Joey Gallo's Lament

When we got home we had dinner and we didn’t talk about what happened. Da spoke to my Mom in the kitchen but they didn’t bring it to the dinner table. We sat down to an old fashioned American meal. My Mom didn’t always cook Italian because she was of a different generation than Grandma. She was a modern housewife who uses modern conveniences. So she used a blender instead of whisk. Garlic salt instead of dicing the garlic. Cake mix from a box instead of making it from scratch the way Grandma did.  It wasn’t that she was lazy. She could cook exactly the same way. But with three kids and house to maintain she didn’t have time to do it the old fashioned way. Or at least that was what she said. Me Da didn’t complain. But then what did he know. He was an Irisher.

We sat down to a dinner of London broil, mashed potatoes, creamed corn, salad and biscuits from the Pop ‘in Fresh guy. I have to admit the hot rolls with butter were pretty good. I also to put the creamed corn on top of the mashed potatoes and slather it with butter and salt and pepper. I liked that even more than the meat and I really loved red meat.

When dinner was over I helped clear the table and clean up. Mom washed the dishes and I took out the garbage. It was time for the other kids to go to bed so my Mom put them down. I could stay up a little. Of course my Da had the Met’s game on. Boy did I hate the fuckin’ Mets. But he loved to listen to the “loveable losers.” He was a National League fan who migrated to the Mets when the Dodgers left Brooklyn. He would sit there in his chair and have a Rheingold while he listened to Lindsey Nelson and Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner. He had a ritual. Every day he would bring home a six pack of Rheingold. He would drink five of the cans and leave one can still attached to the plastic ring. He said you weren’t an alky if you left a beer and didn’t drink a six pack every night. Of course he would always start the night with the left over beer from the night before. So it didn’t make a lot of sense but it worked for him.

I sat and watched an inning or two with him. The Mets had actually brought up a couple of good young players. They had Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman and this kid Nolan Ryan who was a fireballer. They were putting together the team that would take them to World Series. But they still more or less sucked and my Da was always yelling at the screen.

I went to bed and broke out my transistor radio so I could catch some of the Yankee game. They weren’t any good either but even as a baby I remember when they were champions. My Da took me and the guys to the Stadium a couple of times. I actually got to go see the 1961 team. I was so excited I almost peed myself. There is no feeling in the world like when the 4 train came out of the tunnel and you saw the Stadium looming up on your left. You could see a glimpse of the green expanse of the field. As you got off the train you could feel the excitement. People were milling around on River Avenue. Hitting the bars. Buying souvenirs. Scalping tickets. The Yankees were my team and my Da was kind enough to take me to see them instead of punching me in the head to make me a Met’s fan.

You see most Mets fans were sick in the head.

The next day was Sunday and we all got up early. I had to be at the nine o’clock Mass with the rest of my class from Sacred Hearts. They took attendance and you didn’t want to get a black mark. Enough black marks you were going to Hell. Or at least Mother Assunta would make your life a living Hell. So we lined up in the school yard of St. Stephens High School that was next door to the church based by year and class.

Of course everybody wanted to know what had happened at the cops. Especially the kids from the block. Word had got around so all the rest of the class wanted to know what had gone down. You lined up in size order so of course I was at the end of the line. I had always been the tallest kid in my class. A beanpole. I was six feet tall at the age of twelve with gigantic hands and feet. That is how I got the nickname Sasquatch. I could palm a basketball but I couldn’t dance without falling on my face. 

 

Joey Bags was right in front of me. He turned and said “So what happened?” Joey was always a quiet guy but he was the one guy you could really trust. So I had no problem talking about it with him because I knew it wouldn’t go any further. “I had to lie that Little Joe went up on the roof to get a spaldeen. When my cousin Mick heard that he sort of believed it. Of course he probably believed a lot more in the wad of cash that Joe the Plumber paid him.” “No shit” said Joey Bags. “Just goes to show you that my old man was right. Money talks and bullshit walks.” “Walks out of jail all right.”  

“NO TALKING” growled Mother Assunta from the front of the line. “Get out your rosaries and start in single file.” We shut up. We knew what was good for us. And what was bad for us. Pissing off God was bad. Pissing off Mother Assunta was much much worse.

“I’ll tell you later” I whispered to Joey as we walked out of the schoolyard and up the front steps of the church. It was time to pray.  

I had a lot to pray about.