Prelude To An Interview With Niccolo Fontana

Professor Fontana

What follows is a brief introduction of yet another brilliant author of Sicilian descent, that introduction amplified by an extended, occasionally interesting, recounting of the ordinary circumstances that connect his life with my own. Factual inaccuracies are intentional. No names have been changed, because no one is innocent, not even Joan Baez.

Niccolo Fontana teaches at his alma mater, the University of Absecon in New Jersey, home of The Lonesome Gull. His most sought after courses include The Speleological Evidence of Social Media Site Addiction During The Late Paleolithic Period, The Psychopathology of Dead Egotistical Authors Like Norman Mailer and Kurt Vonnegut, and The Similarities Between 21st Century Paranormal Romance Novels And Computer Viruses.

As well, Professor Fontana is a prolific author of fiction, nonfiction and falsified fiction books; short stories of resentment and revenge; and yawn-inducing articles printed in esoteric academic journals. His most recent publications include the soporific textbook, A Short History of A Nonexistent Revolution (Absegami Press, 2004), the pornographic masterpiece, Why Mary Jane Broke The Law (Farther, Stravinsky & Jareau, 2007) and the delicious short story, “Don’t Bogart That Legume” (Vegan Light Magazine, Issue 87, Spring 2010).

September 2012 will see publication of the first book of what he plans to become a three-part memoir. Volume I is titled, My Vanity Was Wounded At The Battle For Woodstock (Cocker, Jagger & Joplin Ltd.).

Mr. Fontana lives in Clam Haven Township, NJ, on the bank of the Mullica River. There he shares a clapboard cabin with his dog, Tom, his canary, Dick, and his muskrat, Barry.

Niccolo Fontana and I were roommates and putative close friends during our undergraduate years at Absecon University, years that featured Richard Nixon, William Westmoreland and Jane Fonda as both superstars and criminals. Together we grew our first fuzzy mustaches; analyzed our tepid sexual conquests; waxed philosophic about The Revolution we helped to foster; and became one with Krishnamurti at beach blanket, consciousness raising barbecues on The Marshland Quad.

Each one of our testosterone-dressed salad days arrived sunrise-spiced and golden with the aromatic promise of a future drenched in patchouli oil and sexual secretions. The universe beheld our hyperbolic sense of self-importance and moaned. Silken spirituality oozed from our pores. Love and lust had conspired to conceive us, and yet we enjoyed our misconception of their egotistical intentions.

Four years of incense, protest, pretense and nonsense. And then . . .

Absegami Tower
Absegami Tower at Absecon U.

On graduation day – Rah, rah, roo! Abbey U.! — Niccolo Fontana and I exchanged vows of infinite and eternal camaraderie. I pricked his fingertip, and he pricked mine, with the flame-cleansed tip of a platinum-plated paperclip, blessed with holy water and lent to us by the frat house chaplain, Friar Primo Sullivan.

“Non importa quanto lontano siamo vagare, saremo sempre giovane insieme,” we sang. Our two voices curled round each other to form a Sicilian treble clef, then joined inside a wave of vibratory exaltation to become one haunted note of an archetypal melody known to man and beast alike since long before the day that abra met cadabra and tick first measured tock.

“When you meet the wizard, Nicco, do give me a ring,” I said.

“But where will I find you, AVT? How will I know your location? What if you change your telephone number twixt now and then?” said Niccolo. Even then my companion, Fontana, favored slippery synonyms like twixt and ‘twill and ‘twat’s the use of talking plain when fancy is more fun.

“Thanks for caring,” I said. “Today I begin my search for Dorothy. I hear tell she roams through boundless fields of toasted wheat and travels yellow roads that lead to weeping rainbows. So I encourage you to gulp the future’s honeyed air, my loyal Nicco, lover of literature and seeker of lost souls. Breathe in deep and crave the possibilities, until you detect the scent of Dorothy’s maple musk. Wherever she be, I too shall be. Me and she. We shall be we. Thus spoketh the apparition of she to me last night.”

In this solemn manner Niccolo and I departed each other’s company. Fontana — always the insecure, pragmatic, goal-controlled type of pink-cheeked and studious scholar – packed his leather attache case, slipped his feet into his scuffed suede shoes, donned his corduroy sports jacket and tiptoed his way to the dean’s office, there to be interviewed for the position of Associate Professor of Pathological Anthropology at Abbey U (The Gull Will Never Die!).

The dean sat drunk and almost dead of terminal academic isolation, so Niccolo got the job and soon assumed the dead dean’s throne.

Meanwhile, I found Dorothy teaching kindergarten in a remodeled convent in Carmel Valley, California. I’d earlier visited Joan Baez’s Institute For The Study of Nonviolence. Although my application for admission to the program was the only one ever rejected – I was deemed a loquacious anarchist – Joan’s manager, a short, hairy-armed guy named Manny Greenhill, advised me to try the next leftwing school down the street, a place called Lorenzo’s. Manny told me that the crowd there might be more to my taste, seeing as how they all waved their hands in the air even when they meditated.

“Seems far-fetched to me, considering the Mediterranean climate and aroma of the place,” said Manny, “but Joan’s students swear they hear a woman’s voice belting out a sweet, Gallic rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow from that exact location.”

I entered Room 247 of Lorenzo’s School For Dreamers just in time for Show and Tell. My yellow-brick love – who looked a lot like Judy Collins before plastic surgery ruined her nose, but whose voice echoed Bob Dylan’s nasal tones — strummed and hummed a quirky G, C, D progression on her Gibson acoustic, while I yodeled a few verses of “I’m In Love With A Big Blue Frog,” and the school’s janitor tapped his work boots on the unisex bathroom’s tile floor.

Serendipity. Get down, bro. Can you dig it?

Dorothy’s name turned out to be Eireen Sullivan (Friar Primo’s abandoned love child, reinvented, recovered and reborn). A devout hedonist she was, always willing to indulge her appetite for repetitive consummation.

We feinted, feigned and entertained restraint over plates of raw oysters for Sunday brunch, then muttered prayers before a statue of San Carlos Borromeo at the mission as the afternoon air splattered shadows over rows of parked Peugeots.

Late that night we shook the bedposts against the wall when we made love. The consequent rattled drumbeat irritated hell out of Eireen’s angry, frightened, insomniac roommate Natalie Bartolini. “Pre-marital sex is one thing,” said Natalie. Her voice squealed, squeaked and skidded its way across the breakfast table. “It’s been redefined as a venial sin since Vatican II corrupted Catholicism. But tempting me to do the forbidden rub and twang while naked is another matter entirely. I think the bishops call it aiding and abetting unnecessary pleasure.

“So please get out and please get married, before I call Friar Primo and have you both excommunicated and shipped back to Jersey.”

We followed the first command, and soon afterward we followed the second. And while Natalie Bartolini never rang Friar Primo, I suspect that she may still today be entertaining the memory of those rock-n-roll bedposts.

I taught myself to love Colcannon and Crubeens, studied the works of Oscar Wilde and Samuel Beckett, and memorized the lyrics to “An Irish Lullaby.” (My Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra’s impressed my future mother-in-law, Innogen, enough so that she told Eireen, “Well, maybe with practice and a solid career to fall back on.”)

After a three-week courtship period, I declared the nature of my devouring devotion and popped my papist proposition, as Eireen stood and I kneeled, again in Room 247, during naptime for the itty-bitty children. Revisionist history’s rumor has it that on that day Room 247 stank of poopy diapers to everyone but me.

“Poop-polluted atmosphere be damned,” bellowed the Lord. “You, AVT, are destined to fall in thrall to Eireen Sullivan’s eau du maple musk.”

And so we set the date. I pretended confidence, and Eireen pretended that particular flavor of virginity that after The Summer of Love permitted a bride to wear white in America.

I dressed myself in a three-piece pinstriped suit and Italian ostrich-leather shoes, and attended the wedding shower. The restaurant’s Champagne Suite featured a panoramic view of the 101 Freeway at rush hour. Chicken cordon bleu leaked quick-coagulating grease into the green peas on our plates. Natalie Bartolini sat cross-legged in the corner and cried.

Still, there were a few positive indicators of a bliss-enhanced future for Eireen and me. Natalie spilled a glass of Rose wine onto her lap, blushed, and laughed at the shape of the stain. Eireen’s mother, Innogen, told me that her gardener had garlic breath, too. (“But he never let that stop him from owning his own business!”) And our pile of wedding gifts almost touched the Champagne Suite’s dropped ceiling tiles. Our unearned treasures included three fondue sets, a half dozen lavender love candles, and a perfumed negligee.

When we divorced a few years later, Eireen and I for a short time argued about how to divide the fondue sets so as not to destroy our claim of amicable separation. But we quick tugged back our tempers and decided to save the odd set as a present for Natalie should she ever change her mind, lose her virginity and celebrate with a coming out cotillion.

Eireen took our red Chevy Vega and the television set. I kept the stereo and our collection of Marvin Gaye albums.

I changed the locks, lay back on the couch, crooned along with Marvin, allowed my fans several encores, and otherwise devoted myself to sad regret and to the composition of an epic poem titled “Fugetabout Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ra.”

The pity earned by way of landing hard, low and fast can become a habit more addictive than any injectable drug. I asked for and received more attention by turning out the lights and refusing to answer knocks at my door than I’d ever received when Eireen and I hosted friends at our fondue spud parties.

I taught myself to shiver my voice, tremble my lips and cast my glance downward whenever someone asked, “How you holding up, AVT?”

I stopped shaving, exchanged my pinstripe suit for flannel shirts and dungarees, and tossed my last bottle of deodorant into the trash.

I told everyone I knew that I’d given up on love as a career goal and replaced the practice with that of writing defiant poetry and publishing a snooty literary magazine named Spilled Beans (I fancied the edgy shade of noir as it lent an air of valor to otherwise masturbatory confessional essays).

Still, at the end of any difficult workday — ink-stained fingers stiff from passing pages through the mimeograph machine, mind muddled with plotlines unresolved — I lay stretched out on my couch, alternating verses with Marvin; and I grew lonesome. This disturbed emotional state led me to recall how The Lonesome Gull spread and flapped his wings to signal determination in the face of an attacking enemy.

And that image of a noble, familiar, regal bird in flight against a headstrong and aggressive wind inspired me to attempt a reconnection with Niccolo Fontana. Perhaps the staid corduroy professor would remember our vow and grant an old friend – a recently accepted member of the literati – an interview, a conversation that put to print might well push a certain publication toward a prominent position, thus affording its editor and main author the prestige he deserved and had been so long denied.

I supposed that Eireen, or Manny, or Natalie, or maybe even Joan Baez in a sympathetic mood had informed Nicco of my brush with the tragedy we poets name Love. Fontana, always a sensitive soul, might well have hesitated to invade the privacy of a brokenhearted friend. This must be the case, I told myself. Otherwise, I surmised, Nicco would have long ago detected the aroma of Dorothy’s maple musk and come knocking at my door. (Had he tapped? Had I ignored? Quoth the seagull evermore?)

No use in guessing. I would have to make the overture. This artist, this sainted purveyor of the linguistic curlicue, I said to myself, needs to gather sufficient verve and courage to wake the academic from his solitary slumber.

But as is true of many youthful friendships, Niccolo and I lost touch as his career soared into the professional stratosphere, while my own accomplishments floated, comfortable and unheralded, much closer to Earth’s surface.

Still, in spite of the fact that Niccolo and I led separate, if in some ways parallel lives, I read every word he ever published throughout the years. As was true when youth blessed us both, as an older man I considered myself a fortunate beneficiary of Nicco’s off-center insights. I admired his poetic flair with stilted language. I marveled at his engaging sense of inbred Jersey humor.

I’d shut myself in for so long that when next morning I pulled up the window shades, unlocked the front door and stepped out into the sunlight, I was surprised to discover that a head-high stack of newspapers blocked my view of the world beyond my borders.

I snatched the topmost copy of the Absegami Times, a prestigious source of literary news that I’d had flown to my California compound each and every morning since the day I met Eireen and thereby tripped into tragedy. Back inside, a mug of steaming Taoist Tea by my side, I opened the sunlight-stained tabloid to the book review section.

There I read notice of Niccolo’s soon to be published memoir.

Serendipity? Get down, bro? Can you dig the Gull?

Miracle, sign, timing or mere coincidence; no explanation could make a difference. With the Absecon Gull to guide me, I must follow the feather. I could no longer justify resisting the temptation to contact my old friend. After all, I told myself, I was there, occupying the Jersey Marshland Quad with this living literary archetype of an author during several of the years his Volume I was sure to address. I wondered how Nicco Fontana might nowadays interpret the significance of those tumultuous times in our engaged, enraged and hormonal history.

And truth be told, I was curious to know whether or not Corduroy Nicco would include specific and colorful mention of the bellbottomed me when he told his story, our story if he were fair enough to admit as much. If such mention were made, then would I be a major or minor character, an Othello or a Lodovico? Might I be represented as a hero or a villain, a Caesar or a Brutus? Would Niccolo Fontana attempt to disguise AVT by assigning me a costumed name?

Would my dear friend and passionate paisano Nicco hold me in high esteem? Or would he instead first recall the time I stole away from the frat house, along with his girlfriend Kelly Liccardella, while he suffered through an interview with the drunken dean?

Would Niccolo Fontana honor the pledge of the platinum-plated paperclip?

Ding-a-ling.

“AVT who?” said the voice on the other end of the line.

To be continued . . .

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