Gio Genuino
You may have noticed that I haven't written anything for public consumption since I got home from Europe. I wrote this whole longwinded post on social media about how much I love writing and how it feeds my soul, and then I just STOPPED. It's 6 months later and I'm still recovering from my trip mentally, emotionally, physically ( ...I think we all remember A Denim Emergency). I mean, I've written posts, but they're all sitting in Squarespace purgatory, a virtual box of drafts. I couldn't bring myself to publish any of them. "Wait, why is she writing about all her old boyfriends?" People would ask. "BECAUSE THAT IS ALL THE MATERIAL I HAVE!" I'd scream. Then I'd bow my head and flip the double bird.
I felt... I FEEL... like I wasn't living a life worth writing about. I work out, I bake, I take a bunch of photographs of my artfully arranged mise en place, and then I exercise some more. I wander my neighborhood looking for beautiful homes and old cars to photograph (and don't get me wrong, it is definitely paying off - my Instagram game is quite strong). But none of that is REAL. I'm not having any new experiences, I'm not learning anything, I'm not doing anything that scares me.
And then last week, all of a sudden... I WAS.
. . .
About two months ago, I was walking home from a spin class and I heard someone call out to me. "Hey lady, hey ginger lady!" Ginger lady? Blegh. I was mortified. I didn't stop or slow down to see who it was, I just kept on walking. Having a conversation with a stranger during or after a workout is easily one of my least favorite things. Beet red and out of breath with sweat pooling in my sports bra is not how I want to exchange pleasantries. I simply won't have it.
The next week, it happened again. "Excuse me, lady... LADY, where-ah you going?" I could tell that whoever was shouting at me was a safe distance away, so I turned to look. Across the street, sitting in a folding chair in his garage was an old man. He looked small and frail. I felt bad for initially ignoring him and paused. He tried to wave me over, but I shook my head and yelled across the street, "HOME! I am going HOME!" I turned and kept on walking.
The old man and I did this dance for weeks. I got into a pretty healthy habit of waving back to him and continuing on my way. Then about a month ago, I noticed he wasn't alone in his garage. A young woman was sitting with him. She was surrounded by grocery bags and her yoga mat was propped up next to her. Clearly she too had been called over on her walk home. I realized I wasn't the only person the old man wanted to chat with and I thought to myself "what is wrong with you? He is OBVIOUSLY lonely. You are a NICE person... and you have literally NOTHING to do. Talk to him!"
Last week when I was walking home from the store, I got my chance. He called out "Hey lady, where-ah you going?" I stopped and smiled at him. "I'm on my way home!" He patted the empty folding chair next to him. "Sit with me!" It's now or never, I thought. I put down my bags and he held out his hand to introduce himself.
"I..." he paused dramatically to take a bone-rattling breath, "am GIO."
. . .
Gio* has a very heavy Italian accent and when I finally stopped to look at him, I realized just how old he actually is. The lines in his face are very deep and his eyes have a cloudy quality that suggests he has some wicked cataracts. He has oxygen tubing running out of his nose and into a small tank, and a wastebasket full of bloody tissues and his saliva is never far away. Gio is clearly NOT well... which made me feel like a REAL a**hole for not stopping to chat with him sooner.
"I... am Italian," he said.
What a cool opener!
"I can hear it in your voice!" I said. "I am too!"
"Yes... I can-ah tell."
Liar.
"Can you really?" I asked. "What gave me away? The red hair?"
"You have-ah NICE hair," he said.
Cataracts shmataracts, he was right. I do have-ah nice hair.
We went back and forth for a while, and he asked if I wanted to stay for lunch. I declined and said that thing we all say when we feel guilty about turning down plans but don't actually want to reschedule: "Maybe another time!" Here's the thing about the elderly - they don't get that.
"Okay! Another time! You give-ah me your number, and you come-ah have-ah breakfast next week."
Gio fumbled with his phone and then placed it in my hand. This is where I had some cause for pause... To sit in a folding chair in an open garage with a stranger is one thing, to enter their home and eat their food is quite another. Little alarm bells were going off in my head and I felt a tightness in my chest normally reserved for panic attacks.
"I make-ah fresh Limoncello every week. I show-ah you my backyard! With lemon trees! We can-ah watch-ah Price is Right."
I felt like an idiot. He wasn't creepy, he was lonely.
"Okay," I said. "How about Tuesday morning? At 9?"
He agreed. I put my number into his phone and he called me to make sure it worked. It did. We shook hands and I headed home.
. . .
I called my sister. I texted my mom. I told my friends. I have been SO BORED since I got home, and I thought FINALLY, I am going to volunteer my time and watch TV with an elderly Italian man. I am going to feed my soul! I don't want to say I romanticized it... I still understood that he was a stranger and that I should be cautious. But did I text "I'M KATE WINSLET IN THE HOLIDAY" to multiple people? I SURE DID.
Kate Winslet and Eli Wallach in The Holiday... This could be US.
My mom texted me back and told me to be careful. She literally wrote: "I don't know, he'll probably ply you with limoncello and then... he's still an Italian after all!" I was annoyed. I've been to Italy. And was I accosted in the street and kissed on the mouth by an aggressive stranger more than once? YES. But Gio has an oxygen tank and he is literally spitting up blood. I think it'll be okay.
My sister cautioned me in a different way. She suggested that while feeble, Gio may have hidden cameras in the bathroom. I was horrified. He would NEVER! He barely knew how to use his cellphone.
Even though I was irritated by the jubilee of warnings, I did start to get anxious about our breakfast plans. What if Gio really was an adorable, frail frontman for some kind of underground human trafficking ring? I knew that if it came down to it I could fend him off, maybe even use his oxygen tank against him, but what about any and all goons he had waiting inside his apartment? Surely they would overpower me...
I know this seems ridiculous, but "stranger danger" was a very real fear in my household. My parents always warned me and my sister about being abducted. These were the days of Polly Klaas and Amber Hagerman, and my family was NOT f***in around. Mary and I were even enrolled in a karate class, the sole purpose of which (I'm almost positive), was to teach children how to fend off molesters and murderers. There was one exercise I remember specifically called Not My Mommy, Not My Daddy. The sensei would grab our arm and we would practice wriggling out of his grip while screaming "Not my mommy! Not my mommy! Not my daddy! Not my daddy!" Even as a little kid, I remember feeling absurd and thinking the exercise was absolutely bonkers.
But 2016 is a different time! I get into cars with people I've never met almost daily. I give them money when they get me to wherever it is that I need to be. It's standard business practice to blindly trust strangers. They give me rides, deliver my dinner, bring me groceries, and even do some small home repairs! I'm savvy and I'm smart. It was going to be FINE.
. . .
On Tuesday morning, I got dressed and walked over to Gio's building. The garage door was open and he was sitting in his folding chair. He turned to look at me and I waved. His face lit up and he carefully lifted himself to his feet. He looked so small. He had obviously dressed up for the occasion, wearing slacks and a collared shirt. His oxygen tubes were gone, the basket of bloody tissues... was NOT.
"I think-ah you-ah not going to come! But you here!"
You called me four times to confirm.
"Yes! I'm here!" I said. "How are you?"
He held my hands in his and looked at me.
"Good, good... I did-ah not realize you-ah so beautiful!"
That's because I look like a menopausal prison guard after I work out.
"Oh, thank you! I like your outfit today! You look very dapper."
He beamed. Look at us, I thought. We ARE Kate Winslet and Eli Wallach. This IS The Holiday.
"You-ah ready for breakfast? We can-ah go-ah upstairs!"
We walked to the back of the garage. "Go ahead," Gio said pointing to the staircase in the corner. Gosh, it was dark. What was behind the door at the end of this? Visions of some kind of sex den started percolating in my mind. I began to ascend the stairs and heard the click of a button. The garage door started to close behind me and we were about to be in total darkness.
I made a horrible mistake. This was actually a terrible idea.
I reached the top of the stairs and paused before opening the door.
If there are any surprises on the other side of this, I told myself, you f***in run.
I turned the knob and gently pushed open the door to reveal... the cutest kitchen I'd ever seen.
If I told you the thought "maybe we'll become BEST friends and when he dies he'll leave ALL THIS to ME" didn't cross my mind, I'd be lying.
"Oh, wow!" I said. "This is lovely!"
Gio shuffled into the kitchen behind me and closed the door to the garage. His apartment is bright and quiet. It hasn't been updated since 1978 (I asked), but it's very charming. He gestured to the table and pulled out a chair for me. I sat down.
He went to work at the counter behind me and then presented a plate with one raisin danish wrapped in plastic and one cracked mug of very pale coffee. How'd this guy know I like my coffee to look like horchata? He joined me at the table.
"Are you eating?" I asked.
"I did-ah not think you-ah come, so I eat-ah already."
"Aw, no! Of course I was going to be here."
"It's okay," he smiled. "How's the coffee?"
I took a sip and it burned. My eyes filled with tears.
"WOW... What is IN this?"
"I put-ah the limoncello in-ah the coffee. It's very good, I make it-ah with the Everclear."
"It's... REALLY strong."
His eyes flickered and I could tell I'd hurt his feelings, but it felt so weird to be drinking something produced by a stranger that he himself was not drinking. I'm no fool. I've seen movies.
"But it's also REALLY good..." I said trying to salvage the moment. My performance was just short of saying "MMMMMM..." and rubbing my tummy in a circular motion.
This seemed to please him. Gio smiled and we started chatting. We talked about politics; he jutted out his chin and did a pretty good impression of Donald Trump. We talked about Italy, Switzerland, and his time in the military. He told me about his children and his 6 brothers and sisters. We wandered into some pretty horrific territory when, without any prompting, Gio told me ALL about his mother's illegal abortion. This was quickly followed by a very awkward exchange where he continuously used the word "p***y" instead of the word uterus and I attempted to correct him several times. At one point he volunteered the word "ovaries" as a more accurate option and upon thinking better of it, quickly said "no... no... they cut-ah open my mother's p***y."
This was starting to feel RADICALLY different from the Kate Winslet/Eli Wallach plot line I'd grown to love. I asked if he wanted to watch some TV instead.
We walked into the living room. Every wall was covered in pictures of his daughters, his grandkids, his wife and old family photos from winters in the Swiss Alps. I felt better because it was obvious that Gio is clearly very loved. He seemed much less alone than I had initially thought. He turned on The Price is Right and placed two limoncello glasses on the coffee table. He filled my glass and left his empty. He sat down and stared at my jeans. I knew where this was going - old people HATE pants with the knees ripped out. It's just a fact.
"You-ah need-ah patch!" He exclaimed.
Nailed it.
"Ha! I know, I need two! And I bought them this way!"
We laughed and he touched my bare knee. That's... not right, I thought. Then his hand was on my thigh. THIS WAS NOT THE HOLIDAY, it was sexual harassment!
"Oooooh, nope... Nope, nope..." I said. Then I physically picked up his hand, removed it from my leg, and placed it firmly on the couch. He looked disappointed but not even remotely embarrassed.
We sat in silence for a while, watching Drew Carey high-five the various contestants.
"You not-ah drinking the limoncello?" Gio asked.
"I'm NOT... And I sure don't want to if YOU'RE not having any!" I said this in the most chipper way I knew how.
"I had it in my coffee!" He said. "I have it EVERY morning."
This explained SO much.
"Gio, how old are you?" I said. When I retold this bizarre story later, I wanted to be sure I had his age right.
"I am... 62."
"NO. NO YOU'RE NOT." I blurted out. There was no way. THERE WAS NO WAY.
"You think-ah I'm old?"
"NO... no, no... Um, it's just... you're younger than my dad."
This comment seemed to delight him and I immediately regretted implying that Gio was young in ANY way. We sat in silence until the program ended. I checked the time and quickly made up a lie.
"I have a meeting downtown in half an hour, so I have to leave soon."
"Oh..." Gio looked crushed. "Okay... Can I show-ah you the house?"
We stood up and I carried my limoncello glass into the kitchen. I poured it down the drain and half expected it to bubble up and remove the finish from the porcelain sink. (It didn't.)
He showed me all around the apartment.
"This is-ah the kitchen, the bathroom, the linen closet, the bedroom... those stairs go-ah down-ah to another room..."
Underground sex den. I f***in knew it.
We ended in the front room, a formal family room. It has floor to ceiling windows, a piano, and a shocking amount of life-sized animal figurines.
"Well," I started. "Thank you so much for having me today! It was very nice getting to know you, but I have to go now..."
"I like-ah you so much," he said.
F***, f***, f***, f***, f***, F******CK
"Aw... that's... nice," I said.
"You have-ah a nice smile, and you so nice."
"Thank you..." I trailed off. "Never had braces..." ARE THE WORDS I ACTUALLY SAID.
I headed back to the kitchen to grab my stuff. I was calm and totally silent, but inside I was screaming: The Holiday is GARBAGE! It's ALL LIES!
He walked me to the door and held out his hands. Against my better judgement, I placed my hands in his.
"You call-ah me next week?" He asked.
"We'll see..." I said.
"When-ah you call... if-ah my daughter answer, you hang up."
"Say it again?" I said, CERTAIN that I had misheard him.
"If-ah my daughter answer, say you-ah telemarketer. Hang up."
"Now... uh... Why is THAT?" I said.
"You know... WOMAN... THE WOMEN." He responded.
"Too true... too true... we are all CRAZY."
"It's just-ah... she-ah don't like me to share-ah my dinner, to have-ah A GIRLFRIEND."
"A GIRLFRIEND?!" I squeaked.
"You know, a girl... that's a friend."
Girl that's a friend, MY ASS. I tell you what, men can be dogs. It doesn't matter how old they are or how much oxygen they have pumping into their body... some of them are the literal worst.
"Right, right... OKAY, I gotta go."
He held onto my hands and started to pull them towards him. He wanted a hug.
My mind's tellin' me NO, but my body... my body was ALSO TELLIN' ME NO.
Gravity took over and I stiffly stumbled forward, leaning into him. He wrapped his arms around me and just as I was thinking I am absolutely taller than this man, I could totally take him, everything is FINE... he reached around and weakly pawed around my bra line.
I pulled away fast and said "DON'T... don't do that." He looked at me and smiled. He had semi-successfully touched my breast and he was SO pleased with himself, but not in a chilling way - he looked more like a little kid on Christmas morning. I wriggled out of his grip.
Not my mommy! Not my mommy! Not my daddy! Not my daddy!
I turned and started down the stairs, but he grabbed my arm and tried to pull me back towards him. He puckered his lips; he wanted a kiss.
"Not today, Gio... NOT TODAY." I said this with a smile (because I am a terrible feminist and, for some ODD reason, I didn't want to be rude). He released my arm and waved goodbye.
"I call-ah you this week!" He said.
YOU BETTER F***IN NOT!! I wanted to shout back.
I reached the bottom of the stairs and shut the gate behind me. I was furious. I looked at the mailboxes... what was this guy's last name? I needed it for the TIRELESS internet research I was about to do. I was going to go home, look him up, and take him down.
There it was above the mail slot: Genuino... GENUINE in English.
"But not actually," I muttered under my breath.
What a name... So ironic, so Italian... so perfect for the script I was suddenly considering writing: The Holiday 2: Unwanted Advances From My Geriatric Boo. Armed with this new information, I did go home and I did look him up, and I was right: he's not 62 - he's 83. I was so mad. I am so mad! This experience was supposed to feed my soul, not leave me feeling forever unclean. I fumed for a few days. I replayed all of the moments in my head and rationalized all of my actions. I patted myself on the back for never losing my cool, proud because I didn't hurt an old man's feelings... or kick away his oxygen tank in a fit of rage... but I still didn't feel better.
This was supposed to be like the movies! This was supposed to be the beginning of the most adorable and fulfilling friendship! He'd be the grandfather I never had, and I'd heal myself through daytime television and companionship! I couldn't sit alone with this story anymore, I was going to lose my mind.
Gio Genuino... I thought. You're a dirty old man. You touched my body and you ruined The Holiday for FOREVER. I am totally gonna write about you.
So I did.
. . .
*Name has been changed... because for some bizarre reason I feel a moral obligation to protect this elderly pervert's privacy.
