L'incidente Americana

"The American Accident" - a narrative through the eyes of a Sicilian girl living in Rome with a semi-dark ending. Enjoy the bits of Italian and the references to beautiful Rome.

            There is so much anonymity for me in Roma. I think that is one of the reasons I love it so much. If I wanted to, I could strut down Via del Corso this afternoon, with a bucket on my head singing “Volare, oh, oh. Cantare, oh, oh, oh, oh.” And the only thing that would happen is that some tourists would probably take my picture. If I were really impressive, maybe a few passing locals would pause their dramatic conversations full of complaints about the tourists. But after a second they would realize that I was hardly the strangest -- and certainly not the most interesting -- sight Rome has to offer in a day.

 Of course, I would never do anything like that. My days rarely get more exciting than the cash register at Fiori della Matina, the shop my parents opened when we moved from a small town outside of Sicily. It is the perfect place to sit, read, and occasionally help the regulars who come in. I don’t even mind the dazed tourists who wonder in for directions, usually not realizing that speaking louder does not make their attempt to use “dov’è” any more impressive. They are all part of the anonymity, so I let them be.

 Today started out as a particularly lovely Thursday in September. I had been reading a book for my literature class and I was about to close the shop for lunch.  While filling one last vase with water, I heard the door open.

            “Bon giorno? Scusa?”

            As if the unmistakably American accent wasn’t telling enough, the girl who had just closed the door behind her was wearing jean shorts and t-shirt that looked to be three sizes too big before the neck and the bottom half had been cut off. I guessed she was about my age but was at least a head taller than me.

            “Ciao. Can I help you?” There was no way this girl was actually intending to buy flowers.

            “Ciao! Si, si per favore. Oh my gosh, these would look so cute on my desk. Cuanto costa?”

            “Oh, those would be twenty two euro.”

            “Okay, I’ll take them, please…” she looked down at the nametag on my apron, “Alessandra. Oh my gosh, is your name Alessandra? My name is Alex! Is that totally the Italian version of my name?” Her questions seemed to be out of place in the store and in my life.

            “Umm…I’m not sure.” I started to pick out the flowers for the bouquet she wanted.

            “I think it probably is.”

            Alex went on to tell me an extraordinary amount about herself within the six minutes it took me to wrap up her flowers. She was, in fact, American " from New York, the state, not the city. She studied at American University in Rome for the semester. She had been learning Italian. Could I tell? She was totally dying to meet real Italians. And would I like to go get gelato with her and hang out.

            Do I want to “hang out?” Had she really just asked me that? Initially, I was horrified at the thought of spending any extended amount of time with this girl, but I was so surprised that she had actually asked me to “hang out” that I could not come up with any excuses. And so I closed the shop for lunch and off we went. Just me and her. Alone, for a “gelato date,” as she called it. Alex and I walked to the corner to buy our cones, and then walked down a few streets around the flower shop. She asked me about living in Rome, what I liked to do for fun, what my favorite flavor of gelato was, and complimented my English. What had I done to deserve this torture?

            After forty-five minutes that felt like six hours, we made our way back to the corner near my flower shop, where she had to turn to head towards Trastevere. She wrote down her phone number on the back of her gelato receipt and handed it to me.

            “Wow, this was the best! I can’t wait to hang out again.”

            “Si, Alex. Very nice to meet you.” I would rather hang myself than “hang out” with you again, I thought.

            “Ciao, Alessandra!”

            That afternoon, I was unbelievably grateful that the only customers were two old women with absolutely no interest in my favorite flavor of gelato. By six o’clock, I was one hundred pages deeper into my book and looking forward to apperativos at my favorite place on my bus route towards home. I locked the door and turned to walk towards la fermata to read as I waited for my bus.

            “Alessandra! Hey!” I stopped. Then I thought, why am I stopping? And I took a few steps. “Alessandra? Wait!” It was useless. By the time I turned around Alex was only ten feet away from me. “Yay, I caught you! I was just thinking that I actually had nothing to do today, and I noticed you close at six so I just thought I’d see if you wanted to hang out for a while.” I stared at her. Was this a joke?

            Alex insisted she take me to a “fabulous pizzeria near the pantheon.” I said I’d never been there, and her reaction would have been a more appropriate response if I had admitted that I frequently plow down children with a Vespa. While she continued to go on about all the other places she wanted to show me, I began to imagine what I had inadvertently gotten myself into. I pictured clubbing in Testaccio on Saturday nights. Oh, Madonna. My quiet Thursday nights would turn into girls night. Mi aiuti! Endless trips to touristy restaurants and gelaterias. Merda.  I needed a plan to save myself.

            I had gotten so thoroughly distracted thinking about my impending doom that I had almost completely tuned out her chatter. Apparently, I was so diverted that I did not notice when Alex miscalculated the speed and patience of a taxi driver. Before I could wholly grasp the situation, the taxi driver and his passengers were anxiously emerging from the cab and coming to the front to see the girl whom they had hit.

            Well. I guess that solves that problem, I thought.

Author's Note

What do you think of the Italian words? Is there a better way to include them? Do any of them need to be translated?

Reviews

[roarke]

Bri, an excellent piece. The story's opening was finely crafted. Alassandra's character immediately came into focus as did Alex's. As I started to read, I thought... well, not my genre type, but it's so well written... and I continued. Your story bloomed and captured my interest. I'm a twisty abrupt ending writer, and I like the ending, but.... you wrote so well, readers are going to want more, learn more about the girls and their conflict resolutions. In other words, the finely written story was ended too abruptly, the resolution didn't fit. The reader might feel let down. That's a text book analysis, like I said, great writing and I like twisty, abrupt endings. Well done.