Polaroids and Postcards | ✔️

Chapter 2: Problems in Pennsylvania (EDITED)

His words were like a punch in the gut. It had never occurred to me that this little restaurant was Old Valentino's life. This was his future, and I was just some hot-shot musician who blew through here thinking I was better than him.

"I'm sorry." I nodded.

"I had to get out of my comfort zone to make this business work," Valentino continued, staring intently at me. "All great things come from trying new things. New sauces, new spices, new cities... New songs."

I smirked a little at this pointed remark and folded my arms. "So is that a yes?"

Valentino shook his head and let out a single, loud laugh. "I don't want to see you here ever again, Jason. Get out, go to Los Angeles, and make your dream happen. The next time I see you needs to be on television or on a magazine cover."

"Thanks, Mr. Valentino." I said, hardly able to contain my gratitude. "I just—"

"Get the hell outta here, idiota! How many times do I have to say it? You're not getting a goodbye party, if that's what you're wanting. Basta! Vada via!" He screamed at me in his typical fashion, making me snap back into the task at hand.

I nodded my final thanks to Valentino and scurried out of the kitchen, listening to the familiar bustling of the pizzeria around me once more. As much as I felt like I didn't belong there, I knew I'd miss Valentino's. I'd miss the red leather booths, the overwhelming number of photos of the Valentino family's ancestors plating the walls, and even the shouting and Italian curse words being flung about in the kitchen. Hell, I'd even miss making faces whenever I served someone any of the dishes with the special anchovy-sauce.

But I wanted my dream more.

•••

Driving down the street at 5:28 AM was a painful way to show dedication to a dream, but if you'd asked me, I'd say that's why they invented coffee.

I liked my coffee black—"like my soul," as I would always joke whenever the opportunity arose. It was bitter, strong, and straightforward (a lot like me) and I drank it in excess. Friends and family had tried in the past to stage an intervention with regards to my coffee-consumption habits once, before I moved to New York, but I was victorious. My mother said it was because I was stubborn, but my brother swore it was because I was addicted. Whatever the reason, coffee was a constant companion of mine, especially in the early morning hours that no human being should ever be awake to experience.

I sipped the steaming beverage with one hand as I gripped the steering wheel in the other, merging into the next lane. My exit would be coming up soon, so I couldn't let myself get distracted and miss it. That, however, was proving to be a difficult thing to do, seeing as all I could think about while I drove was how I would look and sound with my guitar when we rocked the stage in LA. Surely someone at the event would see how dedicated I was and want to sponsor me. If that was the case, my debut album could potentially be out by next year.

That is... if I could write some original music.

I would rather have died than been one of those lame pop-stars who just sang someone else's song and had my voice auto-tuned beyond recognition.

Not your voice in either respects...

I knew that the sad majority of aspiring artists don't make it in the music business—particularly ones who write their own songs—but I just wasn't like the rest of those people!

As this thought crossed my mind, a tiny voice of doubt (which, oddly enough, sounded a lot like Mr. Valentino) began to question these thoughts of success with accusations like, "But what makes you so special?"