Construction
I was talkin wid the nurse.
"What does your father do, sir?"
"Construction. He's in construction."
"What do you do?"
"Construction."
"Who's his insurance carrier."
"He don't have no insurance."
"How are you going to pay, sir?"
"Cash."
Family Values
The old man was in the waitin room wid about twenty a the boys. Suits
and dark glasses. As I passed em, they said, "Sorry about your father,
Angelo."
Whenever I see the old man it surprises
me how old he got. Growin up, he was always the old man, but he was big,
not like now, all shriveled like a prune. Like a pale deadly prune.
He cleared his troat. "We just found out.
The Rodriguez brothers did it. Sons a bitches."
"They're Geno's boys, ain't they? I aksed.
"Yeah."
"I'm gonna slit their fuckin troats."
"No! . . . don't worry, Angelo. We'll whack
em, but not yet. First I convince Geno we're still all friends. Everything's
beautiful. It's just a misunderstandin. We straighten it out. Get our
money. Then we whack everyone a them dirty bastards."
"Whata you want me to do?"
"Take care a your own."
"Whata you sayin?"
"Take care a your father."
"You sayin I gotta take care a my father?"
"Yeah. What's a matter?"
"You sayin I gotta live wid him?"
"How the hell you gonna take care a him
if you don't live wid him?"
"I can't live wid him."
"Whata you mean you can't live wid him?"
"I can't live wid him."
"He's your father."
"He drives me crazy."
The old man turned red. I never seen him
so mad. He pointed his finger and yelled, wheezing, "You take care a your
father. When you was too young to do anything, he wiped the cheese off
your mouth. He fed you, he clothed you, he wiped your ass." The old man
was shakin his fist. "He brung you into the world. He brung you into the
business!" Then he dropped his arm and relaxed. "I'm ashamed a you, Angelo."
"I don't mean no disrespect, sir, but he
really really drives me crazy. I can't help it."
"Take care a him."
"He treats me like a kid."
"Take care a him."
"He's a Republican for Christ's sake."
"Republican?"
"Republican."
"I thought he liked workin wid the unions."
Domestic Violence
That night I told my wife Deborah I had to move in wid my dad for a few
months, and she trows a pot at me. I told her, "I gotta do what I gotta
do." Two weeks later dad gets home and I move in wid him. He showed me
the bag attached to the side a his body wid a tube. "It ain't that bad,"
he said, "It comes off in a few months. Another operation. I ain't lookin
forward to it. But it ain't so bad. It's like I'm shittin all the time.
I can't control it. I'm talkin to some broad, I'm shittin. I'm talkin
to some guys, I'm shittin. I'm talkin to you right here, I'm shittin.
Fuckin unbelievable. When I'm sittin at the table eatin, I'm shittin right
into the bag. I ain't gotta use the toilet. It ain't natural, but it's
convenient. Like, lets say you gotta kill some guy and you really gotta
go to the batroom. That ain't gonna happen to me."
Nutrition
That night dad made dinner. Chicken Cacciatore wid Fettucchini Alfredo
on the side and garlic bread.
Dad stopped eatin, looked at my plate. "Have
some more chicken, boy."
"I can't eat another bite, dad."
He started eatin again. Two minutes later.
"You sure you don't want no more chicken?"
"I'm full."
A half a minute later he looked back at
my plate. "You want more chicken, son?"
"No, dad." I tapped my stomach. "I'm tryin
to lose some weight."
"You look fine, boy. Tomorrow you diet.
Today we eat. Have another piece."
"I had five pieces. I don't want no more."
"Don't be ashamed, son. You know me. There's
plenty a chicken. Have some more."
"I ain't ashamed, dad. I'd eat more if I
wanted more--I don't want no more."
"But it's delicious."
"I know it's delicious. I had five fuckin
pieces."
"Then have another piece. I don't mind."
"Look, dad. Get this trough your thick head:
I don't give a shit how delicious it is. I don't want no more."
"Listen, son. When your grandmother and
grandfather was alive, they had food on the table all the time. Everybody
in the neighborhood was over, eatin. Your grandfather worked hard drivin
his truck. I was never hungry. They fed me. I knew that they loved me."
"Dad, I know you love me. I just don't wanna
eat no more."
"What? You're tryin to loose weight?"
"Yeah."
"It's chicken. It can't hurt you."
"But I don't want no more fuckin chicken."
"One more piece ain't gonna hurt you."
I trew the fuckin table over. Pasta and
that fuckin chicken was all over the place. I pulled out my gun, opened
the safety, and pointed it at his stupid brains. "I don't want no more
a that chicken. You understand what I'm sayin?"
Dad looked at me. Smiled. "My boy's a man,"
he said.
Multiculturalism
A few days later the old man called wid the order to whack the Rodriguez
brothers.
Dad smiled. "I'm comin wid you. I'm gonna
kill those fuckin Mexicans myself."
"You ain't comin, dad."
"You're damn right I'm comin."
"You ain't comin. That bag on your side.
You'll slow me down."
Dad hit the kitchen table wid his fist,
yelled, "You're my son! A punk kid! Don't tell me what to do. I'm gonna
whack them fuckin Mexicans. Who the hell they think they are? They run
around Mexico wid out no shoes, then they come here, to my country, buy
a pair, and all a the sudden they think they can muscle in on my business."
"That ain't right, dad."
"Damn right it ain't right."
"I mean it ain't right talkin about em like
that."
"They stabbed me in my fuckin stomach!"
"That's why I'm gonna kill em."
"No! That's why I'm gonna kill em."
"Well . . . you don't gotta say those things."
"What the hell are you talkin about? I should
talk nice about em? I raised you better than that, boy."
"We'll kill em. But leave their culture
outta this."
"Huh?"
"It ain't right to say they ain't got no
shoes just cause they're Mexicans."
"You ever been to Mexico, boy?"
"No. You been to Me-he-co?"
"How'd you know I been to there? Who told
you?"
"I don't know. I was just aksin. Based on
. . . you know . . . the conversation."
"The old man finds out someone's been talkin
about the Mexico deal, he ain't gonna be happy. I'll tell you that."
"I don't know nothin. You aksed me--I aksed
you."
"Well, I ain't gonna tell you. I ain't gonna
say yes, I ain't gonna say no. But I'll tell you one thing: there's
lots a people runnin around there widout no shoes on their feet! The
Mexican government is better crooks than we are."
"Yeah, but the way you said it, it was like
. . . all Mexicans ain't got no shoes. Just cause a guy lives in
Me-he-co it don't mean he ain't got no shoes. Don't they got straw shoes
or somethin there?"
"So some Mexicans got shoes. Who the hell
cares?"
"See, Deborah says . . . "
"Deborah! I knew it!"
"Deborah says . . . "
"I told you not to marry a Jew doctor. Especially
an English professor."
"Deborah says. . . "
"And what the hell did she marry you for?
You can't even speak English."
"She said she likes tough guys, says she
wants to tame me."
"Well, I hope she does. Cause you talk like
a fuckin gorilla, you know that?"
"If you shut up and listen, dad, maybe you
might learn somethin. What I'm tryin to tell you is that Deborah says
that you shouldn't make fun a people just cause they come from different
cultures. She says we should celebrate their cultures. And she knows:
she teaches college."
"What the hell are you talkin about?"
"America is made up a all these different
cultures. Deborah calls it . . . uh . . . Megaculturalism."
"Huh? What the hell is Megaculturalism."
"Well . . . lets say you get in the elevator
wid a bunch a African-Americans, right? You know how you get that sick
kind a feelin, like you wanna trow up?"
"Yeah."
"That's cause they come from a different
culture. They ain't like us. See?"
"Is that why they got that black skin?"
"Yeah, its parta their culture. Deborah
calls it diversity."
"Their black skin?"
"No. Diversity means they're different from
us."
"Sorta like diversifyin your business?"
"No, it ain't the same thing, dad. Diversity
means guys who look different . . . and women."
"Women?"
"Yeah. They're a different culture too.
You see . . . what Deborah says is this: if you could understand the African-American
culture, you wouldn't get sick in the elevator."
"I see what you're sayin."
"Only trouble is, is that we can't understand
their culture cause a diversity, and cause we're white guys."
"You don't say."
"You ready to kill the Rodriguez brothers,
dad?"
"Yeah. Just let me get my gun. And Angelo
. . . "
"What?
"Sorry about what I said before. I didn't
mean nothin."
We left the house.
Feminism
When we got back home, dad walked over to me. He smiled, looked me up
and down, and spoke soft, "My boy, I'm proud a you."
I moved away, but he put his arm on my shoulder,
said, "Here, you got some a Rodriguez's blood on your face."
"Where?"
He put his thumb in his mouth. Before I
could get the hell outta the way, he was rubbin my cheek wid his wet thumb.
I slapped his hand away. "I hate when you do that shit," I said.
"What's a matter. I was just cleanin your
face. I'm your father. I used to clean your face all the time."
"Yeah, and I always hated that shit. Your
spit dries up and gets all crusty feelin. And it smells all sour, cause
your breath stinks."
"Okay I won't do it no more. Walk around
wid blood all over your face if you wanna. You're a man. But remember
one thing: that ain't how I raised you."
"Dad, try to understand what I'm sayin.
I ain't a kid no more. When I kill a guy, I like to wash my own
face. Understand?"
"I understand."
"I take care a myself. I'm a man."
"Good boy."
I almost pulled my gun on him.
But I went to the batroom and washed. When
I finished dad was sittin at the kitchen table drinkin espresso wid anisette.
He looked sad. I felt guilty.
"Dad, I didn't mean to hurt your feelins.
I always get like that after a good kill. The adrenalin, you know?"
"Nah, it ain't that, son. I ain't mad--I'm
your father, talk is bullshit."
"So what's the matter. We whacked the Rodriguez
brothers. You should be happy."
"Yeah but his daughter. Why'd she have to
be there? I hate killin women."
"You hate killin women?"
"Yeah."
"You're a sexist. You know that?"
"What the hell's a sexist?"
"Someone who don't like women."
"I thought that was a chauvinist."
"No, chauvinists play tennis."
"But wait a minute . . . if I didn't like
women, wouldn't I wanna kill em?"
"It's the same thing. Deborah calls it the
Feminine Misspeak."
"What the hell are you talkin about."
"You'd kill a guy widout even thinkin about
it, right?"
"I'd kill two guy's widout even thinkin
about it."
"That's the thing."
"What's the thing? What the hell are you
talkin about? Deborah's drivin you crazy. I told you not to marry a Jew.
You shoulda married a nice Italian girl who knows how keep her mouth shut."
"That's the thing."
"There he goes again. That's the thing.
That's the thing. That's the thing. What the hell are you talkin about?"
"It's the '90's, dad. You gotta treat em
the same as men. You whack one, you whack the other. I'll whack anybody.
I'm an equal opportunity killer."
"You're sayin broads is the same as men?
What are you, a fag?"
"No, they ain't the same, but you gotta
treat em the same. It's all part a the Feminine Misspeak."
"What the hell are you talkin about, Angelo."
"Deborah told me all about it . . . and
she knows: she teaches college."
"So what the hell is it?"
"See, dad . . . when men speak, our words
mean things, but women speak in simpleisms."
"What the hell's a simpleism?"
"Women ain't comfortable wid words, so when
they speak, their words mean somethin else. Their words are simples for
other things."
"I think I see what you're sayin."
"Yeah, some guy named Fraud figured this
out."
"Fraud? I think I know him. Name sounds
familiar."
"Nah, you don't know him, he's dead."
"Oh yeah? Who whacked him out?"
"No one whacked him out. He's been dead
millions a years."
"So this Fraud guy said women talk in simples?"
"That's right. It's like Deborah. One a
her student's got fresh wid her."
"What'd he do?"
"She said he tried to deconstruct her derriere.
Now, nobody, I mean nobody, deconstructs my wife's derriere but
me."
"I'd break his fuckin legs."
"That's what I said I was gonna do . . ."
"My boy."
"So she tells me not to do nothin. So I
don't. Then you know what? She gets mad at me! She says she can't believe
I didn't do nothin. Can you believe it, dad? You see what I'm sayin here?
She told me not to do nothin, but she meant I should do somethin. So you
know what I do? I visit the kid. I take my mallet. I break his fuckin
legs. Now, you would think Deborah would be happy, right?"
"Right."
"Wrong."
"Wrong?"
"She smacks me in the fucken head. Said
she didn't mean for me to break his legs. She just wanted me to tell him
I'd break his legs. She said it woulda been the same thing but less messy.
She said, since guys don't talk in simples, sayin you're gonna break someone's
legs is the same as breakin his legs. Then she called me a fuckin guinea.
You understand, dad? Guys words mean things, and women don't know what
the fuck they're talkin about. They don't know what they're sayin. Unless
a course they want somethin. Then they know exactly what they're
sayin. Buy me that fuckin gold chain. Buy me that fuckin fur coat. Buy
me that fuckin dress. Buy those fucken ear rings. . . . Ah, women! . .
. You can't live wid em. But who the fuck else is gonna bake the pasta."
The Media
Later, we was watchin TV. The news.
"Oh my God!" said dad.
They was chasin Joey Ratigliano down Sixty-Seventh
Street. My father looked stunned.
"Poor bastard," he said.
"Didn't they used to call him the Deadly
Meat Grinder?" I aksed.
"Yeah, back in the old days. I remember
when Lupo sent two boys to Brooklyn to take care a the Deadly Meat Grinder.
The Great Grinder took out his ax and that was that. He was a great man."
Dad shook his head sadly.
The Deadly Meat Grinder was sprintin up
Broadway now, and there was twenty reporters chasin him. There was tears
in the great Grinders eyes.
"It ain't fair," said dad. "They hate us."
The Deadly Meat Grinder turned up Sixty-Ninth
Street wid the press right behind him, callin after him: "Mr. Ratigliano,
could we speak to you?" The Grinder was wheezin as he ran.
"It's fuckin media bias," dad said. "It
ain't no fair. Why don't they bother other people? We gotta work for a
livin too. What do they want us to do? Live on the streets? Why don't
they bother the politicians? Them politicians is worse than we are, cause
we're supposed to be crooks. That's our job. What do they expect?"
Dad's face was red. He was shakin. "Just
look at the Great Grinder," he said. "Runnin like a broad!" He was lookin
at the TV. "Go Grinder, go." He looked at me, shook his head, said, "It
ain't like the old days, Angelo. I'll tell you that. Back then if they
was gonna do a story on you, you could call em up and treaten their wife
and kids. But now, wid this technology they got, your face is everywhere.
Look at that poor bastard run. I'd hate to have them mad at me. They hate
us. The Deadly Meat Grinder never had a chance. And he's such a nice guy.
Poor bastard."
Hate Crime
Two days later the old man called again. Wanted us to whack two more a
Geno's boys. African-Americans.
"Here, dad. Wear this."
"What the hell is this?"
"It's an X-hat. Wear it.
"What the hell for?"
"This way if we get caught after we slit
their troats, we can prove it ain't a hate crime. Knock at least five
years off the life sentence."
We loaded our guns, put on our hats, and
left.
Religion
We got back. Dad took a shower. I washed
my face. Walked in the livin room. Dad put the news on.
"Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"Why'd you let him pray before you slit
his troat?"
"He aksed me."
"So?"
"So it don't cost nothin. So what?"
"So you believe in God?"
"Yeah. Course I believe in God."
"Is there anybody you wouldn't kill for
the old man?"
"You."
"Forget about me. I'm family. Anybody else?"
"Let me think a second. . . . I'll kill
anybody."
"What if he aksed you to kill the Pope?
Would you do it?"
"That's ridiculous. He ain't gonna aks me
to kill the Pope."
"But what if he did?"
"He ain't."
"I know that. But what if he did?"
"What if the old man aksed me to kill the
Pope?"
"Yeah."
"That's the stupidest question I ever heard.
What if the old man aksed me to kill the Pope."
"Would you do it?"
"Would I do it?"
"Yeah, would you do it?"
"Don't be stupid. You should be ashamed
a yourself--aksin stupid questions like that."
"Well, would you?"
"Would I?"
"Yeah. Would you?"
"No. I wouldn't. I'd go straight to hell.
. . . Would you?"
"Yeah, I would . . . I don't believe in
mixin religion and murder."
Gun Control
Late that night, dad was watchin the news, shakin. "I can't believe they
wanna ban our guns!"
"I think it's a good thing," I said.
"You crazy? Whata you gonna do, use a stiletto?"
"No. It's just that--whata other people
need guns for? You. Me. We need guns. It's a tool we use for work. But
whata other people need guns for?"
"It's our right. It's in the constitution.
We got a right to bear guns."
Health Insurance
A few nights later dad was in the batroom
for a half hour. I knocked on the door. "Hey dad. You alright in there?"
I heard him groan. I kicked open the door.
Broke the lock. He was on his knees grabbin the bag at his side. He whispered,
"Nothins comin out. It's blocked. Call the doctor."
The doctor said he needed a fleece enema.
One, two, six, I'm out the door and down the block. When I got to the
drug store I was outta breath. The glass door was locked. I banged.
An old man came outta the back, showed me
his watch, and mouthed the words, "We're closed."
I yelled, "It's an emergency."
Again he pointed at his watch.
I pulled out my gun and pointed it at the
glass door. The old man dove behind his counter. The glass shattered.
I came inside. "You got insurance for that door?" I aksed him.
"No," he said.
I trew four five-hundred dollar bills on
the floor and spit on em. "Where the hell's the fleece enimas?" I said.
The old man got up from behind the counter
and pointed. I grabbed a couple and ran home.
I gave em to dad, and he stuffed the little
bottle in the hole in his side. A second later there was an explosion
and the batroom walls was brown.
"Thank God," I said.
Marxism
Two weeks later the old man called. I put it on the speaker phone. "I
want you guys to whack the Pope," he said.
Dad looked at me confused. Then scared.
"Say that again." he said.
"What's a matter? You deaf?" said the old
man, "I want you to whack the Pope, for me."
Dad looked at me. I started laughin. The
old man started laughin.
"You told him what I said? I can't believe
you told him," dad said.
"Hey don't worry about it," said the old
man, "I wouldn't kill the Pope either. The man's a saint. You gotta draw
the line somewheres." Then he told us they found out where Geno was hidin.
An old burnt out buildin in the Bronx.
"That's a bad neighborhood," dad said.
"Yeah. Very poor area," I said.
"Lots a crime in that area. Anybody bothers
us we shoot em. Okay, boy?"
"The only reason they'd bother us is cause
they're so poor. It ain't no fair."
"What ain't no fair?"
"We got so many poor people in the most
richest country in the world."
"So, who cares. Long as it ain't us? Those
people are scum. Fuck em."
"It ain't those people."
"What are you talkin about?"
"It's class. They're lower class."
"Lower class? They ain't got no class."
"No. I mean class."
"That's what I thought you said."
"Deborah says we can make things better."
"What the hell are you talkin about?"
"Deborah calls it Marxism."
"Marxism! That's like Russia, ain't it?
Are you a commie?"
"Deborah says Russia made mistakes. She
says they screwed it up. And she knows: she teaches college."
"You're a commie. My son's a commie. This
is the saddest day a my life."
"Think about it, dad. Deborah says in a
Marxist Society production is the base. And everything else is the stupid
structure. And the government owns all a that shit."
"So what's so good about that?"
"Think about it. There's plenty to go around."
"How's that?"
"Everything's illegal. Say you wanna sell
anything. We're not talkin drugs, gamblin, and prostitution--we're talkin
anything. We're talkin hamburgers, basketballs, even toilet paper, for
Christ's sake. Sell anything--you're in the mob. Everybody'd be in the
mob. And there'd be room for everybody. We wouldn't have to kill Geno
and his boys--cause there'd be room for em. The Rodriguez brothers wouldn't
a stabbed you in the gut. They'd be sellin something else. Everybody would
be nice to each other. What's wrong wid that?"
"Nothin. I never knew communism was so nice."
"Everybody'd be rich. We'd have Ethiopia
on earth."
"Sounds great. You got any more a them bullets?
The hollow points."
"Yeah. Here you go. You know, dad. Sometimes
when I think about this stuff it brings tears to my eyes."
Community
We got back. I washed my face. Dad was mad, said, "I can't believe you
never told me you shot out Mr. Rissoti's glass door."
"I just told you in the car."
"That ain't the point. I gotta live in this
neighborhood. I keep everything calm here. They respect me. And you go
ahead and shoot out Mr. Rizzoti's front door."
"Dad. You was on your knees, on the floor
in the batroom. I thought you was gonna die."
"I wish I did, I'm so embarrassed."
"I gave him two grand for the door. He should
be happy."
"You gave him two grand? Are you crazy!
The door ain't worth two grand."
"Look. I don't wanna discuss this no more."
"All you had to do was tell him who I was.
He woulda let you in."
"I said I don't wanna discuss this no more."
"Well I do. Look at me when I talk to you.
Don't turn around. Look at me, boy. Just cause I'm an old man, it don't
mean I can't kick your ass!"
"Wid that bag on your side? I don't think
so!"
Deconstruction
Two weeks later I took dad back to the hospital to get the bag removed.
I was talkin wid the nurse.
"What does your father do, sir?"
"Construction. He's in construction."
"What?"
"Construction. He's in construction."
"What?"
"Construction."
"Huh?"
"Construction."
"Did you say construction, sir?"
"What?"
"Did you say construction?"
"I can't understand what you're sayin."
"Did. You. Say. Construction."
"Huh?"
"Construction. Did you say it?"
"Did you say deconstruction? I don't know
what the word means."
"What?"
"I don't know what the word means."
"I'm sorry, sir. It's hard to hear you with
that construction going on outside. What did you say?"
"I can't understand a word you're sayin."
"What?"
"What?"
"What?"
"I don't understand."
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