THE FAMILY
Even though I’m scared shit, I somehow know that I am on the precipous of a brave new world, and although I am somewhat dismayed at the rather ordinary appearance of The Fox Hole, I know it is gravely important for me to follow through!
I open the door, and walk into a dark hall with a maroon velvet carpet. And all these pictures of a guy in a sergeant’s uniform, standing with Dwight D. Eisenhower, or General Patton, or whoever it was. Being presented with these medals. To the left of the pictures, is a big plaque that reads – America, Love It or Leave It.
It’s dark and there’s nobody around, so I yell out hello a couple of times, but no one answers. I wait a couple of minutes and knock on the door… once… twice…still nothing. I feel the anger and frustration building up in me. I’m just about to turn around and leave, when this rough-looking character answers the door.
He’s got a deep scar running down his nose to the middle of his cheek, like somebody had once torn his nose off, or something. Even more startling, he has a huge butcher knife in his hand, and his white kitchen shirt is splattered with fresh blood. Yet, his thick black hair…that’s perfectly coiffed, in a pompadour-type style. He appears to be in his mid-twenties. I immediately jump back.
“Yeah? Whaddya want?” He demands in a thick Newark-Italian accent.
“Hey, how ya doin’?” I throw out my chest, and try to make my own Brooklyn accent as pronounced as possible. I put out my hand to shake, but he just looks me over disdainfully, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
“Whatddya want?”
“I- um- yeah- I’m looking for a job.”
“Yeah? Who sent you? Louie?”
“No- nobody- I just came over myself.”
“Yeah? (looking me over) What kind of work you lookin’ fuh? We don’t need no waituhs.”
“No- no- no- I’m looking for- you know- maybe- dishwasher?”
“Dishwashuh, huh? You got any experience?”
“Um- well- I- uh wash dishes at my house a lot.”
“Hey, don’t be a freakin’ wise-ass, OK? (He lights up his cigarette) I’m gonna see if my father’s around. Stay right here. Don’t move.”
With that, he slams the door. I wait for about five minutes, debating whether to escape with my life right now, when he reappears.
“Awright- c'mon- follow me.”
I gasp as we enter the restaurant. It is a shrine to Frank Sinatra. There are literally hundreds of pictures of him! And they are all autographed with inscriptions like-
“To Tommy - knock ‘em dead." Frankie
And his song, My Way, is playing on the juke box.
As I gawk at all the pictures, Guido leads me to a booth. Sitting there - is maybe the scariest older guy I have ever seen. He has a gigantic upper body. Huge shoulders, big neck and head, but a really skinny bottom part, with baggy pants. He sits there eating a meal of veal Parmesan and Italian bread, drinking a Campari and soda. He doesn’t say a single word, and doesn’t look at me. It’s dark.
“Don’t say nuthin’ ‘til he talks to ya,” says Guido.
I nod.
After he finishes another forkful of veal Parmesan – he grunts in a deep, rocky voice.
“Siddown.”
I sit immediately.
“What’s yuh name?” He still doesn’t look at me.
“Joey- Joe.”
“Joey what?”
“Joey Montaperto-“
“Montaperto- (he uses the Italian pronunciation) good… I thought you was a spic for a minute. You wanna job?
“Yeah, I- “
“Tommy Boy! (He yells), we need another dishwashuh?”
Tommy Boy comes back to the booth.
“Yeah, Pop, yeah. That other douche-bag walked out on us yesterday. I almost fuckin' broke his neck.”
Long silence.