Carol's Corner: Middle of the Mob Chapter 4

Presents !! for You — A Serialization !!

The story continues. Please enjoy this is the next chapter of my life in the Middle of the Mob ! —The Gang

As printed…

Note: This should be about 4 to 5-minute read, though your mileage may vary…

As seen in Print Edition…

My sixteenth summer was unforgettable. The only responsibility I had was getting to the Orpheum theatre at night on time for my job of ushering or working the candy counter. Even that had the added perk of seeing all the new movies free with popcorn and candy. I think I saw Around the World in 80 Days and Ben-Hur at least fifty times each.

The lazy days were filled with baby oil and sunburns, men with boats, swimming, water skiing, and feeling beautiful. My ugly duckling feathers fell off and I became a swan whose reflection in a mirror startled even me. Everyone started to notice, especially the guys at Ciron Lake, a special park on the western edge of Sable’s city limits.

There is a legend surrounding the lake that Mark J. Ciron, who received a patent from President Andrew Johnson in 1866 to use the land for farming, and cattle, dug a well and accidently tapped into an underground aquifer. The next morning part of his farm flooded and was covered in water. Voilà! Ciron Lake. The area surrounding that lake was once home to the first amusement park built west of the Mississippi plus a swimming facility known as Babble Beach.

There was this atmosphere at the lake which was hard to describe: happy, carefree, fun, but sort of scary, too. The old-timers thought the spooky feeling came compliments of the ghosts or spirits that once rode the rides and swam and died in that water and haunted the lake. That water definitely had its share of dead bodies: people who had drowned in boating or ski accidents, suicides, and murder victims who had been dumped there by the mob.

All I knew was I loved going there. The view of the mountains as you glanced over the lake to the west always gave me chills, the highest peaks still tipped with snow, and the white, puffy clouds rolling across the blue sky. The Canadian geese, no matter how picturesque they looked standing together on the green grass or on the frozen lake in the winter, would shit all over the place and especially on the walking/jogging path that encircled the water. I hate to think how much shit was in the water that I accidentally swallowed when I fell off my skis.

And, speaking of shit…

I met Nicky Salatto at the lake that sixteenth summer. You see, all I had to do to bum a ski ride was show up in my swimsuit. The fact that most of the men were ten to twenty years older than me didn’t seem to bother anyone. One of them nicknamed me “jail bait,” but nothing kept them from flirting or teaching me to water ski.

One Saturday afternoon, there was a good-looking Italian boy just a few years older than me; dark, thick, black hair, bluer-than-sky eyes, tall, lean and sexy, riding in one of the boats that always gave me a pull. He gave me the “wop greeting.” Anyways, that’s what I call it. It’s like Italian men are too above it all to say hello, or how are you. Instead, they lift their heads slightly (a backwards head nod) which means, “I’m too cool to actually talk to you, but I graciously acknowledge that you’re present.”

Now if that head raise is slightly tilted to the right it means, “Come over here.” I got the “come over here,” signal from him. He jumped out of the boat and held up a slalom ski in one hand and two fingers with the other, which indicated, “You want to ski double?”

I never turned down a pull, double, single, didn’t matter.

I never turned down a pull, double, single, didn’t matter. As we sat on the dock putting on our skis he introduced himself. “I’m Nicky,” he said, and before I could tell him my name he yelled, “Hit it!” to the driver and the boat took off at full speed.

That should have been my first clue. I struggled to stay upright but grabbed the rope and took off right beside him. As we gathered speed he crisscrossed in front of me several times to try to make me fall over the waves of his wake, laughing and teasing like a bad little boy with perfect white teeth… gorgeous!

After we circled the lake, he smoothly hopped off the ski onto the dock to talk to two girls who had just arrived as I let go of the rope and sank into the water. That was it.

We didn’t cross paths again for a couple of years. But little did I know―on that innocent summer day―how many waves this man, Nicky Salatto, would make me jump over in my life.

-30-

That’s a Wrap…

Stay tuned to find out WHAT. HAPPENS. NEXT…