Joey Gallo's Lament

When my shows were over it was time to go home. I had to walk home down Degraw St. to Tompkins Place where we had our apartment. In those days they didn’t panic if you were a kid and you had to walk home. Once you were old enough to cross the street on your own you could go to the stores and shop for your Mom. Now my Mom would usually take the other kids to visit at her  and we would all go home together. But my sister was sick that day and they stayed home so I had to walk home by myself.

Grandma packed up a big pot of sausage and peppers to take home. She always made enough to feed an army. My Da loved her cooking. He met my Mom when they worked together in the cable Department at the Irving Trust. He was a handsome Irishman with the gift of gab and she was the cute little Italian girl who was so serious about her Job. He would always tease her “When are you going to invite me home for a home cooked Italian meal?” She played hard to get but finally she said “How about tonight?” So he came to my Grandma’s house.  Grandma cooked but my Mom was the host and served him a nice Italian dinner. They ate dinner together every night until the day my Da died.

As I passed Clinton St I started to see some of the kids from the block fucking around. They were lighting a cherry bomb in front of old man Sanzone’s house. He was one of the nasty old fucks who always chased us away when where playing stickball or fistball or even Skelly. So we loved to screw with him. Frankie Bags had set up a Cherry Bomb in his mail box. He lit it and we all ran like hell. Which sucked for me because I was toting a pot full of sausage and peppers.

Anyway when it blew it blew the front plate of the mailbox right off and it flew up and broke his window. Holey Shit! There was going to be hell to pay.

We had a prime gang of Knuckleheads on Tompkins Place. Tompkins was a great block to grow up on. It was two-way street but there wasn’t all that much traffic. Like Cheever Place and Strong Place it was an afterthought for the traffic . We could play ball all day without always having to stop to let cars go by. Sometimes it would be a whole hour before a car would turn down the block. We would play endless games of stick ball or fist ball or even Skelly with a board we would chalk out right in the middle of the street. The street didn’t even seem that dirty in those days. We would set up the Skelly board and lay down right in the street and flick our bottle caps with our fingers like we were Minnesota Fats or the Cincinnati Kid or some shit like that there. Of course just when you were about to win the pile of pennies that were the stakes some car would turn down the block and run over the game and crush the bottle caps into the tar. The rule was you had to use the same cap so you ended up losing. It was a life lesson that all kids should have. You don’t get that fondling your freaking X-box or whatever shit they do now.

I hurried home because I didn’t want to get caught up in the backlash of the latest bullshit that Frankie had come up with. I walked up to my house and I saw the landlord outside washing his Ford Country Squire Station Wagon. Man he loved that car. He would shine it and polish it and make love to it like it was a hoo-ah or something. Of all the nasty old men in the neighborhood Joe the Plumber was the worst. He  beat the living shit out of so many guys that he was a legend. Joe the plumber was a skinny little weasel but he was quick. Always seemed to have a wrench or a pipe in his hand. He wasn’t connected or anything but even the wise guys stepped lightly around him because when he went off he would kill you as easy as not. With his three hulking sons he was not somebody you fucked with.  There was Paulie and Vinnie and Little Joe.  It was like Bonanza. Only with shitheads.

We rented an apartment in the plumbers house. In those days everybody lived in an apartment. Even the people that owned the brownstone lived in one floor.  I was always walking on eggshells around the landlord. Didn’t want to get us thrown out for hitting his car with a spaldeen or something. The only reason we had an apartment was because he liked my Da. They were drinking buddies. He respected my Dad because he could actually read above a fifth grade level. And he did his taxes.

“Hey what you got there kid” asked Joe in his raspy voice “something from your Grandma.” “Yeah it’s sausages.” “Gimme here” he said. He put down his rag and came over. Took the loaf of bread I had in the bag and broke off the ass end. Split the bread and took off the cover of the pot and speared a sausage and some peppers and onions like one of those claws at John Bargin Store where you would fish out prizes for a nickel. “Thanks Kid . Your Grandma is a great cook.”

When you were the King you took what you wanted. Until somebody cut off your head. I read that in a history book.