Work Text:
"Raimondo, what time is it?!"
"Uh, it's, uh, six-thirty, Ma," Ray replied after a quick peek into the hall to check the clock.
"Madre di Dios, where's your father? I've had this roast on the stove since lunchtime! I won't see it ruined! As if I could just smother it in roasted garlic and herb...."
At this, Ray tuned out his mother's ranting and raving - he was fairly certain culinary skill wasn't a skill he'd ever need to master. Other skills, however....
He set aside the handful of baseball cards he'd been shuffling and trotted out to the hall to grab his coat and shoes. If Pop wasn't home by now, there was only one place he could be. Well, two places, maybe. But Ray knew his haunts, and only one was liable to be keeping him out past dinnertime - the same place that almost always occupied him this late.
Ma finished her yelling and hollering with something about too much steam turning the roast into grey mud. That Ray didn't need to hear: it all but ruined his appetite. "I'll go get him, Ma," he volunteered. "He's probably down at Fanelli's anyways."
"Make sure you tell him if he's not home by ten, he can forget about New Year's Eve in New York!" Ma hollered.
"By ten?" Ray repeated, his face twisting in confusion. Didn't that give him another three and a half hours at least?
"ONE....TWO....THREE...." Ma's voice rattled the wine glasses in the cupboard. Oh. THAT kind of ten.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Ray muttered under his breath. He pulled on an Elmer Fudd-like hat and folded down the earflaps, heading for the front door, smiling to himself. His smile almost froze solid when the brisk December air hit his face. Rubbing his nose, he dropped down to the front walk and quickened his pace north along Octavia.
What was so special about going to New York for New Year's Eve anyway? So something big and flashy and showy was planned in Times Square, big deal. Did they really expect to keep the kids out that late? Frannie was only two, Maria five. Even Paulie, barely eight, would be making a fuss after about nine o'clock at night. Ray, a few months past eleven, couldn't quite make it to midnight himself, but Pop and friends made enough noise every New Year's to keep him up wondering what all the shouting was about. Pop had been looking forward to going to New York for some months now, and Ray chortled to himself as he pictured the fit Pop would throw if he was denied the journey just for being late to dinner.
But at least Pop had something to look forward to, and if a guy like Pop had something to look forward to, didn't everyone? Ray still had his whole life ahead of him, and he already knew he wasn't going to go through it the same way Pop did. He'd become a professional basketball player maybe, or the captain of a lake boat. Possibly even a cop? Oh, boy, that would piss Pop off. Ray couldn't help grinning at the thought. If Pop thought he was useless now....Maybe if he was really lucky, he'd marry a gorgeous Italian woman who'd be just as good a cook as Ma. He'd made up his mind long ago: he'd become someone that people would look up to, not someone who'd drink like a fish and make everyone else's lives miserable just for the fun of it.
Ray looked up from the shoddily shovelled sidewalk to see how far he was from Fanelli's. If he had any one thing to look forward to day after day, this was it - watching his old man beat everyone else's asses bloody with his pool cue. Well, better that than his "handball hand."
All of a sudden the ebbing orange sunlight flashed its reflection off something in the street. Blinking hard, Ray glanced obliquely toward the source....and he came to a dead halt in his tracks.
He knew Iggy DiVincenzo had just traded his old car in - a '67 GTO that didn't even have that many miles on it. It made no sense to Ray: the GTO was a sweet-looking car with its black finish and its stacked round headlights. And best of all, it was fast. Why would Iggy get rid of it already? He'd only had it for four years: for all he knew, it might still be running twenty-five years from now.
And now Ray saw why.
Iggy was turning into his driveway in a magnificent work of automotive art. Ray couldn't even identify the maker, nor could he read the stylishly scripted model name on the car's side or its tailgate. A Cadillac, maybe? A Chrysler? But whatever the make, the car was a vision. Burnished in leaf green, it had the most stunning lines Ray had ever seen. Streamlined and chrome-trimmed, with its rear end tapering off into what looked like the tail of a boat. There wasn't a spot on the car: Iggy must have bought it brand new. Not even any of the mud or road salt covering the streets had yet tarnished its sides.
The angular rear end of the car held Ray's attention for uncounted minutes after Iggy shut off the engine and climbed out. Ray frowned, disappointed at the sudden silencing of the engine's low, throaty rumble - almost as if the car had its own voice, deep and calming and soothing. Trudging along his snow-covered front walk, Iggy glanced toward the street and smiled and waved as he saw Ray staring at him. Absently, Ray waved back, but he wasn't staring at Iggy at all. That car....he couldn't tear himself away from that beauteous car.
The sound of that engine still resonated with Ray for minutes after Iggy had shut it off. The car had a distinctly long hood - it must have a huge engine. Huge and powerful. A V-8, probably. What must it feel like to sit behind the wheel and have that much power right under your foot? To feel the entire car vibrate under your butt as the engine rumbled in front of you? And what a lovely, murmuring sound it made. Deep, murmuring, comforting. It reminded him of Uncle Angelo's voice, telling him that his old man was just blowing wind whenever he had a fit and started throwing things around. Hey - maybe someday a car like that would whisk him away to Florida at a hundred and twenty miles an hour. Him and Ma and his younger siblings. They could start a new life, never have to put up with Pop's drunken rages ever again....because whatever Uncle Angelo said, it sure didn't feel like Pop was just blowing wind.
Geez, what must the engine sound like at a buck twenty? Ray closed his eyes and pictured himself in the confessional at Holy Rosary, telling Father D'Anusio how he coveted something that belonged to his neighbour. It was the only thing that tore him away from drinking in the car's lines and sent him trudging on toward Fanelli's.
Maybe it was a Chevy, he thought to himself after he'd turned away. That was what it looked most like to him. Its rear end was reminiscent of a '66 Corvette, between the boat-like tail design and the twin tailpipes. Yet the car was almost twice the size of a Corvette. Maybe it was big enough for an entire family - even the entire Vecchio family if the seats were wide enough. Okay, so he and Paulie and Maria might have to crowd into the back seat, jostle each other with their elbows, yell and holler and berate each other, and get yelled at by Ma, but if they all got to ride in that car....perhaps they could all drive off someplace far away and turn over a new leaf.
Before he knew it, Ray stood across the street from Fanelli's. He hurried across, half hoping he'd see Iggy coming back out with the beautiful green car and rumbling on uptown. He slipped into the saloon and hesitated, rubbing his nose again before he realised that all the gunk inside it protected him from the stench of cigarette smoke.
"Hiya, little Ray." Marty, the bartender, looked up from the glass he was drying. "Not all that quick to take after the old man, are you?"
"Is he here? Ma wants him home by ten...." To emphasise, Ray ticked off the fingers of his left hand.
Marty pointed toward the pool hall at the rear of the saloon. Ray smiled and trotted off.
"Hey, Ray, think fast!" Marty called out. Glancing up, Ray lifted his hands just barely in time to catch the small bag of peanuts Marty tossed at him.
"Gee, thanks!" Ray grinned. He resumed his brisk trot to the pool hall, wondering if Marty had any kids and what kind of dad he was.
He crept into the pool hall unnoticed - Pop and his friends were all crowded around one of the pool tables at the far end of the building. Ray sidewound from the doorway to a corner between the far wall and the jukebox, which was playing The Grateful Dead's new cover of "Johnny B. Goode." He peeked around it just in time to see Pop take aim with his pool cue.
WHACK!
The balls burst apart as if someone had planted a small explosive charge in their midst. At once the 10-ball fell to the right side of the table whilst the fourball rolled all the way to the far left corner. Grinning, Pop muttered something Ray couldn't make out and made his way around to the right. He took aim again and took out two balls lying right next to each other, one going into the far left corner and one dropping off to the left side of the table. Eddie, Phil, and Matteo all muttered with admiration and envy. Ray smiled - this was always a spectacle, one of the few shows his father put on that he really enjoyed. Boy, can he play pool.
Pop moved to the far end of the table, leant halfway over it and stared down the cueball as if it owed him something. Whatever it owed him, it paid dearly - he rammed it all the way to the opposite end, where it bounced off the side of the table, rolled back the way it had come, and cracked against the eightball. Pop cursed audibly: he hadn't meant to drop the eightball yet, but it rolled harmlessly to the side and narrowly missed falling into a well. Thumping his cue on the floor, Pop moved aside and allowed Eddie Farenza to move in on the stripes.
Other than laughter and curse words, Ray couldn't make out much of the conversation. Eddie didn't last long, however. He dropped only two of the stripes before the cueball went awry and rolled off into a well. He cursed rather more colourfully than the others as Pop, snickering, moved to the corner of the table and plucked the cueball out. This time he took careful aim and sent the cueball crashing into one of the stripes, which in turn blasted one of the spot balls clear into a right corner well. With a triumphant laugh, Pop bent over the table and turned his glare on the eightball. The cueball was in a most inopportune spot for a direct hit, but this time Pop wanted that eightball and he was going to get it. Ray held his breath as he watched his father take aim.
The cueball ricocheted off the far side of the table and hit a stripe with enough force to prod it into the eightball, which this time neatly rolled into the well on the near side. Pumping his fist, Pop laughed again, justifiably pleased with himself as he accepted the plaudits of his friends - even Eddie and Matteo, his partner. Ray couldn't help grinning: at least his father was good at something, even if it wasn't necessarily something to be proud of.
As money changed hands - probably the only money his father made by even remotely legitimate means - Ray turned his attention to the jukebox. His favourite verse was just about to start.
His mama told him, "Someday you will be a man"/ You will be the leader of a big old band/ Many people comin' from miles around/ To hear you play your music when the sun goes down/ Maybe someday your name will be in lights/ Sayin' "Johnny B. Goode Tonight"/ Go, go, go, Johnny, go, go....
The song went into its coda, and Ray leaned back against the wall, staring out toward the front of the saloon. His thoughts drifted back to Iggy's new car. A thing of beauty even more eye-catching than the patina of any of these pool tables. Maybe Pop would be interested to see it? Maybe even ask Iggy if he could borrow it some time? Nah, Iggy would never go for it, not with a car that new and shiny and marvelous, knowing Pop's driving habits.
All of a sudden the song ended and Phil Mouza approached the jukebox. Ray tried to shrink back into the corner to avoid being seen, but caught off guard, he was much too late.
"Hey, Carmine, look what I found!" Phil called over his shoulder, gesturing. Ray gulped, but he stood his ground.
Setting his jaw, Pop braced one hand on his hip and leaned on his pool cue with the other as if it was a staff. "Well, where the hell did you come from, kid?" he demanded.
"Home," Ray replied.
"Your homework done yet?"
"It's Sunday, Pop. And Ma says get home by ten" - Ray wiggled his fingers in the air to hint at the measurement - "or we're not going to New York for New Year's."
"Oh, she said that, did she?" Pop snorted. "Who the hell does she think she is?"
"She's the cook," Ray said, not speaking the 'who the hell do you think she is' that ran through his mind. "And she's makin' a pot roast."
At this, Pop seemed to quaver, but he wasn't about to drop his guard in the presence of his buddies. Hefting his cue, he dropped it on the table, parallel to the side. "Guess I oughta get somethin' in my gut before we go back to it," he said gruffly, throwing up his hands. "Don't go poolin' without me, you guys, I'll be back later. C'mon, Raimondo."
Without another word, Ray followed him out to the street. As they hastened across, he ran up alongside him. "Hey, Pop, Iggy DiVincenzo just got a new car," he announced, grinning. "You should see it. It's a real piece of work!"
"Yeah, well, what's the matter with our car?" Pop snapped. "Ain't it good enough for ya?"
"Well, yeah, sure...." Ray hesitated. "But wait'll you see this one. Maybe when it comes time to get a new one - "
"Look, I already got your mother givin' me the business about when I gotta be home by. I don't need you bangin' your jaws together about what kinda car I should be drivin'!"
"I don't even know what kinda car it is," Ray protested.
"Well, for all you know, it costs five thousand clams we don't have. And how many times do I gotta tell you I'll never drive a car that don't have a bow tie on the hood. Cool your jets and let's get home and eat. I got a pool game to get back to."
In only a couple of minutes they trudged past Iggy's house: the beautiful green car loomed even larger in the lengthening shadows. Ray grinned and tapped Pop's arm. "Hey, look, Pop! There it is!"
Pop took only one cursory glance at the car and scoffed. "Told ya it was an overpriced piece of junk," he grunted, waving his hand at the car in dismissal.
"Oh, c'mon, it's a beauty! When I'm old enough to drive - "
"When you're old enough to drive, you can go get a job as a taxi driver and make some money of your own. But you'll never even get me in the back seat of that thing, so forget it."
"Well, how do you know it's overpriced?"
"It's a Buick Riviera, that's how," Pop snapped. "You gotta be a movie star to afford one of those damn things, all right? Ya happy now? Get on back to the house and quit bothering me with this crap."
Ray tuned out the verbal backhand and dared to pause in his father's footsteps and turn back. He took one last ocular drink of the car, inhaled the crisp air, and blew out a long cloud of breath vapour. So the car had a beautiful body, it had a strong and reassuring voice....and now it had a name. A Buick Riviera. A cool name for a hot car.
Ray smiled. In only a few years, he'd be old enough to get his driver's licence. And no matter how many years it took him, he'd have that Buick Riviera's steering wheel in his hands someday, come hell or high water. With that car, he'd turn over a new leaf.
Now he had something to look forward to.
FIN
