Committee Man

The feeling has passed of being sad,

Wounds heal of hurts you had

Few scars do still remain

And memory does still recall the pain

Try to pass the times of being hurt

Be born again as in the moment of birth

~ Gemini Joe ~

e and Al walked up to the rented space above a store where Republicans held their meetings. In a smoke-filled room, groups of men in stylish suits stood talking until the meeting came to order. Someone banged a gavel and everyone took a seat. The chairman waited for the chatter to subside.

“Welcome, fellow Republicans!” he shouted. “As you all know, our Party fundraiser in Hauppauge last week was very successful. We took in over ten thousand dollars. That makes our club the most lucrative organization in the county and a powerful force to be reckoned with.”

Cheers broke out in the small, crowded room. The chairman raised his hand and the members quieted down.

“In addition, our efforts to fight off low-income housing in Uniondale have paid off, but we can’t relax just yet. Every day, more and more Democrats are leaving Queens and Brooklyn. They’re settling here and bringing their brand of liberalism that threatens our future. It’s up to us to persuade them that wealth redistribution and social engineering is a dead end. We are a machine! Nothing will get in our way!”

More cheers drowned out his voice. He raised his hand again and waited for the noise to die down. When it did, he continued.

“That’s why this next election is so important. We can’t leave it to chance. Nixon must be our next President and it’s up to us to make that happen. If we succeed, three Republicans to one Democrat will get a county government job. Now, crank up the Machine!”

This time, the crowd roared like a tsunami, their enthusiasm so contagious that I cheered too.

Once the meeting adjourned, Al whispered, “I’ll see what I can do to get you a job, but you need to become a Committeeman.”

He took me around the room, and introduced me to the most influential men in the county.

The political machine continued to hum in New York. In the thick of it, I made phone calls and did what I do best, solved problems. They gave me a list of residents that showed how they voted in the last election. It was my job to go door-to-door and convince Democratic voters to stand with the Republicans for Nixon.

At first, I wasn’t getting anywhere. They slammed the door in my face as soon as I said I was from the Republican Club. I asked myself, what would my father do? I remembered something he said when I was a young boy.

“Always do something good for people and they are likely to do something good for you.”

I knocked on the next door and there was an old man. “What do you want?” he asked.

“My name is Joe Finno and I represent the Republican Party.”

“I’m a Democrat,” he said and started to close the door.

“I understand that,” I said, “but I’m here to see if you have any complaints about the neighborhood.”

The old man stared at me for a moment. “Can you do something about that pothole down the street? It’s ruining my car’s suspension. I called five times and no one will come out here to fix it.”

“I’ll see what I can do.” I pulled out a small black book and a pencil. “What’s your name?”

“Charlie Hoffmann. Two f’s…two n’s. If you fix that damned pothole, I’ll vote for whoever you want me to.”

I wrote down the man’s name, address, and complaint.

My book filled with names of Democrats, all with complaints and ready to switch to the GOP if I could address them.

At the next club meeting, I worked the room, getting promises from the other members for the services I needed to get the grievances fixed.

When I returned to the potential voters to announce their complaints had top priority, they were so happy. They promised to vote Republican in the next election.

Richard Nixon won by a landslide and that made Nelson Rockefeller the next Governor of New York.

Leading Italian Republicans took on positions as judges, managers, and county supervisors. Legislators, and town supervisors mingled at Sons of Italy meetings. They laughed and talked as they drank at the bar. They were very powerful men in town.

I recognized one of the men speaking with my neighbor, Al. He was Angelo Barattini, the man in charge of the entire town of Oyster bay.

Al waved me over. “There’s someone here who wants to meet you,” he said.

Barattini reached out to shake my hand. “I’ve been hearing good things about you, Joe. We need ambitious men like you. I hear you’re interested in a county job.”

“Yes sir.”

“Are you a registered Republican?”

“Yes, I have my voter ID card right here in my wallet.”

I reached in my pocket and Mr. Barattini laughed. “I believe you, Joe. Come to my office tomorrow morning. I’m sure we can find a position for you.”

My neighbor, Al was right. Becoming a Republican was the key and I was in.

Since I only finished 6^th grade in school I had to get my GED. Sitting at the dining room table every night, I studied the textbooks. I don’t know how I did it, but I got through the test with flying colors and got my diploma. It was a big accomplishment for me.

I took part in the annual parade, which started at the Columbus Lodge on Boundary Avenue and ended at the Maria Regina Church. Groups of men from the Sons of Italy carried an Italian flag as they marched our way down Broadway through the Massapequa.

At the front of the parade, Angelo Barattini marched with his entourage. A beautiful woman adorned his arm.

“Wow! Barattini’s wife is beautiful,” I said.

Al laughed. “That’s not his wife.”

All the young boys and girls stood at the curb smiling and waving their flags. It reminded me of the parades I went to as a child in Little Italy.

The aromas of Italian food grew stronger at the end of the parade route. Vendors already set up their stands, hoping to sell zeppoles, sausage, and prosciutto—along with the best bakeries offering traditional pastries and cookies. Funnel cakes sizzled in hot oil and fried to a golden brown, then dozed with powdered sugar.

Members of the Sons of Italy ran all the booths, tents with games of chance and merchandise. I was in charge of the spinning wheel booth.

I called out, “Try your luck!” to attract people to the booth. People put their money on a number and I spun the large wheel. If it landed on their number, they won a stuffed animal and, if it didn’t, I convinced them to try again. I made over one thousand dollars that day.