Featured Author:
What better time to meet the author Lenny Castellaneta, the author that brings 1225 Mistletoe Lane and wonderful Christmas-Magic right to you!
The characters are coming to life, right off the page, drawing the reader into this adventure of love and care and all the things that Christmas should be about.
If you are already in Holiday spirits, this book will be right on to keep the fun going, if you are suffering from the Christmas Blues, then 1225 Mistletoe Lane might just be what you need to be lifted up and tossed into a jolly mood.
Right now Lenny and his partner Leigh have just finished the screenplay for 1225 Mistletoe Lane and are looking for the right producer at this time.
Visit Lenny Castellaneta on MySpace!
www.myspace.com/lennycastellaneta
Jim Carrelli, a 32 year-old schoolteacher, is an essentially good person who doesn’t like doing or accepting favors. This stems from a devastating incident in college. Now, as an adult, he doesn’t let people get close to him, and as a result, his love-life is nonexistent.
Through the help of his mysterious new friend, Galen, Jim learns the concept of selflessness. He realizes that he needs to be less selfish and more trusting of others before he’ll ever be able to find that “special someone.”
In a bar one night, at Galen’s urging, Jim jokingly agrees to go back in time to prevent a car accident that left Jim’s landlady, Molly, a mentally challenged widow. After one too many drinks, Jim passes out on a bench outside the bar and awakens to find himself in the past. Is it just a dream? Or should he brace himself for the “experience of a lifetime?”
1225 Mistletoe Lane
Paperback, 131 pages, $17.95 at Amazon or Barnes & Noble
Sample Chapters 1225 Mistletoe Lane:
He's sure they all feel it; how can they not? The sudden change in stadium temperature seems a kind of foreboding chill to him, an omen akin to misplaced crib notes the morning of a final. Dark, ominous clouds race in from over the foothills as the huge, luminescent scoreboard atop the bleachers (a gift from the Alumni Association) silently reminds everyone: Visitors 1, Home 0.
And he doesn't know why, but that scoreboard seems to be taunting him. Like a BMW billboard, or his GPA.
The players take their positions to open the bottom of the ninth inning. On the first pitch, a sharply hit ground ball to second base promptly scoots through the legs of a boyishly handsome nineteen-year-old wearing a Diablos jersey. But neither the center fielder nor right fielder backs him up. The confused second sacker sprints to the outfield, picks up the ball and hustles it back into play, exactly the way all infielders do (except those on the '62 Mets). The same thing happens on the next play. And the one after. Bases are now loaded with nobody out. The teen signals for time, looks at his teammates and shrugs his shoulders as if to ask, What's going on? But they all turn away. On the next play, another grounder is hit to him. The runners on second and third break for home. He bobbles the ball, picks it up and fires it to the plate. The catcher, however, steps aside and lets the ball go by. Both runners score as the Diablos lose.
The coach, a large frustrated middle-aged man who looks like a walking ad for Dexitrim, Paxil, and Viagra all rolled into one, runs onto the field and rips the uniform off his second baseman as if it were attached with only Velcro. The kid is left standing there in nothing but his jockstrap. Female spectators point and laugh as the young man stands, frozen, with a horrified look transfixed upon his face.
All of a sudden Al Roker is singing, which is an even worse nightmare.
The messy studio apartment was dark save for the faint glow emanating from a small television across the room. It was 6:30 A.M. and Jim Carrelli, the young second baseman now a slightly graying early thirty-something Generation X-er, sprang up dripping from a cold sweat. He regained his composure and sighed. It was the same bad, recurring dream. Try as he might, he just couldn't shake this nightmare, and it was starting to affect his sleep. Some nights he couldn't doze at all, fearing this inevitable nocturnal haunting. And he had tried everything. Psychologists, hypnotists, any show on Lifetime; nothing seemed to knock him out lately.
He fumbled for the remote to silence the tube while wondering, Why is Al Roker singing "The Christmas Song"? Haven't I suffered enough this morning?
He got out of bed and opened a little cardboard window on the Advent calendar taped on the wall next to an I LOVE N.Y. poster. The date, December 8, 2000.
Jim stumbled into the bathroom. Upon his exit, hair still damp from the shower, he maneuvered his way through a maze of fast food bags to a Charlie Brown-type Christmas tree nestled in the corner. He grabbed a red golf shirt doubling as a tree blanket off the floor, smelled an armpit, and jerked his head back as he grimaced. For some odd reason, he suddenly thought of Gina, his old college girlfriend who always did his laundry for him. He had wanted to marry her until he caught her fooling around with his best friend. Those two eventually ended up tying the knot. They were dead now or living in Bakersfield, he couldn't remember which. Although he did remember the last thing his God-fearing, church-going mother had said to him on her death bed regarding Gina. She had pulled him near and whispered, "Don't you dare marry that tramp!" And with that, took her last breath and passed. His dad didn't like Gina either, though he'd never even met her before he died. But his family was from Naples; Gina's, Sicily. Enough said.
Jim crumpled the golf jersey, threw it in the hamper, and grabbed a white polo shirt, this one doubling as a VCR cozy. Again he smelled an armpit. Not too bad, he thought, and put it on along with a pair of light-blue denim relaxed-fitting jeans, white leather Nikes with a red insignia, and a beautifully crafted antique gold cross and chain.
He ambled into the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of Captain Crunch, still his favorite after all these years, and flicked on a five-inch black & white TV sitting on his table. Some "doctor" was rambling on about another inane, morning-talk-show topic. First "Nat King" Roker, now THIS? Exactly how desperate for morning ratings ARE network executives? he wondered. An image of Katie Couric modeling lingerie suddenly flashed across his mind. He started looking for the Mylanta.
". . . Where people report an encounter with an angel in a time of crisis. Now, I've interviewed these people, given them polygraph tests, and they all seem truthful. And these aren't weirdoes or crackpots, just average folks . . . parents, teachers, shopkeepers, people like you and me." The anchor, who really aspired to star in a sitcom one day, nodded knowingly and responded.
"Now, Dr. Appenzeller, your book also claims that when it comes to people we meet in our lives, there are no random occurrences. Can you elaborate?"
Jim laughed. He knew she had to have read that off a cue card because it was well known this anchor wasn't bright enough to know what elaborate meant. The "doctor," though, a local TV personality who was rumored to have graduated from an unaccredited on-line academy, making his title only slightly more credible than the namesake of Jim's breakfast, didn't seem to know that about her. He answered in earnest.
"Yes. There's a widely held belief that we really don't meet others by chance. We all have guardian angels—some prefer the term spirit guides—who bring people into our lives and then touch us in some significant way. And we, them. And we probably never even realize how, when or why."
"Sort of like . . . Touched By An Angel?" questioned the anchor, who thought this was a good opportunity to plug a show on which she was hoping to land a guest spot. Jim just smirked, grabbed an angel-shaped liquor decanter tucked accessibly at the back corner of the table, and winked at the TV as he started to pour a shot into his coffee. But then he remembered he was going to work. So he set the bottle down and reached for an already opened, half-filled packet of Sweet-N-Low instead. He skimmed the remaining channels and lit on a station with another wannabe sitcom anchor, but only because this one was giving basketball scores.
". . . Sacramento over the Knicks, 107-82. And in local sports, the Angels dealt veteran infielder Bobby Pacho to the Yankees last night. Pacho, a former Diablo—" Jim, disgusted by this announcement, snapped off the TV. He knew Pacho, hated him in fact. They played ball together back in college. And Jim was a far better player. Or at least he thought so. But that was before "the incident."
The doorbell rang unexpectedly. Jim's eyes immediately shot to the clock on the kitchen wall. Seven forty-five, who could that be? his puzzled look demanded. He answered the door and a small elderly woman was standing there dressed in a Salvation Army-type uniform, although he couldn't specifically see the words Salvation Army anywhere. She seemed so frail; he worried for a moment that a strong gust might come along and blow her down the stairs. The fall would surely kill her, plus he'd have to call 911, wait for the police, and be late for work.
"Good morning, sir," she started in soft-spoken fashion, "we're going door to door to see if people have anything they'd like to donate today. All items help bring in money used to make some poor family's Christmas a little brighter."
Jim politely shook his head. "Sorry, nothing today." He started to shut the door. But the old woman stuck her head in his apartment to stop him, though, he being a transplanted New Yorker, it barely did.
"Are you sure?" she beseeched with a timidity akin to Oliver Twist begging the Headmaster for more gruel. "I'll wait if you'd like to check." Jim, as he was sometimes prone to do when asked for something by strangers, became suspicious and annoyed.
"Hey, how do I know you won't just spend the money on yourself? Besides, take a look around." He yanked the door wide open as if inviting an inspection. "Do I appear to be someone who can afford to part with anything?"
The woman's face shriveled like that of a rummy sipping an O'Douls on St. Patty's Day. "Yeah, your friggin' attitude. Merry Christmas, jerk!" She disappeared in a huff.
"Oh yeah, I love the holidays," he muttered to himself.
He returned to the kitchen and flipped on a baseball mitt-shaped radio, a gift from Sports Illustrated mistakenly delivered to him instead of the guy across the street. But since that neighbor never even apologized for the huge dent his kids put in the hood of Jim's car with their football, Jim figured, Screw him.
Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" jingled merrily in the background as he finished his breakfast. When he was done eating, he put on his N.Y. Yankees warm-up jacket, grabbed his briefcase and headed out the front door.
Jim's apartment was a guest unit above a garage. The property's main house, a California version of an early '60s Cape Cod, was badly run-down and considered an eyesore by most of the neighbors. It wasn't exactly where Jim wanted to be at this point in his life, but it would do until he could get himself out of debt.
He bounded nimbly down the stairs, moving the way most athletes do, except golfers, who, everyone knows, aren't really athletes. When he got to the bottom, he headed over to his aging dinged-up Nissan Sentra.
Molly, owner and resident of the "big house," stood at the end of the driveway near a rusted mailbox that teetered on a weathered white post. The address on it read 1225 Mistletoe Lane, though the last e was missing a screw and had flipped upside down. Jim saw this as a metaphor for his landlady's life. Poor Molly; she was a harmless but scary sight with a frizzy white mane and slightly bulging eyes that made her seem old and tired, though she was only in her early sixties. Her left arm, crushed in an accident years earlier, had atrophied and all but withered away. It was nothing more than a grotesquely short, limp piece of flesh. And every day she wore what looked like the same worn out, rumpled housedress.
"Hi, Jim. The post-man, he came ear-ly to-day," she labored in a slow and deliberate tone while holding up the mail with her good arm.
The young tenant stifled a chuckle. "Molly, he comes this time every day." Jim wasn't laughing at her, he just thought it amusing that they went through this same routine every morning, like a scene out of Groundhog Day.
He took the mail and thanked her; she just stood there staring at him blankly. He'd seen that vacant stare many times before, and he wasn't sure why, but his heart ached for the loopy old dame. "Was there something else?"
"Oh, no, I should say not," she declared as she turned and walked away.
Jim watched her for a second, then took out a key and tried to open his car door. The lock, however, wouldn't turn. He tried again. And again. Still, though, no luck. So he smacked the window, then winced as the ensuing twinge radiated throughout his hand. And just like a long lost relative right after you hit a huge trifecta at Belmont, Galen, his congenial white-haired next-door neighbor, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. For some inexplicable reason, he was dressed like he'd just stepped out of a Steinbeck novel. His baggy overalls and 1930s-style lid drew an odd look from Jim, even though in the short time Jim had lived there, he'd seen his pal in other "costumes" before. The reaction always amused Galen, who thought his young neighbor a bit too anal for someone his age.
"I just got back from visiting some friends," Galen grinned as he indicated his outfit with a sweep of his hand from neck to knees. "It's a little game we play."
"Personally, I prefer poker with my buddies," Jim shrugged. "But, hey, whatever." He looked back at his car, then shook his head in disgust before muttering, "Explain to me how the Japanese can make micro-chips fit on a pinhead, but can't make door-locks that work."
Still grinning, Galen pointed to the Sentra. "That car was made in New Jersey."
"Ahh," nodded Jim, as if that explained everything. He opened his briefcase, whipped out a hanger, and maneuvered it through the window seal, something he'd obviously done many times before. The lock popped open. He folded himself into his car, rolled down the window, and cranked the engine just as something dawned on Galen.
"Hey, what happened? I thought you were getting a new car?"
"Yeah, well, no one will finance me because of all my student loans." He gazed resignedly at his dashboard. "But I suppose it could be worse."
"Yeah, think of all the people who have to ride buses."
"Or drive Hyundais."
"Look, if you need a loan—"
"Thanks, but no. I don't like—"
"Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen, stop by when you get home. I want to show you that thing," his wackily-clad neighbor teased with a wink.
Jim responded with a nod of his head towards Galen's garage. "Your secret project?"
Galen smiled slyly before answering. "It won't be a secret much longer. Oh, by the way, I went to the anagram website again last night."
"What did you get?"
"Well, I still don't think it's fair, considering you're a teacher and all."
"No excuses, just your score."
"Eighteen of twenty," Galen frowned. "And you?"
"Perfect twenty. I'm telling you," Jim boasted, "there's not an anagram out there I can't figure out. I can spot them a mile away." He was very good at word puzzles, anagrams especially, and took great pride in the fact that no one he knew could match his skills at them. Competitive juices still simmered within him, a lingering side effect of donning a jockstrap all those years.
"Why don't we play a real man's game sometime," suggested Galen. "Like chess."
"Sure. Should I bake some quiche?" Jim deadpanned as he backed out, waved, then pulled away. But he hadn't driven ten feet when he remembered wanting to tell Galen about the oddly dressed woman he saw on his porch the day before. She was young and dark skinned and wore an outfit unlike any he'd ever seen; maybe she was a foreigner. They hadn't spoken because he was late for work, and besides, he hadn't noticed her till he was driving by. But she seemed lost and somewhat harried. Anyway, now, when he stopped the car to tell him, Galen was nowhere to be seen. How could he disappear so fast? Jim wondered. He made a mental note to mention the woman when he saw Galen that night. But in an instant, as if suffering from a sudden memory lapse, he absolutely couldn't recall why he stopped or what he was just thinking about, as if whatever it was had just been erased from his consciousness.
While cruising to work, Jim rolled past Narrow Valley High and noticed an eye-catching addition to the school sign out front. Some pranksters had added an apostrophe s so it now read:
Narrow Valley's High
He chuckled in his realization that people don't change much from era to era. Landscapes change, technologies change, but people? Not really, because this was the same dumb prank he and his friends pulled when they were in school. At the time, they thought they were so original, though he now realized kids all over the country had probably been pulling this same stunt for years, ever since "high" came to mean more than just altitude. But he wondered for a moment if anyone else had ever pulled the old "lock the dean of students in the trunk of his own car" bit. Mr. Petrosental, the most vengeful, arrogant creep of an administrator, had been outside a local bar, drunker than a twelve-step dropout at a Mötley Crüe New Year's bash, teetering over his open trunk on graduation night. In a word, serendipity.
Jim drove down a few more blocks and pulled into the parking lot of Narrow Valley Jr. High, the school where he had toiled as an English teacher for the last few years. Toiled was probably not a good word, though, for Jim was, in fact, the last of a dying breed. He actually liked working with kids. It was the administrators he hated: incompetent teachers who were promoted not because of their superior management skills but as a means of maintaining damage control at the classroom level. (Take, for example, the time some gang kid took a swing at the typing teacher. The vice principal grilled that poor woman, all five feet two inches, one hundred three pounds of her, demanding to know what she had done to provoke the attack.) To Jim, administrators were nothing more than insipid dolts with little-to-no people skills who were grossly overpaid considering how little they did. But he was working on resolving those contemptuous feelings.
He hopped out of his car, briefcase in one hand, his unopened mail in the other, and glided across the lot into a small dreary faculty room with ancient furniture and even older-looking teachers. No joke, some of them actually made your overmedicated, narcoleptic grandpa seem peppy.
He took a seat alone at a table in the back corner and tore open an envelope. It contained something he just hated seeing these days, even more so than overdue bills or junk mail with Ed McMann's annoying, smiling face intimating that millions could be yours if you'd just subscribe to magazines you'd probably never read. It was a wedding invitation. Being single, especially around the holidays . . . well, it just wasn't a good time to receive this. And just in case that wasn't enough to get his day off to a lousy start, Peg Johnson, a health instructor in her late fifties, slowly approached him. Large in size and overbearing in demeanor, Peg had a chronic, hacking cough to complement the lit cigarette always dangling from her mouth, even though No Smoking banners clearly adorned the walls of every staff lounge on campus. (Jim thought these about as effective as No Spitting signs in New York subways, or, more relevantly, warning labels on tobacco products.) When he saw her, his brow immediately crinkled.
"Jim, I hate to bother you—"
"Then don't," he pleaded as he flailed his hands to chase away her smoke. She sat down across from him anyway. He hated when she did that.
"I'm desperate. I need someone tonight to take my place chaperoning the—" Jim cut her off with a "look." From her reaction, you could tell she'd seen it before. "You know, one of these days you'll actually start doing favors for people and when you do, I'm gonna drop dead from shock." It was too easy an opening to ignore.
"Peg, if I thought that were true, I would've started doing them years ago." He didn't really feel that way, but it accomplished the task. She got up and left. And in her angry haste, the gargantuan Marlboro aficionado nearly plowed over his chubby buddy Dan, a graying curly-headed driver's ed teacher with a mark on his chin that more resembled a spot of dirt than the mole it actually was.
Dan, an upbeat kind of guy who found humor in almost everything, came over and sat with Jim. In all his forty-four years, he never took life, or himself, too seriously. That's why people liked him so much. He had a way of taking their minds off things that bothered them. Not today, though. At least not at this table.
"Hey, Jim, I drove down your street and saw some little old lady leaving your apartment early this morning." He sucked down the last of his Starbucks double mocha latté. "Hot date last night?"
"Nah, just some bitter old woman trying to riddle me with guilt and spoil my Christmas."
"Ooh, thanks for reminding me. I gotta call my mother." The card with the fancy print lying on the table caught his attention. "What ya got there?"
"Oh, a wedding invitation," moaned Jim.
"A buddy?"
"A good buddy."
"The poor bastard. No wonder you look so depressed. You're a good friend to grieve for him."
"You think I'm grieving?"
Dan squinted a bit as he studied his gloomy colleague for a moment. "Uh-oh," he frowned, "you do seem a tad shade of green. Don't tell me you're envious?"
Jim held up the invitation and slowly waved it. "Lamey was my last single friend."
"Wait, run that name past me again," Dan snickered.
"Lamey. John Lameowitz."
"So, if like, you guys were in a loud, crowded bar with lots of chicks around and ya needed to get his attention, you'd shout out, 'Hey, lay me?'" Jim just glared at him. "Sorry, go ahead."
"He was my last single friend." There was a pause, not long, but a palpable beat, just enough time for Dan to wink at the attractive young substitute who had promenaded into the room before Jim continued his droning. "Look at me, Dan. Thirty-two, and I don't even have a girlfriend. I don't know, sometimes I feel like I'm wandering aimlessly through life. No love, no adventure. You know, I don't even know why I stay around this place. I mean, it's not like I have any ties here or anything."
Dan motioned towards the young sub. "Why don't ya ask her out?"
Jim glanced over at the girl and sighed. "She wants to be an actress."
Dan shuddered with disgust. He shot her one last look, and trying to find something positive offered, "Well, at least she doesn't want to be a lawyer. Look, just 'cause ya haven't found the right girl yet doesn't mean ya should pick up and run away. Hell, lots of guys would love to have what you have. No family, no responsibility. Man, if I had your life, I'd be out bar-hopping all the time."
"You are out bar-hopping all the time."
"Yeah, but I wouldn't feel guilty about it," he murmured, eyes lowered with feigned remorse. And then on a more serious note, "Ya goin' to happy hour after work?"
The classroom was dark and overcrowded. Not bursting-at-the- seams overcrowded, but just enough to make Jim wonder where all that lotto money earmarked for public schools was really going. His attention was drawn out the window as he spotted two district administrators simultaneously pulling into the parking lot, each driving a Mercedes. "Oh, yeah, that's where," he muttered. One of them, a deputy superintendent with whom he often quarreled, slipped on a discarded plastic baggie overlooked by the skeleton custodial crew, a crew left decimated by budget cuts inexplicably imposed by that very same administrator. The D.S. fell to the ground, slicing a gash in his new two-hundred dollar Calvin Klein suit-jacket as he skidded along the blacktop.
Jim started to feel a little better.
On a relic of a video monitor no longer capable of producing clear images (the school had bought it back when Eddie Murphy still took Joe Piscopo's phone calls), the closing credits of The Time Machine were rolling. Jim turned on the lights and noticed a student in the back with headphones on, sleeping. So he crept down the aisle as everyone watched in silent, gleeful anticipation and cranked the volume on the kid's Walkman. The young man's head shot up, eyes bulging, as he ripped the headphones from his own ears. His classmates roared. Jim delighted in these kinds of shenanigans and smirked as he headed back up the aisle.
From posters on the front wall, the faces of Lincoln, J.F.K., Martin Luther King, and Bobby Murcer smiled out over the room as Jim addressed his class.
"Okay, so what did you guys think?" Nobody raised a hand. He turned to Tim Adams, a thirteen-year-old jock sitting in the back along with all the rest of the thirteen-year-old, "too hip for school" crowd. Funny, though. As much as they all hated school, they all seemed to like Jim, save for one or two of the more hardcore disenchanted.
"Mr. Adams. What about it, Tim?"
"I don't know, Mr. C. I mean, it was a good flick, but a time machine? Gimme a break." Some of the students giggled.
"I take it you don't believe in the concept of time-travel?"
Tim rolled his eyes. "And you do?"
The entire class exploded in laughter. Jim smiled; he liked it when a kid got off a good one at his expense (just as long as it didn't happen too often).
"Well, no, but I know someone who . . . Well, we're running out of time. Don't forget. I want a five hundred word critique of the film on Monday. Oh, and Rachel," he reminded, as a face resembling a Wendy O'Williams cloning experiment gone horribly wrong glowered from the corner, "writing 'IT SUCKED!' two hundred and fifty times does not constitute a five hundred word critique." The kids all laughed again. Rachel just sneered at him, the exact same way she did to her parents or anyone over thirty.
The bell rang and the ensuing lunchtime rush for the door made Jim reminisce, briefly, on his own school days. It was a happy, carefree time back then, and he found himself longing for that simpler period lately.
As the last student bolted, Jim stood alone by the VCR, rewinding the tape. He picked up the video jacket and considered it for a moment before sniggering and tossing it back on his desk.
For more sample chapters on 1225 Mistletoe Lane, visit Lenny's Blog!
To see what Vinny the Elf has to say, watch the Video!
For a signed copy you can contact Coalesce Bookstore in Morro Bay, CA. (But you must request a SIGNED copy.) Ask for Linna or JoAnne. The phone number is (805) 772-2880, & the email is coalesce@charter.net
Have a merry Christmas!
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