The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster

by Craig Daliessio

  So we went home. We hadn’t sold our house on Shunk Street yet. In fact we hadn’t even listed it, and we left all the furniture there and bought new when we moved to Forest. So we just stayed there and it was like we never really left. Anj and I went shopping downtown, took the kids to Wannamaker’s to see the lights, and ate Seven Fishes at her parents’ house. Christmas morning we opened presents at our house and then went to my mom and dad’s for the day, to see my brothers and sister and the kids. It was like every Mezilli Christmas that had come and gone before, except that we’d be leaving to go home when we were done, and home wasn’t the next block over anymore.

  We got back to Forest just before New Year’s. I had a mountain of stuff to tend to. Getting an invisible fence installed for the dogs, Get our heirlooms and antiques shipped down from the house in Philly, and make a good assessment of my hunting camp out in Bedford.

  I drove my boys out there at the end of January and we walked it for hours, looking over broken fencing and figuring out where the power lines ran so we could get electricity to the cabin and barn. We figured we’d need to buy a couple of ATV’s, which of course, made the boys eyes light up.

  Beyond that, it was just another winter. We settled into a routine and got used to where the grocery stores were. I couldn’t find an Italian restaurant that was anything like the ones back home. Not that they weren’t decent, but they weren’t like the one’s in South Philly. But then what is? We can cook all the Italian dishes we want, but we can’t find a real hoagie or cheese steak here. It’s the rolls. You have to use Amorosso’s or it’s just bread. So of course, I got on the phone and arranged to have two dozen Amorroso’s hoagie rolls shipped down here every other week. I pick them up out at the Lynchburg Regional airport.

  But that was it. We got cozy with the guy who hooked up our satellite TV and he installed the Philadelphia Sim-card instead of the one for Roanoke / Lynchburg and we could watch the local channels back home. Watching “Action News” with Jim Gardner on my TV in Forest, Virginia was not how I ever saw my forty-fifth year taking shape. But here we were anyway. To make the transition easier, and since our new neighbors were constantly asking us about all the Philly stereotypes, we decided to have a little fun. One Saturday morning in January, I was out front putting up a huge inflatable Santa Claus. I had the thing packed in the garage and we weren’t going to put it out until next Christmas, but for about two weeks, every time I saw Phil or Hank across the street, and we got into a conversation about my hometown, they brought up that whole stupid, “Throwing Snowballs at Santa Claus” thing. Every time. That or cheese steaks. We were watching the Eagles on Sunday Night Football one evening in my game room. Of course there were nineteen references to cheese steaks before the first commercial break. Lowery and Milledge kept asking me about them and finally I said, “You know where to get the best cheese steak in Philly? Right next door to Independence Hall…where the friggin Declaration of Independence was signed! My hometown is the birthplace of our nation, and you want to ask me about cheese steaks again?”

  Angie got a kick out of that but Phil and Hank didn’t get the joke. So anyway, this one Saturday afternoon, I put this big Santa outside. Phil comes sauntering over and asks me why I’m sticking a Santa outside, two weeks after Christmas. I smiled at him. “We have snow coming in tomorrow, Phil.” And I walked inside, leaving Phil standing there scratching his head.

  The next morning, about five inches of snow had fallen and I kept an eye on Phil’s living room blinds. As soon as I saw them move, and knew he was peepin’ I marched my three sons out front and we took turns throwing snowballs at the huge inflatable Santa Claus in my yard. I figured, since he was always wondering if we did it, we might as well give him a show.

  So, other than that, we made it through our first winter in the mountains of central Virginia without incident.

  Honestly, it was no big deal. Winter, back in Philly, is nearly identical. It arrives a couple of weeks earlier back home, but the temperatures are pretty much the same. The biggest difference was that in Forest, we got snow a little more frequently. Otherwise, it was the same sort of winter I’d grown up with. The biggest difference I’d noticed was that fall was a little longer down here and I liked that. Fall in the mountains is beautiful, with the leaves turning. The mountains seem to explode in colors. I also noticed that spring in Virginia arrives a week or two sooner as well. Back home, spring doesn’t really get in gear until early April. But here in Virginia, it was warmer and more “spring-like” by early March. I sure liked that.

  I had been looking forward to this spring since we moved-in last November. I had this nice big lot, and I was finally going to plant a garden that would rival my Uncle Franny’s. There was no way I could grow anything, the way he can, but I do okay, because he taught me well. And now I could finally have a garden as big as his. I planned the layout of the garden all winter. I had turned the soil under in December. My neighbor across the street, the peeper, he moseyed over one day asking me about a pump sprayer, and stayed for three hours watching me till my plot where the garden was going. I think he was hoping I would stop and talk. But I seldom do that when I get engrossed in a project.

  I have to hand it to the old guy, he wasn’t bashful. After he’d grown weary of watching me work, he said, “What the heck are you doing, tilling your land in December?” “I’m getting my garden ready, Phil.” I said. He almost swallowed his cud of chewing tobacco, and then he coughed and looked at me wild-eyed. “You’re what?” he said. He would have screamed this, I’m sure, except he was choking on green tobacco juice.

  “I’m tilling for my garden. I need to see how deep the soil is and what kind of acidity it has. Otherwise my tomatoes won’t taste right.” I said this to Phil, expecting him to think I was nuts. It worked. “You have to have certain soil to grow a tomato?” He asked, incredulously. “A tomato is a tomato; I hate the durned things anyway.” I looked him dead in the eye, “A tomato is definitely not a tomato.” I thought it would be fun to shoot him the maloik -the “evil eye”- so I did.

  That was December. I’d taken a soil sample down to the local Land Extension office and had it tested. It was mostly clay, which, among other things, meant too much iron. Even if I filled the garden with topsoil, it would still leech the iron up through the soil and ruin my tomatoes. Now, we Italians take tomatoes very seriously. I have grown the same strain of heirlooms for nine years. I save the seeds from the dozen biggest producing plants I have and start them in a hothouse. That way I get the same results each year.

  I called my Uncle Franny at the end of February to ask his advice on what to do with this lousy soil. “Uncle Franny, I got problems. I began. He chuckled, “Well they aren’t money troubles, I know that much. What’s wrong?” I said the unthinkable. “I don’t know if I can grow tomatoes down here.” He laughed, “Well you haven’t sold your house up here yet, so you’re going to have to move back!” I laughed and then asked him, “Seriously, Uncle Fran, this is like trying to plant in Playdoh. What am I going to do? I can drop some topsoil but that won’t change the chemistry of the ground.”

  Uncle Franny was quick with an answer. “You have to make a base that is going to be deep enough to block the effects of that clay.” He said. “Can you get mushroom soil down there?” “I don’t know, Uncle Fran,” I answered, “I kinda doubt it.” Uncle Franny thought for a minute and then said “Call Domanucce and see if his old man knows anyone down there who might have it. Hell if he doesn’t, just pay someone to bring you a truckload. It isn’t like you can’t afford it!” I laughed, but he was right, I had to admit, that was a great idea. “I’ll call him when we hang up. Now what do I do with mushroom soil?” Uncle Franny told me to get a piece of paper and he would “Write me a recipe.” “Go ahead Uncle Fran,” I said, ready to write. “Okay,” he began, “Assuming you get the mushroom soil, you also need about a quarter ton of sand, some compost, and about six bags of lime. I’m assuming you’re going to use a truckload of mush
room soil here, maybe seven cubic yards.” I could hear the happiness in his voice. Uncle Franny had a knack for growing things, like I said. And he really loved it when someone would ask him about his secrets. Especially when it was family doing the asking.

  He continued; “You’re going to need a roll of landscaper’s burlap, ten feet wide, by probably a hundred feet.” He was on a roll now. “Okay, here’s the formula. You take a piece of the burlap about ten feet long; lay it out flat on the ground. Then you fill it with about three wheelbarrow loads of mushroom soil. You add to that a half a wheelbarrow of sand, and half a bag of lime and two five-gallon-buckets of compost. Then you roll it up.” I was writing as fast as I could. “Hang on a second Franny,” I said, “Let me catch up.” I finished writing and read back what I’d written thus far. “Good!” He said, “Now, you take this to your plot. You want to use one of these rolls about every twenty square feet. Dig down just enough to bury it, put some more lime on top to start breaking down the hemp in the burlap, then cover it over with some good topsoil and wet it down. Everything in that roll will decompose, it’s the perfect ratio of fertilizers and bases, and is full of nutrients for the soil. If you do it this year, it will be ready for next year.”

  “Wait!” I said, “You mean I have to wait a year for tomatoes?” Franny chuckled. “Yeah, sorry, but it takes a year for the process to take place. You said you have heavy clay there, right?” “Yes.” I said feeling a bit defeated. “Well then use a little more lime in the mix. It will cancel out the iron in the soil.” He offered. “And don’t worry about tomatoes this year. Build some boxes, and fill them with potting soil, about three feet deep. Plant some Bradleys and some Beefsteaks. Give them plenty of sunlight and you’ll be able to make it through this summer. Don’t waste your good heirloom seeds on bad dirt.”

  Uncle Franny was right. Tomatoes are like a religion in our house. If I was finally going to have the garden of my dreams I was going to have to do it the right way. Besides, we had a July Fourth trip home planned, and I could raid his garden then, and bring back all the homegrowns I wanted. We chatted a few minutes more and then he said he had to go because the pinochle boys were arriving.

  My uncle Franny is a legendary pinochle player in the neighborhood. His group of cronies rivals anything you’ve ever seen in a mafia movie or TV show. If Pinochle was a gang activity, Uncle Franny would have been Don Corleone.

  I said my goodbyes and hung up. Searching through my cell phone, I found Joey Fanucci’s phone number. He picked up on the third ring. “Yo, Joe!” he said. I paused for a minute. I’d forgotten how that sounded after only four months in Virginia, and I realized I really missed it. “Yo Dom-ah-nootch!” I said heartily. “What’s happenin’ back home, Cuz?”

  Two things you need to know about Philly people. We never say “How ya doin?” that’s a New York thing. We greet each other by saying “Yo!” and we call everyone we know “Cuz.” It’s a term of endearment.

  Joey rattled off a list of things that were going on back on the block. Who was leaving, who moved in, who is having another baby, who got divorced. Then he got serious, “Joey, you know Tommy Fallone is getting out in May. You gonna be here for the party?” I’d forgotten that was coming up. I needed to be there for Tommy when he got out, we all did. “Tommy Felonious is finally getting sprung, huh?” I chuckled. “Yeah, of course I’m coming home.” I made a mental note of Tommy’s release date. I was definitely going to be there for my friend.

  But this morning I had a more pressing issue at hand. “Listen, Domanucce, I need you to ask your dad something for me. Ask him if he knows where I can find some mushroom soil down here. I can’t grow tomatoes in this clay. I need about ten yards.” He told me he’d call his dad right away. “Give him a few days to make some calls, Joe. Pop will find something for you, I’m sure.” We talked for a few minutes longer and said our goodbyes.

  I went about the next few days buying the stuff I needed for Uncle Franny’s “burlap burritos” as I was now calling them. I staked out the garden to allow for the best sunlight and drainage. I went to Lynchburg and bought myself a used Ford pickup truck. I didn’t want to use my Tundra, and Angie would have killed me if I used the Escalade, so I bought an old F-150. It was perfect for what I wanted. I also found out that in the South, they have something called a “Co-Op.” I think it’s short for “Farmer’s Cooperative” and you can find almost anything you want there, if growing things in dirt is your passion. They also have “Tractor Supply.” Now, I’d seen Tractor Supply’s TV commercials during football games, from time to time, so I knew they were out there. But they don’t have any in Little Italy, you know what I mean?

  I pretty much figured out the difference on the first visit. TSC is where you go if you think you’re a farmer. Real farmers go to the Co-Op. Nothing against TSC. But it’s not the same. So anyway, I made a few trips to the Co-Op to buy the burlap I needed. The guy asked me if I was a contractor. Apparently a 10x100 roll of burlap is a lot for one man. What the heck do I know? I’m just following orders here. Nobody knew me when I walked in, which apparently is a big deal at the Bedford County Co-op. I walked through the doors and everyone stared. Sheesh, that was something different. In Philly, you know better than stare at anyone. First, it’s rude. Second, you’re very likely to hear, “Somethin’ I can do for you, Cuz?” which is roughly equivalent to “You got a problem we need to discuss?” Besides being that term of endearment, we also use “Cuz” sarcastically sometimes.

  But I remembered I wasn’t on home turf anymore and I just smiled at the girl at the register. Now, I have very good hearing. Always did. And I swear, I heard my name whispered. Hand-to-God! At the Bedford County Co-Op where I’d never set foot in my life before this very moment, I heard some guy in the seed aisle saying my last name.

  We ain’t in South Philly anymore, Toto. I thought.

  I asked for the burlap and looked through the seed catalogs. I was standing there looking at dog houses when a guy came up to me, smiling. “Mr. Mezilli?” he said sheepishly. “Yo!” I said, turning to look at him. He stopped in his tracks. Honest to God I thought for just a second that he was afraid of me. I couldn’t figure that out. Look, I’m six-foot-four, and I’m a big guy. But I’m not scary. At least I don’t think so. I stuck out my hand. “I’m Joe Mezilli. Just call me Joey. And you are...?” The guy stared at my hand for a second. Like he was studying it. He got back on track and shook my hand carefully. “I’m Tim. Tim Peppers. I, uh, I run a landscaping business over by your side of town. I used to take care of the yard for the previous owner. And I was wondering...”

  I smiled, “Tim, believe it or not, for a city boy, I like yard work. I’ll be doing most of that stuff myself. But we do travel sometimes, and I could use a cut now and then when we’re gone.” He seemed a bit saddened by the fact that I cut my own grass. I thought I’d throw him a bone. “Hey,” I offered, “Do you do irrigation and drainage work?” Tim Peppers lit up. “Oh yessir! I do a real good job to. I could show you some of my work. Why I did the job at the Powell’s house. That’s two streets from your house. And I designed the...” Now, I have a knack for spotting people who will ramble. I sized Tim Peppers up as a rambler right away. “That’s fine Tim,” I said, cutting him off before this became a dissertation, “Listen, I am laying out my garden and I will need some irrigation. Can you come by this week and take a look?” Peppers was ecstatic. “Why yessir! How is Monday evening? Around six?” “I smiled, “That’d be fine, Tim. And please call me Joe. Or Joey. Okay?” “Yessir.” He answered dutifully.

  Man, this was going to take some getting used to.

  8

  Farmer.

  Joe.

  I loaded the roll of burlap onto the back of my Ford and set off for the nearest Lowe’s store. I still needed about a dozen bags of lime, and some compost, and I also needed a roto-tiller and some lawn tools, since Uncle Franny and I had always shared his tiller back home, and now I was without one. I had decided to just le
ave my garden tools in my garage when we left. It wasn’t worth trifling the movers with.

  I drove to the Lowe’s and along the way I pulled Tim Pepper’s business card from my wallet. I realized that I was going to need a pretty big load of topsoil for the garden, because the soil was so thin and even after I made Uncle Franny’s dirt roll-ups, I didn’t have enough soil to bury them. I thought maybe ol’ Tim could find me some good topsoil and truck it in for me. I called his cell number on the drive over to Lowe’s.

  Apparently Tim is another guy –like my dad- who can’t really work a cell phone correctly. Whereas the Old Man can never quite end the call when he thinks he has, and you hear another five seconds or so before the line disconnects, Tim Peppers is apparently afflicted with the same malady, only in reverse. I don’t think Tim realizes that he has already answered the phone when he has, because he picked up after two rings. Over the noise of his truck, and the Country station he was listening to, I heard him say: “Pennsylvania? I don’t know nobody from Pennsylvania!” Then I heard another voice say “Well are ya goin’ to answer it?”

  Apparently Tim decided to take my call because I heard him say “hello” just before the line went dead. He had hung up on me. Since he’d already answered the call, the second time he hit the button –which he thought was the first time- actually ended it. I looked at my watch to see what time it was...and how long it would take for him to decide whether to call me back or not.

  Nine minutes later, my phone rang. It was Tim Peppers. “Hello?” he said, “I got a call from this number a minute ago.” “A minute?” I thought, “I hope this guy doesn’t charge by the hour if that’s what his minute is.” “Tim, this is Joe Mezilli.” I said, “We met this morning at the Co-Op.” I thought he was going to wreck his truck, he was that excited. “Oh yessir, Mr. Mezilli! Yessir. How have you been?” “How have I been? It’s been 20 minutes, did I look really sick this morning or something?” “I’m fine Tim, listen, I was wondering, can you get good topsoil around here anywhere?” “Oh Yes sir!” He replied, “Yessir I know a few places with good topsoil. Are you needing some?” “No, I just thought I’d ask.” I said, Expecting Tim to get the joke. I drastically overestimated the sense of humor here, because Peppers said, “Well we sure do, Mr. Mezilli. You take care now.” And then he hung up. For a moment, I seriously considered whether I wanted this guy driving his Bobcat in my yard, but he seemed nice enough so I called him back. “Tim,” I said, mystified, “I asked you that question because I need some dirt.” Peppers perked up. “Oh, you want me to tell you where to get it?” Wow. Mensa. “Yes. Tim, I need about ten yards. I need it to be really rich and dark.” I answered. “Oh and I want it screened, not just plowed up and scooped onto the truck.”