This is the start of an all-new series about an M/M/F polyamorous relationship, set in the Italian district of my hometown. The narrative is inspired by the story-driven video game, ‘What Remains of Edith Finch.’
Angelo had to have known he was going to die. The fifty-seven-year-old line cook had given his soul to his restaurant. (Although calling it a restaurant was generous.) The corner pizza shop was, at best, a café, but in one of the most expensive cities in the world, that was still quite an accomplishment. The kitchen was small and constantly in a state of disarray, like a baby bird attempting to break out of its shell. That was the way things had always been; and the way Angelo liked it. (At least that’s what he’d tell anyone with the nerve to ask.) When he wasn’t cooking or cleaning, he’d be prepping for the next day. After so many years he was working himself to an early grave.
“Yo, Boss!” I shouted from the safety of the back exit. I’d located the man just in time to see him collapse, narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with the industrial sink. I shook my head. “You still breathing?”
Angelo grunted in response.
I pulled out a cigarette, lighting up next to the dumpster. “F–k, man, you need to go to bed.” I knew better than to rush to his side. He was too proud; that show of compassion would have gotten me nothing more than a punch to the face.
Not that Angelo was a cruel man, he just couldn’t help his genetics. The blond Russian bear had been adopted as a child, rescued from a warzone by Catholic missionaries. An Italian-American couple named him Angelo. (Making him one of the few white men with that name, outside of Europe.) The family operated a pizza shop, in San Francisco, (acquired back during the days of rent control.) And instilled their only child with a superhuman work ethic.
“Angelo? Boss, you still there.” I knew he’d been on his feet for hours. The pain in his shoulders and back had to be throbbing. But since I did not actually hear his head collide with the metal, I opted to finish my smoke. (After all, these things were damn expensive.) “Holler if you’re still conscious.”
“Hey, Kid,” Angelo said from his seat on the floor.
I looked in, to see where he had landed. “Who you calling a kid?” (Yes, at twenty-eight I was technically young enough to be his child.) I looked around until I spotted where he was. Leaning against the wall, with his left knee to his chest, the majority of his body was hidden behind a floor-level cabinet.
“Who am I calling a kid?” Angelo asked with a chuckle. “The fucker who convinced me to name my shop after a damn cartoon.”
I laughed, stomping out my cigarette before closing the door behind me. When I first came to work for Angelo, I called him the Viking. I even convinced him to change the name of the restaurant to ‘Stoick’s place,’ to cash in on the ‘How to train your dragon,’ movies. That was how the greatest grab-and-go pizza place in San Francisco’s North Beach came to be run by a legit Viking who cooked the pizzas with the help of his loyal pet dragon. “Yeah, it’s me, boss. Come on, you need to get some rest.”
“Nah man,” his voice was rough carrying the weight of a lifetime of physical, emotional pain. “I just need a little break.”
I walked closer, turning on the hallway lights, in case I would have to carry him through the kitchen, up the stairs to our second-floor apartment. By the light of the open window, I could see him in his full glory. Angelo had a scar on his mouth from when he had taken a bullet to the face, shattered his jaw in three places. That was from the night we first met, back when I was a paramedic. The way the moonlight caressed his unique profile, he looked like a warrior, a soldier on the battlefield. “Come to bed, please.”
Angelo simply laughed. His smile was wide, almost too wide. “As my Papa always said, ‘we rest when we die.’ Sounded better in Italian.” He rested his hand on the sink, pulling himself to his feet. He stretched his back, rolling his neck with a satisfying crack. “Share a drink with me?”
“Sure, but only if you come upstairs.”
Angelo nodded as he looked through the collection of unlabeled bottles. “Or do you just want to save it all for my funeral?”
“Not funny. We don’t joke about the C-word.”
‘Cancer.’ The word did not need to be said. I was with him the day of the test results. I held his hand through six rounds of chemo. And I was with him when we, as a family, made the choice to end treatment. “All that I asked for was no jokes.”
Angelo nodded again, grabbing a tall drinking glass. “How’s Katie.”
“Katie’s good.” Katlyn Diaz was our third; the twenty-year-old with the caramel skin and plump little ass. She was a former drug addict with a thing for bi-sexual white boys. By day she worked as a delivery girl, and sometimes the only waitress in our tiny establishment. “She’s in bed waiting for her Russian teddy bear.”
As if on cue, I could hear her footsteps. “Do you need help with him, JJ?” she shouted down the stairs.
I groaned. My name was Jeff, not JJ or Jay or whatever pet name she came up with. She knew it annoyed me, but that was just part of her charm. (Insert eye roll.)
Angelo laughed, taking the opportunity to answer for himself. “I can walk. Just a little tired is all.” He handed me a tall plastic cup of what smelled like cleaning fluid.
“Thanks?” I glanced at the bottom, just waiting for the substance to eat through the disposable container. With a swift motion, I discreetly dumped it on the floor while he walked ahead of me. I watched as he disappeared into our humble bathroom, shutting the door behind him. There was no lock, and there never had been. (No one in this house had a thing for privacy.)
After effortlessly chugging his glass of high-proof liquor, Angelo started to get undressed, easily removing his apron, shirt, and work pants. His boxers stuck to his skin with sweat, nearly causing him to trip on his own feet as he kicked them to the corner of the room.
“I got you.” I quickly placed my hand on his shoulder, keeping him balanced.
“Thanks, kid.” Angelo focused on his feet, preparing to take the large step needed to enter the bathtub.
“Be careful, take your time.” With my free hand, I turned on the water, flipping the lever to start the shower. I’d often wished we could have taken out the tub, leaving just a shower. But such a task would have taken more time than Angelo or I would have liked. And I could only imagine the nightmare of attempting to get the tacky ancient relic down the stairs, into the dumpster.
“You always do.” Angelo leaned forward, letting the lukewarm water flow down his back to his hips. His body was strong; tight tense muscles over a slender frame.
Angelo didn’t answer. He spread his legs, steadying his stance, before washing the front part of his body with the old, decrepit bar of soap. He washed his chest, down his stomach. His hand found its way to his cock, but instead of putting on a show for me, he turned to face the tile wall. “Could you get my back?”
“Sure.” I started to undress, stripping down to my old boxers. I got into the shower, standing behind him. Taking a moment to admire the beautiful man; his body, his smell, the way his skin shivered at my touch. I wanted so badly to remember it all.
“Jeff, kiddo,” Angelo said with a laugh. “Do you still have your underwear on?”
I softly bit his earlobe, releasing a breath of air. “Not for long.” I slipped off my boxers, letting them fall to the floor of the shower. They would be soaking wet, but I’d probably just leave them there for the rest of the night.
I stroked my fingers down his chest, coming to rest on his slender hips. I couldn’t help but notice Angelo biting his lower lip. He had to know what was coming next.
“You know what you got to do.” I slid two fingers into his mouth, letting him suckle. I wanted him to feel how hard I was; how badly I craved him. “You’re so damn filthy.”
Angelo chuckled, in a way that only a Russian Viking could.
I spread him open, letting the water wash away some of the residue from his hairy crack. (I could practically feel all the times he let me fuck him on our lunch break.)
With my fingers still in his mouth, I began thrusting inside him over and over. I had to admit, I was holding back. I wanted to hold him more than I wanted to hurt him. I removed my fingers from his mouth, taking a moment to stroke his bottom lip.
“Come on,” he said in a deep sexy growl. “I can take it.”
‘I know.’ “Believe me I know.” There was something so sexy about his voice. “I promised Katie, I get you nice and clean.” I gripped his cock. gently pulling up his foreskin to wash his shaft until I felt precum.
His body was quivering. I could feel his muscles tense. Angelo leaned back, reaching for my hand. “I fucking love you, man.”
“I love you too.” I could feel his orgasm; an electric warmth that rippled through his body, clenching my cock. “I love you with all that I am, all that I’ll ever be.” The words fell from my lips like drool.
Angelo turned his head just enough to speak. “Jeff?”
“Would you eat my ass, while I took a shit on your chest?”
I placed my hand on the back of his neck, holding his face against the tile wall. I fucked him harder, faster, like a dog in heat. “You’re such a nasty old slut.” I pressed my lips to his ear. “Then again, it takes one to know one.”
My hand moved from his neck to his shoulder, massaging his tense body with deep pressure. When my hand found his, I gave his fingers a squeeze. ‘God, I love you.’
I blew my load, releasing the contents of my balls over and over. I could feel Angelo bending his knees; his legs were becoming weak and I needed to finish up. I pulled out slowly, letting my seed trickle down his quivering inner thighs. “Hey, you feeling okay?” I knew he wasn’t. “Do you need to lie down?”
Angelo turned, brushing his lips against my cheek. He looked at me with pleading eyes. “I just need my meds.”
“I need you to be in bed before I give you your meds.” His ‘meds’ were street-grade morphine. I suspected it was oxy cut with drain cleaner (and maybe even a little heroin.) Sometimes he’d swallow them other times he’d snort them. Either way he’d need to get out of the shower and make the short walk to the bedroom. I carefully helped him out of the bath, offering him a towel. That proved unnecessary.
Angelo walked out the door of the bathroom, dropping the towel in the hallway. Then, without even a greeting to Katie, he flopped down like a fish. “First come first serve.”
Kate rolled over, looking into his eyes. With her usual slutty charm, she smiled, kissing him down his nose to his lips. “Don’t mind if I do.” With Angelo’s body laid out like a buffet, she took her time, worshiping him the way he deserved to be cherished and loved.
Standing over the bed, I gripped her hair, as she kissed Angelo’s stomach down to his navel, taking a moment to lick the trail of dark blond pubic hair. But before taking Angelo in her mouth, she turned her attention to me. Always one to play fair, Katie gripped my limp cock, jerking me off using only her sweat as lube. “You’re not hard, JJ?”
“I had him earlier,” I said, gently releasing her hair. “He’s all yours.”
That seemed to make her happy. “Will you at least stay and watch?”
“Of course.” Still naked and wet, I took a seat on the white plastic outdoor chair next to the bed. This was the recycled chair’s main purpose; to act as a front-row seat for potential voyeurs. It wasn’t a comfortable seat. Wet skin stuck like sweat. This encouraged the viewer to eventually join the ‘performers’ in the bed.
Katie always wore an oversize t-shirt to bed and nothing else. (It was what Angelo liked.) She straddled his hips, moving his hand to her tight stomach. She made a show of lowering herself slowly, letting her pussy devour him inch by inch while gasping, and struggling with the sheer mass of our Sugar daddy’s dick. Don’t get me wrong. Angelo had a decent cock, but the way Katie acted you’d think he was hung like a light post. But I couldn’t deny it, the girl knew how to put on a good show.
I leaned back, spreading my legs. I’d gone soft, but that could change fairly quickly. Licking my palms, I could feel my breath in my lungs. My body wanted to be in that bed, taking in the smell of their raw passionate lovemaking.
Katie gripped the headboard, moaning like a porn actress. “Angel, baby?” That was her nickname for Angelo. “Do you remember the first day we met?”
I did. The memory was like yesterday. It was a dark rainy night. Kate had walked in off the streets looking for a free slice of end-of-the-night pizza. She immediately took a liking to the boss; his blue eyes, and wicked smile.
The same smile he was offering up now. “I remember you offered to suck my cock for a hot meal.”
Katie rocked her hips, as she leaned in for a kiss. “If you had been wearing a wedding ring, I would have sucked it off your finger.”
Angelo laughed; his eyes an expression of true happiness and pure love. He was always kind to the poor, especially homeless women and children. But there was something different about Kate. The way she smiled at him, laughed at his jokes, or maybe the fact that she had nowhere else to go. Something made her worthy of being part of our family. (The past two years had been amazing, truly a blessing from God.)
Our bed creaked with a rhythmic pattern. I used this as inspiration to begin masturbating, working my shaft to the beat of their sound. I reached for the drawer on the nightstand. We had a shared collection of sex toys.
“Jeff,” Katie shouted, “If you put my favorite dildo in your ass again, you’re buying me a new bottle of sanitizer.”
“Why, because it only goes in your ass?”
Abandoning that plan, I instead went for what I actually wanted. I walked around the bed, coaxing Katie to switch positions. “Scoot over.”
There was plenty of room for both of us. out of the nightstand I selected a bottle of lube and Angelo’s special pills. “Open your mouth baby bird.” I put a single pill in my mouth, feeding it to Angelo.
Katie leaned in for a kiss. “Me too, JJ?”
I shook my head. “You know our rule.” As a family, we kept strict rules about personal drugs. “You gotta ask Angelo.”
Katie looked at Angelo with her big doll-like eyes. “Angel baby?”
“Sure, why not.” He kissed Katie on the lips, slipping the vibrant white pill into her mouth. “I can’t take it with me.”
The pill was nothing more than pressed powder (as opposed to coated gelcaps,) so I was sure he had already ingested a partial dosage. Then again, so had I. I placed another pill on my tongue. Leaning over his face I was about to go in for another kiss when the pill slipped from my mouth landing on his bottom lip.
Angelo laughed. His tongue easily retrieved the pill, quickly swallowing it. The lump disappeared down his throat. “That is so good.”
He had been sick for so long. I forgot about my own wants and desires. All I wanted was to stay by his side.
Katie gripped his hand, placing it under her sleep shirt. I was unable to see what he was doing, only that she was having a great time. She rode him harder, burying her face in his shoulder. “I’ll miss you, Angel baby.” Her legs locked around Angelo’s hips, claiming him as her own.
Maybe she already knew. After hundreds of sexual encounters, this would be the one time she became pregnant.
Still, Angelo died not knowing.
That just feels unfair.
I hate that you will never know your father. He was truly one of a kind.
I’m writing this for you, our baby.
Let’s start from the beginning. The night in July, over six years ago when I, a twenty-two-year-old paramedic trying to play grown-up, answered the call that would change my life. It was a late-night call; police already had the gunman in handcuffs, we just needed to get the victim to the nearest public hospital. On the floor was a Caucasian male; blonde hair, blue eyes, and missing half his jaw.
He made no effort to move or respond to commands. I assumed this was due to shock. On the way to the hospital, he had a seizure. I was forced to create a hole for a trach, so my colleagues would have a way of getting air into his lungs. Although the man could no longer speak. His blue eyes were wide with terror, pain. Even if he had wanted to die, this was not the way. I held his hand for the entire ride. Even as the ER crew checked him in. Only when he was moved on to a gurney and taken in to surgery, did I leave. (After getting his first and last name.)
I figured I could tell the night staff nurses he was my cousin, (that is if anyone even gave a crap.) At the public hospital, I could roam the halls for hours without speaking to a single member of staff. This was SF general, or Zuckerburg hospital. ‘So very kind of Mr. Facebook to pay for the place where 99% of our calls are diverted to.’ Among other things it got first responders a nice workout room, with lockers and showers. (The perfect place for all kinds of illegal shit.)
So, it came as no surprise when I walked in on my roommate, co-worker, and boyfriend (the one person I’d trust with my life) getting fucked against a locker. I had suspected as much, (for well over a year.) Most of my stuff was already in my car. I’d just been waiting for the end of the month to be able to legally abandon my lease. “Yo, Greg!”
Since he was facing away from the door, it took him a second to realize the situation. Once he did, the thirty-year-old fuck boy muttered a string of profanity as he rushed to pull up his pants. “Jeff? Man, wait!”
“Take your time I’ll be out by the end of the week.” I stood in the doorway, looking for a reaction from his fuckbuddy. He was a younger guy from a different ambulance team. What did Greg promise him?
“Hey!” Greg grabbed my arm, directing me to the toilets, for a measure of privacy. “You know I can’t afford that place on my own.”
“No.” This was not up for debate. I shoved him off of me, and turned to leave, walking in the direction of the elevators. “Not my problem.”
“What if I know something that can cost you your job?”
Everyone in the department knew what he meant. If you are actually caught having sex or getting high in the magical Facebook funded locker room there would be severe punishments. “I plan on living out of my car, anyway.”
“Or living off the funds from your OnlyFans page?”
“No. It’s you Jeff, who will be royally fucked.” Greg always spoke like he was so much older, more mature than me. He acted like he wasn’t the one who supplied the drugs. Knowing I could go for women as well as men, he would pimp me out to some of the richer physicians, making sure to take plenty of photos for blackmail. (San Francisco is an expensive city. He would always claim the extra money went to groceries. And I’d lived with that bullshit ever since I was nineteen.)
“Whatever, man.” When I was nearly down the hallway, Greg turned, heading back in the direction of the locker room. For whatever reason my mind was overrun with rage. I sprinted back in his direction.
“What?” Greg turned to me. I assume he had been expecting me to continue to argue. Instead, I gripped his neck slamming him against a wall.
I punched him, over and over. Eventually he fell to the ground. I kicked him in the stomach for good measure (one kick for every time he stole from me, cheated on me, hurt me.) And then I ran for the stairs.
I headed to the roof, making sure to pick a nice hidden space to light up a cigarette. Greg could have all this; the job, the hours, our apartment, even our friend group. I would find someplace else. Someplace where I would not have to rely on people like him.
I passed by three patients, one of whom asked me for a light, while another asked if I could spare a smoke. Taking this as a sign, I handed over my entire pack. “Be cool, alright? I didn’t see you and you didn’t see me.”
“No problem brother.” The man nodded, thanking me for my generosity. Yes, we were brothers in the war of survival, as I soon would be a part of the homeless population. It was either that or move back to New Jersey.
‘F–k New Jersey.’ I crossed my arms, wishing I could have taken one last smoke for myself. My parents kicked me out when they found out I was a faggot. I’d been on my own for as long as I can remember. But it still hurt. Loneliness burrowed into my heart like a knife. I looked out at the dark, moonless night. I wanted to jump. I took one step and then another.
‘No.’ Then Gregg would have won. Or at least he would assume he did. And my parents; they would assume I killed myself because I was a good boy, living a life of sin. So, with nothing else to do, I decided to make my escape. I went down one flight of stairs, then another, before I got stuck and head to back up via a different exit.
‘This place is a damn maze.’ I picked a door and went for it. Walking down the hall, I was fully prepared to abandon my shift, when I heard a strange tapping. It sounded like a pen being stabbed into a plastic surface. Checking my watch, it was well after three in the morning. My superstitious catholic blood wanted me to run as fast as I could, but the heartbroken, soon to be unemployed paramedic welcomed the chance at a paranormal death. “Hello?”
The sound became louder; it was a series of three pen hits, followed by three knocks or punches, and then three more pen hits. This repeated over and over. I followed the noise to the patient ward. “Hello? Does someone need help?” The nurse’s station was empty, but that wasn’t uncommon at this time of night.
A figure sat up in bed. On his lap was a plastic tray and a pen. I figured he had tried to press the nurse call button, but got no answer. It was also a little strange that he still had his food tray. The light from the doorway reflected off the patient’s face. His head and neck were in a brace and his jaw had been wired shut. This would make it impossible to speak (and as far as I knew) there was no way for a non-verbal patient to call for a nurse. Usually, such cases would be kept in the ICU. “Angelo Desilva?”
Glancing at the dry erase board present in every room, I saw I was correct. He seemed to be annoyed, but otherwise completely conscious. (This was likely why he was not placed in intensive care.) The middle-age man had been given a cheap pad of line paper to communicate.
“Do you remember me?”
Angelo turned his head. There was a look of joy in his eyes, almost a smile. He nodded, blinking back tears.
He picked up the notepad, holding it where I could see. Previous notes were about his physical limitations and his ability to care for himself if and when he was discharged. At the bottom was a number for adult protective services. Angelo ripped off the page and angerly wrote the next line.
‘They want to send me to a senior center.’
I knew where he was referring to. It was a rather isolated place located next to a mall and a cemetery. “It’s actually a recovery center, for physical therapy and whatever.”
Angelo was still noticeably upset. He shook his head, writing something. The man paused for a moment, before scribbling it out, and adding a different question. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jeff Conner,’ I wrote as clearly as I could. I laughed for a moment, realizing I could have just as easily said the words out loud. My eyes glanced at the previous statement, the one he crossed out. From what I could tell, it said something about having to close his restaurant. ‘Yeah, that would be a pain in the ass.’
There was a moment of silence before Angelo wrote the real reason, he had been calling me (or anyone) towards his room. ‘I think I pissed myself.’
Since he had just come out of surgery, I assumed he had a catheter for urine. I checked the floor and, just as I thought, the catheter had disconnected. My first instinct was to remove it completely. Clearly it had been placed incorrectly and the ER surgeons were just lucky that the patient didn’t urinate all over the operating room.
“Just lie back and relax.” I removed his thin blankets. He wore a stained fabric hospital gown. It was the kind that tied in the back, but thankfully Angelo had left his open, allowing me to remove it. “I hate these gowns. I know it’s better for the environment or whatever, but it’s creepy AF.” I tossed the soiled gown into the plastic bin meant to collect laundry. I would not want to wear something that I knew someone died in. At least paper gowns went into the trash.
I examined Angelo’s body. He had several burns on his arms and bruising on his hands. I was surprised there were no injuries to his chest and stomach. If I was to guess; he went down and stayed down, waiting for the police (or death) to come. Each room had wipes and towels. I used the bath wipes to clean off his lower stomach, down his moist, sweat covered thighs. His manhood was flaccid, giving the illusion that he was not into men (or not into me.) I removed a second wipe and began to clean him. I gripped his shaft, mentally preparing to clean his foreskin. I can’t help but work slow making sure to clean thoroughly.
That was when he gasped. With the bandages and headgear, the sound was nothing more than a whimper. With my hand still on his groin, I patted his shoulder. “Are you good?”
He placed his hand on mine, drawing my attention to his shoulder. Angelo leaned back, letting his head sink into the pillow. His chest was heaving. I let him guide my hand lower, to the path of dark blond hair that traced his muscles, gracefully caressing his stiff areola. I kissed his lower lip, looking deeply into his blue eyes. If his face hadn’t been restrained, there was no doubt he would have smiled.
“Do you want me to stay?” I didn’t verbally reveal that I had lost everything that night; that I was nursing a broken heart, and a damaged soul. Angelo was just as broken.
He nodded, opening his lips to force a breathy, “Yes.”
I kissed his neck, down his collarbone. His body was thin, but with the musculature of a man who worked a blue-collar career in manual labor. He tasted like sweat and soap; salty and clean. It was a flavor I would grow to crave.
I cupped his face. Even with the headgear I could feel his breath. Angelo was something more than human; he was a gift from God, a miracle sent to save me. I kissed his chest, over his heart, taking a moment to lick his tender erect nipple. Every touch made him tense, arching his back with an intense surge of passion. Without hesitation, I took him in my mouth. The taste of his precum was like sugar to my aching soul.
I could feel Angelo run his fingers through my hair, gripping my scalp. He was gasping, moaning, begging me not to stop. I knew his type; it had been so long since someone had touched him, he was starved for sensation. His body was quivering coming to the brink of climax. That was when I learned; his legs still worked, and his arms were just as strong as they looked. He was fucking my throat.
I turned my head to be able to breathe. Then, holding on to the back of his legs, I made out with his cock, until I swallowed every drop. Every part of me wanted to do more. I had whipped out my dick on more than one occasion. Perhaps that was why my heart wasn’t fully into the idea.
Angelo was special, he was beautiful, a man too good for this world. Instead, I took off my work clothes and spent the night by his side.
In the morning I awoke to the scream of a nurse. This was probably due to my state of undress. (And the fact that I had slept with my head on Angelo’s shoulder, making it appear as if we were sharing the small hospital bed.) Knowing how long it took to attempt to call security I grabbed the notepad.
I knew to write down my phone number under my name. But in case the pad went missing I also wrote it on his hand, and again on the dry erase board, with the name ‘cousin J.’
I took a walk all the way back to where my car was. Safely in the parking garage, I reclined in my front seat, awaiting the inevitable. That was when I noticed a mark on my lower abs, just above my hip. Angelo had written his address and phone number on my body. I tried to imagine a moment when he would have had the chance to do such a thing. It had to have been when I was sleeping and that was so unbelievably hot. I copied the message on to my hand. I recognized it as the address of the pizza place. With the last remains of my tank of gas, I drove back over there.
North Beach had never been an easy place to find a parking space. After thirty annoying minutes, I made the decision to park, blocking the alleyway. I figured if the trash collector needed me to move, I’d be able to hear them honk their horn.
Suddenly my phone pinged, I had a text message. ‘nurse let me use her phone. i gotta make this quick,’ the message was entirely in lowercase letters with noticeable spelling mistakes. ‘key under 3rd tile.’
A key? To his restaurant?
‘apt is 2nd floor.’
‘if this is a mistake, it will still be one of the best in my life.’
I got out of my car and walked to the door. Next to the door were a series of tiles, that formed the image of the Virgin Mary. I pressed the tiles, one at a time, until I heard a click. A series of rocks fell in the ground, mixing with the rest of the trash on the sidewalk. One of the rocks had a seam. It easily clicked open to reveal a bright silver key. I guess that was my first test.
I opened the door and let myself in, making sure to lock it behind me (last thing I wanted was for someone to think the restaurant was open for business.)
I located the restroom and next to it was an unmarked door with a crucifix. I tried the key, and it worked. there was a staircase that looped around a corner, leading to the second floor. This was Angelo’s living space. There was a small kitchen, useful for food storage and late-night snacks.
Near the sink was a coffee maker. It was a cheap, old-style model. ‘Property of M—‘ the well-worn sticker on the bottom seemed to indicate this was stolen from a motel back in the seventies. Wondering if it still worked, I looked for some coffee. Above the sink was a tin of Folgers. The bright red was calling to me. There were no coffee filters, but rather a napkin from the restaurant had been used in the coffee compartment (and never, ever removed. It was pretty gross.)
I washed the coffeemaker with hot water (since Angelo didn’t appear to own dish soap,) and then set it up to brew a pot of much-needed coffee. Thankfully it seemed completely functional. Soon I saw a trickle of brown liquid and was subconsciously reminded that I needed to use the restroom.
The bathroom was located next to the kitchen. The small sink and bathtub were in desperate need of cleaning, but the toilet flushed and I even located a bar of soap. All was good. When my coffee was done, I poured a cup, looking out of the window at the beauty of San Francisco’s North Beach. Now all that was left was the bedroom.
This was the largest of the rooms, even bigger than the living area. The bed was easily a queen-size (or two twin beds pushed together.) I reclined on top of the blankets. The sun was filtering through the dust-covered window.
I pulled my dick out, letting my shaft press against my stomach as I called up my supervisor. “Hi, this is Jeff, my employee number is 5987338” That was the way to get patched through to the dispatch manager. I was, of course, put on hold.
I was half tempted to masturbate to the annoying syn-pop music when a voice answered. “Hello? Are you calling out sick?”
“I fucking quit. And no, I’m not giving my two-week notice.”
I found where I belonged.
Even if I did end up getting a parking ticket.