CHAPTER 1: Wormy Mess

Monday

On the day Perry Azzo would get his first blowjob in two decades, he woke up extra early to dig for worms. The forecast was hot and sunny, the kids were outta school, and his wife Jane was done with teaching for the summer. But there wasn’t any fishing afoot. 

Perry was no angler. Numbers were his game - breaking them down, matching them up, balancing them out. Twenty years now as an accountant, Certified Professional, to be precise. But that CPA credential was only one asset in his portfolio. 

His true wheelhouse? Entrepreneurialism. 

Sure, he lacked any bona fides in self-starting business endeavors, but his go-getter spirit was undeniable. Just ask him.

 

“Always choose attitude over experience. Always.”

 

It was his favorite quote from Shark Tank, his favorite TV show, said by the older lady, who he ranked as his fourth favorite shark. 

Yes, Perry loved his quotes, believing in their motivational powers when strategically deployed to impressionable ears.

 

Summer Vacation = Summer Jobs!

 

That one had been the family mandate since the kids could crayon For Sale onto construction paper. Bake sales, lemonade stands. Washing cars, mowing lawns. They’d done it all. 

But it was another pithy saying that had left him tossing and turning the night before. 

Like most teenagers, his kids wanted to sleep in on their first day of summer vacation. But getting a jump on the day was essential to success, so Perry had warned them not to stay up late.

“Early bird gets the worm.”

 

He immediately regretted saying it. Such a feeble cliché. But later, mulling over ideas for kicking their day off right, he reconsidered. Maybe it wasn’t such a clunker. Clichés existed because they spoke truths. Dammit, the early bird should get the worm. 

So, there was Perry, hopping out of bed at 5:50 AM. He slept in his underwear and Sopranos t-shirt, so only needed to pull on the red lycra compression pants he liked to work-out in. (Jane called them tights - but they weren’t.) Barefoot, he bounded downstairs, out the door, and into the already warm, dewy air. 

Needing a shovel, he ducked into the garage - a disaster zone of busted furniture, holiday crap and abandoned projects. He wished the mess was manlier. Cool garages had oily motor parts, bulky power tools and pin-up calendars of sexy girls holding wrenches. But who was he kidding? He wouldn’t know what to do with any of that stuff.

Case in point: the Dining Room Fixture Incident.

Feeling valiente after two Taco Tuesday margaritas, Perry got on a kitchen stool to install the ceiling fan Jane had bought weeks earlier. 

“Just unscrew the screws and unwire the wires. Piece of cake.”

The zap launched him onto the dining room table, sending Jane’s homemade guac and chips platter airborne. They had dinner at Taco Bell.

 

He spotted a shovelesque handle sticking out of the storage loft at the back end of the garage, where more junk got mothballed. The ladder didn’t look sturdy, but he couldn’t quite get to one. Why was everything always just out of reach? 

Self-conscious about his height since capping out a touch shy of five and a half feet, he’d developed a nervous habit of bouncing up on his toes in hopes he’d come off as a bit more than he was. But stature stretching sometimes came in handy, and with a full-on lunge his fingertips grazed the handle enough to jostle something unseen. 

A thud at his feet. Perry gasped at the sight. One of his old notepads - a mini-spiral with the black-and-white speckled cover. He hadn’t thought about them in a very long time. 

He almost left it on the floor, but once he caught his breath and mustered his nerve, he picked it up and squinted at the first few pages - all slapdash words and slipshod doodlings. Sketches and lists and general scribbledehobble. He couldn’t make out much without his glasses, but he felt it all. Every bit - a deep clench in his gut. 

But then the pages went blank. Unmarked. 

Had he run out of ideas? 

Or just… given up? 

He stuck it into the waistband of his workout pants and looked back up at the loft. Beckoned. 

Perry had more chub than he wanted at forty-two but could still suck it in enough to consider himself naked in the mirror, which he did more often than he’d ever admit. “I’d hate to have to tangle with you,” he sometimes told his reflection when he was sure no one could hear. “You’re one solid dude.”

He chanced the rickety ladder and peered into the loft. A small window let in enough early light to see the handle belonged to a broom, back amongst other cobwebbed clutter. Beside it, a toppled documents box labeled: PRIVATE, with more notepads spilled out. 

How in the world had one bounced all the way out to the floor?

From his early teens through senior year - an awkward, oftentimes lonely stretch (before discovering his superpower) - Perry had faithfully written in them. Not so much a running diary of his life or deepest secrets, but a logging of whatever random brainstorms or fancies flitted into his mind. Along with an extensive chronicle of his ambitions: everything he wanted to do, become, get, experience, buy, try, feel and accomplish. Big plans. 

He couldn’t recall why he’d stopped. Most likely, he'd simply outgrown it. But maybe… maybe he had an inkling way back when that he was already falling short. Maybe he’d chosen to quit while he was, if not in any way ahead, not yet too far behind. And now, maybe it was wiser to leave those old pages undisturbed. In case those little time-capsules would confirm his deepest fear - that he’d failed to make good on a single dream.

He backed down the ladder and got the hell out of there. Outside, a shovel leaned against the garage wall. Perry grabbed it.

 

The Azzo abode was on Butternut Court, just before the street flared into a cul-de-sac. They’d bought it three years ago, when the subdivision was the hottest real estate in town. Everyone wanted a squash address - houses on Acorn and Butternut sold in nothing flat, while Carnival and Pattypan lots had offers before the roads got paved. The Azzos paid over asking. Perry never even haggled.

They got a three-bedroom, two-and-a-half-bath contemporary ranch sided in cheerful apricot, with chartreuse window trim providing unexpected pop. Inside, ten-foot ceilings, a convenient kitchen island and a stylish mélange of hardwood, tile and plush carpeting. The abundant exterior featured a covered front porch, a backyard perfect for entertaining and that bonus loft in the detached garage. They got the dream.

I should’ve haggled, Perry thought, for the thousandth time, carrying his shovel to the vacant lot directly across the street, where a faded billboard showcased the developer’s master plan - a constant reminder that the Azzos resided bang on the edge of total failure. Squashtown was a scam from the start. Design, materials and workmanship were all sub-standard, leaving the proud new homeowners with leaky windows, faulty wiring and shitty plumbing.

With a half-hearted wind-up, Perry swung the shovel against the sign. He knew it wouldn’t budge. He’d tried before. 

One of the few things that did work was the irrigation system, so he had to avoid the sprinkler streams watering the never-mowed grass. He jammed the shovel into it and turned over a mound of soil, revealing the pulsating wriggle of a plump, unsuspecting nightcrawler. He tugged its brown length to a near-breaking pink before it came free. About to head off, other squirmers emerged. The more, the merrier. He gathered a fistful.  

That’s when the dancing rainbows hit. A glint of sunlight caught his eye and he turned at exactly the right instant and requisite angle to witness the formation of a series of miraculous dancing rainbows. In his strained squat, on that random patch of grass, an incredible confluence of positioning and perspective occurred. ROYGBIV tumbled toward him, the full spectrum flitting through the sprinkler droplets as tiny wet prisms. 

Perry didn’t go in for religion, but in those few fleeting moments he wouldn’t have dared dismiss a suggestion that maybe God was occasionally paying attention. He breathed it in, the promise of spontaneous beauty, and it somehow soothed the unease in his gut. He decided right then. This summer was going to be nothing short of sensational. 

 

Back inside, Perry scrawled Good Morning, Early Bird! on a sheet of paper. He plopped his clew of worms on it and placed it in the hallway between the kids’ rooms, then pounded on both doors.

“Rise and shine! Summer meeting at seven sharp!” 

Only back in his bedroom did Perry notice his old notepad still in his waistband. Distressed by it, he shoved it into his briefcase and got on his StairMaster. Behind schedule, he doubled his usual pace, hoping to earn back time while still hitting his target calorie burn. Huffing, puffing and perspiring, the anticipation of his earlier rising kid’s impending discovery kept him cranking.

He looked at the lump of Jane in bed, asleep on her side, safeguarded by a bulwark of decorative pillows. Why such a contemptuous defense? Wasn’t it him that proposed the policy suspending sexual intercourse? He wasn’t exactly an imminent threat.

His idea was that a temporary cessation might help motivate her to lose those pesky pounds she’d been complaining about over the past year - and he’d been fretting about for the past three. A reward they could both look forward to would make it a team effort. He wasn’t under any illusions that he was so desirable in the sack that his unavailability would be a true incentivizing force, he merely wanted to add some sweetener, keep it light and fun. 

He’d rehearsed the conversation many times before finally summoning the nerve to broach the subject that past winter. It went nothing like he’d hoped, not light or fun. Calling his recommended weight-loss target her “loving size” was a mistake, he realized that now. He should have helped her establish her own goals - Business Management 101.

Pillow blockade notwithstanding, now he wasn’t sure if they were, as a matter of factuality, observing a moratorium. If so, there’d been zero discussion of terms or details. More likely, she’d unilaterally instituted her own stoppage, subject to her own rules, which he might never be privy to. It was hard to know, she’d said very little to him of late. But it wasn’t hard to know things were going in the wrong direction. He couldn’t accurately assess her figure the way she was burrowed under there, but the lump sure wasn’t any skinnier.

Only the back of her neck was visible, where a few rogue locks of darker hair lingered free beneath the blonde. He loved that contrast, the mysterious darkness shrouded under the comely colored coiffure. The mere sight of those shadowy strands peeking out still took his breath away.

Yet another pillow covered her head. Soft and fluffy, its loose edges hooded her face in just such a way to suggest he could easily clamp them together and smother her. 

Wait! What? 

He didn’t want to kill his wife. 

Did he want to kill his wife? 

Of course not. 

What kinda thought was that? He loved Janey. His sweet Jane. He’d never smother her. Or harm her in any way. Sure, their relationship was strained lately, maybe longer, but he’d never resort to murder. He loved his Janey.   

Stay focused! he told himself, legs pumping to the final interval of his workout. Fading fast, he shut it down a bit shy of his target. He took a moment to check out his calves, gleaming with sweat through the matted leg hair coating them like socks. Pointing his toes to boost definition, his right calf cramped. Son of a bitch. He was about to scream when a shriek sounded from the hallway. 

“What the fuck?” Kerry yelled. “Jesus!”

Jane stirred. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, honey.” He limped past the bed of many pillows to the hallway. “Go back to sleep.”

Wearing a shapeless nightgown of something like burlap, his daughter stood on one leg while lifting her other. “Who took a shit in the hallway?”

She peeled a goop of worms off her instep. 

“Sorry Ker-Ker,” he said, gesturing to the smeared sign. “Early bird gets the worm.”

“That’s disgusting!” She flung the muck at him and stormed into her room.

He wiped the wormy mess off Tony Soprano. “Didn’t you read the sign?” 

 

Perry showered, shaved, and chose his outfit: royal blue blazer (sharp, seasonal), lavender shirt (classy) and Bistro Beige chinos (traditional, comfortable). He took pride in his wardrobe, incorporating subtle changes to keep things interesting. For example, though he owned seven pairs of khakis, they were each of a different hue. (Caramel, Acorn, Toast…) 

But no one ever noticed. 

Even Jane, who was well acquainted with the particulars of his closet, never once brought up his flair for sartorial nuance.

The talk was all socks. 

Perry had worn wacky socks since his CPA exam days, his personal rebellion against accountant stereotypes. Not just fanciful colors and patterns, he went aardvarks to zebras, aliens to zombies. Who can say you’re a bore when Daffy Duck adorns your feet? 

“Hey Azzo, let’s see your socks!”

At first? A fun gimmick. Everyone got a kick out of them. Now? A curse. He felt typecast. A one-trick pony with a drawer full of silliness. A trifling claim to stifling fame. 

His cheekiness didn’t extend to neckties. A committed half-windsor man, Perry stood in tighty-whities and black and yellow zig-zag socks watching his motorized tie rack rotate options. He selected a muted paisley for himself and a good conservative starter tie for Jerry - blue and red diagonal stripes conveying an ideal alliance of ambition and respect. 

Jerry exhibited neither when Perry held it up. “That tie’s stupid.”

“No, it’s perfect.” Perry looped it around his own neck. “Okay, you put the wide end over the skinny end and wrap it back under-”

“Why do I need to wear a tie?”

Perry was looking forward to a summer dispensing his nuggets of wisdom. “It’s a place of business and you’re a young businessman. You need to look the part.”

“Is the part a dork?”

“Are you watching, Jer?”

“Can’t I just get a clip-on?”

Perry froze. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious.”

 Perry pressed on. “Now squish it back up and under to get the little triangle… and voilà!”

“No way I’m ever doing that.”

“Anybody can do anything that he imagines. Henry Ford said that.”

“Can I wear your naked lady socks? I can imagine that.”

“I don’t have naked lady socks,” Perry lied.

“Yeah, you do. I’ve seen them.”

Perry took the tie off his neck and held it out. “Now you try.”

Jerry took hold like it was a dead skunk. 

“I threw them away,” Perry lied again. “They were inappropriate.”

“Can I wear your Budweisers?”

“No. Wear black ones. That’s not a road you want to go down.”

“Why not?” 

“Because I said.”

“Why aren’t you wearing black ones?” Jerry looked at his dad’s feet. “What are those, bumblebees?”

“Peanuts.”

“What? They’re not peanuts.”

Perry held out the tie. “Will you please put it around your neck?”

Jerry didn’t move. He was confused.

“Charlie Brown,” Perry explained. “Remember his shirt?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You have to learn to tie a tie, Jer. I’m afraid that’s non-negotiable. If you can’t tie a tie, you’ll be a loser.”

Jerry fastened it into a headband. “Like so?”

Perry grabbed it. “Call to order’s in four minutes, so I’ll do it, but today only.” He produced a perfect knot and hung it on the doorknob. “Downstairs in two, big guy.”