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The Streets Of My Father Started by: TommyAngelo on Jul 29, '15 04:57
It had been awhile since I had walked the streets my father once strolled. Seemed like an eternity. I was just a boy the last time my feet felt the pressure rise up the soles of my shoe. A lot of memories in this cracked concrete. I wasn't here to stroll down memory lane. My father was gone and so were the bustling businesses we once walked to. I was a man now, far from the wide eyed child I was back then. Ignorant to the truth and willing to hang on the every word from a man I would later grow to despise. Wise Guys used to roughly scrub their hands through my hair when we'd enter the old social club. "Hey Tommy boy!" They would say with their thick old world accents. My father would give me a nickel and send me next door to the grocery for a bottle of milk. I'd always come back with some Goomba rat faced guy taking me to the bar where they'd serve me milk from a shot glass. As a kid it made me feel special, I was like a grown up in thought. In reality, reality was, I was just a dumb kid who's pop would pawn him off in some wannabe guy they kept around while he talked business with his guys. See, my father in a place filled with crooks was a somebody. He was part of something, a made guy. Not only was he a made guy but he was a Capo for one of the largest crime families in Chicago during that time. Of course as a kid, he was my pops, these were his buddies and me, I was the little boy who thought I had the greatest dad in the world.

My father had pulled me out of school in the 4th grade, a year before I spent my afternoons walking to and from his "aquiantences" places of business during the day. He said to my mom one day after I came home and couldn't tell him what I had learned that day "The boy doesn't need school, he's going to be like his old man. He's going to be somebody." That of course ended the way most conversations between my mother and father did. Loud, angry cursing in Italian mixed with a few sprinkles of English here and there. That's how you knew they were really mad. As always, the old man got his way. They pulled me out of school and I started staying home, doing chores for my mother, learning responsibility my father would say when he'd come home. You have to understand the time back in 1920. It was a lot different than the violence filled streets we know today. There wasn't tommy gun fire littering the streets. Sure, people like my father still made a dishonest living but they knew their places. Everyone had their own hustle, their own territory. It was before prohibition turned Chicago into a battlefield. Don't get me wrong, prohibition existed and it was obviously profitable, but nothing like what it would be. I say that to say this. My mother trusted me, I worked hard at home in hopes of spending my afternoons playing stickball down in the street till dinner. My mother probably trusted me a little too much sometimes. She'd send me on errands that come up. Go down to Sal's and get a pound of this a pound of that. You know, simple stuff. Kid me must have been more like my father then I'd like to admit. I couldn't stand authority. I don't know if it was from seeing my old man slap my mother around for back talking him or from getting in trouble at school because I didn't care to do the work. Homework? You have to be kidding me! I'm stuck here all day, you get enough of my time! Anyways,  with this freedom and my insatiable urge to defy authority I begin going and breaking windows before getting a pound of this, gambling my mother's meat money on marbles in the alley when I was supposed to get a pound of that. You know, typical punk kid wandering the street kind of stuff. I went to the well a few too many times though. A young boy doesn't think about who's watching you, what his surroundings are, let alone who's in them. So one day me and some kids from a few blocks down were throwing rocks at a guys house who yelled at us a few times for hitting our ball close to his lawn, when a boy in blue came around the corner. Busted. The only thing was when he found out who my parents were, excuse me, when he asked me and I told him who my father was, he was a much nicer guy. He sent my friends along their way, just let them go! But he insisted on walking me home. I knew what was coming. My old man had layed into me before, the time I broke my mother's favorite lamp and made her cry. I could only imagine what I'd get for this. A little of THIS, a little of THAT. That's not what happened though, my old man wasn't home yet, I've never been so relieved to take an ear pulling and back hand from my mother in my life! But despite the pain and ringing in my ear I heard the officer say something that stayed with me for a long time. Perhaps what gave me the hero worship I had for my father. "I'm so sorry Mrs. Angelo, tell Vito I walked the boy home, kept him safe. I hope he will forgive me and understand. I had to stop it. Forgive me". As he slowly backed his way down our front step. My mother yelled some Italian obscenities at him that even I didn't understand and slammed the door. I had to sit in my room until my father returned. Worse yet, I didn't pick up dinner. I often sometimes wonder, when I think about that say if she was more mad that I was throwing rocks at a man's house or that she had to make a trip to the store to pick up dinner. Either way, that one event changed how I spent my day for the next five years. My father blamed my mother and my mother blamed me. Neither were wrong. That's what started my daily escapades with my father. He wanted to look after me, said chores was turning me into a woman and a hoodlum. Funny to think of that now, wasn't that exactly what my father was? Hard to tell by the business suits he wore around town like he was something and I guess in some respects, some walks of life he was. When you're a kid though, innocent, you don't think like that about your dad. In my mind he owned businesses, that's why the suit. Why we visited so many places and people treated him as if he was royalty. I can't tell you how many times we walked in to a place and I was handed things to take home, free of charge. In my mind of course my father rightfully owned it,  to me he owned the place. I guess in his own way he kind of did.

That hero worship didn't last many more years though. By the time I was 13, the whole age of innocence thing had kind of wore off. I could figure things out, I knew who my father was. Especially since I could read the papers. He had stopped taking me with him on his routes as he called them once I had turned 12. Guess the old man knew I'd figure things out and if I hadn't by then, when I was 13, it really hit the fan. 1923, a year I'll never forget. My father, the big Capo, the man I once admired, arrested. The authorities, not the local pigs on the Dons payroll but the ones taking orders from Washington were looking to clean house. Guess the tax man was a little angry he wasn't getting his cut on all the money being made. There it was, plastered all over the papers. My mother was a wreck, we were cut off, no money coming in. The thing about this secret society, this quote unquote brotherhood is that when someone goes down you're cut off, Fuggetaboudit. It's a wonder we didn't lose the house or that we ate. I had to take a job at the grocery just to put bread on the table, sometimes, literally, bread.

Old man served two years upstate on racketeering charges. Not too bad for a federal offense. At least in this situation. Rumour has always been the old man sold out some warehouses full of bootlegged liquor. Mostly belonging to rival gangs, no big deal. It was the ones belonging to his Boss that landed him in hot water. That's what I heard anyways. I never git a chance to have that conversation with the old man and at fifteen I probably woule have been smacked around some for even trying. The whole neighborhood talked about it, the other kids on my block used to chase me when I ran errands for my mother. Even before the old man got out everyone was talking. You don't do a crime like that and get out that soon without having sang like a mockingbird. The suspicion alone in this line of business is enough to get you wacked. My father knew. He knew he'd made the wrong move. Better to spend your time rotting in a cell than turn your back on your brothers and face certain death. That's exactly what happened too, I can still remember it like it was yesterday.

My father had become a recluse since he got out, the old man wouldn't have went outside if the house was on fire. For three months he'd sit there. I'll never forget it. He'd sit there in his chair, it faced the window in the parlor. He'd have his gun under his leg, his hand not too far from reach. He used to have me read him the papers when I was home. Of course, that's when I was home. Feeding two people had been hard enough working in the neighborhood grocery but three? Well, let's say out of respect for my mother there's many times I went without. Made up stories about how the old man, Salvatore, had given me food to eat at work. It wasn't true though, the old man was greedy, a pig. Five months had past since he had been home. Five months of eating when I could, of watching my mother cry as she tried to be a wife to the shell of a man that had once been my proud father. Five months of watching the man whom used to dress in suits to go anywhere, it didn't matter where. Give months of him letting his once slicked jet black hair grow into grow into a mess, his health begin to wither as his body did. Five months of him sitting in front of that window waiting, waiting for something that never seemed to come. And then it did.

It was a Tuesday in April. April 21 1925 to be exact. How could I ever forget? The morning started off as many others. I woke up early, 4 A.M. to be exact. I always did when I had to be at the grocery. My mother would be sewing, she sewed a lot since my father had been home. In the chair? In the parlor? There would sit my father. Before the sun was even up, there he was. Sitting, watching, waiting. I kissed my mother on the cheek as I would normally in the morning and went into our bathroom to ready myself for the days work ahead. "Tommy, Tommy." My father spoke. It was rare to get much out of him anymore aside from angry outbursts. "Yes father?" It doesn't matter how worthless you think your dad is, you treat him with respect. "Do you have time to bring me a paper before you leave?" He spoke softly to me. His health wasn't the best, the man barely ate and his idea of a physical activity at this point was standing up. "Not this morning, I have to help old man Salvatore slice meat before we open." It's true, every Tuesday, up and going because the old man needed time to weigh the meat and price it before the customers started in at five. He was funny like that, didn't want to leave any room to be haggled in price for the presliced stuff. "I can bring you one home later though when the shop closes." The old man nodded his head and waved me on with his hand. Probably the most back and forth I had got from since he'd been home. It was the last thing he'd say to me.

I left work that day around 3 P.M. and headed down the street towards my block. I had grabbed some sausages for macaroni that night, my mother's favorite to prepare. It had taken me a two weeks to earn enough to piece together the meal. As I turned the corner of my block on 128th my heart sank. A crowd had gathered outside my home, my ears went deaf yet I could hear the familiar screams, they were my mothers. I don't remember how long I stood there or even if I was standing at all. It felt like an eternity while my heart pounded through my throat. The neighbors were standing all around, their hands over their mouths. My mother was embraced in the arms of an older Sicilian Grandma figure who had lived next door. Her son was a lawyer and had moved his mother from the slums when he had made enough. Good guy, despite being Sicilian. Taking care of his mother after making it, respectful. She held onto my mother as she screamed and contorted her body into what seemed unnatural ways. I reached the walk in front of my house, through the crowd of curious and somewhat disrespectful neighbors gathered around. A few local boys in blue, some I recognized from my days of walking my dad's routes with him. They were sort of just there trying to deter the crowd from getting closer. I must have blacked out, though I remember moving the next time I remember seeing anything was my father covered in a bed sheet from my parents house. Blood soaking through. I was on my knees screaming when my senses came back. Two officers had a hand a piece on my shoulder. Pulling me from behind, their voices muffled by my screams. I still to this day don't know what they were saying. My father, the man I once adored, the man I now barely knew and resented lay dead on the ground before me. Days later, when my mother spoke for the first time since my fathers murder, she told me what she remembered from the day. That afternoon, before I returned home, my father and mother had been home much the same as I had left them earlier that day. My father had went to the bathroom for a bath at my mother's encouragement. He didn't leave the parlor often or his view of the window. It turned out to be what would lead to his demise. Two men, dressed as police had knocked on the door. Given my fathers past, his recent release and the business he had participated in my mother thought nothing of answering the door. In fact she would later tell me she had worried if something had happened to me. The men had demanded to know where my father was once my mother opened the door. "I knew when I saw their faces" she'd repeat again and again. They shoved my mother aside when my father exited the bathroom. "He didn't have his gun" my mother said when I questioned. He was a sitting duck. No where to go, no where to hide. They beat him and stomped him. They drug him outside as people stopped their lives to see. My mother screaming from the open door. They executed him on the lawn. It was the middle of the day, in his bathrobe. They shot the man in his bathrobe. When I was younger I would go over and over in my head. "Why wait so long, why then, why there?". As an adult and with time under my hat I can say now with confidence. In this thing they call cosa nostra, the mafia, whatever you want to label it. It doesn't matter if it's the same day, the next week or even months down the road. If they want you dead, you're dead. If they give the word, you can count your blessings. His time was then, on that day. It marked the end of my time in Chicago, until now.

We went to stay with my mother's brother, my uncle and his wife, my aunt in Peoria after my fathers funeral. My uncle was an honest man and hadn't cared much for the hustle and bustle of the big city. My mother, being in the state she was in and myself, not being in any shape to take care of myself moved into their quaint apartment. It was a lot different than what I grew up in. I hadn't lived in an apartment since I was 4. My father had moved us out after we called a promotion as I recall from my youth. Guess that was when he got his Cap. Peoria wasn't exactly crawling with opportunities for an young Italian kid. It seemed in all actuality there wasn't much opportunity for an Italian at all. My uncle had a low paying back breaking job for a construction company that paid more based on ethnicity than work you put in. My mother was in no state to work, she'd sit in a chair beside the window day after day rocking back and forth. The woman barely spoke since my father had died aside from the screams in her sleep. That is, when she slept. I understood, I had nightmares for months and I didn't watch it happen. My uncle and aunt had four children, all under  the age of 7. They barely put food on the table so it was off to the work site for me. I wasn't use to this kind of labor, I wasn't necessarily born with a silver spoon in my mouth but never had I broke my back for such treatment.

By the time I was 18 I had grown tired of busting my balls for minimum gain. Watching my mother fall apart day after day, playing man of the house for the last few years and struggling in Peoria had taken its toll on me. I'd seen too much already, I'd lost and struggled for the last time. Peoria may have not had the glitz and glam of the big city but it had its own game much the same. Booze came in and went out, palms were greased and shops were shook down. It wasn't long before I was pulled into easy money, I guess after all I really was my fathers son. I met Anthony Puglia working on the construction site. He was around my age, Italian and tired of everything for nothing work himself. His cousin was a small time hood, ran whiskey from Chicago to Peoria as a wheel man. Anthony was being cut in on a deal to be the heavy on the ride. He confided in me later how nervous he was because he had never touched a gun before. Nevertheless, he put in a good word and got me in as another body to help make sure the shipment arrived safely. Admittedly I had despised my father for the life he had led. I wanted to be everything but like my father. I found that even though I tried, the money wasn't coming any faster working construction and I was tired of skipping meals. After a few trips from Peoria to Chicago and the return back, I quit the construction site. I was a full time Gangster now, at least in my eyes.

It's funny, the hierarchy in this thing they call Mafia. Here I was, now 19 years old. Making 200 dollars a job, almost 4 times the amount I made in a month working construction. I was able to put food on the table. Not just for others anymore but also for me. I thought I had made it, I was a big shot in my mind. Walking in carrying bags instead of a loaf. My mother took a turn for the worse that year. She past quickly and much like she had spent her last year, in the chair. Staring at the window as if she was expecting my father to come marching up the walk any time to say it had all just been a dream. But it wasn't and now she was gone too.

I loved my mother more than I could explain. Even now I often recall her embrace and the sound of her singing as she prepared meals. Despite my feelings I couldn't handle watching another of my parents buried in the cold earth. I left Peoria the day after my mother past and headed back to Chicago. Antonio and I had our sights set on easy money and being more than just two heavies protecting a whiskey truck. So we left, hoping to find work, a place to sleep and a new start. Antonio and I started beating the pavement looking for work to get noticed. We shook down people walking the streets, broke into houses, whatever we had to do to get our hands on a quick buck. In a city full of sinners, we apparently weren't sinning enough for someone to take notice of our, talents?

The month of my 20th birthday, 7 months ago to be exact. Antonio and I had just got done selling some goods we, found, when I ran across a familiar face. "Little Tommy, little Tommy Angelo, that you"? The voice was familiar but strained. I turned around to find a round little man in a suit, his face seemed familiar but his name I couldn't remember. "Yes, that's..that's me." I replied. I wasn't sure if I should admit to who I was, after all my father, well, my father obviously left a bad taste in someone's mouth once before. "Oh, Tommy boy! Little Tommy! Long time no see kid! How you been? How's your mother?" The man said as he embraced me. I wasn't dead yet, he didn't put a knife in my gut when he pulled me in and asked about my mother. "My mother past away earlier this year and I'm well. I'm sorry, do I know you?" I responded in hopes of uncovering the fate of this interaction. "My condolences Tommy boy, I had no idea. Your mother was a good woman. Me? You don't remember me? Uncle Tony! I use to work for your pops, God rest his soul." I didn't know what to say. A man who worked for my father, obviously couldn't have been oblivious to why he was murdered in front of my quote unquote good woman of a mother and he was  asking for God to rest his soul? "My apologies, it's been many years. Things are a little hazy and I've been through so much, I should really be going now. Nice seeing you." I honestly wanted to find a nice way to run away until he took hold of my arm. "Listen Tommy boy, what happened to your pops, it was unfortunate. I'm not going to pretend like you're dumb or treat you like a kid. Your father did something he shouldn't have and he knew the risk and the price. No hard feelings though, you understand? The sins of the father die with the father, capische?" I didn't know how to reply. I just stood there nodding my head. What do you say in a time like this? On this subject? To a guy who could have been one of the men to put a bullet in your father as far as you know. "Listen, Tommy boy, I run this warehouse. I know why guys come here with their hands full and leave with their pockets lined. I'm not here to cause you any problems but I'm here to say, as and favor to your old man, despite what transpired, if you're looking for work I may know a guy who knows a guy. If you know what I mean?" Antonio spoke over my shoulder, he's always been more eager and outspoken than me. "Yeah, we're looking for work, right Tommy?" He nudged me as he spoke. "Yeah, yes of course. We've done a few things, nothing major but we're wanting to make some money. Nothing is too big or too small." I spoke as if we had done more than pack guns on a truck packed with whiskey or stolen household items from middle class homes. "Ah, Tommy boy! I'll be glad to help. Get you started in this thing of ours like your old man did for me! Stop by the warehouse tomorrow and we'll see what we've got for you and your friend." He hugged me when he finished and smiled. "We'll be here, bright and early, thanks a lot, thanks lot!" Antonio spoke again as we left the man and made our way to the small apartment we'd rented downtown.

We did return the next day. Then the next and the next. Small time jobs here, small time jobs there. Now in 1930 I stand here on this street, the street my father took me to every day while doing his routes. I'm an associate of a family, far from the Cap he was. People know my name but I'm still not in the inner circle. The streets have changed since those days. The game has become more dangerous and every Tom, Dick and Harry runs whiskey. Even still, I stand here today on my own two feet. The shoes I have are brand new and while I may still not be a suit wearing somebody, people know my name. Before long, I'll be the guy other guys open doors for. And as I stand here waiting for the car to arrive I'm supposed to ride in. As I anticipate my first hit, I can say with pride that I won't make myself from my fathers name. I will make my own name. When I become a Made guy it'll be because of my work and my reputation. I'll return these streets to their glory and someday it'll be me wearing the suit, me with the fancy car. This will be my town, some day. But for now, there's the car. Time to start my journey.
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bravo

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Too long to read. I will wait till someone turns it into a movie. ×D
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Nicely written
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Very well done
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