9.
Irma’s breakdown started when Scram was pounding out the hitch in County. Orange jumper, stencils, and chrome toilet. An irregular-shaped cell, with a decent sized window. It looked kind of funky, and space-aged to him. The Bergen Record wrote it up as modern. Modern my ass while spinning on his chrome crapper.
A pack of PC shrinkers from a nearby think tank guided the architects. They preached a more humane bunk would help the process. The results already proved it, or were skewed as Tony bought into. There were more jobs and tolerance on the outside, less Jesus jumping on the inside.
The stress of the abandoned wife had been building for years, and Irma continued her silent struggle. Steve had turned twenty-one, and was as confined outside the walls as his father was behind them.
Rarely leaving his room. Bunking through the afternoon.
Creepy friends, flaky girlfriends. One creep tailed the other.
Unable to hold a job, much less look for one. He pumped gas at Vince Lombardi’s service area over on the Turnpike. He drove a pick up for an auto parts dealer. Tony got him that one. He knew the owner. So much for the chip off the old block.
Tony started to stress over it too. Stewing in his state-of-the-art studio, while sonny slipped further into dope orbit. All three, in their own way, cruising to the crash and burn. He knew the Friday night visits in County.
Guys getting their walking papers, going back to their bunks, and weeping through the night. Through the avant-garde designs, with chicken-wire, you could see the traffic lights down below, the lights from the midget-sized refinery, and on Fridays, the high school football field.
Real soothing. The view reminded Tony of other things. He’d often blend the architects vision with his own. A giant H-O scaled town. The Christmas days he spent with Steve erecting choo-choo villes and race tracks.
Steve breezed in, as Irma was prepping a visit to Tony. She always wore a nice outfit. As economical, and affordable for Scram. A helping on the stove.
"I need money." He said, passing on the grub.
"Get a job." She was in a rush. She was already late on account of Steve. He missed supper. No biggie, but once in, he rarely ventured out.
The mind mixer grew agitated, and violent. He rushed Irma, like a hawk swooping in to pluck a squirrel. He went right for the purse. Irma’s knuckles bulged, as her fingers dug into the gator pouch. Steve and Irma began a weird swirl around the kitchen. A peeper with a video camera and a You Tube account would punch countless hits.
Steve backed Irma against the wall, and like a New York Ranger he remembered from the Garden, he started to pump his elbows like a locomotive. Wham, wham, wham. The elbow jabs began to release Irma’s grip, but not her will. Everything she lived for was being ripped from her. More violence from this dark world.
The blood, adrenalin, and oxygen caused a major pile-up.
She seized and collapsed. Sliding on the Formica. Fetal. She grabbed, and punched Steve’s ankles. Steve stepped out of reach, as he rifled through the purse.
Irma gasped. Steve collected. Dope fiend dropped the purse.
He left his mother, heaving on the kitchen floor, a creature spit from a violent surf.
Steve bused it to Washington Heights. The A train to 125th.
Harlem score. Irma never showed. It came down on Scram. Irma suffered a stroke, and Steve was in Lennox Hill burning off an overdose.
All Tony could muster, was getting the fuck out of this place, and hitting the streets. His family was in crisis. He needed to earn.
Fuck the chrome toilets. Like a B-script, the crime hounds moved in, and wanted to talk about the life. The Hoovers hat the hots for Leo. Tired of the runaround, looking to rinse the geezer once and for all.
"I never heard of him." Scram said. It remained his best line.
The info in the pike was Eddie Bones. He was cranking something really big. A score that would launch everybody, into the black. The last word on the score had Bones looking for a driver. Bones wanted Tony bad, but the job couldn’t wait. If Scram could work the wheel, he was in.
Tony’s lawyer went to work. Irma cleared. Steve survived, sent to rehab. Shyster crunched law. Irma was home, feeling better. Tony stewed in his newfangled cell, waiting for the word.
Funny thing, from his nuevo window, pointed west, he could see the Hackensack factory lights.