The old falcon sits perched high, not in flight
Hoping to hear a kind word in the night
Beautiful falcon who once felt great pride
Dreams of soaring and descending with great glide
Long gone the speed and cunning in flight
This great bird knew in darkness of night
The falcon glories no more in feast
Time has no mercy for man or beast
However, he may be large or small
Knowing of his inevitable fall
Upon this living thing remains a heart so bold
A welcome spring where time has taken hold
For now, the falcon has lost his flight
Silently waiting for a kind word at night
~ Gemini Joe ~
W
hen my father was a teenager, my grandfather arranged for him to work as a dishwasher at one of the local restaurants, but he didn’t last long. He quit after one week. Instead of going to his job at night, he hung out at the many speakeasies where the Charleston played and the liquor flowed. Some of the men dressed in nice suits and they had money, lots of it! However, you had to be Sicilian to belong to the exclusive group that Americans call The Mafia. That upset my dad, because he wanted to be a part of it all.
One night when he was coming home, he decided to take a shortcut through the park. There was an unofficial rule that Italians had to vacate the streets at night, enforced by the Micks. Anyway, a cop rapped on his shoes with a billy club.
“What are you doing out this late?” he asked.
“This is a public park,” my father said. “I have a right to be here.”
The officer stared at him and tapped his baton against his palm, but my father wouldn’t back down. Before he knew what hit him, his knees buckled under him. Before he could steady himself, the cop’s club rose for a second strike. The ground came up at him and he now lay on the grass.
“That’ll teach you to respect authority!” the cop sneered. “Now, get up and go home, before I break your other knee.”
My grandmother was so upset. She said, “What happened to you?” when she saw all the blood.
“This is what you get when you’re Italian,” he said.
Respect for Italian people in the new land only existed with money, so my dad turned to the Mafia. He would never be included in the inner circle, but still, he could benefit from his Italian heritage by working for these men. My father made himself available to do small jobs for what he called, “the men in suits,” and collected protection money from the local merchants. My dad ventured into various business opportunities, both legal and illegal. I’m not saying he was a bad man; he did what he had to do to survive.
My dad got a laundry route where you pick up laundry from people’s homes and bring it to the factory where they washed, dried, and folded them. Then he brought them back to the customers.
Under the cover of the laundry service, my father made his rounds, recording the names, horses, and amounts wagered in a little black book, while my brothers and me conducted the business of hauling the dirty and clean clothes on the laundry route. Beneath the veils of family and enterprise, my dad did all right for himself. Everyone knew about his illegal activities as a bookie, and his ties to the Mafia. People whispered, but respectfully greeted him, careful to avoid eye contact.
The tenements in Brooklyn had four or five stories to go up. My dad had emphysema. Every time it was one flight, my dad would say, “I got this one,” and it was usually dried clothes. It seemed like only the wet wash had to go up four or five flights and he left that to me. My breathing was not good either, but I was younger and stronger.
On some days, he would act moody, and I knew enough to keep my mouth shut, but there were days when I looked upon my father in amazement, especially when he laughed.
Puzzled by his joy after paying off a lucky customer, I asked, “Hey Pop, why are you happy that guy won? Aren’t you going to lose money?”
He smiled. “People get greedy when they win,” he said. “Next time that same guy will double his bet.”
“Oh!” I said. Although I sensed that something sinister was going on, I preferred to think of my father as a successful businessman rather than a criminal.
The only time it seem seemed to bother him was when he took a bet from a woman. He’d always try to discourage her, particularly if the horse had no chance of winning.
“Please, lady,” he said. “Don’t put your money on this horse. He doesn’t have a chance of winning.”
Undeterred, the woman insisted he take her bet and my father struggled with the decision to accept her cash. Since he failed to sway her, he tucked the currency in his side pocket and we continued down the street in silence. The next day, he returned to give her back the money she lost. “Go buy your children some shoes, and be more careful next time,” he scolded.
The woman kissed him on the cheek, and thanked him for his generosity. At times like these, I felt proud of my father and focused on his acts of kindness rather than the business.
I helped my dad with his route until finally, he couldn’t do it anymore, and he had to quit. I was seventeen, going on eighteen, when I took it over.
When they started opening laundromats, the business went down. My dad said, “What are you doing to the business?”
I said, “I can’t help it, all the women are going to the Laundromat now.” That was the end of that.