Prologue

My name is Regan Romano and just when I thought I might be headed for a mild midlife crisis I decided a better alternative might be to write. What came first the crisis or the book? We may never know? The term crisis might be a tad dramatic, but if you consider how this narrative unfolds, with me, the encumbered writer, following the thread of my story back to the damn spool, then you’ll have a better idea why I chose this word. I am rather lenient with words. I indulge them like spoiled children who end up filing for emancipation by page sixteen. Ungrateful little adages!

This story is based on a tapestry of lives woven together by commonalities, blood, chemistry, or just damn good luck. I don’t want to dwell on the mechanics of friendship, but as you know, relationships tend to dominate the stratagem of most good stories. I’m talking about the people in your life who know you down to the marrow, those who love you without justification, the ones who seep into your life like butter on warm toast. If you were privy to a private tête-à-tête with my girlfriends, Mary will tell you I am rather talkative and I lack the ability to filter my thoughts, but she could be describing herself. Joan will say I’m modern, but trust me the existing world order would not collapse if Joan wore jeans on Friday. Trish will laugh and say she’s worn out her rosary beads on me, but I think she just loves to pray. Then of course there is my sister Susan, who refers to me as ‘the spare’ because I’m useful in emergencies, but truthfully she just likes to claim the blessings of the firstborn.

The outcome of my midlife crisis became apparent in the breaking of bread, a time when one’s character is radically manifest in the presence of others. It began innocently enough one evening, with this tapestry of friends lingering over a rather smooth Merlot, on the patio of our ’70s track home, nestled in the suburbs of San Jose, California. A patio is an outdoor space, a paved area between residence and garden, used for dining or recreation. But I have a different definition; I believe the patio is sacred space, one that adjoins the human with the divine, and on rare occasions that communion is potent. 

This is when the “renovation” began but like most things this salacious event was preceded by a fruitful idea. A kernel that took root in my brain, like a seed buried in fertile soil, one that would bring me back to the soil from which I sprouted. I commonly dwell in the upper regions of my mind, but that makes it all the more important for a return to the place where I was formed, to understand and acknowledge I ‘know not what I do’ until I recognize the propelling forces behind my actions. This is where the word ‘crisis’ is indulged, where epiphanies lay dormant in the crevices of life, in the harbors of our unexamined fears. You know what I mean, an experience that shatters your current belief system, or challenges previously conceived ideas. The fertility of this experience changed me, and of course, I shared the fruit with my friends. I know, I know, Eve made the same damn mistake. Let’s just blame the serpent and read on.

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