“O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”
When Daniel “Danny” Bartolomeo climbed up an extension ladder, toting a one-gallon bucket of oil-based metallic gold paint and a brush in his hip pocket, he spotted me — back turned at my neatly organized desk — and spoke the poetic line from Romeo and Juliet through the open bedroom window.
I was in the middle of responding to another fun-filled letter from Christopher “Chris” Honneffer — my friend and former church camp bunkmate — who now lived in Farmington, New Mexico.
Startled by the totally unexpected intrusion, I immediately recognized the familiar voice on the other side of the boxed window fan. He was one of the good-natured new converts, who began attending Ellwood City Assembly of God earlier that spring and played for the church softball team.
Feeling a little cheeky, I took his cue and fired back the perfect comeback, considering the long black-haired Italian was perched on a ladder outside my window.
“But soft! What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun,” I stated, my hands raised to the ceiling with dramatic flair.
Danny smirked as he set the paint can on the window ledge. “Considering you won’t read Romeo and Juliet until your junior year of high school, I’m astonished you’re able to recite that line word for word.”
“Hmm… how should I explain this,” I contemplated, scratching my head while looking at the would-be painting thespian through the fan blades. “There’s this little square box called a television set, and on Saturday afternoons they show old movies; so, I’ve probably seen Romeo and Juliet at least a half a dozen times.”
“Well, aren’t you the resourceful little chap with a silver tongue,” Danny quipped with a smirk.
“By the way,” I guffawed, removing the makeshift air conditioner to raise the window screen. “If I’m Romeo, then that would make you Juliet; so, it looks like you need to go back home and change into a frilly dress.”
“But it’s a good thing I didn’t just return to my bedroom after taking a bath,” I continued with a Cheshire cat grin splashed across my face, “or you would’ve had a free show; and then I’d be calling you a Peeping Tom.”
“Considering it’s ten o’clock on a Saturday morning,” the softball short stop fired back, giving me a taste of my own medicine, “I figured I’d take my chances. Besides, you ain’t got nothing I haven’t seen before.”
“What if I push this ladder away from the house?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“You wouldn’t dare!” Danny shot back.
“Lucky for you, I’m feeling mighty generous today; otherwise, you’d be toast,” I declared, squinting as I stuck out my tongue in one last playful jab.
With that, I turned on my heels and promptly strolled from my sleeping quarters, leaving Danny hanging — both figuratively and, well, very literally — outside my bedroom window.
Three years after purchasing the quarter-block — home to a colossal red-brick church, adorned with stained glass windows, the parsonage and two rental properties — the board of deacons finally approved much-needed renovations to the clergy house: a fresh coat of paint for the clapboard siding and a waterproof sealant to keep basement leaks at bay during rainstorms.
When the fellowship’s governing body realized labor costs amounted only to a buffet-style lunch, they unanimously approved the church’s newly formed softball team to handle the work the Saturday after Independence Day.
Shortly before I wandered into the kitchen with a craving for Isaly’s chipped ham, the minister’s wife and her two young daughters returned from Valu King — a sprawling grocery store on Wampum Avenue, across from the Connoquenessing Creek.
“Keep your grubby hands out of there,” Mom warned after I snatched a smidgen of thinly sliced deli meat and stuffed it into my pie hole. “This food is for the church softball team who have so graciously offered their time to give our house a much-needed face-lift. If you’re hungry, there are apples in the refrigerator.”
“No, I think I’m good,” I snickered, rubbing my tummy after a very satisfying snack. “That delicious, chipped ham hit the spot.”
“Boy, you better get out of here,” Mom said with a coy grin, “before I hit you over the head with my rolling pin.”
Dodging his mother’s playful threat, this rising freshman scampered down the open staircase to investigate the commotion brewing in the underbelly of their Cape Cod-style home.
Everything — from the family room furniture to my little sister’s playhouse kitchen set — was pushed to the center of the basement. A half dozen young men, including my big brother John, diligently rolled a thick coat of Drylok water sealant onto the cinderblock walls.
“I’ll be a monkey’s uncle!” I exclaimed, navigating a maze of paint pans, long-handled roller brushes and drop cloths to reach James “Jimmy” Walker, Sr., the apparent paint crew supervisor. “Looks like the church softball team has invaded my house and is graffitiing the walls — I probably ought to call the cops to lock youns up.”
“Well, if it isn’t the resident court jester,” Jimmy chuckled, grabbing my arm before I toppled into a couple of shallow trays filled with white sticky goo. “Watch your step, Little Man — your mother will skin you alive if you take a dive into one of these paint pans.”
“I just saw Danny Bartolomeo outside my bedroom window with a can of paint,” I said, mischief sparking in my eyes, teeing up the sarcasm to follow. “That guy can’t even paint by numbers, and you’re letting him paint our house?”
“You best not say that too loudly,” Jimmy said, “because his brothers — Orlando and Jeff — are standing right over there.”
Glancing across the wide-open space, I spotted the Bartolomeo brothers staring back at me. Without another word, I ducked behind the father of two, hoping to make myself invisible.
The ravenous painting crew shuffled into the kitchen several minutes later, piling their plates high before heading outdoors to the picnic table with a few extra lawn chairs sitting nearby.
Danny caught my eye, smirking as he approached me standing next to my younger siblings swing set. “So… I can’t paint by numbers, huh? Let’s see if you can swim with the fishes.”
Before I could react, he sent me flying into our swimming pool headfirst.
Dripping, sneakers squelching, I climbed out—drenched, defeated and looking like a drowned rat.
Mom barely glanced up as she set the two-liter bottles of pop down. “With the way you’ve been running your mouth all morning, I’m surprised someone didn’t toss you into that pool sooner.”
All’s well that ends with a dunk — at least in our house.