'74 & Sunny

by A. J. Benza

  To which my father replied with a snicker. “A bumper sticker isn’t a method of solving problems in life, Larry,” he said. “I got a better sticker, Larry. ‘I’m OK, the author is a shithead.’ ”

  Anyway, my mother, Gino, and I were outside, counting how many yellow jackets were working like crazy inside the grape arbor. We stopped counting at a hundred. But I could see my father through the screen window, talking to my uncle Larry with his hands. Like all Italians I’d been around, his hands filled in the spaces between the words. One shrug could equal a soliloquy. Two palms stuck together, pointing downward and moved up and down could end an opera.

  “You wanna tell me about this ‘mind control’ shit, Larry?” my father said. “I got your kid here talking to me like he’s brainwashed—forget brain damaged—and he’s telling me this fuckin’ bag of pills are going to make him ‘better and better’ or whatever the fuck.”

  Whatever Uncle Larry said on the phone was supposed to pacify my father. But it was now obvious to me that both of Gino’s parents had gone to the ends of the earth to try and make him fit in. To basically try to “cure” him.

  Uncle Larry had Gino on a daily cocktail of prescription drugs, vitamins, and supplements that numbered as many as twenty pills a day to reverse the “brain damage.” Each morning he’d been with us, I’d watched Gino gag and almost puke attempting to swallow some of the larger pills.

  “How do you do it?” I said to him. “Some of those are friggin’ horse pills.”

  “It’s gonna help in the long run,” he said, holding a huge cup of tap water.

  After the phone call between my father and Uncle Larry, a new regimen was prescribed. My father came out with a giant shopping bag filled with Gino’s pills and dropped them on the ground by the back garden.

  “Gino,” he said. “These are the pills your father left for you to take—with specific instructions and all. For some reason he thinks these pills will make you feel better.”

  “I know,” Gino said. “We’ve been doing it this way as long as I can remember.”

  “Well, let me ask you a question, how do you feel now?”

  “I’m a little tired, but I feel fine, Uncle Al.”

  “If you ask me, Gino, this is all a fizzeria.” (Fizzeria was my father’s word for anything that he considered to be bullshit.) “You understand what I’m saying? Everything you need to live on is in that garden or in the bay or in what your aunt Lilly puts on the table for dinner.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” Gino said.

  “I’m not going to argue with you there.”

  “Then what are we going to do with all those pills?” Gino said.

  “What do you want to us to do?” I said.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said. “It’s hard to tell the truth sometimes, Uncle Al and Aunt Lilly.”

  “Gino, we’re your family,” my mother said. “You can tell your family anything.”

  “Well, this family is like that,” he said. “That’s for sure.”

  Gino’s eyes filled with tears for a bit. I didn’t bother asking him why. He would’ve blamed it on allergies again, probably.

  “I guess I’m sick and tired of almost puking every morning taking these pills. And they really don’t make me feel any different.”

  “I figured that,” my father said. “That’s why I got a second opinion with another doctor who feels the same as you.”

  “What doctor?” Gino asked.

  “Another Dr. Benza,” he said.

  “What are the chances of that?”

  “None,” my father said, popping his bubble. “It’s me. I’m in control of your medication now.”

  Gino laughed a little. “What do we do?”

  My father told me to go and fetch the shovel behind the cabana. “Not the flat one,” he said. “Get me the spade. You’re gonna dig a hole.”

  I brought back the spade and watched my father point to a spot in the ground back by the part of our yard that was nearest the canal. “Dig a nice hole two or three feet deep,” he said. I loved gardening work, so I was done in a minute or so.

  “Gino,” my father said. “Lemme see the big bag of bullshit medicine my brother has you taking.”

  Gino handed over the bag a bit sheepishly. “Here, Uncle Al.”

  “Okay,” my father said. “Now then, you’re gonna bury every single pill in this bag and it’s my contention you’ll feel fine from this day forward.”

  Gino tilted the bag and the pills poured out like shrimp from a basket. I pushed the earth over them and the pills disappeared within seconds, like dirt on a dead relative’s casket.

  “You won’t tell my mom or dad, will you, Uncle Al?”

  My father shook his head. “You bet your sweet bippy I won’t.” They kissed on it. And Gino never took a pill the rest of the summer.

  8

  THE BOYS ARE BACK IN TOWN

  It didn’t bother me, but it was obvious that my father had begun to relegate a certain part of his attention, his guard, and his heart toward Gino. Maybe it was something about that pill ceremony, but I think he could feel—well, we all could somewhat feel—that my cousin had different sorts of issues he was dealing with in his head and at his home in Jersey. Sometimes my father would tell Gino to pour him a Scotch and he would take me aside in the kitchen, all alone, and gently but firmly tell me to “keep an eye on your cousin.” Or “this can’t be easy for him . . . being away from home and all.”

  “I know, Dad, I will.”

  “And if you see any of your friends give him any bullshit, you put an end to it right on the spot,” he said. “You know how to take care of things. Otherwise, you bring me in.”

  “What kind of crap, Dad?”

  “You know what I’m saying,” he said, with a gleam in his eye. “If you see any one of these testa di minghia (pricks) saying anything to your cousin about being, you know, different and all . . . you let me know.”

  “Yeah, Dad. I got it.”

  He stood there by the sink, lifted up his shirt, and asked me scratch his back. I did so until my fingertips burned.

  “Listen to me, we all got shit we gotta get through. Some things are visible; some aren’t. I gotta be honest, Gino’s problem is a tough nut to crack for me. But we’re gonna get there. We gotta get there.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, as I raked his back until it slightly bled in spots.

  “Okay, Okay, that’s good. I love you. Kiss your poppa,” he said, lowering his shirt.”

  And how I loved that.

  As far as I can recall, that’s as close as he ever flirted with telling me his feelings on why Gino was staying with us that summer. I don’t think he felt I wasn’t ready to hear it, I just think he didn’t want to call too much attention to the cards Gino was dealt or the cards he was holding in his hand.

  “Hey, Gino,” he shouted. “Where’s my Scotch? That’s my nightcap, not yours.”

  “Coming . . . coming, Uncle Al.”

  “You’re a good kid,” he told him. “But a shitty bartender.”

  • • •

  I faced a lot of pressure getting Gino accepted by my friends, let me tell you. Laughing and playing around with your family was one thing, but mixing him in with the boys on the block was another. Oftentimes cruel and ritualistic. I was constantly peppered with questions about him the first day I brought him out of the house. I felt like I had to make excuses for him before they had even met him. And it was all because there were a bunch of little problems that added up to a big issue. And—gun to my head—the issue was, he just didn’t act the way the other boys did. Plain and simple, while agonizingly difficult to understand.

  He couldn’t throw a spiral. He couldn’t hit a baseball or catch a grounder. He shot off the wrong foot at hoops. He couldn’t dive into the pool. He wasn’t very f
ast, so playing Rumbles or “kill the guy with the ball”—where a ball carrier ran around the field endlessly while every other guy took turns tackling him to the ground—was out of the question for him. Wrestling on the lawn wasn’t an option. And there was absolutely no point in lifting weights in someone’s garage. Chasing girls? He was only ten, and I just didn’t see that as something that got his motor running.

  The smirks and comparisons started slowly. Believe it or not, the fact that he was from Jersey was the first hurdle I faced in getting him mixed in with the bunch of boys I ran with.

  “Jersey?” Richie Tischler said. “That whole state smells like rotten farts.”

  Back then, most of us responded to street whistles or hearing a few friends flat out yell your name in front of your house in the street. That was enough to drop whatever you were doing and start planning the day with twenty or so kids all within the same age range. We played stickball, stoopball, kick the can, leapfrog, softball, kickball, basketball, hard-pitch baseball, or tackle football.We even played flashlight tag at night and used about five of our neighbors’ backyards to hide in, and not one neighbor complained. It all depended on how we felt at that particular point of the day. Majority ruled. Most days, we had so many kids showing up to play whatever sport we chose that we actually had to tell the stragglers who were a bit late to be picked for sides: “Sorry, game’s locked.” This meant you were “locked out” of playing. And people turned around and went home, knowing they had to show up earlier the next day if they wanted to be a part of the fun.

  I carefully unveiled Gino, like a fragile ceramic, with not enough time in the forge. I folded him into games that might suit him best.

  I suggested kickball to a gang of ten friends or so at my door, some riding Sting-Ray bikes, with baseball cards in the spokes that went rat-a-tat-tat—like Bobby DeRusso—who also had a banana seat and extended forks. His parents weren’t rich or anything, but Bobby’s father always made sure he bought the best version of everything, with all the new gadgets. And what really sucked was that Bobby would never let you take his bike for a spin. “Who’s this?” Bobby said, sizing up Gino.

  “This is Gino, my little cousin from Jersey. He’s staying here for a few weeks.”

  “Yeah, huh?”

  “I was thinking we could play a game of kickball across the street in the school yard,” I said.

  “Kickball? I don’t think so,” Bobby said, while popping a wheelie on my driveway. “There’s a bunch of seventh-grade girls playing volleyball over at the Beach Fields. I say we go there and check ’em out. I saw Sue Annino there. And she ain’t wearing a bra.”

  This whipped the other guys into a frenzy. Sue Annino was flat-out gorgeous and so out of reach even though we were the same age. On any other day, I would have crawled there to watch her play. I could have stared at her the whole day. I used to see her face in the moon at night, but nobody believed me. I knew that wasn’t Gino’s bag. I wrapped up the resentment bubbling in me and stuck to kickball. “Nah, I don’t feel like walking a mile to the Beach Fields, man. And Sue wouldn’t give us the time of day. I say we just roll the ball out and go five-on-five kickball.”

  “Suit yourself,” Bobby said. “I’m gonna go see Annino’s nips.” When he raced off on his rear tire doing a wheelie, that left nine of us. So I volunteered Gino as the automatic pitcher. So we’d be playing four-on-four, with Gino pitching for both sides. All he had to do was roll the ball toward home plate and let the boys kick away. Least stressful job on the field.

  I took Gino by the shirt and talked closely as I walked with him. “You ever play this game?”

  “I think so,” he said. “Um, in gym class.”

  “Okay, this is the same thing, only outside. Listen to me,” I said quietly, “just roll the ball to the white T-shirt on the ground. If it’s kicked to you and you catch it, you gotta throw it at the runner and he’s out.”

  “Okay, I can do that,” he nervously said.

  “Trust me,” I said. “No one ever kicks the ball to the pitcher. These guys can kick far. So I’ll be right behind you in centerfield.”

  “Okay,” Gino said. “But if you really wanna go see that girl, Sue or whatever, I could stay home with Aunt Lil and Aunt Mary. . . .”

  “Nah. Another time.”

  Some of the guys took off their shirts to use as bases. I couldn’t get mine off quick enough, that’s why I was the brownest kid in the neighborhood. The whole summer felt like ninety degrees, and I soaked it up. I loved that feeling. No oil, no Coppertone, no nothing. Just sweat.

  “Let’s go. Pitch!” Richie Tischler yelled from behind the makeshift home plate.

  “Cool your jets,” I yelled back. “I’m getting my team together.”

  I covered everything kicked to centerfield and leftfield. Pete D’Ascoli, my next-door neighbor, who was as fast as a cougar, covered the other side of the outfield. David O’Keefe played between first and second base, and his older brother, Danny O’Keefe—who was fourteen—covered anything down the third-base line and whatever was kicked toward shortstop. Pete and I were quick and had great hands. The O’Keefe brothers were solid on the bases. But we all knew we had a lot of ground to cover with Gino pitching. It wasn’t anything anyone said, but it just, sort of, hung in the air, like the heavy Long Island humidity.

  “Jesus . . .” Perry Underhill yelled. “Can we freakin’ start?”

  “Suck my nuts, Pericles,” I said. He was Greek. “All you do is pop it up to third. Every single time.”

  “You wanna bet?”

  “Bet!”

  “Okay. If I hit a homer, you gotta come over here and kiss my ass.”

  “All right,” I said. “How ’bout if you don’t, I get to kiss your hot sister Elenie’s ass?”

  “That’s it,” he huffed. “Giro, roll the ball.”

  “It’s Gino,” my cousin said softly. “But it’s okay . . .”

  “Gino . . . Beano. Whatever the hell it is, just roll it!”

  “Take it easy,” I yelled. Gino turned around and gave me a tense look. And I gave him a nod of encouragement. “Keep it to the left side of the shirt,” I said to him. “We got your back.”

  It took about a dozen pitches before Gino got anywhere near the plate. And the boys on the other team were losing their patience, and before long the dreaded chant started:

  “We want a new pitcher, not just a belly itcher!” And on and on, with each pitch. This was destroying whatever ounce of confidence Gino might have even mustered up.

  I called a time-out. And we all converged around Gino.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked him. “All you gotta do is roll the ball in an area so that these assholes can kick it.”

  “I know,” he muttered. “I was doing pretty good I thought . . .”

  “Nah . . .” Pete said. “You’re nowhere near the plate.”

  “Can we just frickin’ play?” Again Tischler, the smart-ass, piped up, making it harder on Gino’s concentration.

  I tapped Gino on the cheek. “Look at me. Don’t listen to him. Or the Greek,” I said. “Just roll the ball straight to the shirt. Let them kick it. We got you. Right, guys?” And with that my buddies gave an unenthusiastic reply. “Yeah. Right. Just let ’em kick it. Fuck these dicks.”

  We broke the team huddle and went back to our positions.

  With Underhill digging in, about five feet behind the plate, Gino finally rolled a ball that was straight down the middle, but it hit a couple of small dirt mounds, so it had the potential to be a perfect offering for anyone lining up to kick the shit out of it. And Underhill did just that. BOOM! He laid into it, and I hadn’t seen Perry do that in the thousand games we had played since we were each eight years old.

  Perry managed to kick it off a slight bounce, so he had a lot of air underneath it, and it was headed somewhere in between Pete and me. And onc
e those balls bounced once, it was over. It could’ve easily kept rolling another two hundred feet or so. But somehow Pete managed to get his hand on it and, magically, knock it over to me. At this point, Underhill—who wasn’t terribly fast—was nearing second. I managed to grab the ball and—ignoring my cutoff man, Danny—came charging toward the infield with the ball in my right hand and Underhill almost at third.

  A kiss on Elenie’s ass was on the line here. I had to do something spectacular.

  Danny was begging for me to pass him the ball, since Underhill was so close to him, but I charged to the infield with the ball held high above my head, ready to ding him before he reached home. I was several feet from Gino, and Underhill was getting ready to slide in for a home run, when I unleashed a perfect throw that was headed straight for his head a full ten feet before he would’ve scored.

  “Slide! Slide! Slide, you Greek geek,” Tischler screamed.

  My throw was on line perfectly, leading the runner just by a few feet. And with no umpire, the “safe” or “out” call was going to come to a majority vote. With Underhill in full-slide mode and one or two feet from the plate, the big red ball slammed against his head right as he reached home.