Posted: Jul 12, 08 5:30pm
Not looking for a critique…general comments are fine, though.
Thanks!
********************************************************
At 2:20 am, Lenny Saturni signed a form, was given back his personal property, and ordered to stand against the wall as the sweat-stained uniformed guard shouted “One going out, Captain!”
At the sound of a bell, the guard opened the steel door and nodded “See ya when you get back”, he taunted.
Lenny passed into the small foyer on the other side, and through another doorway, marked “OUT” that opened to the street. The six month sentence served, he clutched his boat pass tightly and headed towards the pier, trying not to run, as he’d been instructed.
An hour later, Lenny stood on the deck of the ferry, watching the island lights dim in the darkness. He rubbed his still tender ribs, a reminder of the last beating he took from the guards. Singled out three times during his term, the last one was the worst – two of them came into his cell while he was asleep, threw him to the floor, and began kicking him. The rule for survival was starkly simple - shut up, don’t resist, and never fight back. There was nothing Lenny could do, except go fetal and wait it out.
After a few minutes, one of the guards said “Hold up” to the other and reached down - pulling Lenny’s arms away from his head and face.
“What’s your name, boy?”
“Lenny Saturni, boss”.
‘Saturni? Who the hell are you? How long you been in this cell?”
“They moved me in today, boss.” The guard leaned over and looked closely at Lenny.
“Hah”, he laughed. Turning to his partner, he said “Well, whattya know, Burl, we got the wrong guy…c’mon, let’s go”, as Burl let loose with a final kick in Lenny’s back.
***********************************************************
"Did you hear, Danny?”
Bent over the floor mixer, Danny the baker didn’t answer, as he tugged at the large clod of dough. With arms immersed up to his elbows in the sticky mass, he jerked it up and out of the bowl, like a weight lifter and slammed it down hard on the bench, creating a mini-dust storm of flour and corn meal, sent whirling throughout the kitchen by the ceiling fans.
“Hear what?” grunted Danny. Dividing the dough into quarters, he rolled and folded them in the flour, sealing in the moisture.
His cousin, Gino, sat on a stool in the corner fanning the dust away. “Jeez, Danny…it’s a freakin’ oven in here, how do you stand it?”
Wiping the sweat from his forehead, Danny, mocking his cousin, said “Jeez, Gino… it’s a freakin’ bakery – saputo…it’s supposed to be hot. Did I hear about what?”
“Old man Tristano. He’s dead. They found him this morning in his apartment. He had some fans but no electricity…and get this, Danny… his windows were rigged. They could only open a couple of inches. The old guy freakin’ baked to death up there in this heat wave. It’s a bad thing, man, very bad.
Danny kept working as he thought about the old man. Two years ago, when the bakery first opened, Tristano was his first customer. Waiting at the door that morning, he hobbled in and bought the first breadsticks Danny made and had been coming in regularly, ever since.
For the last nine days, the city was gripped in constant near 100 degree temperatures – with no relief in sight…and now people were dying – people he knew.
Reaching for the dough cutter, Danny knocked over a large tin, sending a wave of almonds off the bench and across the floor. “Damn it!” he growled.
Gino hopped off the stool. “Danny, I got it…no sweat, ok? Gimme the broom.”
After a few minutes of chasing down almonds, Gino said, “Hey listen, Danny, Ma says you should come over, ok?”
“Is she all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, fine. You know, she’s gettin’ older – I think she just misses her kids sometimes. Anyway, you comin’, right? Maybe later, Danny? Ok?”
Danny nodded.
Gino’s mother, Aunt Sophia, brought fourteen year old Danny into her home the day his mother died – and put him in with Gino. He was given a few days to grieve… then sent back to school. The following Saturday, Sophia showed him the way from Newark over to D’atillo’s market, in the city, and left him with the baker.
At first, he was terrified of Benny, the foul-mouthed ex-marine, who constantly recounted his wartime experiences, boasting of how many fascists he personally killed, and the gruesome ways he did it. Everybody at D‘atillo‘s, except Danny, knew that Benny never saw any combat action. Instead, he did one of the things he does best… bake… behind the lines, in the officer’s mess.
Another thing he did well was fight…Benny was a boxer.
A talented, light heavyweight, and undefeated in dozens of military competitions, Benny continued to box after the war, though never turned pro. A cross between a street brawler and a boxer, he won all his fights by knockout, except for a single TKO, which Benny claimed as his only ‘loss‘. The joke in the market was that if Benny had been given a weapon and sent out to the front line, the war in Europe would have ended at least two months earlier.
On that first Saturday, Danny’s job was to clean up after Benny and make deliveries. He pushed the kid, gave him dirty jobs, and afforded him little time to accomplish them, while noticing the more he pushed, the harder Danny tried. Finally, when Danny showed up 30 minutes early on that fifth Saturday in a row for more abuse, Benny decided to teach him two things …bread and boxing.
That afternoon, Benny took Danny out back to the alley.
“Can you fight?” asked Benny.
Danny gave him a surprised look, but didn’t answer.
“Femminuccia, I’m talking to you. Have you ever been in a fight?”
“No”, Danny mumbled.
Benny studied him for a moment. At fourteen years old, the kid was tall - about five feet, eight inches, and still growing. He weighed about 140 lbs, he guessed. Danny was going to be a big man, in time.
“Hit me” said Benny. Surprised, Danny looked up. “What?”
I said hit me. In the gut - now”.
Danny didn’t move. Benny reached out and slapped his face.
“Ow!” yelled Danny, rubbing his cheek.
“Ow? What the hell is “Ow”? What does that mean? Girls say ‘Ow’…are you a freakin’ girl? Hit me, Danny.”
Benny slapped him again. This time Danny didn’t cry out, but he didn’t move, either. Another slap.
“C’mon, hit me!” he yelled.
Danny’s expression changed from fear to concentration, as he gritted his teeth and punched Benny in the stomach.
“Again…harder”. Danny punched him again.
“Good! Again! “
The next punch, a roundhouse right, caught Benny in the mouth, snapping his head back slightly, cutting his lip. Benny watched, as Danny, with clenched fists and watery eyes, stood his ground. The boy’s eyes had become slits, his breathing controlled, guard up, and shoulders squared, instinctively. Good, he thought. With the back of his hand, Benny wiped the blood off his mouth and looked at it.
“Oww” he pretended.
Boxing lessons had begun.
Two weeks later, instead of the weekly beating in the alley, they sat quietly on a bench in Domino Park. Benny and Danny watched as a young tough made his way down the path, towards them. Dressed in a tight, white t-shirt, rolled up dungarees, and short, black boots with heel taps clicking on the sidewalk, he scowled, long and hard at Danny as he passed.
Softly, Benny said “When you fight a man, Danny, never look in his eyes. He’ll beat you with them, if you let him. Don’t look.”
“Watch the body, Danny, that’s where the fight is.
Use your ears. When you punch him, listen to his sounds. If he makes noise, that means you hurt him. Then, hit him again… hard and fast, ya know? Listen to him breathe. If you can hear it, he’s getting tired. A lot of guys get tired fast - and they lose. And when he hits you back, keep listening - in time, you’ll hear it coming a long time before you feel it.”
“Ya know why fighters get tired, Danny? It’s because they’re out shape - like you. Now, I want you to get up and run around the park, twice.”
“What? Benny, I’m not wearing my sneaks today.”
“Danielle, did I ask you about your freakin’ shoes? Do you think I give a crap about what you‘re wearing? You little puke, what makes you think that I give a f…”
As Benny’s voice got louder and angrier, Danny stood up, shaking his head, resigning himself to this new form of torture and began running. Approaching the starting point after his first circuit of the park, he noticed that Benny, still sitting on the bench, had turned his attention to something on the lake, ignoring him. Danny accelerated, darted off the path, ran behind the bench, and slapped the top of Benny’s head as he passed by.
“Son of a bitch!” Danny heard in the background as he streaked away. “You get your sorry ass back here right now! Do you hear me, boy? Right now!…No!…you little prick!…No!…screw you, keep going…and don’t come back!…you hear me?…don’t you ever freakin’ come back…No!…damn you…get back here, now!…when I get my hands on you…you’re dead meat…get over here!…you little bast…
Glancing back, Danny could no longer hear Benny’s tirade, but saw him jump up and down, wave his fists in the air, and kick over the park bench in his fury. That disturbance caught the attention of the men playing dominoes nearby, and nearly everyone else in the immediate area, including a cop on the beat, who began making his way towards Benny and the overturned bench.
**********************************************************
Seven years later, Flora held the door open as Danny gingerly made his way up the two steps and into his bakery for the first time. The leg hurt - he needed the cane today.
Back from Korea almost a year - Danny was recovering from his wounds. He took two shrapnel hits at the same time - one saucer shaped piece sliced deeply into his right leg, burying itself just below the knee, while the other, a small, rod - shaped missile drilled into his forehead, narrowly missing his left eye.
He walked pretty well, most days, with only a slight limp, but occasionally, like today, he had difficulty.
From the back of the shop a familiar voice shouted out “Hey, Danny!”
With Flora holding his hand, he followed Benny’s voice through the few scattered tables to the rear of the shop. Benny stood in the middle of the kitchen, beaming. “How do like it? It’s just like mine, Danny - an exact copy, except for the mixer - you got a freakin’ new one, courtesy of Stone Man…I’m jealous. Whaddya think, kid?
Flora and Benny grinned at each other as Danny slowly walked through the room, touching everything. Benny was right, he thought - the layout of the equipment, the shelving, the tables, even the bottle of homemade wine they always kept stashed behind the spice shelf, was the same. It was just like being back at D’atillo’s. Danny sat on the stool and listened to the motors of the ceiling fans as they swept around the aromas of drying paint, the sweetness of cinnamon, basil, and whatever it was that Benny was baking in the deck oven.
Dumbfounded, he recalled that morning, as a very mysterious Flora told him about a special surprise she had for him. It wasn’t until walking the last block that she finally told him about the bakery – his bakery. She spoke excitedly of how Benny, and many others from the neighborhood, had put together the shop and “loaned” it to him while he was recuperating from his wounds.
“Danny”, she said, her eyes tearing. “Things and people came from everywhere, you should have seen it – the Mazzoni brothers, you know, the carpenters? They built the display cases. Tommy Rossi painted the sign and windows. Freddy Marino donated the tables & chairs – they don’t match, but who cares, Danny, right? Even Father Dominick came down personally and blessed it. All I did was cry – all the time.
And Benny… mio Dio! He made all this happen, Danny. He came to visit you in the hospital when you had the fever -you never knew. He stayed all night long – just watching over you. She squeezed his hand. Benny loves you, Danny.”
*********************************************************
Lenny Saturni felt himself being lifted from the chair by strong hands. “Get up. You can’t sleep in here.” Lenny opened his eyes and faced the bouncer from the Paradise Club.
“What’d I do?”
“You passed out.” he said “It’s time to go, man… ”
The bouncer forcefully led Lenny out the door of the bar, into the bright, late afternoon sun. On the sidewalk, he gave him a slight shove towards the next corner along with a warning. “Damn, you stink…take a bath, and don’t let me see you anymore today, mister.”
Drunk, disoriented, and foul smelling, Lenny slowly weaved his way down the crowded sidewalk, as pedestrians scattered, giving him a wide berth. Eventually he came upon a bus bench, laid down, and went to sleep.
Hours later, awakened by a loud thunderclap and a strong gust of wind, a startled Lenny jumped off the bench and scrambled into a nearby doorway just as the downpour began. Gathering his wits, while squatting in a corner, he slowly recalled the day’s events - his release from jail, the long journey back to Jersey, and the murky time spent that afternoon in the bar. Hoping his sister still lived in the same place, he planned to go there as soon as the rain stopped – but first, he needed money.
Walking quickly, he darted in and out of storefronts, checking doorknobs. Eventually, he found a door, not fully closed, that pushed open, and went inside. Stifling the small, announcement bells, Lenny noiselessly shut the door and ducked behind a counter. The open cash register contained some small change, which he pocketed, and a few IOU’s. The remaining counter drawers contained various store supplies - nothing of any value.
Disgusted, Lenny checked the back room of the store. sporadically Illuminated slightly by lightning flashes, he quickly recognized he was in a kitchen of some kind. “Damn!” he thought. Doubting he would find anything that could be sold or pawned, his mood changed as he discovered a pan of yeast rolls, and realized he hadn’t eaten anything since the night before, at the jail.
Stuffing his mouth and pockets with the bread, he continued to search the shelves for more food to take with him, when the front door bells began to chime.
It was just past 10:00 pm when Danny returned from Sophia’s house. As he opened the front door to the bakery, he heard music from Flora’s radio in their apartment above the shop, and smiled. Her touch was always present, it seemed. Danny knew that he produced good product with his hands, but was also aware of Flora’s contributions to their success. She cared for the front of the bakery in the same way he cared for his bread - with love and passion. The front of the store, he noticed was often filled with laughter and good cheer – a tribute to Flora.
Walking towards the stairs, he suddenly detected an unusual odor and stopped. A dank, dirty, smell - a mixture of sweat and alcohol, hung in the air. Alarmed, Danny crouched in the dark with his cane – listening through the breaks of the passing traffic on the street…
(to be continued)
["Grrr" said the dog.]
