Chapter 2
I was 12 when I decided to do something about it. This state of affairs was getting no one anywhere. So I talked my father into joining the mob.
It was relatively easy. I fed him some spirited mumbo jumbo about "justice, honor and vengeance." Perhaps more compelling was the threat of death. I told him that Lansky, THE Lansky, was upset that I had taught his son how to pray the rosary and was going to send Murder Inc. after us if we didn't join. It was the 1940s. My father had enough trouble in Brooklyn being Italian. Deep inside, I think he was glad. He hadn't been in a good fight since Napoli. And I was elated to be nestled safely in the heart of the city, far away from the sucking waves at the shoreline.
"Rosie, " My father always punctuated my name with a twist of his moustache. "You still hanging around with that little Lansky? The Boss say we are swimming to Italy if his son becomes a priest." Turning his head to look at me straight, my father gave me the only piece of advice I ever heard from his lips, "You keep away from boys, Rosie. They'll gamble away your hairpins."
Well, I didn't want to stop hanging out with "Little Lansky." His name was Frankie and he was always getting into fights over me at lunch. Some freckled kid with a last name like Porter would call me some sort of name and then Frankie would call him something back and give him a swing to the jaw to remember it later. We would stop by the church on the way back from school and Frankie would confess his daily pounding. Secretly, I wished he would hold my hand.
"Rosie," (twist of the moustache) "Remember to pray for your stupid fear. No one can amount to much in this country afraid of stupid things."
"Yes, Papa."
"And don't hang out with the Little Lansky. I'm not stupid afraid like you but I can't swim to our Italy."
"Yes, Papa."
"You know I don't give my wisdom often."
"I know, Papa."
a) Finally, it was for the proctection offered and threatened by the mafia that I stopped seeing Frankie
b.) And I did know. I knew many things. And I knew I wasn't about to stop seeing Frankie
It was relatively easy. I fed him some spirited mumbo jumbo about "justice, honor and vengeance." Perhaps more compelling was the threat of death. I told him that Lansky, THE Lansky, was upset that I had taught his son how to pray the rosary and was going to send Murder Inc. after us if we didn't join. It was the 1940s. My father had enough trouble in Brooklyn being Italian. Deep inside, I think he was glad. He hadn't been in a good fight since Napoli. And I was elated to be nestled safely in the heart of the city, far away from the sucking waves at the shoreline.
"Rosie, " My father always punctuated my name with a twist of his moustache. "You still hanging around with that little Lansky? The Boss say we are swimming to Italy if his son becomes a priest." Turning his head to look at me straight, my father gave me the only piece of advice I ever heard from his lips, "You keep away from boys, Rosie. They'll gamble away your hairpins."
Well, I didn't want to stop hanging out with "Little Lansky." His name was Frankie and he was always getting into fights over me at lunch. Some freckled kid with a last name like Porter would call me some sort of name and then Frankie would call him something back and give him a swing to the jaw to remember it later. We would stop by the church on the way back from school and Frankie would confess his daily pounding. Secretly, I wished he would hold my hand.
"Rosie," (twist of the moustache) "Remember to pray for your stupid fear. No one can amount to much in this country afraid of stupid things."
"Yes, Papa."
"And don't hang out with the Little Lansky. I'm not stupid afraid like you but I can't swim to our Italy."
"Yes, Papa."
"You know I don't give my wisdom often."
"I know, Papa."
a) Finally, it was for the proctection offered and threatened by the mafia that I stopped seeing Frankie
b.) And I did know. I knew many things. And I knew I wasn't about to stop seeing Frankie
6 comments:
B definitely B
B definitely B
We agree with both of Brook's - definitely option B.
B please!
I don't like bees.
B.
Blogger.
Brook.
Both.
Bogus.
Bret
So, Bret, I find myself perplexed as to your actual vote. I'm so blinded by the bevy of beautiful "B"s that I don't know what to believe. . .
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