Red Light
- Giancarlo Garnei
- Jul 9
- 7 min read
Updated: Jul 26
Red light, I had stopped. Inside my Toyota, the air smelled like shit: I was working, practically done. I thought, "I'll rush, hit the gym, then go straight home." Even though it was Thursday that night, we were supposed to hear some music at a downtown bar around eleven. But it was only after finishing my workout that I got a flood of calls from Bruno: "Cobra, where are you? Want to grab dinner?" I, who'd realized I'd been kind of depressed for the past five months, accepted without hesitation. I stepped out of the gym and looked around—where was he? He was parked diagonally across the crosswalk at a red light, with cars waiting for the green light to change. Of course, I caught up with him amid a symphony of honking. I opened the door; he was laughing, listening to Nicolò Paganini—what a spectacular idiot. He had two open bottles of wine in his hands and said, "I went to a wine tasting, man; we're drinking these at dinner." I replied, "Great, then dinner's at my place."
After eating, we walked toward the theater, throwing around all kinds of nonsense along the way: girls, soccer, and how to make gelato. He'd recently taken over a gelato shop. He was explaining how he made his gelato, as well as his plans to sell it from a food truck in addition to the shop. The final product would be called "Bruno's Cream." Then, we had a quick debate about Marx, specifically about who the "real" 19th-century philosopher was. Then we arrived.
Damn, just during dinner, we'd finished four bottles of wine between the two of us—two whites and two reds—and then three or four glasses of whiskey each while smoking a joint on the balcony. I thought I was already drunk, but I was holding up well, I realized after we stepped out. We had planned to meet the others, but when we arrived, we were the first ones there.
In those twenty minutes:
Another bottle of wine, and we finished that too—something I didn't expect; I thought everyone else would drink it. I hadn't quite figured things out yet. Then, two suspicious women in their forties approached us—they were clearly looking for coke—and even offered to have sex. For a moment, I feared Bruno might say yes, but they were two junkies with no hair or teeth. It must have been almost the end of those twenty minutes when the infamous Roman actor Riccardo Scamarcio walked in. Bruno didn't waste a second; he seemed like he'd been waiting for him. He got up quickly, went to the bar, stood next to the actor's elbows, and said, "Riccà, you gotta tell me something. Be honest though… How many girls have you slept with?" Bruno's eyes were 100% Neapolitan at that moment. Scamarcio asked if he was from Naples. "Affirmative," Bruno replied. I was already laughing; he couldn't hide it. I really enjoy going out with Bruno because he's a wild person. He's not the type to just sit at the table sipping drinks one after another. He's dynamic, always with a schedule, even when out. While Scamarcio was talking, both of us were checking our watches. By the end of the night, we confessed to each other the subtle desire to steal it from him—we could have done it without much trouble.
Man, the heat had hit the city, and Rome was coming alive: open-air nights, gardens, beautiful spots—you can even listen to music at the damn Baths of Caracalla in the summer. The city wakes up. But we were inside, in a "winter" bar where people smoke indoors, sweating.
Around the twentieth minute of the first half, there's Valerio. He found us outside smoking a cigarette—we couldn't stand the heat anymore, so we stepped out. Valerio rode his scooter down the narrow bar alley at about 70 km/h and stopped a centimeter from Bruno, who was so drunk he would've taken the scooter to the face without blinking. I would've gone down with him.
Bruno, for example, hadn't been in a serious relationship for years. He might seem superficial, but he wasn't: he'd had one serious girlfriend, and that time I saw a man in love. After that, I don't think it ever happened again. Now, he had a kind of girlfriend, but we all thought she was just a "temporary breakdown." He'd told me more than once, at least three times, that he'd seen the devil's face. For the past month or so, he'd been in a sort of rehab: little to no drugs, lots of alcohol, daily workouts, weights, and in this chaos, he'd met this girl.
He'd teased me for two months because I had a woman—something he might have seen as serious, but it was just a casual thing—and he'd say, "Cobra's met his match; who's gonna see him now?" Then he'd mock me: "Tonight, I'm out late; I'm leaving by midnight, maybe one," followed by laughter. He knew I was his right-hand man, even though he didn't need a wingman to pick up girls. But if I left at midnight, he had no one to party with all night. With this new girl, he was getting a taste of his own medicine. Still, none of this stopped his thirst for women. He could have a fever, be hurt, be in a relationship, be broke, and have no car, yet nothing would stop him from his mission. That night, it seemed he wanted to drink the pussy and fuck the alcohol at the pace we were going.
Valerio was chill, though. The doctor told him to rest. He'd been telling me how he was slowly learning to manage and not give in to his nightly cravings. He was full of questions, one of the things I admired most about him. He'd a mental web where he'd trap and twist these questions for days until they consumed him. Sometimes, I saw him as a slave to his questions. Then, he could only answer himself, unable to think about anything else. His questions ranged from existential—like figuring out why he wanted to die by living to the fullest.
Shortly after, everyone else showed up—friends and girlfriends. Of course, someone was missing, always someone: some living in Milan, some in Belgium, some in Buenos Aires. But of those present, nobody was absent.
It must have been around the 35th minute of that "game," which by now felt like a cup final when I saw Brunello working the bar. He'd hit on two American girls with the kind of "savoir-faire" only he had. Damn, if I'd known what we were in for, I would've tied my hands. So began a pleasant conversation with the two of them. We had the situation under control: the right drinks, the right lines, the right faces. They were ours. Poor fools!
"Alright, let's show these foreigners around Rome," I said. Bruno, a man of action, opened the bar fridge, grabbed a bottle of wine, closed the refrigerator, and left—strictly without paying. We drank that bottle at the Paola fountain, where it was just us. The girls had taken off their shoes and walked barefoot on the white marble rim of the fountain, with Rome laid bare in front of us. After finishing the bottle and admiring Rome a bit more, we headed to my place. I got in and immediately started making four vodka tonics. I had everything: shaker, spoons, jiggers. Bruno turned on the stereo and played cumbia. We moved in perfect harmony—music, cigars, cigarettes. In total chaos, I saw Bruno fall to his knees at the far end of the room, then face-first onto the hardwood floor. Headshot.
"Oh shit," I exclaimed, then I crashed down too.
The second half begins when the game gets tough, you know.
10:00 AM.
When we woke up in the morning, we looked like idiots: pale, slurring words, bad taste in our mouths, moving in slow motion. Bruno seemed amused; the bastard already knew what had happened. I still hadn't quite figured it out, and when he realized, he said, "They robbed you, Lorè," laughing.
I was struggling to think clearly, juggling a thousand thoughts. Why did they only rob me and not him? He kept laughing, and I started to get angry. I said, "What are you talking about?" and he laughed even harder, playing with the car keys.
"Dear Cobra, see, I was so drunk last night. I left my wallet and phone in the car when I parked, and we went up to your place."
That's when my blood boiled. A slow-motion fight broke out because of the drugs they'd given us the night before. I think I insulted him in every language. I felt more like an idiot than he did. I don't know why, but I would've preferred if they'd robbed him, too—misery loves company. Ironically, as if mocking fate, Bruno accompanied me to the police station to report the robbery, even though he wasn't too keen and kept telling me not to talk to the cops. He waited outside, sitting in the car parked on the street, saying, "Are you crazy? I'm not going in there, Lorè." He was calming me down. His way of taking life lightly was something I admired a lot when I felt broken, and this was one of those times. I felt stupid and immature; he, on the other hand, had his chest out and didn't give a damn. I remember that morning. I was desperate to figure out what drug they'd slipped us, and he just wanted breakfast.
But now I was left alone in the silence after the last empty bottle and the last muffled scream. Only shame remained—not the kind that reddens your cheeks, but the one that digs inside, weighing down your chest like lead, bearing the face of every mistake, the sound of every punch thrown for too little. Shame never forgets, never forgives: it sits beside you in the dark and watches you live. It's a punishment without trial, the scar that doesn't show but burns. And when all is quiet, it speaks louder. And you listen.
I don't know why this story needs to be told: a man lives on average thirty thousand nights, thirty thousand sunsets, thirty thousand chances to change. One night, no matter how bloody and full of regrets, can't rewrite the whole book. It's just a crooked page, not the entire story. Shame bites, yes, but it doesn't have the right to condemn forever. One night isn't enough to destroy a life if, in the morning, you dare to face it. You live with it, you change, you move on. Because no fate is written by a single mistake. As long as the heart beats, there's room for another night.
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