Page 6 of I Think Olive You
“All I need is for you to sign this agreement saying you’re going to honor the board’s stipulations.” He pushes a paper toward me, pen poised on top.
Despite better judgment—or perhaps due to the lack of fucks to give—I walk over and scribble my signature. Alan slides his business card across the desk and I slip it between my fingers, resisting the urge to flick it back into his face.
“In case you need to reach me via alternate means since I know phone calls are hard for you, that’s my email and fax.”
I nod and walk out, turning back with the door handle in my grip.
“I’ll see you around, Alan. You’ll hear from me when I have news.”
Alan nods, already returning to his paperwork and emails, and I take the elevator trip down with more air in my lungs than I’ve had in a long time. Within an hour, I have two bags packed and a one-way ticket to Italy. The nerves eating up my stomach daily are easier to ignore than they’ve been in a while.
I have all flight long to figure out what the fuck kind of business my dad had in Italy. The man hadn’t been back in close to thirty years and he never spoke about his life in Italy except to embellish the sharpness of his rise. Why would a man—one I’ve only ever known to be ruthless and efficient—bother to keep an investment this old… this insignificant?
The name on the contract says it all, one that’s been scrubbed from memory and buried long before my father’s body: Tommaso de Palma.
Whatever this is, it’s personal.
Business class would’ve been a step down from what I’m used to, but worse still, I’m forced to find a spot in economy for the first leg of my journey to Puglia. It’s fine. I booked last minute on a full flight. I’m lucky I have a seat at all. But it’s the aisle, and the stewards knock the shit out of my elbow with their cart every time they walk by. There’s a screaming kid behind me. Hell, even the little bottles of booze I get with my meal are tiny and taste like spiced petroleum.
Italy. It’s worth it, and it’ll be over soon. I’ve had hangovers longer than this flight.
The food cart bruises my arm with its force. The steward offers me two whole meal options and I answer “chicken” through a wince. The swill they serve on this side of the plane is one of the worst meals I’ve had in a while. The most appetizing part of it is the freaking dinner roll.
Italy. The reminder is more of a mental grimace but it keeps me focused. Overpriced eye mask on, the rush-purchased neck pillow from Hudson News propped just-so, I shove my earphones in to drown out the wailing. I’ll land in Naples and then find my way to Puglia—I’m winging it. It’ll be okay. Easy. I pop an Ambien and it takes hold—putting me out of my misery for the next few hours.
When I wake, it’s with a kink in my neck and my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth from the recycled air. Disembarking is a crush of people who stand as soon as the seatbelt sign goes off. Overhead bins are thrown open and bags bump anyone unlucky enough to be in the vicinity. The plane smells like sweat and desperation. I count myself among the latter, antsy to get the fuck out of this sardine can. The longer I stand in the press of bodies, the quicker my heart pounds.
Just a couple more minutes.
Once I’m free, I rush to the baggage carousel as if walking will burn off the anxiety of being contained for too long. After a few rotations, my hand wraps around my suitcase handle, tugging. Italy waits beyond the exit doors.
Steeling myself, I step out into the Neapolitan breeze. The air is different here. It’s not a stretch when New York carries its own personalized scent, but here it whirls around in my lungs and calms the calamity in my chest. Stepping away from the doors, I wait on the sidewalk as cars pull up and depart just as quickly—witness to sweet reunions and hurried rideshares.
Naples is apparently the best place to get authentic pizza—my first taste of Italy. This might be the turn I’ve hoped for. Things are looking up. I google the top-rated pizzeria in Naples and order a taxi to get me there.
Other tourists mull about, stuffing their faces with red sauce and cheese. Spots dot the crust, blackened where it’s risen too close to the flame. I’m thankful Naples is such a tourist town when I’m able to place my order in English. Thomas Palmer immersed himself in the American Dream so fully you’d hardly guess he was Italian at all. That left me with a severe lack of knowledge and almost zero language skills.
I people-watch while I wait and let the city's energy settle around me. Woodsmoke and bright tomato; the smell hits me before I see it. The waiter sets a piping hot pizza down in front of me and it pains me to wait for it to be cool enough to touch.
The moan following the first bite is easy to excuse. After a rude awakening to suffer through another terrible plane meal, it’s only expected. The second and third bites feel downright sinful. Flavor bursts along my tastebuds—sauce sweet and salty in the best way. The dough has a rougher texture on the bottom where they’ve either floured it or added something to stop it from sticking to the base of the oven. Fresh basil lends an earthy and sweet distraction to the richness of fresh mozzarella, torn off into bubbling balls of decadence.
Jesus Christ. Did I just fall in love with a pizza slice?
I force myself to take a break from devouring food to look up my best option for travel—no direct flights from Naples to any airport in Puglia. The train is an extensive journey, which leaves buses. I’m very tempted to find a driver who will take me all the way, but the rolled-up contract in my backpack hangs heavy.
I haven’t looked at it yet. Seeing my father’s birth name on it left me with a feeling I didn’t want to examine back in New York. It can wait a little longer, right?
Takeovers and dismantling corporations can’t happen on an empty stomach. This has nothing to do with me being scared shitless and wondering for the first time what I’ve gotten myself into. Looking before leaping might have been a good idea. How the hell am I going to manage this in three months? Part of me is unconvinced I want the CEO title, but that was when I had time to decide. The board forced me into a corner and I can either rise to the occasion, or…
Be the fuck up everyone expects you to be.
I don’t have much going for me, it’s true. But perhaps this can be my chance to do something outside my father’s scope. Thomas Palmer was well-known in New York. But here… here my father was Tommaso de Palma and his only legacy is rolled up into an agreement close to thirty years old.
I could make it mine, could find a space where I fit without having to self-medicate and plaster on a smile. This could be fulfilling. At least I might have something to fall back on if I fail at being CEO—besides vices.
Sucking it up, I book the bus ticket. Matt Palmer hasn’t taken a bus before. He’s a spoiled asshole whose only talent is finding trouble. Today, and for the rest of the summer, I’m determined to be more than just Matt Palmer. What that means remains to be seen.
A handful of sweltering hours later, I step off the crowded bus into a town called Taranto. The sun-kissed edge of the coast glistens in invitation. My first impression of Puglia is sunlight and sensation. Heat leaves my limbs languid—the daylight baking onto my skin—and the wind offers a kiss to temper the bite. The air tastes different here, unburdened by smog and fumes. A summer breeze dances around me, laced with freesia and the hint of rich, tilled earth. It’s like a fucking postcard, and all I can think is I’ve had all this waiting for me and never knew. So close, yet so far.