Neighborhood Bully - The Fall

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

As soon as the kids on the block realized that there was life after standing up to Jimmy, he gradually began separating from us. I'm not sure if it was on his part, our part or what. I don't believe it was a conscious thing. I think that as we got older and more mature and physically able, we were interested in and did things that Jimmy couldn't. We were all becoming different from Jimmy.

We each have our 'thing'. The thing that sets us apart. Big Chris' thing was his outstanding athletic abilities. Billy's thing was that he could shoot pigeons - and even robins - with his homemade bow and arrow (but that's a story for another day). Jimmy's thing was his cruelty and intolerance for people that were 'different' from him and his group. He'd always seen himself as the ring leader of 'the Irish kids' on the block. And from the lack of tolerance for 'things different' he had always shown in the past, he began seeing himself as different. Jimmy didn't know how to accept thing that were different - even, as it turned out in later years, himself.

There were times now when, after a day of playing pole to pole, we'd go hang out on Billy's stoop and listen to WABC (W - A - Beatle - C). Jimmy would show up once in a while. Sometimes it would be fine - Jimmy wouldn't insult or try to push anyone around. But other times he would try to recapture a little of that bully edge of his.

One day he did something that really pissed off Little Chris. I don't remember what it was (probably something clever about Little Chris' mother) but I remember Little Chris letting him have it verbally. "Jimmy, You are a big fat idiot," he said. This time he didn't storm away to his house giving Jimmy any satisfaction. He stayed on the stoop with the rest of us, shaking his head as if he felt sorry for Jimmy. And Jimmy didn't do or say anything back.

Then - and I can't remember if it was the same day or a day or two later - Jimmy did something to piss off Billy.

Now... Billy was a quiet Irish guy from Brooklyn who thought he was an American Indian. I told you... homemade bow and arrow..? a story for another day, but I had to give you that background so you would understand that Billy was a patient, stoic, long suffering guy who hardly ever had words with anyone. If you pissed off Billy you must have tried hard.

"Little Chris is right. You really are a big fat idiot, Jimmy. Now get the f' off my stoop."

(These were the days when you mixed your "...big fat idiot..." phrases with your new found curse words like "Get the f' off my stoop," and it sounded tough. Ah, the good old days.)

Jimmy put some effort into a smirk as he walked home alone but we all felt the wind beginning to blow in a different direction.

The homes on my block were two-story, single family, detached homes with garages in the back yards at the furthest part of the property away from the street. They weren't all exactly the same; there were slight variations in the style and width of the houses. Some of the garages were one-car some were two-car. The next block over, Coleman Street, who's properties rear ended the rear ends of our block's properties had the same arrangement of garages in their back yards, but because the properties were identical but back-to-back, the garages alternated position. (Click here to see what I mean.)

As you can imagine, this presented a unique opportunity for garage hopping - running along the rear property lines of homes on Kimball and Coleman Streets, 10 feet up in the air, bouncing from garage roof to garage roof. You tried avoid doing on Saturday night, though, when Mr. Mullins had been drinking.

There was this stretch of garages behind Billy's house that we liked best because there were a few trees there with limbs hanging between garages. We could swing out onto the limbs like Tarzan and land on various garage roofs. One big limb hung over Billy's back yard in plain view of the street via the driveway. One day, soon after Billy and Jimmy's altercation, while on top of Billy's garage, and carving our initials into the trunk of the largest tree, someone had 'a great idea'.

Billy no longer lives at this house. He's since moved on and has his own place now, as we all have. His family's moved down to Florida, and I personally haven't been in the backyard for a long time. But once in a while, after visiting with my mom who still lives on the block, I slow my car down while driving past Billy's driveway to see if I can still make out the words;

"JIMMY C IS A BIG FAT IDIOT"

... carved into the branch in foot-high letters. Sometimes, in the fall, when the leaves have fallen, I can.

I'll never forget the look on Jimmy's face when he saw it for the first - and as far as I know, the LAST - time. Totally defeated. Shoulders hunched over, I saw thoughts flashing across his mind; He couldn't climb fences - forget about trees - and there was no way for him to reach the limb to scratch out the words. None of us were going to take it down; we'd put it up there. For a hundred years, people would know that JIMMY C WAS A BIG FAT IDIOT. He turned and for the last time, I can remember, walked away from us towards his home.

Not long after this time, the guys on the block got older, went to different high schools, colleges, got married, etc... I saw Jimmy once or twice after the events described above, walking down the street, but never saw him again - until Mother's Day 2004.

There's a nice little neighborhood bar/restaurant on the corner of Nostrand Avenue and Avenue T(?) with good traditional Irish food, which my mom loves, so for Mother's Day I took her there for dinner at about 2 in the afternoon.

As we waited to be seated, and our conversation lulled, my eyes drifted around the restaurant and landed in the bar area, where they became locked with a person sitting at the end of the bar. This person had been snickering about something with the bartender but when he saw me he immediately froze. He stared at me with a guilty suspicious stare, his shoulders hunched and he quickly glanced at the floor. I continued looking at him. His appearance was that of someone who had spent a great deal of time in this bar and many others. He was so pale as to be nearly transparent. The only color in his face was provided by broken or dilated capillaries beneath the surface of his skin. His hair was thin and snow white. He was no longer fat, but emaciated. I had heard from Little Chris a few months earlier that there had been a Jimmy siting, and he wasn't looking too good, but I had no idea he was this bad. Jimmy looked half dead.

I don't know what could have been done to make things turn out differently. It's easy to say that Jimmy brought it on himself. He was the older kid and initiated the cruelty and other crap he came up with. It could be a very complicated discussion in trying to figure it out, or you could simply say...

Sometimes bad things happen to bad people.

Neighborhood Bully - The Chink in the Bully Armor

... continued from Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

As I said, Glenn getting hit by the car and Jimmy's reaction was a turning point for me. I've spent many years asking myself, "Why didn't I stand up to Jimmy more when he was; beating up little kids, berating other people, cursing out people's mothers, [insert your own rotten deed here], etc...?" It would have saved Glenn alot of heart ache - not to mention multiple major surgeries, therapy, etc... But better late then never... I started to now.

In the summer of '68 or '69 most of us kids on the block were at the point where sports - particularly baseball, stickball & hockey - were big in our lives. There is a variation of stickball that you need a wall for. You drew a rectangle on the wall with chalk (representing the strike zone) and the batter took his place in front of it. The faithful Spaldeen got pitched in and... In the box - strike. Outside the box - ball. Ground ball caught - out. Caught fly - out, etc... With the previously mentioned specs, it's obvious that the only place you could play this version of stickball was in a school yard. So more rules; Over the fence - home run. Top fence section on a fly - triple. Middle fence section on a fly - double. Bottom fence section on a fly - or a ground ball not caught before it hits the fence - single. The school yard behind PS 207 on Fillmore Avenue was perfect for this game.

The small - to some - obstacle was that the school yard was not always open. The gates were chained up and locked from the end of the regular school year until summer school started up in July, when the kids going to summer school had exclusive rights during the day. At the end of their school day the gates were chained up and locked again until the following school day. Sometimes people would use a bolt cutter to make a small hole in the fence, so you could squeeze through, but that would only work for a day or two. They really took care of the school yard fences in our neighborhood. So the only alternative was - over the 12 foot high fence.

One summer afternoon, someone suggested going up to the school yard to play some stickball. "YEAH!" the chorus replied, except for Jimmy. His reply was "Stickball is for faggots." We looked at him like he had three heads, then grabbed our Spaldeens, broomsticks and bikes and headed up the street.

After arriving at the fence, we all chained up our bikes and began scaling. Big Chris - of course - was the first one over. Then Billy and Eddie, then me and Little Chris - not necessarily in that order. We all landed on the other side of the fence and looked out to see Jimmy still there struggling to get his foot into one of the square-shaped holes of the chain link fence. "These stupid shoes my mother bought me... I can't get my toes in the fence," he said, "the toes are too wide."

"Go get some sneakers, then..." someone replied.

"Who wants to play stickball, anyway," Jimmy said. "Like I said, it's for faggots," and he got back on his bike and rode away.

Looking at each other, we shrugged and forgot all about Jimmy the minute the game began. It was the next day when the whole scene was repeated - this time with Jimmy wearing sneakers - that we started smelling something rotten in Jimmy-land. We didn't discuss it between us until the same thing happened yet again. There was a chink in Jimmy's bully armor. He was afraid or unable to climb over the fence because of his weight.

When the autumn came we started playing street hockey. The Rangers were hot that year (Eddie Giacomin, Rod Gilbert, Brad Park, etc...) and so were we. Naturally Jimmy had all the hockey equipment - goals, goalie stick, pads, etc... Based on our summertime experience with Jimmy not being able to climb over the fence, we realized that Jimmy wanted to play goalie so he wouldn't have to move around. One day we were playing when Jimmy refused to admit that someone had scored a goal on him. He said, "I'm taking in all my stuff if you say that the goal was scored." Almost in unison, we all said, "Go ahead." And he did. We got a couple of garbage cans and - side by side - that became the goal. We set up in front of Jimmy's house and saw occasional movement behind his curtains. He was watching us play.

At some point over the next few weeks, must have been World Series time, Jimmy called for me and asked if I wanted to throw the ball around. I said, "Sure," and met him in the street with my ball and glove. My baseball mitt was something left over from the 1930s/1940s that my dad had used when he was a kid. I wish I still I had it today, but at the time we didn't have the money to get me a new one, and I was always embarrassed by it. It wasn't long before I missed one of the crappy throws Jimmy had thrown to me and instead of taking the blame for throwing a stinker, Jimmy said something like, "If you had a real baseball mitt, instead of that piece of shit, you would have caught that."

A year or two earlier I would have gotten embarrassed and taken it, but since my experience with Glenn combined with the fact that Jimmy was losing credibility with everything in the neighborhood, I told him to shove it where the sun don't shine and went back into my house. He stood there with his mouth open and I felt great. Jimmy had lost his perverted edge.

Then it started getting nasty, and for once, we weren't the victims.

To be continued...

Neighborhood Bully - The Rise

When I first moved into our new neighborhood in "the country" (Marine Park, Brooklyn) I was 9 years old. The block we moved onto (Kimball Street, between Avenue S and Fillmore Avenue, 3 blocks off Flatbush Avenue) had a good number of kids, around my own age, to play with. Even as the new kid, it was apparent early on that there was a definite pecking order with my new friends.

Billy D and Peter C were the 'older kids' - 13 and already in high school. We didn't see much of them on the block. Eddie, Billy, Big Chris and Jimmy C were closer to my age but were indisputably 'the big kids' at 11 years old. I was in the middle at 9. Bobby and Robbie were 8 years old, then ya had your Little Chris, Glenn, Anthony B1 and Anthony B2, who were 7. I could never figure out how old Ralphie was but I think he was 7 or 8 and was Anthony B1's brother.

Jimmy C - one of the 11-year-olds, had lost his dad a year or two before I moved into the neighborhood. It must have been a horrible thing. When I found out, I felt so bad for him. I couldn't imagine what it would be like for your father to die. Jimmy had two older sisters and, now, a widowed, working mom. She was a very nice woman, but apparently Jimmy's dad had been the one who was in charge of discipline in the family, because from the day his father died, Jimmy never received any. His mother and sisters doted over him and never did anything to correct any of the screwy things he did. "Mommy, I know I'm the only one here, but I swear I didn't knock over the antique grandfather's clock. It fell down all by itself." "I know, Honey. You're such a good boy." Jimmy got away with murder.

In addition to the one thing he needed that he didn't get, Jimmy had everything else he didn't need, including every friggin' toy in the universe. Every GI Joe set, every piece of sports equipment, a set of encyclopedias, books, every game you'd ever heard of, air guns & army surplus gear for playing army... He even had a pool in his backyard - which we used to blow up battleships in, with firecrackers, after setting them on fire - much to his mother's chagrin. But she never said a word. Jimmy had it all - almost.

In personality and physical appearance, Jimmy actually reminds me a great deal of Eric Cartman from South Park - pictured above/right - but not quite as cute. He was never any good at the sports he had the equipment for because he wasn't a physically fit kid. Plain and simple, what he was, was a mean and nasty kid. He physically pushed around all the younger kids in the neighborhood, but most of the damage he inflicted was mental. He was so intimidating that you wanted him as a friend just so he wouldn't make you the butt of his jokes. Here's a couple of examples:

Sitting on his stoop one day, when he was 12 or 13 and I was 10 or 11, Jimmy asked each of the kids what their ethnic backgrounds was. The big kids' backgrounds; Eddie, Billy and Big Chris, and mine, was basically the same as Jimmy's - Irish. Little Chris was Italian and German. The Anthonys and Ralphie were Italian and Jewish, Glenn was German. Jimmy got up and went into his house, returning shortly with a few paperback books called Race Riots. These were books filled with seriously hurtful ethnic humor for all occasions. The ones he brought back were especially for Germans, Jews and Italians... Tons of Nazi jokes and other gems like, "How do Italians have picnics? They gather around the sewer with straws." "What's the object of a Jewish football game? To get the quarter back." "Why do Jews have big noses? Because the air is free." There was one that insinuated that Italian women were pigs. Little Chris had had it 'up-to-here' with this and asked, "My mother's Italian. Are you calling her a pig?" I told you he had guts for a 8 or 9 year-old kid. Jimmy's reply was, "Take it anyway you want," or something equally as clever. Little Chris stood up and, fists clenched for a moment, considered doing something physical, but, to his credit, thought better of it. He simply said "f' you" and went home. Jimmy got away with all this, and more, because, if you got on his bad side he'd turn his wrath against you and you would be humiliated.

I could tell you many more stories, some much worse than the above, but here's one more example. This was the turning point for me.

One afternoon I was sitting on Jimmy's stoop with him, when he saw Glenn coming out of his driveway on his bike. Glenn was about 8 at the time. Jimmy said to me, "Watch this," and proceeded to where Glenn was going to pass by on the sidewalk. Jimmy started yelling, "Hey Glenn. What do you think your doing riding on the sidewalk in front of my house?" and began waving his arms threateningly. Glenn, who at 8 was only allowed to ride his bike on the sidewalk, immediately veered his bike between two parked cars out into the street to avoid Jimmy. He was hit by a car 1 second later. Right in front of Jimmy and me.

Jimmy looked at me and shrugged.

Glenn ended up with a plate in his head and spent 6 months wearing a football helmet.

To be continued...

"Bea, you gotta see this..."

This is one of those stories that may not be politically correct to tell, but I believe anyone could see the humor in it. Well, here goes. Who knows? It might elicit comments.

As I've mentioned, my dad was a longshoreman 'down at the docks' in Brooklyn for many years. However, there comes a time in a person's life when carrying 200 pound bags of coffee on your back, all day, takes its toll. Dad saw an opportunity in his late 40s (around 1970) to make a career change that would allow him to stay down at the piers, not lose his ILA (International Longshoreman's Association) union affiliation and would be far less taxing on his body. He could become "A Checker" one of the guys who tally up the cargo coming in and going out via ship and truck 'down at the docks'.

The union thing was big. Not only did it represent stable wages but also was the source for all our medical and dental care. The ILA had so many members that they had their own medical clinic downtown Brooklyn that occupied half a city block. After many years of shaping and struggling to make ends meet, after World War II, longshoremen were finally looked after by the ILA. Not that it was a perfect world, and there weren't questionable 'activities' revolving around the ILA, but the ILA definitely shared its clout with its members.

So dad became "A checker". He knew one or two of the other checkers already on the job but, mostly, he had to make all new buddies. This wasn't a problem for dad. He was always friendly, was always on good terms with everyone - even people he didn't like - and had a kind of open innocence that made people want to talk to him. In no time at all dad was part of the team.

One day at work, sometime in 1978, dad noticed a bunch of his buddies gathered around in a circle, enthusiastically discussing something. Words like "safari", "pyramids", "jungle" and "lions" wafted across the pier. Dad walked over and said, "What's up?"

One of the group replied, "Hi Artie. Well, we're getting a bunch of us together so we can get a group rate on a vacation tour package to Africa. It would be a 10-day guided tour starting off in Egypt and making its way down through the rest of Africa. And if we get enough guys together we'd get a really cheap price." Then he went on to discuss the cost and timing.

Dad replied, "That sounds like a great deal. You need any more for the group? My wife and I might be interested."

"Why... sure! I have some paperwork at home - brochures and such - I'll bring them in tomorrow, so you can take them home to talk it over with your wife."

"Thanks. That'd be great," dad said, then went back to work.

That night dad was very excited. At dinner, he couldn't contain his enthusiasm. "Bea, I'm telling you. It's a chance of a lifetime. Dave graduated college last year, so we finally have some money. I just got a raise. We're still young enough to travel and enjoy it... What do you say?"

Mom replied, "OK. Let's think about it. Bring home the brochures tomorrow night and... we'll see." Mom wasn't too keen on traveling to Africa but it was hard not to catch a dose of dad's excitement.

The next evening, dad came flying in the door after work, "Bea, you gotta see this. Look at these pictures... and there's an overnight cruise down the Nile river... It even includes a safari... not that I could ever shoot anything but just being there seeing wild beasts in their own environment... what a thrill. And it starts off in Egypt and... you know how I've always had a thing for the pyramids..."

Mom took the brochure from dad and began looking it over. "It does seem like a good price... But it says here that the tour will only be in Egypt for 2 days, would you be OK with that..?" Dad nodded that he would. "...the rest of the trip seems to be centered around central Africa... Around, you know... the jungles." Dad smiled and kept nodding. Mom smiled back. "Well... it does sound like a nice package..." then turned the brochure over to look at the back.

At this point, mom's smile expanded. I looked from her to dad and noticed dad noticing her expanding smile. The expression on his face indicated that he thought, 'I've got her!'

Mom kept looking at the back of the brochure and, still smiling, asked, "Hon... are any of the guys that you've been talking about this trip to.... black?"

Dad was a little taken aback. "Why should that matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"Well, let's see... the guy that brought the brochure in... He's black. And... well... one or two of the other guys are black too. But I don't see what you're getting at." Dad was starting to get a little indignant.

"Artie. Think about it... Were they all black?" asked mom.

"Well... I never thought about it... I guess... Now that you mention it... yeah. I guess they all are. How did you know?"

Mom held up the brochure and turned it around so Dad and I could see the back she had been looking at.

ROOTS '78 TOUR
Who are you?
Where do you come from?
Discover your Roots in Africa!

...and underneath was the black power symbol, which can be seen here on Ike Turner's sweater.

Someone was cashing in on the popularity of Alex Haley's book and the 12 hour television mini-series, of the same name, Roots, which had both come out in 1977, the year before.

There was a brief moment of total silence followed by an explosion of laughter. Talk about being where you don't belong - or are not wanted. But, credit to dad, and his friends at work, they never differentiated between him and them - or were just as uncomfortable about bringing up the matter as he might have been - if he had ever noticed.

Next day, dad brought the brochure back to his buddy at work and said, "Well... I don't think my wife and I can make this trip."

His buddy replied, "That's too bad, Artie. It would have been nice having you along."

And that was that.

"No little kids around here got $16 in the bank"

When my family was still living at 275 57th Street, in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, one of the ways
I used to pass a hot summer day was to watch the older kids play stickball.

We moved away from this neighborhood when I was 9 years old, so I was never really old enough to participate in these games. The players were mostly teenage kids of various ethnic backgrounds. Guys with names like "Junior", "Julio", "Henry" and "Paulie". These guys seriously resembled characters out of West Side Story and all wore 'wife beater' undershirts as their unofficial stickball uniforms. I wouldn't have been surprised to find out they were carrying switchblades in their back pockets as well.

Home plate was one sewer cover, first base could have been the front fender of a '55 Chevy, second base was the 'next' sewer cover and third base might have been the rear left tire of a Buick. The foul lines were the sidewalks on each side of the street. The bat was a broomstick which may, or may not, have had electrical tape wrapped around one end (as shown above/right) and the ball was (naturally) a Spaldeen (see also The Boundaries of Street Sports).

In the 50s through 70s stickball was a big game in New York City, particularly in Brooklyn. Sometimes some big leaguers would come out incognito and join the fun, getting back to their roots. Willie Mays was one of those who occasionally turned up to play stickball when he was with the NY Giants, before the Giants left for San Francisco in 1958.

It's not as big as it once was, but there's still a faithful few Brooklynites who still play the game regularly.

As long as I can remember, my mom was one who always stressed the importance of saving money. I must have been 7 or 8 when I received a sum of money for some event (birthday, Christmas, Easter? Who knows?) My mom took me up to Manufacturer's Hanover Trust Bank and we opened up an account with 16 whole dollars. I was very proud to have $16 in the bank. I felt "like Rockafella."

One summer day, one of my little-kid friends and I were watching the older kids play stickball. It was between innings, and nothing really exciting had happened in the last inning of the game to talk about. I figured I would take this opportunity to break the silence by casually mentioning the fact that I, J.P. Morgan himself, had recently made a deposit of the amazing sum of $16.00 into the bank.

My friend's bitter and forceful reply was, "No little kids around here got $16 in the bank".

I was crushed. I don't know why, but it seemed terribly important that he believe that I had a bank account. But the more I pressed the point the stronger he professed his disbelief. Eventually he walked away shaking his head and I don't remember him ever speaking to me again.

I never realized it until recently, but he was probably right. We lived in a very poor neighborhood. It's unlikely that any of the friends I had on that block had bank accounts. But in the past I never really thought about the neighborhood as being poor.

Funny how it takes a long time for some things to register.

Pizza for Valentines Day

Life seemed much simpler in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn in 1965.

Take Valentines Day for instance. These days it seems like every other guy you come across is spending a fortune to buy his best girl diamonds, pearls or some other extravagant expression of --- what? 'I used to have alot of money'? Don't get me wrong, I think there's a place for bling - as long as there's thought behind it.

There was an Italian restaurant/pizza place called Frank's on 4th Avenue between 58th and 59th streets in Bay Ridge. It was an Italian family-owned and run place that had the round tables in the middle of the floor and a few booths along the wall. All the tables had red and white checkered table cloths. There were glass jars of oil, parmesan cheese and dried peppers and dishes of olives sitting in the center of each table. The mouth watering smells of tomato sauce, cheese and roasted garlic permeated the air. Frank's was very much like Louie's, the Italian restaurant in The Godfather, where we heard the following exchange:

Capt. McCluskey: How's the Italian food in this restaurant?
Sollozzo: Good. Try the veal, it's the best in the city.

Once in a blue moon, my family would walk up to 4th Avenue to treat ourselves to a Saturday night out at Frank's. Spaghetti and meatballs - $.85. Sometimes my dad would "go pick us up a pie" and we'd eat at home while watching Get Smart on TV. It's a given that Brooklyn pizza is the best and, in my family's opinion, Frank's rated up there as some of the best pizza in Brooklyn.

In 1965, Valentine's Day happened to fall on a Saturday. Out of the blue, my dad suggested that he go pick us up a pie at Frank's. While he was gone, the rest of us set up the tables, chairs and plates, the whole time anticipating sinking our teeth into a couple of slices of Frank's finest.

After a while, mom became concerned that dad was taking so long. It usually only took him 20 or 25 minutes to pop up to 4th Avenue pick up the pie and return home. It had been over an hour since he left to go up to Frank's. We lived in a rough neighborhood, but my brother and I were confident that dad - being a body builder and longshoreman - could handle himself. Still...

Just as we were about to call the police, we heard dad coming up the stairs of our apartment building. Phew! The door opened and there stood dad with a pizza box in his hands and a mischievous grin on his face. "What?" mom asked. "You'll see", dad replied. We all moved into the living room.

Dad made a big production of placing the pizza box on the living room coffee table. Then slowly and deliberately, and with as much flourish as possible, he opened the box. "TA DA!" he said, gesturing towards the box with outstretched hands. We all leaned forward to see what was up.

Inside was a heart shaped pizza. "Happy Valentine's Day", dad told mom, then gave her a big kiss. Mom exclaimed, "Ohhhhhhh!" in the way some women do, and kissed him back. "That's so clever. I've never seen one of these before. How did you get him to make it in the shape of a heart? But what took you so long, hon?"

Dad then explained that he'd been thinking about giving mom a heart-shaped pizza for Valentine's Day for some time but when he tried describing what he wanted to the pizza guy at Frank's (was it Frank? we'll never know) he couldn't. The barrier, of course, was the fact that dad didn't speak any Italian and the pizza guy could speak only enough English to take the typical customer's order. "Two slice. One Coke." But dad found a solution.

Joe Coco owned a little Italian grocery store on the street level of the apartment building dad's mom (my grandmother) lived in. It was only a couple of blocks away from Frank's. Dad ran over to Joe Coco's store and caught him just as he was closing shop for the night. Joe was a quiet, nice, gracious, generous and helpful Italian gentleman who also happened to have a crush on dad's aunt Flory - my grandmother's sister. I don't know which one of those traits was responsible for him helping out, but when dad asked Joe if he would do him a favor, Joe didn't hesitate.

Joe and dad went back to Frank's, dad told Joe what he wanted and Joe translated to the pizza guy.

And mom got a heart-shaped pizza for Valentines Day.

And a couple of years later Joe Coco became Uncle Joe when he married Aunt Flory.