Carol's Corner: Middle of the Mob Chapter 2

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 an 16 to 20-minute read, though your mileage may vary…

As seen in Print Edition…

It’s baffling that my marriage lasted for as long as it did. I worshipped the ground Nicky walked on and was determined to make it work. For one thing, divorce is not allowed in the Catholic Church. But at the bottom of it all… I really believed I could change him.

My culture and childhood created a strong determination deep inside of me. The second daughter of three girls; born 9 years after my older sister, Eileen, and two-and-a-half years before my younger sister, Gina, I was “the middle” child, a southpaw and pretty smart, if I say so myself.

I grew up in a poor section of town in North Sable known as “Little Italy.” Anyway, mostly a happy childhood: you know, we felt secure, always had a roof over our heads, and plenty to eat.

My grandfathers immigrated to the U.S. from Italy, then mail-ordered their brides.

Italian on all sides; you can bet we had plenty to eat.

Italian on all sides; you can bet we had plenty to eat. Mama, a typical Italian wife, did it all: cleaning, laundry, ironing, and cooking for everybody and what a great cook.

Every Sunday morning, without fail, the smell of Mama’s homemade tomato sauce simmering on the stove drifted into our bedroom and woke us. We would cut a big piece of Italian bread and dunk it right in the saucepan. Makes my mouth water just thinking about it.

And on Sundays, we had a huge homemade pasta dinner around two or three in the afternoon: salad, homemade pasta, meatballs and sausage, garlic bread, and dessert.

My favorite was Mama’s chocolate cake, frosting to die for.

I remember Mama always called me “honey.” But then she called everybody “honey,” even a cop who pulled her over for speeding one time. She told him, “Oh honey, you don’t want to give me a ticket. Do you know who I am, honey? I’m Sean O’Shay’s mother-in-law, honey.”

Sean, a Sable detective, married my sister Eileen. Mama’s “honey” tickled the officer, who tried unsuccessfully to stifle his laughter then let her off the hook with just a warning. That policeman told that story to everyone at the station.

Detective O’Shay became Detective O’Honey for all who heard his tale.

Papa used to call me “peanut” or “toots.” He wasn’t outwardly affectionate but give him a few drinks and he would go to each of his daughters and point to his cheek for a kiss to be planted. But his drinking really bothered me.

On Sunday mornings, without fail, he would walk to our local Catholic church, go to Mass then directly to the bar just a half a block down the street from our house. He drank until Mom would get mad enough to send my little sis, Gina, and me into the bar to tell him dinner was ready, and he better get home.

He hated seeing his two little daughters walk in that bar and he would reprimand Mom for sending us.

A happy drunk, Papa would eat the entire meal while joking that he should “trade in his three daughters for one son or a good donkey.” Not the most positive reinforcement his daughters needed to hear but still it made us laugh.

After eating, he headed straight for his swing on the front porch, lay down and proceeded to vomit up the entire meal… including the chocolate cake. Oh, my mom would be so furious, saying how could he do this “every damn week.”

Terrified and crying, I would bury myself in the back of my closet, plug my ears with my fingers to blot out the sound of heaving. Don’t know why but I could never handle sickness of any kind, especially vomiting. Nothing’s changed. I’m the same today.

My dad, a “Sunday alcoholic,” was also an addicted gambler; gambled on everything: sports, dog races, horse races, bowling, and his favorite in Vegas… craps.

The only family vacations we ever took―when we could finally afford it―were to Las Vegas.

Not enough money to fly, we would pile all five of us: Papa, Mama, Eileen, Gina, and I, into the old family car (no air conditioning) for the two-day drive across the desert, sleeping in the car overnight.

Talk about misery! But when we got there, if he was winning, everything was first class. We stayed at the Desert Inn or the Sands Hotel.

Hard to believe both hotels are long gone, imploded…very sad.

Anyway, we even got to see dinner shows like Pearl Bailey, Dean Martin, or Sinatra. And we all got tipped. Mom got the most, and once, I saw him flip a five-dollar chip to a bellman just for opening the door.

More than once, Papa had to wire for money to get the family back home. But he worked hard all of his life, eventually owned his own optical business and did quite well financially with only a fifth-grade education.

> Basically, you know, a good guy with a few bad habits.

We lived in the finest house on the block in the poorest neighborhood in the city. Our house was very old but I loved it and so did everyone else on our street. It was “Grand Central Station,” that’s what Papa called it when he would get disgusted that too many neighbors were sitting on his favorite swing on the porch.

That old porch transformed into our theater during summer afternoon rains.

That old porch had a roll-up awning that became the curtain that hung between two white columns, and a red brick ledge that served as our stage. Two swings on the porch seated the audience, made up of every kid on the block: one white wooden swing that hung on chains from the ceiling and the other, a long-cushioned swing that doubled as Papa’s Sunday sickbed. Each kid took a turn to sing, or dance, tell jokes or stories.

We entertained each other for hours. Listen, I’m telling you, these damn video games today have destroyed half the fun and creativity of childhood.

On the weekends, our porch became a casino. All the Italian men in our neighborhood loved to gamble, but only small stakes on the front porch. The serious games with bigger players were held in the garage behind our house with lookouts watching for the cops.

Bar-booth, their favorite dice game, was played by throwing the dice against our front porch door. Seven or eight men, pennies, nickels and dimes spread out in front of them, hunched around a semi-circle, threw the dice, chanting things like, “Come on, seven!” or “Baby needs a new pair of shoes,” which echoed all the way down our street.

If I happened to be playing outside during the gambling, and I ignored my urge to pee for too long (I placed both hands on my crotch and wiggled around to keep from leaking), my Auntie Rose would open her window and call out to me, “Sami Ann, do you have to go to the toilet? You better get inside and go, young lady!”

Then and only then would I pull myself away from the game of tag or kick the can or hide-and-seek and run to the front porch only to be yelled at by the fathers, “Watch the money, don’t step on the dice for Christ sake.”

No kidding, I could hardly get through my own front door.

We had a swing set in the backyard. I loved to swing so high that I could touch the leaves of the cherry tree with my feet; jump off at the highest point onto the warm, soft dirt or climb the poles which offered forbidden pleasures.

And we had the cutest playhouse, built by the men who lived on our block. You see, Papa bought the lumber and lay it on the ground, that being the extent of his carpentry skills.

The neighbors all offered advice on how to construct it and eventually Papa just sat around smoking cigarettes and watched them build it.

Once our playhouse was completed, we needed money to stock and furnish it. I think that’s when my entrepreneurial skills began to show.

To raise money, I started a hobby club for the kids in the neighborhood; they would pay dues and I would give them a craft to work on, like painting rocks.

Definitely ahead of my time, huh?

Should have called them “pet rocks” and made a fortune, right? Every meeting we would have the minutes read, work on a craft and have refreshments always provided by the moms. In summertime, we had a lemonade or Kool-Aid stand and of course there was the annual summer show.

I’m telling you that show was the greatest!

Held in our backyard, we charged the neighbors ten cents per ticket. We made all the tickets and posters by hand, then delivered them to every house within a two-mile radius.

Naturally, the shows were standing room only.

Our mom would hang blankets from the clothes lines for stage curtains. I still hang my clothes outside to this day, which never fails to remind me of those shows.

All the neighborhood kids would provide the talent. Auntie Rose dressed up like a cigarette girl, short skirt, and somewhat sexy blouse, with a tray held in front of her by a ribbon wrapped around her neck.

Instead of chanting, “Cigars, cigarettes, cigars, cigarettes,” she would call out in her sexiest voice, “Old razor blades, old Easter eggs, old razor blades, old Easter eggs, get ’em before they’re gone.” And yes, on her tray there were old Easter eggs and razor blades.

Just for laughs, a lot of neighbors actually parted with cash for a used razor blade.

With the proceeds from that show, we set aside money for the playhouse supplies and a small closing night party for the cast. The rest of the money went to a mission to purchase a “Pagan Baby.”

Okay, okay, don’t ask me, I don’t know, that’s just what they called them back then, “Pagan Babies.” Every year, I made the executive decision to have my name on the adoption papers because, after all, I directed and produced the show.

I would do anything to make a buck. Hah, one time I even stole vegetables from grandpa’s garden and sold them to the neighbors, but there was an informant on the block and that venture got shut down real fast.

I went to Catholic school from kindergarten until my second year of high school, a pretty good student in spite of the fact that I didn’t make any effort at all. If I had applied myself, I would have made straight A’s, except in conduct. I always got a C or lower in that category.

The head of our parish, Father Pat, would come to every classroom and pass out report cards, then make anybody stand that got a C or lower in conduct.

The boys were lined up against the blackboard and slapped across the face one by one. Funny thing, a lot of those Italian boys who got slapped still turned out rotten. So much for corporal punishment.

Father Pat approached each girl separately, grabbed their hair and pulled their heads all the way down and bounced it on their desk. And yes, my head got bounced a few times. Can you imagine getting away with that today?

As Papa’s business grew, we moved on up the ladder from North Sable to the suburbs, to a brand-new home which seemed like a palace. The outdoor fireplace on the patio, so extravagant, definitely ahead of its time and two full bathrooms, a luxury after our entire lives thus far with just one.

Gina and I still shared a room but got new twin beds. We were so excited to sleep in them we went to bed two hours early.

Believe it or not, Uncle Max and Auntie Rose moved right along with us into their new home right next door and I switched to public school for my junior and senior years.

You know, rebellion is a natural by-product of the teen years, but I felt slighted by Mama because she seemed to give Eileen and Gina whatever they wanted and all I got were piano lessons.

I always had to beg for everything…

I wanted a horse and that was completely out of the question. Of course, now I understand why. At age fifteen, I wanted to take modeling lessons and I begged for a long time before she gave in to that. I just felt aced out of all the attention lavished on my sisters.

Resentful, I cut a lot of classes at school and brought friends home to party while Mom and Dad were at work, refilling Papa’s liquor bottles with water so he wouldn’t notice anything missing.

I started smoking and “borrowed” a lot of my older sister’s expensive clothes after she left for work and without asking (Eileen worked for The Sable Post and wore a different outfit to work every day). No surprise, I was voted “best dressed” at school.

I’ll never forget the night I borrowed Mom’s car to go “gashing”—that’s what we called it when you drove slowly down 26th Street, all windows down, no matter the temperature, while “Twilight Time” by The Platters blasted over the radio—all in order to meet guys.

I had two silk blouses of my sister’s in the backseat of the car which I intended to sneak back into her closet when I got home. Naturally, I wanted to look super cool so I lit up a cigarette for the boys to see.

What I didn’t see was, the ash of my cigarette that I thought I had flicked out the window had instead flown into the back seat and burned my sister’s two beautiful blouses with the added bonus of a big hole in my mom’s back seat.

What to do? What to do? Mom didn’t even know I smoked.

I made up a huge lie and told Mama that those boys on 26th Street flicked a cigarette into the open back window of her car and I didn’t notice until I saw the flames.

She bought my lie. I dumped my sister’s silk blouses into the nearest trash can before going home. Poor Eileen searched for those blouses for months and I never revealed their final resting place.