nightmare. He looked around at the restaurant walls and the customers who were happily in conversation with each other. Pavarotti filled the air. On his table, were a set of unused utensils and an empty wine glass.

Did he drink too much? He didn’t know. What he did know was the reflection of his life was not a false cloak of illusion. It was as much a nightmare as it was his reality. Only change could change his fate. Change and the effort to change. He would have to do away with the restaurant, with his job, with his life and start all over again. Everything would have to be different and it scared him.

“Sir?”

Marco gazed up at the open bottle of wine, pausing for a moment. He gave a grave nod.

"Some more."