The Pavoni Curse

Among my mom’s family, it’s notoriously branded The “Pavoni Curse.” Legend has it my grandfather came from a long line of iniquitous horse thieves running wild in Naples back in the day. Some have even claimed it’s why his father and mother came to America in 1914 – running from the law.

In and of itself, horse thievery doesn’t sound like the transgression that curses are made of, but there was a time when a horse thief was about the worst thing a man could be called. And when one of those horses belongs to a very important person, say a Man of God named The Pope, well then it all starts to make sense.

I’ve never for one moment doubted the curse is alive and kicking. It explains a lot, particularly the things that Ben so astutely noted “could only happen to Lucas.”

The Pavoni Curse is marked by above all things, its dreadful timing. For instance, the night before your first day at a new job, when you’re trying to make a good first impression to new co-workers and peers, your water heater explodes, soaking your living room, kitchen, and bathroom (narrowly missing your computer). And the way you find out about it is to slip and bust your ass when you get up to piss at 4am; as you fall towards an inch of water on the bathroom floor, you’re already blaming the Curse: I should’ve known.

You call maintenance and get the 24-hour Help Desk answering service, which is quite the misnomer because there is nothing even remotely reassuring about having an argument with some Indian – Sanji Gupta, not Squatting Stallion – about whether or not you, indeed, have a water pump.

“You do not have a water pump, sir.” (I translated that into what I believe he meant and not what I actually heard him say).

I’m pretty sure I do, since I’m standing on soaked carpet. Ok, it’s a f***ing water heater, whatever, just page maintenance for me.

Here’s where the Curse gets really fun. You haven’t showered since the previous afternoon after your workout; you haven’t shaved in a few days; and your hair is matted from sleeping on it. So you pour a bottle of water over your head, try to style it a little, forcing down your cowlick, you swab a little gel on, splash a little water on your face to get the crust out of your eyes, save a tad to brush your teeth, strategically apply some Old Spice High Endurance, put on your suit and tie, and begin your new career.

Around 10am, you realize there’s a huge chunk sticking out in the back that you missed, and you’re slightly bothered by your own body odor. You shake every hand in the company looking grizzled, like you just rolled in badly hung over from an all-nighter, which could easily be explained away after that Iowa game, where Rick Majerus turned an already dismal contest into an excruciating experience; after it had awkwardly, yet mercifully ended, you went to sleep counting turnovers rather than sheep.

And so you left your own, private office, locking-door and all, after your first day quite assured that everyone had wondered all day what they had done by hiring the kid that doesn’t have the proper hygiene to shave or shower, but puts on a suit anyway, hoping no one will notice.

The legend further claims that during World War I, just before they fled to America, my great grandmother buried a fairly large quantity of money, but told no one where, as she planned to return to Naples after the war to dig it up. She never did, though, dying in a tragic accident when my grandfather was four.

I’ll be in Austria in January. I reckon it’s about time I took a train to Naples, found that money, dug it up, and paid God for that horse.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *