20 Days of Tuck

Chapter 1: And Then I Fell August 3, 2014 The Lake Erie Martini: 1/2 Part Dry Vermouth, 1/2 Part Sweet Vermouth, 6 Parts Rye Whiskey, 1 Twist Lemon Juice, 1 Lemon Twist. There was ruckus in the Tudor. No, it was more than ruckus. It was like Armageddon was happening. Warheads sounded as if they were going off. China was attacking Mill Street. North Korea was being bitchy again. There was banging, a loud crack, and…I thought the ceiling was going to fall in on the Tudor around me. Who knew what was happening? Miss Kitty was screaming at the top of her lungs, “Oh no you don’t! You are not bringing that piano in here, mister! No way in hell! Get that out of your mind right now! I don’t care if you perform with the Mastery Orchestra of Western Pennsylvania or not! There will be no piano in this house!” I put my writing aside, a very boring review of Cutter Steven’s obscure novel Grace is High, and walked across the attic room, down its center, and climbed through the window to the right; the only entrance and exit to my cheap abode. Yeah, it was probably an illegal setup for Miss Kitty to rent out the room when it didn’t have heat, a door, or a stairwell, but whatever. I was twenty-five and could handle it. Who couldn’t at my age, right? Surviving was what life craved, and that was exactly what I was trying to accomplish. I was true. There wasn’t a stairwell from the attic to Miss Kitty’s side yard. Nor did one plunge down into the house from my room. Instead, there was an aluminum ladder, and a line of bull rope that hung down from the window that was used a backup safety system, which hung out of the window like that pretty diva’s golden hair in Rumpelstiltskin. Challenging? It was. But it was worth the rent, which was only two hundred bucks a month, not a dime more, and I had all the privacy I needed. It wasn’t the easiest life, though. My best gal, Frankie Marchetti, worked at the Mill Diner, and she fed me for free. Milt, another friend, let me use his shower (and sometimes his jock-body for s*x, which is another story for another time). And Mom did my laundry when I dropped it off at her house on Tuesday afternoons. Mom lived two blocks away from Miss Kitty’s place. The three of those people were special in my life and treated me like a king. Without them, I was nothing, no one, zilch. And I loved them for what they did for me, helping me through life when I was a starving author, attempting to craft mystery with the working title, Red Martini m******e. The aluminum ladder was slick with summer humidity. I attempted to climb down its thirty rungs with about as much skill as a penguin, almost fell the three floors down to my death, grappled rungs with blood-pumping fists, and started to scream like a little school girl, loud and clear. “Do you need help, guy?” a strange voice asked from the burned-out grass at the bottom of the ladder, next to the willow tree and garden that was infiltrated with pansies. Who was down there? A terrorist? Miss Kitty’s favorite pizza boy? Her nephew, Peter, who visited like…never? I didn’t know. What I did know was simple: the voice was sexy and deep and sweet and masculine and gentle all at the same time, pure music to my ears. My grip loosened and I was going to fall, unable to reach the bull rope; so much for an emergency save. My two-fisted grip was loosening and my feet were dangling in midair. Panicking, feeling my heart race and my head thud, and sweat brimming on my forehead, I yelled, “Can you catch me? Please, dear God, catch me!” And then I fell. * * * * The dude who caught me was big, red-headed, and smelled like greasy hamburgers, which I didn’t mind. He was hulking with mounds of developed muscles, grinned from ear to ear, and showed off his pearly whites. He looked about twenty-four as he cradled me in his gym-arms like a little baby. He said, “You’re safe now, man. That could have been a mess.” “How safe am I in your arms?” I asked, dizzy, confused, but loving his arms wrapped around me. He was quiet for a second, contemplating my question. Then he said, “I’m not sure I know how to answer that.” “Of course you do.” “No, I don’t.” He shook his head, kept smiling, and said something about putting me down, which I agreed to (boo-hoo for me). Then he added, “You’re the guy who lives in the sealed-off attic.” My heart thumped with chaos from almost dying. I nodded and replied, “The one and only.” “You’re the book critic.” “And writer. I’m Micah Berk.” “Yeah, Miss Kitty told me that.” He checked out my looks, which entailed bright blue eyes, a slim body, five-ten frame, and thick black hair with a sweeping wave over my eyes. “And you are?” I sounded snobby, above him, but really didn’t mean to. “Tucker Martini. Everyone calls me Tuck.” We shook hands. “Your last name is the alcoholic beverage?” I asked, curious of him, and unable to remove my stare from his solid frame. “Better that than Tucker Meth or Tucker Ebola, right?” he joked. I laughed. “I guess so.” I was nervous, adrenaline-filled, and unable to think straight. Then I said, “Thanks for saving my life. I could have been killed.” “Any good man will save another man’s life.” Although it was twilight out, smeared with the edges of night, something twinkled green in his eyes. It was just the way the evening sun floated into and over them, a quick and enchanting action that maybe caused me to like the man at first sight. “So, you’re a good man?” “I’d like to think so. Most men call me a great man.” “We all like to think of ourselves as great men.” I didn’t know what I was saying. Words were spilling out of my mouth without any construction or thoughts. At the front of the Tudor, Miss Kitty was yelling for him, calling out his name and asking where he had run off to and what he intended to do with his piano. He grabbed my hand, walked me to the front of the house, and heaps of chaos.