Basement Files: The Treasures of Campania, part 1

Among the treasures of the Amalfi Coast, there can be no doubt that Naples is the crown jewel. But for the adventurous tourist, one who believes a path shouldn't be beaten, but merely disciplined with a firm voice, greater riches await just beyond the guided tour. For if you will listen, names like Sorrento, Positano, Revello and Palinuro will call to you.

Oh, Christ, I don't know why I wrote something that absurd. I'm really just going to Italy because my wife has demanded it. Theresa comes from one of those families that claims a charming ethnic heritage whenever it suits them. It's like those friends who go an entire year without mentioning Ireland, but suddenly, on St. Patty's Day, claim a deeper connection to Erin's ill-starred soil than you can possibly understand. Suddenly they're awash in Celtic mysticism, mumbling along to Chieftains' albums and weeping like a young widow.

And so it is with Theresa's family. They're all pale as Laplanders, but it's impossible to share a dinner with them without somebody saying, "Hey, what can I say? I'm Italian!" This is usually offered with a coy shrug and meant to excuse either their ghastly table manners or the gathering's Vesuvian volume. And it's this frail ancestral link that has me flying to Italy today.

Theresa and I board the shuttle for the long trip to LAX and we're joined, in painstaking increments, by a parade of sullen, bleary-eyed businessmen. Beyond the embarrassed head-nod of each new passenger, no real connection is sought. All of us sink into that taut silence that prevails whenever shamed strangers are crushed into a hurried intimacy.

We know this is a degrading form of public conveyance and it necessarily says unflattering things about our life's choices: that we've hired on with a crappy company, that we're too cheap to spring for long-term parking, or that we're married to people who no longer care how we get to the airport (in fact, they're abed right now, immune to our suffering, and looking forward to having the house to themselves for a couple of days). And so we busy ourselves with itineraries, day planners and antacids, and seek among this private world of minutia a small cocoon of dignity.

Our focus is all the more concentrated because built into the cocoon is the knowledge of its fragility. Our next stop is a small ranch house in Torrance and there emerges from the lemony haze of the porch light a sight to dash all hopes. It's the wide, hopeful smile that triggers our fear, the boundless energy of each springy step that confirms it. It's the Cocoon Destroyer.

The side door opens and we're all recoiling from the sudden intrusion of light when a booming "Ray Corcoran, everybody" echoes through the van. Ray collapses with a heavy sigh in the back seat and announces that he's just heard on KFI that the 405's as clogged as Paul Prudhomme's arteries.

No one says a word, hopeful that a stone wall of preoccupied silence will halt Ray's incursion. But Ray's not a man who finds solace in the cocoon of silence; he is comfortable only in the plush chrysalis of constant banter. Ray sees all social intercourse as a prolonged cold call and he's faced tougher crowds than this one.

Suddenly, a meaty hand slides over the seatback to rest on my shoulder, the same baritone "Ray Corcoran" accompanying it as a calling card. I turn to grasp the hand, offering my name and a firm, friendly shake. That's enough to loosen in Ray an avalanche of questions for us all. Where you headed? Business or pleasure? What outfit you with?

No matter our destination, Ray has a cautionary tale for each and every corresponding airport. "Yeah, Atlanta's not that bad. Unless you're on United. They've got gates spread over two terminals and catching a connecting flight can be bear." For every company mentioned, Ray shares a distressing rumor of impending layoffs, one he hates to mention, but you know...FYI.

And for every hotel, Ray can direct you to a "wonderful, wonderful" steakhouse within walking distance. "It's in this little industrial park and it's nothing to look at from the outside, but God Almighty they can sear some beef." All of us in turn have been forced to mutter a half-hearted, "Hey, it sounds nice. I'll definitely check it out if I get a chance." To that, Ray asks, with heartbreaking sincerity, that we mention his name at the door. Right, as if Ray's name gets dropped anywhere other than a punch line.

There is, to all of Ray's questioning, the sense of preamble, as though the real question is still to come. And sure enough, out of nowhere, Ray says, "Stan, how much do you figure your company spends every month on toner? Okay, fair enough, but give me a ballpark." After Stan hazards a random, ridiculous guess, Ray starts rummaging through his briefcase and says, "That's what I thought. Now, I'm gonna let you in on a little secret here."

How can your heart not sink when a secret is preceded by that listless phrase? Only shitty nonsecrets follow. Unless a secret begins with, "Promise not to tell anybody? I'm serious...give me your word," most people just tune out. And with Ray rattling on about business, that's what well do. We sink back into our cocoons and calculate the odds that Ray could possibly be on our flight.

Next week: Charles maybe gets to the fucking airport.