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The story of Gino
Gino’s gone. He moved out. He’s my old college roommate who has been living with us since the start of 2005. Yippee for him.
We’ve been friends since Penn State 1974. We parted ways at graduation. I moved to Modesto to live with my ex-girlfriend, Cheryl, and her new husband, Al. Gino moved back to Philadelphia with a Wildlife Technology degree and took up work as a carpenter.
Times have changed. Gino could be the Poster Boy for Good Karma.
He had a hard first 50 years, then things turned around. He moved to California on his 50th birthday, fell in love, and as of last month lives with his sweetheart, Deb, in San Francisco. They met on match.com. I see true love between them. I’ve given the matter my keenest discernment. I am greatly happy.
Gino is a good soul to the core, but he’s had tough times. He blew out a knee over a decade ago playing volleyball in a lumpy backyard. Pop. Laid him up for a couple years. Operations. Rehab. It cost him his vegetarian lifestyle. His leg muscles were so atrophied that he needed a heavy protein diet to recover. He ordered up a hamburger one day, and never looked back. He now eats more chicken than any man in the state, except Jim Morrison.
Gino’s wife of a year, Deb, also dumped him while he was in bandages. He had to pack his bags hopping on one foot and move out to nowhere on crutches. Deb had another fella she wanted to move in his place.
Miserable and limping, he holed up in an expensive little apartment, dedicated himself to his craft, and worked seven days a week for the next umpteen years, mostly for family members. They paid him squarely when he asked for it. Often he worked for fun and stayed for dinner.
Gino lived alone after his breakup. During this time he honed his craft through experience and much reading of construction periodicals. He learned to do everything – plumbing, electrical, masonry, cabinetry, fine finish work. He was Mr. Zippity Doo Dah.
Huge family he had. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, all noisy and scattered all over the southeast corner of the Keystone State. They kept him busy and gave him enough references to last a lifetime.
He would visit me in California about once every two three years. I always made his visits whirlwinds of activity. We drove all over the state. Hiked Yosemite and Big Sur. Took the Fun Train to Reno. Drove Highway 1 from stem to stern. Camped among the big, big redwoods up in Orick, the coastal center of Redwood National Park.
He’d fly home after his visits to his long, dark apartment, and the comparison contrast dilemma of memories would manifest in his mind and bring a burden into his soul.
He finally threw down the C clamp. Said, “I’m done. I’m moving to California.” And he did. You’ve read of our many exploits since he arrived. We’ve kept up the Schedule of Fun.
Anyhow. To loop back to the start. Gino is gone. Of course, he didn’t say anything. What’s to say? I came home one day and my garage was empty. His 65 tools were gone. I opened the drawers in his bathroom. No toothpaste, soap, toenail clippers. He was out of there.
Brooks our cat meowed a lot when Gino left. Gino used to rub Brooks’s belly with his sock foot for hours watching TV. He called the cat Frankie. He didn’t like the name Brooks. Refused to use it.
While Gino lived here our kitchen sink was under a magic spell. I could put a dirty dish into it and the dish would disappear. That magic is gone. Right now it looks like the Cypress Expressway.
While Gino lived here our dining room table was under a magic spell. A cornucopia of well seasoned meals in delicate sauces used to appear in the evenings. The pop of fine wine signaled the start of our many banquets. Now it’s steamed rice and store-roasted chickens.
Gino is in his happy place. He’s with Deb, and the dogs, Winston and Shiloh. He doesn’t have to work so hard for the first time in his life. Deb’s family has done all right for themselves. Deb and Gino are able to live a good life. He walks the dogs. Scoops poop. Sleeps without pain. Smiles a lot. Has time to pay attention to details, like the smell of roses.
We go visit a lot. Deb has a beautiful house off Union Street, walking distance to a dozen night clubs and restaurants. The Betelnut is only two blocks away. How great is that?
They come here. Last week Gino helped me put in a sliding glass door and bathroom window.
It’s funny ironic how Gino’s life has revolved. Now, visiting me means work, and staying home is bliss.
We’ve been friends since Penn State 1974. We parted ways at graduation. I moved to Modesto to live with my ex-girlfriend, Cheryl, and her new husband, Al. Gino moved back to Philadelphia with a Wildlife Technology degree and took up work as a carpenter.
Times have changed. Gino could be the Poster Boy for Good Karma.
He had a hard first 50 years, then things turned around. He moved to California on his 50th birthday, fell in love, and as of last month lives with his sweetheart, Deb, in San Francisco. They met on match.com. I see true love between them. I’ve given the matter my keenest discernment. I am greatly happy.
Gino is a good soul to the core, but he’s had tough times. He blew out a knee over a decade ago playing volleyball in a lumpy backyard. Pop. Laid him up for a couple years. Operations. Rehab. It cost him his vegetarian lifestyle. His leg muscles were so atrophied that he needed a heavy protein diet to recover. He ordered up a hamburger one day, and never looked back. He now eats more chicken than any man in the state, except Jim Morrison.
Gino’s wife of a year, Deb, also dumped him while he was in bandages. He had to pack his bags hopping on one foot and move out to nowhere on crutches. Deb had another fella she wanted to move in his place.
Miserable and limping, he holed up in an expensive little apartment, dedicated himself to his craft, and worked seven days a week for the next umpteen years, mostly for family members. They paid him squarely when he asked for it. Often he worked for fun and stayed for dinner.
Gino lived alone after his breakup. During this time he honed his craft through experience and much reading of construction periodicals. He learned to do everything – plumbing, electrical, masonry, cabinetry, fine finish work. He was Mr. Zippity Doo Dah.
Huge family he had. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, all noisy and scattered all over the southeast corner of the Keystone State. They kept him busy and gave him enough references to last a lifetime.
He would visit me in California about once every two three years. I always made his visits whirlwinds of activity. We drove all over the state. Hiked Yosemite and Big Sur. Took the Fun Train to Reno. Drove Highway 1 from stem to stern. Camped among the big, big redwoods up in Orick, the coastal center of Redwood National Park.
He’d fly home after his visits to his long, dark apartment, and the comparison contrast dilemma of memories would manifest in his mind and bring a burden into his soul.
He finally threw down the C clamp. Said, “I’m done. I’m moving to California.” And he did. You’ve read of our many exploits since he arrived. We’ve kept up the Schedule of Fun.
Anyhow. To loop back to the start. Gino is gone. Of course, he didn’t say anything. What’s to say? I came home one day and my garage was empty. His 65 tools were gone. I opened the drawers in his bathroom. No toothpaste, soap, toenail clippers. He was out of there.
Brooks our cat meowed a lot when Gino left. Gino used to rub Brooks’s belly with his sock foot for hours watching TV. He called the cat Frankie. He didn’t like the name Brooks. Refused to use it.
While Gino lived here our kitchen sink was under a magic spell. I could put a dirty dish into it and the dish would disappear. That magic is gone. Right now it looks like the Cypress Expressway.
While Gino lived here our dining room table was under a magic spell. A cornucopia of well seasoned meals in delicate sauces used to appear in the evenings. The pop of fine wine signaled the start of our many banquets. Now it’s steamed rice and store-roasted chickens.
Gino is in his happy place. He’s with Deb, and the dogs, Winston and Shiloh. He doesn’t have to work so hard for the first time in his life. Deb’s family has done all right for themselves. Deb and Gino are able to live a good life. He walks the dogs. Scoops poop. Sleeps without pain. Smiles a lot. Has time to pay attention to details, like the smell of roses.
We go visit a lot. Deb has a beautiful house off Union Street, walking distance to a dozen night clubs and restaurants. The Betelnut is only two blocks away. How great is that?
They come here. Last week Gino helped me put in a sliding glass door and bathroom window.
It’s funny ironic how Gino’s life has revolved. Now, visiting me means work, and staying home is bliss.
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