Three Brothers: Part 2, Malcolm's tale

And so I drove wearily towards the restaurant of our rendezvous, after hastily finishing the software patch that should complete the migration of our Japanese developed kernel to the US platform (disregarding the screen full of compiler-generated warnings until tomorrow, of course). The last rays of the setting sun penetrated the front windshield of the nondescript rental car and disturbed my tired eyes, but I was preoccupied only with the dilemma of what tale I would tell during the much anticipated reunion. We agreed that we would take turns telling our story, and on this fateful night I promised myself that I would start the communion with neither an obnoxious bang nor a meager whimper, but a simple, common tale that bears many reflections of the modern human conditions. I pulled slowly into the parking lot of a single-floor family-style Italian restaurant with gaudy but welcoming stripes of retro red-and-white decors. The moon was rising in the now darkened sky, dancing with her orchestra of stars in the disturbed water of the Gothic stone fountain, blown by the shapeless, wayward wind. Next to the fountain, a narrow cobblestoned pathway, surrounded by roughly maintained Bermuda grass and a scattering of wildflowers, enticed me to a dimly lit garden entrance. Inside the door hung a cracked, wooden welcome sign swinging freely. I took a deep breath and walked inside.

A jovial hostess in her mid-40's dressed in a similar red-and-white striped uniform dress guided me to a corner booth, where Anthony and Luther had already arrived and were chatting light conversations over sodas and snacks. Over the table hung a dust-covered electric lamp shaped like a blossoming tulip dangling upside down. The wall was covered with framed photos, autographs and vinyl records of notable Italian Americans dating back to World War II. A high-pitched soprano singing an obscure Italian opera permeated the fragrant air in the slow diner on a quiet Monday evening. As always, the quick-witted Anthony noticed my arrival and spoke first, "The big nerd, or is it the big kahuna now? Welcome back to civilization." We shook hands and hugged warmly. "He meant western civilization," Luther added with a smile. "How are you feeling? Jet-lag getting to you yet?"

"Don't worry, Doc, I can handle a business trip or two. Ain't that old yet," I shuffled up the booth seat next to Anthony. "Some joint you recommended."

"It's cozy, opens till late and has authentic Italian food served in generous portions. What's not to like?" Luther spoke matter-of-factly.

"Don't mind him, Luther, you know Malcolm's got to complain 'bout something," Anthony said. "Let's order! I am famished."

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Luther was right; what was lacking in food presentation was more than made up by the old-fashioned savory taste and outlandish volume of each dish. Landed in front of us on the worn checkered tablecloth, like space invaders, were mountains of leftover of thin spaghetti with meatballs, toasted garlic bread thickly sliced, charbroiled pork cutlets slightly burned on the edges, and the garden romaine salad dripping in olive oil. There was no doubts that everyone had had more than their fill, and now eyes were turned slowly towards me for the beginning of the real conversation. Anthony drummed his fingers rhythmically on the table, "So you gotta talk the talk, or you waitin' for the fat lady to sing?"

Luther chuckled, "I thought she just did in that last song."

"Smart Alec, Luther. Marriage has done wonders for you," I commented, mildly surprised. "So here we are again, gathering in beat-up restaurants and meditate on life and philosophies till wee hours, just like good ol' days." I stared my comrades in the eyes. "But we ain't young pups no more, and though surely you have your shares of fire and rain, listen first to my personal crusade in the land of the rising sun." I took a big gulp of ice water, steadied my nerve and continued. "This is Malcolm's tale."