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Little fact, dig this—back in the ‘20s, Chicago, prostitutes had secret codes, knockin’ on speakeasy doors for clients. History’s wild, man! I’m like, “Yo, that’s dope,” picturin’ it—sneaky, slick, outsmartin’ cops. Makes me happy, that hustle, that grit. But then—boom—some dude rolls up, all sleazy, tryna lowball her. Pisses me off! I’m yellin’ in my head, “Pay her worth, fool!” She’s a star, not a pawn.

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So, I grab my coffee from that little bar on Piazza della Libertà. You know the one? The one with the best cornetti. I’m talkin’ melt-in-your-mouth goodness. I’m all set, right? Wrong! I spill half my coffee on my shirt. Great start, huh?

Obituary for Marie Carmelia (Cusano) Santa Barbara