prologue to my “book” from 2016

While writing today, I recalled when I started working on what I guess might be considered a “novel” (not the ramblings of a mad man no). I used to use a typewriter app that tracks the dates you start a project and when you last edited it. It also logs each edit with timestamps. What a bitch that feature is, huh?

I started planning this book in 2014 but didn’t actually get started until 2016. A year later, my son was born, and now here we are. I wanted to share the prologue with you all—not only as a way to be vulnerable and maybe jumpstart an old passion of mine, but also to share how interesting the process is to me.

In it, I mention wanting to “quit drinking” and then explain my first relapse. I didn’t get sober until 2023, and it sent a weird tingle down my spine remembering how badly I wanted to stop—even back then (I used to insist on drinking while writing. What a douche.).

Now, to preface the context of this "novel," it goes as follows: It’s a fictional story following me, narrated by me, using my actual life experiences and stories from my early days in Cincinnati. The parties, the people, the girls, the friends, the drinking—everything. But it's set in the 1920s, which, during that time period, Cincinnati and mainly Newport, Kentucky, were hubs for degenerate drunks, gamblers, hookers, and mobsters much like Vegas (before Vegas was Vegas. If you didn’t know, look it up).

I hope you enjoy this little look into a creative project I hope to finish one day, and I encourage you all to pick up your forgotten dreams and start working on that shit. There’s not much time.

Cheers.

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PROLOGUE:

The chairs in every casino bar I’ve ever been in were never comfortable.

“You cock-sucker!”

A bald, out-of-shape man shoved his massive shoulder into me and spilled his drink all over my brand-new suit jacket. He collapsed onto the casino carpet—ironically, that looked more comfortable than my chair. Then he was escorted out, past the high roller tables and out into the golden, dusty Strip.

Having spent all day walking around, I wouldn’t have minded much—except my new suede loafers were now dusty and damp, and I was already sweating through my undershirt. It had been a miserable day, which made perfect sense why not a single bartender had come over to offer me a drink.

I sat back down on my barstool (still uncomfortable, might I add) when a sharp-dressed barkeep finally approached. Naturally, I ordered a coffee with cream and got the kind of look that said anyone not ordering a drink at a bar was probably up to no good.

“Yes, a coffee. With cream, please.”

A deep voice threw an underhanded compliment across the bar.

“No, give ole Coffee Cake over there a glass of gin. On me.”

Go figure. The old boy knew exactly my poison. For the past few months, I’d been trying to quit drinking. Doing that was like trying to give up pussy—except giving up pussy didn’t make you want to vomit.

Bartenders always put too much ice in mixed drinks because it’s cost-effective, but how could I say no? I downed the mostly watered-down gin for the first time in months and it sent me somewhere else entirely.

Everyone was there with us. Even God. It was like the Last Supper—he was ripping bread, buttering it for us all, pouring wine, laughing. An almost holy aura formed around my head. And just like that, I broke months of self-discipline for a free cocktail. Way to go, Tony.

“Another gin, my friend?” the bartender asked as I came to my senses and realized I was back in a shitty bar like all the rest.

“Sure. Fuck it.”

Nothing beat sipping a fresh gin and tonic—juniper kissing your lips—mixed with hookers, slot machines, and the stale smell of cigarettes. It really made you feel at home.

I lit a cigarette, hoping the smoke would hide whoever might be sitting near me. Maybe I was hoping the old codger who paid for my first relapse wouldn’t see me—or would think I’d left. Everyone wanted a story or some event, or was just someone I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to be alone.

“That’s some awful weather we’ve been having, huh?”

I took another drag and shot a look at the old man, almost like I was obligated to respond, but kept staring straight ahead, ignoring him.

It’d be cliché to say he had a chiseled face—but he did. Tough guys with scars? They had scars. The Irish badasses I knew had smiles carved into their cheeks. Fellow Italians with scars were usually dead. He had one scar on each cheek, which confused me. I could tell he was bald, even though his hat tried to hide it, and his smile—fuck, the smile he wore like he was actually excited to talk to someone he didn’t know in a bar neither of us belonged in. It all disgusted me.

“That’s the best small talk you got, old man?”

“How about this: awful people we got in here, huh? That makes more sense.”

He waved to the bartender.

“Two shots for me and the kid.”

“What brings you into this place, young man?”

He ordered two whiskeys. Whiskey was my least favorite, but begrudgingly, we clinked glasses and downed them. It hit my throat and I coughed. The old man giggled while chasing our shots.

“Well, I figure the people out there walking around don’t have a destination, so I came in here to have one,” I said.

Laughing, he replied, “Son, everyone here has no idea where they want to be—whether they’re kicking weeds outside or kicking coins inside. We all need a place to be.”

I stared at my empty glass, then looked at him and smiled.

“Tony.”

“Richie Fratarcangelo. Too long though—call me Dickey. Pleasure to meet you, kid.”

We shook hands.

“But this place closes at 2 a.m., and it doesn’t matter who’s passed out then—now or tomorrow—there’s probably gonna be somebody who kicks you in the coins and leaves you outside. Times have surely changed, haven’t they? I can…”

Dickey trailed off as a hooker slid down beside us.

“Look at you two—father and son? I need a drink. Now how about it?”

Her legs were long and white. Dressed nice, but nothing I hadn’t seen before. She reminded me of someone.

“What’s your name?” I asked, but she didn’t have time to answer—half-past drunk already.

Dickey interrupted,
“What’ll it be, my dear? Bartender! Get my wife your finest champagne!”

To my surprise, she jumped up with excitement. Women love free anything. Humans love free anything—but especially women in a bar. I didn’t blame her. Neither did I. I’d always taken what I could get. She hugged me, and I could feel her firm breasts press against my neck.

Dickey winked at me as she draped her obvious corseted body over his leg.

“And it’ll probably be somebody you know, doing both,” Jimmy said.

“What?” I replied, sipping my gin.

Dickey and the hooker were kissing and carrying on, so he ordered more shots.

“Look at this whore! She hopped right in my lap, but am I questioning it? No! Life hops in your lap like a hooker! Stop being so stubborn, Tony!” he yelled playfully.

“Remember that, Coffee Cake,” he finished, insultingly.

“Come on, join us!” Dickey said, throwing his arm around me.

I hesitated, as if I’d been there before. A beautiful woman draped over your leg like a curtain. An old man, proud of his conquest.

The door to the casino bar opened, dust and people scurrying in.

“Here, enjoy, my friend!” I laughed and stumbled to motion the bartender.

“Get us all another round—on me!”

Then I blacked out.