EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Opened Hydrants
This would be a summer for the ages; our youthful existence was celebrated like never before! Fanciful cinemas were brimming with wicked storm troopers and adorable droids who took us on a whimsical journey to galaxies far, far away, and although the King was laid to rest, music still reigned supreme. A ghostly executioner took his maniacal orders from the neighbor’s canine, while three beauties, along with a guy named Charlie, were fighting crime right in our very own living rooms. A computer named after a common fruit was coming home with us, while we were glued to our sets for an entire week over something called a miniseries that rightly opened our eyes. The lights did go out on Broadway, and yes, Virginia, the Yankees did conquer the universe again. It was a wondrous time, like none other. Mine was a turbulent adventure with such highs and lows as few lives have ever experienced. It was also an enduring conflict between what some claimed was an act of indomitable courage, yet others witnessed a profound doubt.
But, let me not get ahead of myself. This spectacle took place in the scintillating county of Kings during the tumultuous summer of 1977. During those sizzling months, I experienced triumphs, agony, fear, and a mythic love affair that had no end. This is also the story of the first time I died, and it went something like this…
My name is Anthony Marino, but everyone in my neighborhood called me
“Ant.” I’m sixteen years old, born, and bred in the rough and tumble neighborhood of Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. For those of you who are not familiar with my hometown, my friends and I call it Guineasville ( only we Italians can call each other a guinea and get away with it). In other words, in this neighborhood of ours, it’s not whether you’re Italian; it’s merely from what part of the boot your family hails?
I am the second faithful son of Saverio and Rosalina, prideful people who emigrated from Taormina, Sicily. My parents met as young teenagers, married and traveled to America ( sounds like a movie, doesn’t it? ). My mother was the dutiful housewife. A fanatical homemaker who would be mortified if you ever caught her without the beds being made, the furniture dusted, and fresh vacuum marks on all the carpets. There was always a pot of sauce gently simmering on the stove, its bouquet greeting you as you entered the front door — and a maganette ( espresso pot) steaming away, its mocha-like aroma declaring the humble brilliance of our home.
Everyone in my neighborhood knew my father; he was the finest example of a dying breed of ancient artisans, known around these parts as stonemasons. He was short, stout, yet a giant in stature. His complexion was dark enough that many mistook him for an Arab. My father was always working; he didn’t understand the word should; I think it might have made him a happier person.
My older brother Sal worked with my father, but he disliked it. What I really meant was that he hated it. Well, maybe that’s a little strong. Instead, working with the old man revealed everything Sal loathed about himself yet lacked the courage to face. You see, my brother Sal was the kind of person who, when asked, took five minutes to decide whether or not he wanted pepperoni on his pizza. Just the other night, he told me a secret I realized would devastate my father. I lay in bed and struggled with it. I wish he didn’t tell me, but I understood this would change Sal and the family forever.
