Joey Gallo's Lament

We spent the day at Grandma’s house with my cousins from Staten Island. It was the typical Sunday feast. A big pot of pasta. Today it was fusilli. Meatballs and sausages that we made little sandwiches out of with the hot crusty Italian bread I brought home from Mazzola’s on Union St. Stuffed artichokes and an eggplant caponata and some stuffed mushrooms. A big salad with fresh greens, red onion, black olives and fanoik. Made with fresh vinegar the Grandma had made. She took the coca-cola bottle off the windowsill that had been fermenting the vinegar. She put her finger at the end of the bottle as she sprinkled it over the salad that she tossed in a battered square metal pan that served as her salad bowl. My uncles had bought all kinds of fancy dishes but she went with the old battered pieces and saved the rest for company. And of course espresso and the miniature pastries. 

It might seem strange that even little kids were drinking espresso but that is the way it was. When I first went to school me Da had to walk me to my Grandmother’s house on Henry Street. He had to leave for work early in the morning so he dropped me off at around seven in the morning. I would stay at my Grandma’s until about a quarter after eight and then walked to the school yard on Cheever Place which was around the corner. You walked around the corner and the Crossing patrol would cross you over to the other side of the street.  

I would sit at Grandma’s table and have breakfast. Now breakfast wasn’t boxed cereal or pancakes or any American breakfast food. It was buttered Italian bread or a dish of olive oil with bread and olives and figs. And a cup of espresso. You see Grandma was old school and on cold mornings she thought a cup of espresso would wake you up. To this day I can drink espresso late at night and go right to sleep as it is natural and easy. The best part would be on the really brutally cold winter days. She would give me a shot of anisette to go with the espresso to warm me up. “Jamesy no you a no tell the teacher. You tell her I gave you a peppermint candy. Capisce?” So I would have a couple of espressos and a shot of anisette and go to the schoolyard. I would take off my jacket in the freezing cold and run around with my friends and the Italian nuns would shake their heads and go “The Irishe….no blood.”

We were all a little hopped up after the Sunday meal with all the sugar and caffeine. The kids all ran around on Henry St. to run off our energy. When it was time to go home to Tompkins Place we were pretty bushed. Except for me Da.

He always loved to eat at Grandma’s and was truly a gallant trencherman of the old school. He would eat and eat and east and still be as thin as a rail. The thing with him was that he wasn’t a big wine drinker like my uncles on the Italian side. My Uncle V always had a couple of jugs of wine that he got from the guy at the gas station on Hamilton Avenue. You could get your car inspection a lube job and a case of wine for a sawbuck. The wine was strong and cheap like the longshoreman who drank it. We used to get a glass cut with coca-cola that we called a calleshout. It was just right for us kids. It gave you a little buzz but not enough to get you drunk. But my Da didn’t even indulge in that. He didn’t have a taste for vino and there was very seldom any beer at the table. He would drink some Pellegrino or even some soda while he enjoyed the food. He was partial to root beer. 

When we got home it was time for the beer. 

We would get home and it was time to get ready for school on Monday. But I had a job. I would take the growler and go to Toomy’s on the corner of Degraw for some tap beer. They would fill up the growler from the tap and put it on me Da’s tab. Now Toomy’s was the real Irish bar in the neighborhood. Cold cheap tap beer. Pickled pigs feet and hard boiled eggs. Farts. Irish all the way. 

I walked into the bar and Timmy the bartender saw me and called out “If it isn’t himself come to gets his Da a wee libation. Look the whole family is gathered in all its generations.”  Everyone at the bar turned to look at me. 

It was true. My cousin Mick the detective was sitting with his partner Ryan who was gnawing on some pig’s feet. The cannibal. And next to them was Uncle Liam. He was my grand uncle actually. My grandmother’s brother. Brother of Cousin Mick’s mother. We all called him uncle. He was a small man, slight of build and quiet of demeanor. The kind of fella you would say wouldn’t say shit if he had a mouthful. When he spoke and  it was seldom it was in a lilting Irish brogue. He had come from the other side you see back in the twenties. Got a job in the elevator union in the city. Had a small apartment  near his sisters on Douglas Street and spent his time there or at his barstool at Toomy’s. Never had much to say. Except when he quoted some poetry. He knew more poetry than anyone I had ever met. Not just the Irish although he favored them. Emily Dickenson. Rimbaud. Even new stuff like Ginsberg or Robert Lowell. I think I got my love of poetry from him. The only exception was the English poets. Uncle Liam hated the English with a passion like the Arabs hate the Jews. Never had a good thing to say about perfidious Albion or its sons and daughters. 

“Hello Michael getting a little taste for you Da. You’re a good son” said Cousin Mick. “I hope you stay away from that greasy wop that lives in your building. He was down the station today Liam. Had to step up to get Joe the plumbers kid out of a jam the creature that he is. Wouldn’t give him up. Told me a fine tale that got the idjit out of a jam.” Uncle Liam grunted and looked at me. He nodded. In approval. The only thing he hated worse than Englishman was informers. 

The door opened and who walked in but Little Joe the man he was just talking about. You could hear a pin drop. Well actually you couldn’t because just at that moment Timmy Killean farted. That was pretty much all you could hear. Or smell for that matter.

“Speak the devils name and he appears at your door” said Cousin Mick. “That’s what those heathen wops always say. What do you want boy? You surely are not foolish enough to think you can drink here?” “I need to talk to you Detective” Little Joe squeaked. “In private. It’s important.” “Do you now you miserable cretin.  I have half a mind to let Ryan here put you through your paces. I bet a fine tale you would tell then you greasy dago.” Ryan looked up from his plate with a gleam of anticipation in his eye. The only thing he liked better than chomping on pork was whomping on dagos. Truth to tell he liked eating a little bit more. But not that much more. This could be fun.

“Send the boyo home Mick. He doesn’t need to see this dirty business” Uncle Liam murmured in an undertow that only I and Cousin Mick could hear. He turned to him and nodded. “Off with you now Michael your Da is waiting on his libation. Timmy put it on my tab. My best to your sainted mother Michael and get home so you can be ready for school on the morrow.” “Yes sir Cousin Mick” I bleated. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. I didn’t want to be witness to another humiliation for Little Joe. I knew if I was he would make me pay for it one way or another. “Night Uncle Liam may God keep you safe.” “Aye thank you son same to you and yours” said Uncle Liam. “Go straight home and give my best to the family.

I picked up the growler filled with the Reingold on tap and walked out of Toomy’s without a second glance. Whatever was going on was no business of mine. I wanted to keep it that way.