Tommy Q
Now Tommy Q was the closet non family guy on the crew to Joey for a real good reason. Growing up Tommy Q said just one thing over and and over and over again, like a record stuck in a skip. He said it in the morning when he went to the bathroom. He said it on the bus ride. He said it at dinner. He said it at recess, at lunch and whenever anyone said anything that interested him. Even when the conversation had nothing to do with him, he said it then.
When teachers sent him to the Principal Dickhus office for saying what he said, he said it there too. Everyone already knew what Tommy Q was going to say before he spoke.
“Now Thomas,” asked Mrs. Meinert. “Who discovered America?”
“I’m going to make fucking pizza,” Tommy Q said under his breath, a bit too loudly. There was no denying what was said, the crime was clear.
Mrs. Meinert turned red and bellowed, “Go to the Principal’s office!”
Keep in mind that wasn’t the planned response. Tommy knew who discovered America. He wasn’t trying to mouth off, that’s just what he said all the time. I sat in front of Tommy in history class, and Tommy talked to me all the time under his breath about the pizza business. He had the details all scoped. Where to get the ovens, how much dough to use, what temperature to run the refrigerators, how long the sauce lasted. It was all part of the big Tommy Q plan. So when he said that thing about the pizzas in History, it just really slipped out. It was intended for me. Well probably more for him, but he said it to back of my head all the same. Mrs. Meinert wanted none of that. At that moment, I didn’t want to hear about pizza either. I was sick of it.
Inside the office, Tommy Q sat across from the big guy, holding his hands at his sides, awaiting the usual exchange, parry, raise and detention. Dickhus ended every statement with a question. Like if you asked about his weekend went, he’d answer, “It was adequate don’t you think?” You get the idea. “Three times in a week is a lot of trips to my office, wouldn’t you say?” asked Dickhus. Dickhus was a guy with a pile of big, dark secrets.
“Yeah,” said Tommy.
“And your language is a bit colorful for History class, no?”
“Well I am going to make…”
Principal Dickhus sighed. “We all know the dream,. I’m just concerned about your future Thomas. Your grades are unacceptable, and most teachers dread asking you questions. Think of it like me for a second, what would you do if you were me about a situation like yours?”
“Let me make fu…pizza.”
Dickhus stared at his own reflection on the shine of the desk top. “Thomas, frankly I don’t want to see you in detention again this week. At this time there might be some gain in a dialog with the guidance counselor. Perhaps someone else can put this all in the proper perspective for you. Here’s a hall pass. Go see Bob Stiles now, yes?”
As irritating as Dickhus was, Stiles the counselor was odd. Maybe it’s just me but there was something off center with high school guidance counselors in the first place. But when a fifty-three year old man resembled a weasel, lived with his aunt and had a mustache, that went double. Although, his aunt looked pretty good with a mustache.
Stiles ran down Tommy Q’s whole academic life at a glance, including pop quiz results from that morning. Stiles was ready for the meeting, ready for the respect-my-authority preach. The performance records showed a battlefield of bad grades, progress reports and red circles and arrows, all filed in a manila folder. As Stiles reviewed the pages, he skated a finger across the key points like a flat stone across an iced over lake.
“Thomas Quinosa the Third. 2.27987 GPA. Ten absences this term, twenty seven detentions. Average test scores. Poor penmanship. What do you think this academic file says about you as a person?”
“Says I don’t care too much for school.”
“Anything else?”
“You got me on the penmanship thing. I suck at writing,” said Tommy.
“What I’d like to talk to you about is why you don’t think you should care. You don’t strike me as a middle of the road sort of person, although your grades are borderline average in every way. Forget the university, at this rate you can’t even get into a community college in Idaho. Why?”
Tommy Q considered the question carefully and went with the truth. “I don’t need college to make pizza.”
“That’s very true. However, if you went to college, you could learn how to write a business plan. Then you could borrow money and expand the pizza business. Maybe start franchising.” Stiles really believed he had Tommy against the ropes then. I forget what method therapists use to break down barriers. Psychology was crap, really.
Anyway, by feigning some deep interest in Tommy’s future in pizza, Stiles bet the teenager would listen. Tommy had other ideas. For Tommy Q this was a chance out of detention.
Patting the green book bag that laid next to his sneakers, Tommy Q patted the binder through the nylon. The binder with thousands of details about the pizza empire to be. He shook his head. “Hadn’t considered that angle, Mr. Stiles.” That was an outright lie. He had considered that angle. He had an organic growth model mapped out to the dollar for completely self-financed expansions. I had heard all about them. Didn’t care to hear about them, but Tommy told me anyway.
“And would it be fair to say that maybe there are other angles you might not have considered? And if you applied yourself a little more thoroughly in your studies these answers might present themselves.” Stiles was on a roll. This was the high point of the week, maybe the whole month. He probably believed he had gained ground with Tommy Q. What a mustached weasel.
“You could say that,” said Tommy Q.
“And so going forward maybe this new perspective will help focus your studies?”
“Sure,” Tommy said, seriously as possible. He listened to Stiles drone about the importance of academic performance in the face of global competition and so forth. How what he did in high school would dog him for the rest of his life. Phrases like permanent record, don’t sell yourself short, why make things hard for yourself. The usual guidance counselor mantra. According to Tommy later this went on for thirty more minutes.
“OK, then Thomas, back to class with you. I feel like we’ve made a breakthrough here.”
“Oh absolutely, Mr. Stiles.”
“And when you go back to class if Mrs. Meinert asks who discovered America, what’s another possible answer?”
“Christopher Columbus.”
“Very good!” Stiles was delighted. “That’s the spirit Thomas!”
Tommy Q collected the book bag with the binder and rose. “The Vikings brought pizza to this great country. Did you know that?” asked Tommy Q.
“No I did not.”
“Maybe I’m not the one who needs to pay attention in History class.”
Now the reason this has much to do with Joey Vinny is simple. All Tommy Q wanted was to make pizza. And Joey Vinny was the only guy who ever believed in Tommy Q. The lone buddy who believed the dream and believed in him. When Tommy Q spouted about mixing dough with cornstarch, Joey Vinny listened real polite like and said, “You’re going to be the king of all pizza. King of all pizza.”
That sentiment always cheered Tommy Q bunches, especially during their daily stints in detention. Joey was in detention almost every day for losing one thing or another, be it the attendance cards or milk money.
Joey and Tommy Q were close in a straight guy sort of way. Joey boosted Tommy’s ego; Tommy never faulted Joey for being a loser.
Still, the rest of us busted Joey something fierce. You know how guys got, dog pile on the rabbit and the weakest rabbit got the beating. Not Tommy Q. He never knocked Joey Vinny. Not once.

Mr. And Mrs. Vinny

The rightful place to start is with Joey’s parents because they molded him more than anyone besides me and the crew. When Joey was two they visited a psychic out in Greenwich Village. It was a basement apartment with plastic beads dangling from the door frame, walls that needed paint and candles that reeked of sandalwood. A typical shyster operation. The City was built on them. By the way, by City, I meant New York City. Anyways, that night the old, wrinkled face psychic forecast a long and uncertain journey for Joey. She declared that with more sessions, the path might clear.
His mother spotted that ploy right for more money. Not really the smartest move for the psychic. One liar never believes another. And Mrs. Vinny was a horrible about lying. She lied about everything. My mom said that she just wasn’t bound by convention.
I loved my aunt. Really I did. She was my kind of liar. Her tales were top shelf. If you bother to do something, might as well go for it all the way, no holding back.
You know how some lies are just flat and pathetic, like the people who spew them? Just no way anyone would ever buy them. They ooze insincerity. Well hers were out there, stretching the bounds of reality and good sense, but they were entertaining. Even though she didn’t intend it, she could’a buried any stand up comic. The best part was she couldn’t understand how funny what she said was.
Like one time Joey was real late for basketball camp, and his mom drove him and told the coach they were late because the entire street blew up on account of a construction project that went wrong. Mind you, I made it on time and lived right next door. To be fair, road crews had painted a new crosswalk lines at the other end of the block the previous month. A construction job, just like she had claimed. Just there weren’t no explosives involved.
Hell yeah Mrs. Vinny saw right through the psychic scam. Shaking her fist and cursing, she never returned to the ripoff parlor with Joey. So much for astrology. Cosmically speaking though, that was one shyster who spoke the truth. The path of Joey was murky.
Maybe Mrs. Vinny didn’t want to admit that she had suspected the same fate for Joey. There were plenty of cues. Like how she spoke to him. She stood on the front stoop yelling, wearing light blue sweats, palms hovering near the rail without clutching it. Mrs. Vinny never used the rail even though she was heavy and her backside rippled when she walked. She didn’t want to break a nail. They were blue and real expensive and matched the eyeliner. And at two minutes to seven six nights a week, she yelled, “Break it up ya losers! Joey, get your ass in here!”
Sure she loved Joey. Mrs. Vinny just showed love differently. Like on his birthday she always bought cupcakes for the whole class. Actually she never paid for them. What she really did was order from a pay phone with a phony name, send Joey in first, trot behind and tell the baker that her purse was back in the car. Every year Mrs. Vinny stiffed a different shop. She stiffed every bakery in the five Boroughs. Joey was real good at sprinting with a box.
At school Joey opened the classroom door and carried the sweets in, then passed’em out like a cigarettes to everyone while she watched in the corner, breathing heavy and checking her nails. The sugared treats were pretty cool when we were seven. At eighteen it was sorta odd, but what the hell, you know? If it’s free it’s for me. Besides, there was nothing I could do to stop my aunt. Ratting her out was unthinkable. She just wanted the best for her boy. Only the worst kind of scum turns on family. There had better be a grand jury with a sealed indictment and your name on it, before you even dreamed about thinking about doing that. It sure as hell was not over a buck and half worth of flour. Anyway, she taught them bakers a lesson – cash deposit in advance.
Joey had other problems besides a lying mom. His dad was a boozer. One year the day after Joey’s birthday I ran into Mr. Vinny on the front stoop draining a half liter of vodka. “Hi!” I said, rushing past the apartment on my way to park, bouncing a basketball. As leader, I was in charge of the gear. I was in a hurry that day too, but I stopped. Mr. Vinny was my uncle and godfather.
“How dare you look at me like that!” he said. “Your godfather no less.” The words struck hard. He meant no harm I thought.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I know what you kids say about me behind me back.”
“Who would talk smack about you?”
“Don’t lie to me Gerald. You’re an amateur.”
“But I’m not lying!”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?” she asked.
“No Uncle Ron.”
“How many times I gotta tell you? Don’t call me that.”
“OK, OK Mr. Vinny. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a liar. I swear.”
“I’m calling my sister right now, and when your father gets home tonight you better start apologizing for hurting his hands. Cause he’s going to smack that pretty boy face of yours raw. You’re going to learn some respect.”
Mr. Vinny never did call mom about whatever it is that he thought was said, and I never asked about it. Maybe all the other vodka bottles each week in their trash can had something to do with that temper. I could be wrong.
Looking back, the cards were stacked against Joey in a number of ways, right from birth. Still, nobody loved Joey Vinny more than Mrs. Vinny. And that was good. She had a big heart. It’s not just those cupcakes she bought him either. It was tons of other little things. Come Christmas time, everyone wanted to be Mrs. Vinny’s friend. She gave the fattest gifts.
Money was no object with her. One thing was you never asked her what store she got them from, because she said the same thing. “Just fell off the back of a truck,” she said.
One year she gave my mom a solid glass coffee table. Pretty impressive that it didn’t break falling onto the street. Guess it was made from special bullet proof glass. Anyway the table was nice and shiny and my mom polished the table once a week. That same year Joey Vinny got a television, an awesome set with surround sound, huge speakers and a massive screen. Now that was love. Picking that big set up off the street and dragging it inside, risking her nails and all. And she had sciatica.
Her love didn’t stop there. Like I said, Mrs. Vinny put on the production to end all productions at the funeral. There was barely a dry eye in the house. But that was for later.
We’ll get there.

Here’s part one of the short story promised last week, the first of four posts in the series. Master Buddhapuss speaks on Friday, so the saga concludes next Tuesday. Before the first post – the usual legal disclaimer applies – the story is copyrighted to me, Writer guy. Comment as you like. 😉 The more comments the better.

Another important point: this story has nothing to do with The Ridge Runner or Velocity. I’d love to post chunks of those novels. Unfortunately, there’s an unpleasant clause in many publishing contracts, especially fiction, called first rights. By first rights, the publisher controls the right to publish the material “first” in whatever medias they choose, electronic, print or otherwise. A few novelists lost book deals in recent years because they had posted chapters on the Internet before they had a contract or an offer. Whether that’s fair is anyone’s guess. It’s happened and I’d rather not be a statistic. Right now the market for short stories is weak, the field competitive. Thus, the potential downside is minimal.

Enough foreplay. Meet Joey Vinny….

People always ask if Joey Vinny really lost a poker game to a blind woman. Well, that was true. It was also true that woman was eighty-four at the time. Joey Vinny was an absolutely pathetic loser – at more than just cards. If he bought two hundred scratch-offs from Patel, he choked on the scratch off dust. If Joey bet six out of nine dogs to place, none showed. If he bet on football he blew the spread. But the truth about his loser nature was just among friends ” the crew. In public I never owned up to the the real story. I stoked the rumor mill like everyone else.
The first reason was respect. It just wasn’t right for a guy to badmouth a cousin like that. And Joey and I were tight, almost like brothers. We were born on the same day. We played in the same park as kids, went to the same schools and messed around with the same girls.
Second reason was that the eighty-four year old woman that beat him at poker was my grandmother. And she was a real sharp tiger, even blind. Poker is more about the people than the cards in their hands, and Grandma knew people. Anyways, maybe he threw the game because she was so old. Although, honestly, in a game of chance, Joey was screwed. Not to be rude or anything, those was just the facts.
But the real reason I didn’t deny Joey was a loser was because of the deal. Three of us were in on the thing. Uttering a word, even just a single word, might compromise the arrangement. The only way to keep a secret is to never speak of it. And that’s what we did.
The truth died with Joey Vinny.
At his funeral though, there was no deal yet. The deal was later.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. I do that sometimes. A doctor diagnosed me once with some kind of attention deficit disorder. Stupid doctors. All the they do is listen to you breathe and write scrips.
Anyways, even with Joey being what he was, it’s not like we didn’t like the guy. He was loved. We had hearts.
Before the burial services most of the crew cried. We cried behind closed doors, out of sight, bawling like a pack of wusses, carrying on like a pack of wussies, carrying on like our dear mothers had just passed. The tears stained the lapels of our black suits. The sleeves of our jackets ” they was the worst though. What a mess. My dad would’ve beat us all if he caught wind.
At the funeral, his mom and brother howled. To Mrs. Vinny it was the end of the world. She made sure everyone understood that. Even Father Tessio needed sedatives after the service. My grandmother hooked up Father. She was very generous with the Secanol. Poor guy, Father hadn’t been that rattled ever. With more than thirty-eight years at the parish, that was something.
That night back in the neighborhood, the air frosting up our breath, it was all salutes and smiles. We toasted Joey’s death. We even splurged for the good stuff: chilled Mickeys malt liquor in plastic cups.
Joey once said that everyone has a story, they just don’t know it yet. Come to think of it, Joey said a lot of confusing things. Well, this story isn’t all about Joey Vinny, although he’s as close to a centerpiece as it gets. It’s about the crew. And it’s also about what happens when the biggest loser in the world gets lucky.
One thing it’s not, is all pink and pretty. Theres no high gloss lipstick and six pack abs. Those that have six pack abs and wear high gloss lipstick, hey, whatever, it’s okay to go ahead and read about Joey and all. I’m no underboss.
All I’m saying is, just don’t expect glossy lipstick and abs and hot sex by chapter five. I promise a story. And this particular one may not be for you. So like, whatever. I’m just the messenger.
Joey Vinny wanted his story known. The whole story. The real story.