The Contractor

CHAPTER ONE

We can’t cherry pick our relatives

IT’S A QUIET SUNDAY AFTERNOON in Firewood, New Jersey a small town of some 6,342 residents, plus 51 active pregnancies’, excluding this weekends posting. The season is spring and today’s temperature is a very comfortable 73° Fahrenheit. The wind is slight out of the southeast, breezing along at three-to-four-miles-per-hour. A welcomed change for the northeast populace who has had just lived through the most severe winter in 55 years. Speaking of statistics, Firewood has an abundance of Italians living here. That would be just a fraction over 48%, if you include the Bellini twins who Angelina gave birth to Friday evening in the back of an ambulance. They were leaving the abandoned property of the old Metuchen Drive-In Movie Theater on Lincoln Highway, where the last feature shown was back in 1987. The now pockmarked wooden structure looks as if it has been shelled from a battery emplacement over in Perth Amboy. Appropriately the movie was: The Alamo: 13 Days to Glory starring Brian Keith, James Arness, and a young Alec Baldwin.

That coincidence had to be planned by some fatalist and not ordained as mere chance. The drive-in is the perfect locale for delivering babies if you own a ’99 Toyota Land Cruiser. That would be Angelina’s boyfriend’s vehicle. It was he, the 19-year-old Joey Bonomo, who called 911 and asked for help. No, Joey wasn’t trying to deliver his kids by himself. He was only assisting Angelina’s older sister Nina, who was up to her elbow in ... never mind, just use your imagination. The plan was for Nina to midwife the miracle and for them to rush the newborns over to the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage in Passaic, and then split.

The paramedics who arrived at the drive-in were terrific. Extremely calm and very professional. Which one would hope them to be under the circumstances? Even though they had to suppress the smiles that followed the obstetrics comment about popping both kids and popcorn at the same location.

Turns out this call would prove to be anything but a joke for the rookie Victor Marino. This was his first day, and only the second call for the young paramedic since being assigned to the unit. Seems he had a thing for a 15-year-old Angelina back in high school. Only back then Vic had a terrible case of acne and Angelina wouldn’t give him a tumble. Most of the jocks had their way with the young maiden ignoring the ever-present set of Rosary beads hanging around her neck. The fellas weren’t distracted because Angelina would twist the rosary around so that the crucifix would be between her shoulder blades and wouldn’t interfere with activity up front. Vic couldn’t get a date with Angelina back then, or even face looking at himself in a mirror. Now he finds himself four years later looking into her ‘tunnel-of-life’ while assisting with the deliveries.

A word here about Nina, the older sister by ten-years. The reason this fiasco ever started, where it did, was on her suggestion that it had to be both quick and secretive. They had to keep the event away from their parents Joe and Rosary. (Aha, now you see the fixation with beads.)

Well not really, if your mama told you that you were to always keep your rosary beads around your neck for protection from evil men. You see that would be code for ... there are penises lurking in the shadows little one. What a way to start life with that family hoax firmly entrenched.

Four months ago, Nina thought it would be best to stash her lil’ sis at Aunt Chickie’s out in Bensonhurst. That’s in Brooklyn for any out-of-towners. Aunt Chickie, being Papa Joe’s spinster sister, was the black sheep of the family ever since she was old enough to find a guy’s zipper. Chickie always had bad eyesight and chose to don dark tortoiseshell prescription sunglasses. The shades divert attention from her lips and from the moustache. Her lipstick was always dark. More of a bloodstain than a cosmetic stabilizer. Oh, and she also smoked the strongest of the strong—Camels—two packs a day. God bless her. Seems that most of this family’s females didn’t cotton to hoaxes. Nope! Chickie never, ever, said a rosary.

* * * *

IT’S 3 P.M. — The sun is shining through the trees on one of the quietest streets in Firewood. Reflecting off of the chrome-plated horseshoe stakes in the backyard of a 50s style brick ranch house. A game is being pitched. The combatants: Albert ‘Shoe’ Burascano, a devout bachelor, and owner of the house. Versus his older brother Augie who moved in after his wife left him for a Sicilian knife sharpener three-years ago. Shoe, a slight 5-foot-7-inch 60-year-old sporting a pencil-thin mustache and his ever-present gold neck chain. Attached are two items: a crucifix and a horseshoe charm. Both visibly resting atop his white tank top. The charm was a gift on Shoe’s 57th birthday from his boss Savio ‘Sal’ Parisi, the local general contractor. The gift originated soon after Sal had decided to buy Shoe’s bowling alley on a whim. Sals like that; if he sees something that can generate capital, he grabs it. Once the deal was sealed with a handshake Sal asked Shoe what he was going to do now that he was out of business renting bowling shoes. Shoe just shrugged and said nothing. So Sal placed one arm around him and asked if he wanted to be his full-time driver. Shoe just smiled—he’s been Sal’s personal driver for over three years now and very loyal. That loyalty extends to four distinct areas: his faith, his job, pitching horseshoes, and his never-ending affection for anything ever recorded after 1945. He’s so much a fan of pop music that he has a record and tape collection numbered in the thousands. Preferring the softer renditions whenever ballads are sung, but stand back when an up-tempo is about to blast-off from one of the big bands. At present a smooth jazz rendition of ‘I’m Glad There Was You’¹ is flowing from the speakers mounted under the eaves above the patio. The only other sound is of an enormous fart as a horseshoe sails past the stake striking the wooden backboard—landing next to another shoe in the sandpit.

What’s wrong with you? Shoe is staring at 63-year-old Augie. Augie’s not only older by two-and-a-half-years, but is shorter in height by the same number of inches. He weighs 131 pounds—that’s including the two horseshoes he’s holding.

Augie, staring back with the innocence of a babe asks, What?

What? You’re ridiculous, that’s what!

This Sunday Augie’s sporting his favorite Guayabera shirt over a garish pair of blue plaid Bermuda shorts. A pair of weather-beaten brown loafers completes the ensemble. If you didn’t know that Augie was of Italian descent you’d wonder what a guy from the Yucatan Peninsula was doing here? Besides pitching horseshoes with a pissed off sibling.

What ... am I distracting you?

Shoe stops tapping the horseshoe against his black trousers. Then, with disgust written over his face turns, takes aim and tosses his horseshoe down range.

After seeing the results of his brother’s toss Augie steps up for his turn. Now Augie has a very unorthodox style when preparing a toss. First, he places both feet together similar to what most bowlers do, then is begins wiggling his behind from side-to-side like a duck or some burlesque queen would. This is followed by a display of unsteadiness. As he walks forward and brings his arm back cocked way across his back—which is not the normal motion he whips his wrist around releasing the horseshoe and another portion of gas.

Immediately propelling Shoe off the wooden tossing plank. I’d like to plug that hole of yours with one of these horseshoes.

Augie dusting off his hands turns his head toward his brother and simply states: Devono essere i peperoni.

(trans. ‘It must be the peppers.’)

Shoe is now taking long strides toward the opposite pit to check the results of the last innings tosses lying in the sand. While Augie loosens his belt figuring it might help some. His brother, measuring for points, says, You’re hopeless!

Augie bends to retrieve his irons and responds, I don’t know why you’re getting all worked up. Look, you’re still up by three points.

Shoe’s cell phone is chiming. He drops his shoes into the pit and steps onto the lawn and walks over to the patio table. Picking up the cell after checking who’s calling, he answers, What’s up Boss? ... Nothing. Just trying to get in a game with Augie ... I am, but if you hook a hose up to his asshole right now he’ll start up a freakin’ Hummer. Lifting a clean towel from a stack, Shoe falls into one of the patio chairs wiping his face and begins to vent, I can’t take him anywhere, slinging the towel over his shoulder as a smirk forms. I didn’t tell ya, but last week, they threw us out of the movie house. ... Yeah. ... No. If I suggest he see a doctor, he’d only blame the popcorn or the guy who was sleeping behind us. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t call to hear about my brother’s gas line. Am I right?

Augie sits down at the table asking, Who’s that?

Shoe mouths, Sal.

In a low tone Augie says, Sal? I thought he was dead?

A disjointed Shoe says, Can you hold a second Boss? Lowering the phone, he says, Sal Junior, you moron. My boss. Lifting the phone back to his ear he continues, Sorry Boss... but if you lend me the money I’ll send him back to Italy, or better still someplace else. Our brethren already have their fill of gassers, right? Shoe starts smiling.

Augie begins slowly rocking side to side in his chair not able to find comfort.

No kidding? Is that right? You want to come over and pitch a game? I’ll throw on some steaks and sausages. Shoe asks as Augie lets out the longest and loudest batch of flatulence to date. With that Shoe jumps up, spilling his chair over and quickly steps away from the patio. Asking Sal, Did you hear that?

Augie casually expands the waistband of his shorts, while leaning his head off to his left declaring, Yeah. It’s the peppers.

He’s unbelievable! Yeah, yeah... But you know what I’m dealing with him ... Yeah, I know. So, I’ll pick you up regular time tomorrow? Right? Yeah, you too. Shoe hangs up and lifts the spilled chair upright.

What’s up with Junior? Augie asks.

He suggested we send you in against those terrorists.

* * * *

THE CLOCK OVER THE STOVE reads 3:10 p.m. Carmelena ‘Lena’ Parisi, short, thin and frail, is wearing a floral apron and limps noticeably while tending the pots on her stove. A cane hangs on a cabinet handle. The table in the kitchen is set for three. There is a cutting board and knife to one side where one of the dinner plates sits inverted with a candle burning atop it. Savio. Come. Come now. Lena opens the lid of large tin breadbox, extracts a round loaf of Italian bread and limps back to the table, placing the bread on the cutting