Summer of 1982, Atlantic City, The Golden Nugget

Walter sidles up behind me and slips his fingers inside my cummerbund. “Would you like to have breakfast later?”

It is 4:00 am. in early July.

“Maybe,” I reply warily. “First, I’ve got to seat this table.”  I feel his hand slide from the band and brush my hips as he saunters away from my station.

Walter, 21, a first-generation Russian immigrant, is a waiter at the Corncuopia Room at Steve Wynn’s Golden Nugget Casino in Atlantic City and I am the hostess. Dining establishments in casinos are almost always designed around a particular theme---a time and place in history—and this one is no exception. I am dressed as a Gibson Girl, long skirt, six-inch cuffs, puffy sleeves, jabot, and the waist-cinching cummerbund. Walter wears a white shirt with a garter over his sleeve and a satin vest. We are costumed in a Gay 90's theme, to recall a time when ladies and gents frolicked on bicycles built for two, listened to the harmonies of a barbershop quartet and sipped root beer floats.

I wonder if the patrons of The Golden Nugget really notice anything about this place, especially at this hour. The red-haired woman waiting for a booth wearing a Rolling Rock baseball cap and rhinestone studded sweatshirt doesn’t seem to care. “Just lost my disability checks at the friggin’ slot machines,” she croaks to no one in particular.

Walter and I are more than half way through the graveyard shift.

A flamingo-colored sky smothers the night outside. The wide window bank beyond the Cornucopia exposes the dawn and the stone sea gives the new morning an unsteady floor. The tentative day is a sight the whole crew waits for. But it is not the beginning for us, not a brand new morning. Instead, it is the end of dishes smeared with Boston Cream Pie, the end of requests for extra plates to split the Salisbury steak entree, doggie bags, and ashtrays. It is the end of “Hey hons” from stout men in velour jogging suits and the loud emphysematous laughs from the pin-thin woman fresh out of nickels.

The shift starts at 11pm and ends at 7am; the casinos close at 3pm and re-open at 7am. While the hardcore gamblers wait for the games to begin again, they while their time having a meal at The Cornucopia. The hours never bother me. I feel energized by the atmosphere, mirrors, glass, money, the red squiggly designs, like giant viruses, on the carpets.

The end of each shift brings me one day closer to law school. I am trying to make as much money as I can before September toward tuition, books and transportation. As hostess, my command of influence in the dining area reigns supreme. Who sits where determines which wait staff earns the most tips. I quickly learn how to size up diners  and determine their tip potential.

Two men in open neck stretch nylon shirts and gold crosses will, for example, leave up to a 50% gratuity for a female waitress. Macho men with sexy dates leave good tips for either male or females. But the riders from the "roach coach" casino buses either leave no tip or one so small it is almost humiliating to accept it.

I try to be fair—spread it around as much as possible, but my objectivity is compromised by Walter’s attentions. When I spot high rollers delirious from a win, I take them out of a long line of waiting customers and seat them in Walter’s area. I also score at $10 tip for myself.

“Do not seat me another table from a roach coach,” Dee, a dark-haired waitress breathes down my neck, referring to the casino bus crowd.

They disembark from the casino bus holding crumpled coupons redeemable for a free buffet. They drag plastic shopping bags bulging with newspapers and banana peels. There seems to be a collective assumption among them that the tip is somehow included in the coupon.

Duly threatened, I gently lead a group of bus exiles toward the back of the restaurant out of Dee’s station.

As I return to my station, I hear, “Don’t wear that nail polish again.” It is assistant manager Jeff McGuire. Apparently, Gibson Girls did not sport chipped neon orange nails. Ever since Jeffrey found out that I was going to law school in September, he’s been picking on me.

“What are you doing in the kitchen, Miss College Girl?” he yells.

“That table’s not cleaned. You can’t seat people there yet, Brainy,” he chides, pressing his fingers against his sparse blonde moustache.

To escape his scrutiny, I sneak into the kitchen, open the giant stainless freezer door, dig a spoon into a vat of rum raisin ice cream and cram it in my mouth. Out of nowhere, I hear his whiny voice. “What are you doing? Are you eating ice cream? There are people waiting to be seated! I should fire you right here.”

I can’t reply. My soft palate is pulsing with a surge of cold and sugar that freezes my brain and momentarily compromises my vision and impairs my ability to speak. Gulping down the ice cream, I return to my station.

A phalanx of people are lined up for their four am strip steak and baked potato, extra butter. I wipe a clot of ice cream off my cheek with a laced cuff. At the back of the line, I see Marie Pecora’s son Bernard---Viet Nam vet, drug addict, unemployed--standing with two compatriots. I walk towards the crowd, past the tattooed biceps, ringed pinkies, burning cigarettes; past the scent of Brut aftershave and penciled eyebrows raised in indignation.

“Hi Bernard. Right this way.” One tooth missing, the remaining ones in good shape, his smile warms the last bits of my frozen throat. Bernard had left for Viet Nam 15 years before, sane, slim and sound. During his tour of duty, he was stationed near the Mekong Delta, loading river boats. Whatever happened there, changed him, mind, body and spirit. His eyes burn a blue-green fire, scorched with memories of his days in the war that gnawed his brain and left him lost

 “Hey, Patrish,” he says, sounding just like his mother Marie calling from her front porch when she saw me walking home from grade school.

“I’ve got a table for your and your friends,” I say, touching his broad shoulder.

“Really? But look at the line,” he sputters.

“Follow me,” I motion with my oversized menus.

Bernard looks around, grins and pulls his shoulders back as I escort him in front of the throng, no waiting, and seated him at a booth near the potted plants. It’s the least I could do considering what he sacrificed for our country in a war everyone wished never happened.

Jeffrey is furious and Dee almost slugs me when she realizes they are  in her station, but I consider it a small act of civil disobedience in tribute to my past and with a nod toward the future.

I don’t care about Jeff’s threats. The summer is whizzing by and there are not enough days left to fire me and hire a replacement.

I’m not afraid of being fired and I’m not afraid of the workload at law school. The idea of it is as sweet and irresistible as the rum raisin ice cream. I am leaving when the summer ends and Jeffrey and Dee are staying behind.

Close to 5:30 am, I find Walter sitting on an Abbott’s milk crate smoking a Raleigh and reading what looks like a 600-page book in Russian. War and Peace?

He looks up at me, as I chomp down on an ice cube. His hairline starts low and thick on his forehead and flows back like a muddy river. In his yellow eyes, pulled back at the sides in a Sino-Soviet slant, I think I see the ghost of Ghengis Kahn.

“My feet are fucking killing me," he says, wincing.

“Oh, Walter,” I say, crouching to his level. “I’m going to miss you when I go.”

“You’re already gone,” he answers and digs his black boot into the cigarette he flicks to the floor.

REDS

MOST DOGS BELONG to a family, but Reds belonged to the neighborhood. Up and down 11^th Street, across to Johnston, to Marconi Plaza, and along the storefronts of Oregon Avenue, my dog Reds followed on the heels of my mother Katie Lawler in an unmatched display of canine loyalty. When Katie, sometimes shoeless, sometimes in her nightgown, wandered the streets, Reds was never far behind. Reds didn’t need obedience school or a dog whisperer to know how to behave. She waited patiently for scraps of meat from the butcher, sat quietly while my mother paid visits to her friends, and greeted passersby with quiet curiosity.

On those occasions when Reds went off on her own, all my mother needed to do was stand on the front steps of our open porch and call out “Heeere Reds!” and in a minute or two, along she came, tail wagging.

She never had a leash. She didn’t need one. She never was inside a vet’s office. She ate Alpo or whatever was on sale at Pantry Pride.

Reds first appeared on our front porch, a soaked puppy seeking shelter from a thunderstorm on the night that the Beatles played at the JFK Stadium. Once she was towel dried, offered a slice or leftover roast beef and invited for a cuddle on the sofa, it was instant mutual love for every member of my family.

She had a beautiful tender face with soulful chocolate eyes and soft rust-colored fur that hung in elegant fringes along her flank. But what was most lovely about Reds was her personality. Any kid in the neighborhood could pet her, chase her, ride her like a pony, even pull her tail and she would cheerfully oblige. Never a snap or a snarl. She’d sit by your side and listen to your worries with rapt attention, a faithful friend with whom you could share any secret. Reds was a queen among lots of other great dogs in the neighborhood: King and Frosty, Sparkles and Lady to name a few.

If I had to guess what mix of breed she was, I’d say Cocker Spaniel mixed with Irish Setter---there was definitely a dash of hunter in her. What riled Reds were the squirrels who scurried down the trees on Mollbore Terrace. Upon spotting one, Reds would freeze, point and charge with all her might. Most of the time, she’d miss the squirrel by a split second, but one afternoon she surprised all of us, including herself, by catching one. From that day forward, all you had to say was “Where’s the squirrel?” in an excited tone and Reds would stop whatever she was doing and fly out the screen door searching for quarry.

All that wandering around the streets did end up getting Reds in trouble more than a few times. Suffice to say she was popular with certain male dog suitors. As a result, Reds had about five litters. From her first pregnancy, she delivered a single pup on the day Neil Armstrong stepped on the moon; the new addition was quickly adopted and named “Luna.”

            Years passed and Reds aged gracefully, slowing down on the squirrel chasing and spending more time indoors, though never far from my mother. On a late summer afternoon, Reds appeared on the steps of the backyard and lied down on the concrete landing under the awning. Panting heavily, she looked uncomfortable. Her dark eyes opened and closed rapidly. Someone said she’d been struck by a car, but no one knew for sure exactly what had happened.

My mother and I waited with her. Reds wouldn’t come inside so we let her rest there as night fell. We stepped into the kitchen to fix her a bowl of water. When we returned, she was gone. And she never returned. She disappeared as mysteriously as she had arrived. My mother told me Reds didn’t want me to see her die. She wanted us to remember the way she’d always been.

When I pass the New York pooches, dolled up in rhinestone harnesses, rain slickers, and argyle sweaters; pedicured, pedigreed and pampered as they sniff the sidewalk at the hands of their hired dogwalkers. I think of Reds’ self-sufficiency. When two passing dogs growl and yap at each other, I think of Reds’ gentle and serene composure.

Since Reds, I’ve had several dogs and cats, all unique and wonderful in their own way, but Reds will always be the most cherished to me---a symbol of a carefree childhood, of simplicity and trust. I comfort myself with the thought of my mother walking barefoot on a cloud in heaven next to Reds---no leash needed---tethered by something stronger—their undying, unique and unconditional love.

. 

The Maloiks or The Day I Killed Gil

06/24/2010

Just by looking at me, you wouldn't think I'd be capable of murder. White, female, no priors, and on top of that, a lawyer. Just by looking at me, you wouldn’t think I’d be capable of murder. White, female, no priors, and on top of that a lawyer. Blonde, trim, pleasant for the most part. But I did it and I have only the maloiks to blame.

The yellow flash of the intercom signal sent a wave of dread through my body. My sweaty palm picked up the receiver.

            "Patricia, can you come to my office," said the grumpy voice.

It was not a request. Gil Newman, litigation partner at Fox, Rothschild, O'Brien and Frankel wanted to see me about something that I did that he didn't like. I stood up and brushed the crumbs from my corn muffin off of my navy skirt. Piles of pleadings, memos, marked up documents, menus and advance sheets crowded my desk.

I walked into Gil's office trying to look casual.  Before entering I spent two minutes trying to decide whether to wear my jacket. Jacket off equals hard at work, but maybe a bit sloppy. Jacket on equals corporate armor, plus it hides the perspiration stains on my silk blouse. Go with the jacket.

            Gil was on the telephone when I arrived.  His body was tilted back in his padded executive chair as if he were having a dental x-ray. Gil wasn't bad looking for a 50-year-old man---thick black hair parted neatly on the side, tall, fit, olive skinned. Dean Martin with a higher I.Q.

 He tossed a golf ball in his hand and bantered with his caller.

            Seeing me, Gil placed his hand over the receiver, motioned me to take a seat, and, with a look of disdain, flung a piece of paper across his desk toward me. I tried to grab it as it sailed to the floor. It was a copy of a letter I had written

            "Look at this," he smirked. Then he pushed a red pen in my general direction. "Circle how many times you used the phrase "in this matter."

            He went back to his conversation as I looked at the paper.  I circled the phrase "in this matter" three times in the brief letter.

            Gil hung up the phone and looked at me expectantly. “Well?”

            "Three times," I admitted.

            "Don't you read what you write?" he asked, the anger rising in his voice. "It makes you sound like an ass. What were you thinking? It's a terrible letter, an embarrassment to the firm." He shook his head, and fondled the golf ball.           

He then read the letter out loud to me. “Do it over. Don’t send out crap like this.” He balled up the paper and threw it in the trash.

            My face was flushed and I sank into the seat, shrinking with shame. But, as my heart beat in rapid flutters, a part of it turned black. Lava bubbled in my veins.

            I left his office and headed straight for Wendy's, the senior associate who had recruited me for this job. Another associate, Tom Paradise was with her. Tom was a jolly plump man with red hair and a red beard. I told them both the Gil story and by now, I was furious. They nodded, feigning sympathy. The truth was no one really gave a shit, even I knew that, but I needed to vent over Gil’s pompous indignities.

            "I wish he would drop dead," I said finally. The phrase erupted from my mouth like an explosion from Mt. Vesuvius. I had never said those words out loud about anyone before, never even thought those words.

            The next morning I got to work early to prepare for a case. An eerie silence prevailed. Two secretaries slinked by, their heads bowed into armfuls of manila folders. On my desk was a memo.

            "Gil Newman died suddenly of an apparent heart attack during a tennis match after work yesterday afternoon,”

            A few minutes later, Tom Paradise and Wendy wandered into my office. Tom held the memo in his hands and dropped his jaw.

            "I know," I said.

            Wendy kept up appearances. "It's a terrible, terrible loss for the firm. I'm going to miss him." She turned to leave.

            "Please don't tell anyone what I said yesterday," I said. After she left, Tom plopped down in the chair in front of my desk.

            He tried to suppress a smile, "You did it."

            "I know," I replied. "I didn't mean it really, Tom. Who knew? Son of a bitch."

            Tom shrugged his shoulders. "I'm staying on your good side," he said and walked out.

            I killed Gil. It was the maloiks, plain and simple.

Where I'm from, anger is not an abstraction. It is not an emotion that evolves into the exchange of legal papers. There is no such thing as arbitration on the corner of 11th and Oregon. Though I maintained the trappings of a lawyer, deep in my heart, an evil spirit resided, harbored for hundreds of years from the old country. Among certain Italians, anger isn’t just a way to vent, to get it off your chest. Anger, even coming from a half blood like me, can be dangerous.

            "I've got the maloiks on me," my mother would say when she lost a gold hoop earring and got a fever blister all on one day.  Maloiks is a bastardization of malocchio, the evil eye.

            To ward off the maloiks, people wear gold or red horns around their neck. A red ribbon is often placed at the head of a crib or cradle for protection. To determine if you are under the spell of the maloiks, drop a dot of oil in a glass of water. If it separates, you have been cursed by someone. It all sounds like superstitious nonsense, but on the day Gil died, I became a believer.

In traditional Italian folklore, malocchio operates most effectively upon the weak and feeble, such as babies and the elderly infirmed. Gil was middle aged, fit as a fiddle. The most common emotion to provoke a maloik is jealousy, and, according to the experts, the injury is not caused by a conscious and specific desire.It wasn't jealousy that ignited my rage, it was being humiliated. Perhaps my scenario with Gil did not fulfill all of those specific details, but I could not explain what happened as a coincidence.

Technically, it wasn't a homicide, but it was close enough. Hell hath no fury like that wrath of a Napolitana scorned.

Have you ever put the maloiks on someone? Has someone ever put them on you?

My Readers Comments on "South Phillyisms:" It's all about love

I heard from a lot of my South Philly readers after posting "South Phillyisms."One of the most common comments dealt with the way mothers called their children "Mommy." And Grandmas called their grandchildren "Grandmom."

Example: A child has a fever. Her mother says, "You don't feel good, mommy." Or a grandmother says to her grandson, "C'mere grandmom, give me a kiss." It's a special, dear, unique way of bonding. In one word it communicates our heritage and demonstrates how closely we identify with our loved ones.  It says "I am you. You are everything to me."

Can you remember your mom calling you "Mommy" and do you remember how loved you felt when she did? Post your comment here on southphillyscribe.blogger. I would love to hear from you.

SOUTH PHILLYISMS

Although I've lived in New York for 21 years, I often rely upon the rich and memorable phrases that I learned as a child in South Philadelphia to express emotions that no standard English word can convey. Here is a list of my favorites:

You're enjoying a fine forceful spray under fire plug, but realize to your horror, that the water has shimmied the waistband of your pants down, or (if you're a girl) your top has suddenly become see-through. To which, your mother or grandma calls out "Pesch-Ma-Shame." I love this phrase for all the subtlety and tenderness it evokes. Within is the notion of Catholic guilt associated with one's body, but at the same time, there's something oddly loving and accepting about it.

The word "sceve" is not exclusively used in South Philadelphia, but has been heard in many Italian American neighborhoods. Still, if a fly lands on your proscuitto, your classmate has body odor, blackheads, or stepped in dog poo, the only words in South Philly that will do are "I sceve." Variations include "scev-otz" and "scevey." The word "sceve" is much more effective than modern terminology such as "that's gross" or "disgusting." To sceve implies more than a mere sensory offense. There's the implication of an almost moral outrage when one sceves person, place or thing.

I was often referred to as a "Medigan" because of my fair complexion, light eyes, etc. It's a shortened, Italianized version of "American" and I hated being reminded I didn't share the olive, swarthy, never-got-sunburned skin of my cousins and friends. That's what you get for being half Irish. No one ever believed that I was the daughter of the dark haired, dark eyed, Roman-nosed little Italian woman who pushed me in a stroller up and down 7th Street.

My grandfather Rosario, who died at the age of 101, moved to the United States when he was nineteen. He sired ten children with my grandmother Theresa DeGregorio, all born on the second floor of the their storefront on 12th and Porter. You'd think that 10 kids and a wife would keep him busy and content. Rosario, however, always had a "comare" also known as a "goomah" or "goomar." The word was said with a wry chuckle, and as a kid, I couldn't quite understand what they really meant. The truth was Rosario turned out to be the genetic Johnny Appleseed of the neighborhood, and now know I have way more cousins and aunts than were officially counted for at Sunday dinner.

There's also a variation of this phrase. Whenever I wore an unbecoming dowdy dress, glasses, or had a bad haircut, I ran the risk of being called "Cumare Jenny." Any woman whose sex appeal fell into the negative numbers, whose chance of marrying was less than zero, who preferred thick cardigans, flat shoes, and no make up, might be labeled as such.

My mother and aunts argued, traded gossip and gathered in the kitchen around sizzling pans of veal cutlets. When one of them got on the other's nerves, they'd say "Go Shit in Your Hat!" When they took offense, were unconvinced or otherwise dismissive of a remark, they'd say "Your Sister's Ass!" While this was not a strictly Italian use of language, they were shared by the Boccuto sisters with zest.

When my daughter was born almost 14 years ago, I suffered from a bad case of post-partum nerves. At night, as she lay in the crib and a hush fell over the house, I comforted her, and more truthfully myself by repeating the phrase "Ninna No." http://www.mamalisa.com/?lang=Italian&t=es&p=2168
I only just recently learned that the phrase translated from Italian into English means "lullaby." I can still hear my mother repeating those words to me before I drifted off to sleep. Good Night.

Roller Skates

It was a glorious day for roller-skating. Denise, my slightly older cousin and I were gliding down South 11th Street, the narrow blacktopped corridor of our childhood. She, of course, had the form-fitted white boot version. I wobbled on the metal brace skates. None of that mattered. It had rained all morning and now, the sun was drying the pavements, The scratch of straw brooms on the concrete made a soothing familiar sound, as a few women in the neighborhood gathered wet leaves, pebbles and cigarette butts and put them in dustpans. The wheels of our skates turned and rumbled.
"Let's go to Bigler Street," Denise said, grabbing my hand.
I sped up and almost fell, but grabbed her and she held me up. Denise, athletic, even at nine and half, waited until I caught my breath. An automobile drove by and we pressed our bodies against the parked cars until it passed. Another one approached, a green Gremlin, and came to a stop.
"Excuse me," the man in the car said to us.
We skated over. I had to take hold of the rear view mirror to steady myself on the slope of the street.
"Do you know where Broad Street is?" The man's face was unfamiliar, pasty, red-rimmed eyes with glasses.
"Broad Street, yes," I said. Who didn't know where Broad Street was.
Denise began to tell him to turn right, but stopped short.
"Have you ever seen one of these before?" the man asked. There under the glare of a 60-watt flashlight was his penis. He was holding the spotlight right on it. My stomach flipped and then I flopped. Denise screamed.
Flaccid or erect, I cannot say. Big or tiny, I don't remember, but ugly, yes. Scary as a sea monster, hairy, fleshy, shocking.
The car sped away. The two of us sped the other way, arms flailing, and my wobbly legs, now weak, buckling. Denise was faster, but I kept up. We reached my house in less than a minute and then realized that we'd have to tell my father--- obsessively shy man who never saw an R rated movie in his life.
Denise and I managed to climb up the steps in our skates, holding onto the wrought iron railing.
My father was in the kitchen, frying eggplants, sipping a beer from a juice glass, his brown Ortlieb's bottle under the table.
Luckily my mother appeared from the backyard where she was hanging sheets.
Denise did the talking. "A man just showed us his bird, Aunt Katie."
Now we were laughing a little, inside the shade and coolness of my home. My father just listened, his blue eyes shifting, avoiding my gaze, clearing his throat, turning the eggplants, sipping.
When the police cruiser arrived to take a report, the neighborhood buzzed. Denise's mother came over. Mrs. Cannely happened to be passing and stopped in.
"What'd he look like?" the cop asked.
"He was sitting in his car," I said. Didn't the cop know that all I could remember was the ghastly white thing between his legs?
Eventually, the excitement died down. Dusk settled under the trees of Mollbore Terrace amid the yellow flicks of fireflies and cigarettes.
Denise and I took off our skates, and giggled nervously between tastes of DeLeo's ice cream, our fragile innocence slightly diminished. The world we lived in - neighbors, grandmas, aunts and uncles seemed less safe as night fell.
A few years later, I saw that man again recognized him instantly as he worked behind the counter of a drugstore on Broad Street. I was there to buy cough drops.
I gasped, my eyes widened.
As I steadied myself to complete my purchase, the floor felt slippery, my balance compromised, as if I had on new pair of roller skates.