Chicago, Illinois
May 18, 1849
Sandwiched between a small savings and loan on the corner to the east, and a tailor shop to the west, RIZZO & SON. FRESH PRODUCE was written in gold, italic lettering on a comparatively clean, plate glass window.
Frank held the screen door open as they stepped inside to the accompaniment of a tinkling bell.
Wearing a green- and red-smeared white apron over a pair of denim overalls, a short, obese man with a thick patch of graying, black hair that fringed his otherwise totally bald head came from the rear of the store. “Frankie is’a good you come back! I’m’a’need’a you bring some orang’a’an’apple up’a the stairs.”
“Sure, Papa. You remember I hadda go meet my friend at the streetcar?”
“Sure, I remember!” Looking at Mitchell, he held his hand forward. “My Frankie, he’s’a tink his Papa’s stupid.”
“No I don’t, Papa… Papa, this is Mitchell.”
Taking the chafed hand into his, Mitchell shook hands with the older man. “I’m glad to meet you, Mister Rizzo.”
“Mitchie, it’ll take a few minutes to get the crates up from the cooler an’ it’s hot in here, so why don’t you go outside an’ wait for me. I won’t be too long, then we’ll go get somethin’ to eat, and by that time we can head over to the girls’. Oh, an’ by the way,” taking the canvas bag from Mitchell, “Papa’ll bring this home for you.”
“Thank you,” nodding to Mr. Rizzo. “Can I give you a hand, Frankie?”
“Nah, thanks, though. The stairs are kinda steep an’ Gina’d never forgive me if you fell an’ broke somethin’.” He winked. “An’ anyway, how’d you think I got these?” Frank flexed his right arm, causing the biceps to pop. “Go on, wait outside, I’ll be done in a couple’a minutes.”
“Guess I’ll see you at home then, Mr. Rizzo.”
“Sure. You have a good time wit’a my Frankie.”
Outside, standing a moment, he stretched. Noticing a nail and staple-studded telephone pole, he walked to it, leaned against it a moment, then, with his feet in the gutter, sitting on the curb, Mitchell rested his back against the dry, cracked wood. The warm sun feeling nice on his face, his eyes closed to the glare, the sunlight caused a pleasant red glow though his eyelids…
Cooling the heat and darkening the glow beneath his eyelids, thinking it was Frank, opening his eyes Mitchell looked up, at two shadows silhouetted against the sun.
“Ai, she’s awake!”
“Yeah, I see that!”
Facing the sun, having to squint and shade his eyes in order to see their faces from his lower, sitting position, the two looming figures appeared to be huge.
Each had sideburns that trailed to below their cheekbones, and oil-slicked hair combed into sharp D.A.’s. Both faces were covered with pimples and scabs and scars where the pimples had been squeezed and ruptured.
One of the faces was dark and thin, having a long, sharp, hawk-like nose, a slit of a mouth and crooked, tobacco stained teeth. Scraggly wisps of hair sparsely covered his thin upper lip and pointed jaw.
Thick and pasty colored, with the exception of eyebrows and sideburns, the other face was completely hairless. This one’s nose had been broken, possibly more than once, because it was discolored and lay somewhat flat above fat, saliva-coated lips.
Each wore oil-smeared undershirts that were dotted with holes as though sprayed with battery acid and greasy, tight fitting blue jeans held up by wide, steel studded, black leather belts.
Cigarettes dangling from their lips, the upward curling smoke causing both to squint and look, if at all possible, even more menacing.
“Hawk Nose” appeared to be about seventeen, and “Fat Lips” sixteen, or possibly seventeen, too.
Stooping, pinching, painfully twisting the flesh of Mitchell’s left cheek, “Ain’t she pretty!” Hawk Nose said through clenched teeth. “Who are ya? An’ what the fuck ya doin’ here, sittin’ on my curb?”
“Stan’up when my friend’s talkin’ to ya, ya prick, ya!” Grabbing Mitchell by the front of his shirt, Fat Lips yanked him onto his feet. “Jesus Christ, Look’a’dat! Ain’t she a big one!”
“Yeah!” Hawk Nose said, “That’s how I like my broads, big’n’pretty. Ya know what? Ya look like a fuckin’ fairy! Are ya? Are ya some kinda fuckin’ homo fairy?” Shouting, “Well, are ya?”
Terrified, “N-no,” emphatically shaking his head negatively.
“Ya ain’t, eh! Well I think ya are! What’s your fuckin’ name, ya fuckin’ fairy?”
The color drained from his face, his knees weak, Mitchell all but hung by the material of his shirt, bunched in Fat Lips’ fist.
Speaking softly, Hawk Nose said, “Ya gotta at least know ya fuckin’ name, fairy!” Slapping him on the cheek, “Your name!” Then slapping him harder.
Hardly noticing his stinging cheek, he stammered, “M-m…”
“I know!” Fat Lips said. “His name’s Mama!” He laughed. “Hi ya, Mama! How ya doin’, Mama?” Reaching with his other hand, he grabbed Mitchell by the crotch of his pants. “My, ain’t Mama got a nice dick!” Laughing, pulling him even closer by both his shirt and the crotch of his pants, leaning into Mitchell’s face, drawing deeply on the cigarette, Fat Lips exhaled a double stream of smoke through his flattened nostrils.
Choking on the smoke, Mitchell instinctively attempted to pull away.
“Hey, Mama, when I talk to ya, don’t ya be tryin’ to move away; it ain’t polite.” Pulling him inward again, “Come on, tell my pal here,” cocking his head towards Hawk Nose, “What’s your fuckin’ name?”
“M-M…”
“Again with the Mama!” Fat Lips shook Mitchell by the shirt bunched in his fist, causing his head to whip back and forth.
“Mitchell!” he said desperately. “My name’s Mitchell.”
“‘Mitchell’! See, that wasn’t so fuckin’ hard.” Releasing the shirt with a shove, Fat Lips pushed Mitchell against the telephone pole, where he cracked the back of his head and elbow.
“Ya know what, Al?” Hawk Nose said. “Mitchell’s a kike name! I think this here guy’s a kike.” Poking his finger into his chest, “Are ya, Mitchell? Are ya a Jew, Mitchell? A kike, Mitchell? A fuckin’, sheeny bastard, Mitchell?” Emphasizing each question with increasingly hard, sharp digs of his finger. “What the fuck ya don’ here sittin’ on my street, ya fuckin’ kike, son-of-a-bitch?”
Reaching to Mitchell’s throat, using his forefinger, Al flipped the silver chain hanging around his neck out from under the collar of his shirt. “What’s this fuckin’ thing?”
Trembling with fear, Mitchell looked over his shoulder, towards the Rizzo store, Come on, Frankie! Please come on, Frankie! praying that Frank or his father would come out.
“Ain’t no one here gonna help ya! Look at me when I talk to ya!” Looking at his friend, Al snickered. “Know what, Guido? I think you’re right! I think this here prick’s a fuckin’ Jew!”
Taking the chain from Al’s hand, Guido asked, “What’s this here thing?” lifting the oblong silver object that hung at the end of the chain. When he didn’t answer, Guido yanked the chain, causing it to cut into Mitchell’s neck. Glancing at Al, “This pussy don’t like to talk! Ya know what it looks like to me, Al? It looks like a half a crucifix. Ya!” Yanking the chain again, snapping Mitchell’s head closer to his, “I think it’s a cross what lost its arms. What is it? Wha’d’ya call this here fuckin’ Jew thing?”
“A, uh, m-m…”
Al laughed. “Mitchie, is that all ya kikes know how to say? Mama! Mama!” he imitated in a high, falsetto voice.
Becoming tired of the game, “Stop with the fuckin’ mama,” Guido snarled, “an’ tell us what ya call this here fuckin’ thing!”
“It, uh, it’s a m-mezzuza.”
“A what?” Al laughed. “What’d’ya call it?”
“A, uh, mezzuza.”
“A mezuzziz?” Laughing. “What the fuck’s a mezuzziz?”
Tugging on the chain again, closing his other hand into a fist, Guido brought it up and back…
Closing his eyes, Mitchell tensed his body… But the punch didn’t come
“Thwack!”
Opening his eyes, Thank god!
A club in his hand, Frank had hit Guido in the small of the back then behind his legs, causing him to fall onto his knees, pulling Mitchell—because the chain was still entwined in the crook of his finger—onto his knees also.
Turning, “What the fuck!” Al lifted both hands to cover his face, but it was too late because a fist hit him, causing blood to squirt from both nostrils and run down his chin onto the holy undershirt. “My dose!” he screeched as, staggering backward, tripping on the curb, he fell onto his back. “Ya broke it again! Ah, shit! Ya broke m’dose again!”
Ignoring Al, grabbing hold of Guido’s fingers, bending them backwards, “Jesus, my fingers!” forcing him to release the chain.
Loose, straightening his body, Mitchell stumbled backwards, bumping into the telephone pole, where he stood breathing deeply trying to bring his fear under control.
“You’re breakin’ my fuckin’ fingers! Aw, shit! Rizzo, let go’o’me! What’s it to ya if we kick some fuckin’ Jew’s ass? Ow! Come on Frank, le’go me… pleeease!”
Releasing him, Frank backed up a step. Rotating his wrist in a slight, clockwise motion, the heavy end of the club moved in a tight circle that Guido watched a moment then tried to stand, but his knee buckled and he fell back into the gutter. “Frankie, I think ya broke my leg! Why’d’j’ya do it?”
“Me’n’my pa both tol’j’ya to stay the fuck away from our place here! We don’t want you hangin’ ’round scarin’ our customers.”
Pulling himself up, Al sat on the curb. Trying to stem the flow of blood, he held the all but non-existent bridge of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of one hand while tugging the now bloody undershirt out of his pants with the other revealing a white, blubbery stomach and a hairless chest. Wiping the blood from his chin, forcing himself onto his feet, he approached Frank, who, turning to him, menacingly lifted the club.
“Whoa!” Holding both hands forward, the blood beginning to flow again, “I d’want no part of ya, Frankie!” Al motioned over his shoulder. “This guy ain’t no customer! Since when d’ya care what we do to a Jew, Frankie? What’s this fuckin’ kike to ya?”
Frank looked from Al to Guido to Mitchell. His Adam’s apple noticeably moving up and down in his throat, he swallowed because here was a problem: Frank lived here, had a reputation to uphold, and although he had never taken an active part in Jew baiting, he had taken part in gang fights with other Jewish youths… But this was Mitchell, not only his oldest and best friend, but also his guest, invited here by himself. What to say? If he did not admit that Mitchell was his friend he knew he would, and rightfully so, lose his friendship, and if he did admit he was his friend he’d lose the respect of Guido and Al. Shit! he thought, Fuck Guido and Al!
Reaching down, Al helped pull Guido onto his feet.
“This here’s…” pointing the club at Mitchell, “my oldest pal. Mitch’n’me, we went to school together during the war an’ I didn’t invite him here so’s you two assholes could beat the shit outta him! Now,” pointing the club in their general direction, “get the fuck outta here!” he poked the club into Al’s shoulder for emphasis, then, pointing it at Guido, “Get the fuck outta here, I said!” Bringing the club back as though to swing it, Guido ducked while Al back-stepped, then, looking from Frank to Mitchell, the two turned and, arrogantly, Guido, limping, walked away.
Watching till they’d rounded the corner, Frank then looked at Mitchell, whom, having backed away from the street, was squatting, leaning against the building. His chin was on his chest, his eyes were closed and, holding himself as though in pain, both arms were wrapped around his stomach.
“Mitch,” kneeling in front of him, “God, Mitchie!” Frank put his hand on his shoulder, “I’m sorry! So sorry this happened! Those pricks!” His eyes moistened. “It’s my fault! Goddamn it! I shouldn’t’a left ya alone! I should’a known somethin’ like this would happen in this neighborhood. Shit!”
“Frankie,” consoling him, “it ain’t your fault, I’m just glad you came out when you did. God!” he said in awe, “you sure beat the shit out’a them two assholes.” Standing, smiling reassuringly, “Come on, let’s get outta here, I’m starvin’!”
“Shit, Lipensky, you’re always starvin’!”
“Yeah, that is true , but I get especially hungry when I get into a gangbang an’ beat the shit outta two wop hoods… You got any edible food in this shitty neighborhood?”
