Ed Note: This is the third of what John Davis Collins now entitles a Christmas tetra-trilogy. John Davis Collins says, " In reading all of the -tetra-trilogy remember that I loathe Christmas because the stories are true."The Inditer Christmas Page
A Traditional Christmas Adapted from the unpublished novel "Squeeze Play" by John Davis Collins
© all rights reserved by John Davis Collins, Esq.
It was a partner's meeting just before Christmas. Gene sat behind his desk looking through a file in silence. His hawkish eyes scanned every letter of the agreement . From a couch behind me, Bob's round face looked at me suspiciously. I felt as if my spot on the mahogany chair was the hot seat in Sing-Sing Prison.
I remember the time right before Christmas, just a year ago when my partner , my partner Bob proposed Gene as a member of the partnership in our little firm, then in less sumptuous milieu in a ramshackle office over a convenience store. Gene had plans which our small firm barely eked a living out of the floatstone could hardly afford. To my protests Gene pithily replied, "Thinking small a little law firm like yours may not make enough to support itself."
Right now, a year later, the air bristled with an impending feud. "The church," Gene declared, "is now caught in a squeeze between the prior owner's delinquent taxes and the lack of any clear provision requiring payment out of escrow funds. It means litigation."
"Lawyers only write down the terms, real people agree to. If stodgy Reverend Padrone wasn't so intent "to redeem" that property from "Satan," I could have insisted on ..." I replied coolly with the text book answer.
My first client in our new resplendent office had been Reverend Padrone. With bony fingers he pointed to the heavens and asked, "Do you follow Him ?"
"I guess," I replied with a laugh, "I certainly do not follow 'Her.'"
Padrone had bolted from my office. I wished the Devil had chased him away permanently.
I shuddered that I now lived with the consequences of Padrone's return. True, Rick," Gene studied the agreement, "Granted the church was over anxious to close the deal. Still you should have drafted a tighter agreement."
When the agreement was made, I was running back and forth to nickel and dime closings to meet our greatly enhanced overhead. I had asked permission to farm either the running around work or the big commercial closing to Jerry McClain, a hanger-on whom I tolerated as a tenant. "Certainly not," Gene had ruled, "We're no charity."
"...Forget that we're doing, I had reminded Gene, "a $10,000 job for the Church for free."
"Deduct it from my share of the profits at the end of the year." Gene commanded.
Now at Christmas we debated losses, not profits.
In the present tense, I thought carefully before I responded, "I explained the agreement to Reverend Padrone... I told him to talk to you... His Deacons, his Vestryman.. I told him to talk to the Pope for all I care."
Unfortunately Reverend Padrone had been led back to my office by Gene. "A clash of cultures, but not of non -belief." Gene explained to the Reverend.
"This is a law firm in 20th Century Long Island...," I replied in amazement, "not a seminary in 15th Century Europe." I retorted.
From the back of the room. Rob who usually remained silent interjected, "That's one of the problems, Rick... You appealed to the Pope as the ultimate authority."
"Figure of speech," I snapped, "it means talk to anybody you want... to God, if you can... It's just... my way of talking... It's no reason for the good Reverend to pull a dip..."
"Ah," Gene gasped.
"Dip-stick...?" I rolled my eyes in disbelief, " something you measure the oil in your car with... grimy, greasy ?" I deliberately ended in an inflection as if a question.
The agreement had been reviewed by Gene before the Church signed it. "I wish," Gene at the time commented, "I knew more about real estate."
Rob replied, "And that's our next point, the cursing and the swearing.. you and Lisa Ciano, your secretary ... and some of your buddies like Rocco Fulmagetti and Guido Grimbrone... do around the office... that has to stop." While Gene closed his eyes in prayer, Rob pointed a finger at me. "And that's the next point... Rocco and Guido and some of the other characters who hang around..."
In the new resplendent office, tall curly haired Rocco Fulmagetti and short bald Guido Grimbone felt free to wander in whenever they pleased.
Rocco, though born in the U.S. and a graduate of a named college, loved to play the congenial pleasant immigrant. When challenged by a secretary, Rocco raised an arm and retorted, "Ashpit, I'm visiting my family... my brother Ricky, my sister Lisa and my cousin Jerry McClain. Just ask Roberto, he used to be Italiano."
My response to Bob came from teeth gritted in annoyance. Rocco and Guido brought in the business... the paying kind.
"Hey, what's wrong here, Bob... You forget... you used to be an Italian... you used to be a Catholic... We started this together down and dirty over a laundromat...saying 'Are we Guineas or what' ? When did all that change ?"
Rob paused before he replied in a soft tone, "We have clients from our church --- but also some from yours too who ask, 'What would Christ Lord Jesus say if He heard such talk?'....." Gene closed his eyes in prayer for a second. "We're trying to be civilized..." He shook his head, "just for the office Christmas Party... could have a little decorum ?"
I was so angry when I left Gene's corner office I nearly bumped into the rickety table some of the surplus, unneeded secretaries Gene had put on payroll were setting up for the Christmas Party. "Good," I growled, "I finally see you doing some work."
I leaned on the table and listened to it squeak. The squeak carried me back to the signing of the lease when I had brought a check Rob and I had slaved to make for our share of the first month's rents. Gene calmly wrote a check on the newly created firm's credit line.
"Hey, that's OUR money. You're putting no money into the firm." My eyes flashed angrily.
Rising from the table, Gene casually replied non-plussed, "That's what creative financing is all about."
I shook my head. It was hard to believe my own stupidity for the year that followed. "I'm just a hard headed Italian trying to make the impossible work."
The ladies looked at me I hadn't realized I had been talking out loud. I snorted and moved toward the Ghetto.
I stormed into the ghetto, a cubby hole where they had shoved my secretary Lisa, and Jerry McClain, together with the extra people Gene had hired at my expense, the bookkeeper, the paralegal, the law clerk and for all I know a psychoanalyst to study the nut house.
Only Jerry and Lisa could withstand my snarl. The others fled, as I bathed in the breeze of the retreat, I told Lisa, "Sister, I need to make some Italian men-folk chatter with my pisano Jerry. Park it somewhere else for a minute..."
Lisa left the room with the rejoinder, "Gratias, Signor Don."
I collapsed in a chair. Jerry's small legs inched his swivel chair toward me. The fading freckles on his face, under the dark homburg danced.
I sighed. "More fallout over the Centereach Evangelical Union... Dipstick Reverend wants to blame the agreement he signed on me. Worse my buddy Rob has deserted the Italian Cause."
Jerry chuckled under his breath; his lean face hid a grin. "And what do you think being an Italian is ?"
"An Italian is faithful... faithful to his church, faithful to his friends and faithful to his work."
Jerry nodded sympathetically. "What do you think of Bob deserting the 'One True Faith' for 'The Old Time Religion' ?" I muttered.
Jerry paused thoughtfully before he responded. "Of course Ireland has religious freedom like all civilized democracies. You can be Jewish and Irish... so was a Mayor of Dublin of many years standing... You can be a disciple of St. Andrew and follow the faith of our Orthodox brethren in the East... You can even follow the prophet Zorocaster, or Buddha or even Mohammed, or no religion at all, if you choose, but if you're with the enemy you must be English."
When I finished laughing, I said "Com'n Jerry, you get along with carnival Christians... you take some overflow work off Gene... the ones who won't see me. "
"In business, what flag people want to hang on the pole is not your concern. Where they're spending their money is... when doctrinal disputes intervene, the relationship is not business."
"What would Christ Lord Jesus say, indeed?" I asked the heavens.
Jerry stood and patted me on the shoulder and said, "Life can be like a football match,,, The guy on the other line may be a decent chap,,, but he's still on the other team and ..."
Rocco Fulmigetti and Guido pushed their way into the Ghetto and glared at the high casement window above Lisa's desk. One of the secretaries ran in behind them. "Mr. San Angelo," she said to me "Gene would prefer your guests..."
Rocco threw his huge hands above his curly black hair and yelled, "Madone, come here like I always do to see my pisan and I have the bulls chasing me around... What's a matter Rick, you ain't explained, I'm family here."
"I'm visiting with my relatives, " I dismissed the secretary. "We'll be out for the party."
"Ungats, Rick," Rocco said, "Like I don't feel comfortable here, like I did when it was just you and Bobby... back in the days when Bobby was an Italian."
"Hey, Rick," Guido gritted his teeth, "Your buddy Jerry ain't at home. He's got his hat on like he don't like our company."
Rocco faked a hand slap at Guido. "Ashpit, Guido; Jerry's like perfectly at home. He's just wearing the old black hat of a ...priest.. Can't you see how saintly he looks ?"
Guido craned his neck toward the outer office. "Hey it looks like they're making with the food... we'd better get out there..."
In the secretarial office, Reverend Padrone was chatting with Gene and Bobby with the staff gathered on either side of them.
We were joined on the other side of the room by some local businessmen, contractors, mostly. "Hey, we was like right behind Rocco and they locked the door on us..., fun..." the contractor caught himself when looked at Lisa and apologized, "Oh, I'm sorry."
"Go ahead," Lisa replied, "Gene wanted to fire me for cussing up a storm this morning."
On the other side hands were linked.
"What's coming down ? Is this the Last Supper ? or what?" Rocco asked as he glared with annoyance at the line linked in prayer.
"The opposition," Jerry growled, "is praying ... and didn't invite us."
"Huh,..." Guido snarled with eyebrows raised, "It ain't like I don't wash my hands after..." Guido rubbed his hands together.
When the cluster of hands on the other side dropped their hands and raised their heads, Rocco, then Guido, then the rest of the Italians started chanting, "Prayer... Prayer... Prayer." It was electrifying soon even Jerry, Lisa and I were shouting with them. Rocco pushed Jerry forward and kelt before the astonished Jerry. Hands folded, Rocco thundered a command, "Father Jerry, teach us how to pray..."
Jerry looked at me uneasily... I nodded for him to go ahead. We dropped to one knee and looked toward the ceiling.
"Ah...," Jerry said blessing himself, "nomine patris, filius, spiritus santis amen," before he slowly moved his hands to bless us... "Thanks for the fish....
Thanks for the meat....
Great God have mercy
It's time to eat...Amen."
Jerry was about to slink back into the crowd, Rocco commanded. "Good prayer father, now we need a Benediction something with an Italian accent.
"Um... I want to be an Americana Let the apple fritters fry
I gave up on Pizza Pie
Tomato Soup, not Minestrone
To heck with family
I want to be left alone
Egg Noodles, in place of Vermicelli
Cottage Cheese without Mozzarella
No Tortoni, no Spumoni
A name to end in M-N or R.."
Our side of the room laughed and started to beat out a rhythm on the desk tops: Bonbonelli, Vermicelli, Tortenilli, Pizza Pie, Shot in the eye !
Faces dropped in the other lines. Gene, Rob and their guests stared at us in confusion.
"Hey," I said, "we 'ain't real Italians. We haven't even attacked the food."
As the frontal assault on the rickety table began, plates, plastic knives and forks, even cups were discarded, dropped on the floor and their holders fled in shock. Reverend Padrone was the last to leave his mouth was wide open when we reached the table. The prize was ours !
Up and down the table, lids were taken off steaming plates to disappointed gasps... "Cocktail franks," " Chinese slop," "some egg glop," "Chicken Soup.."
"Hey," yelled Rocco, "Where the calamari, the scungelli, the baccula, what kind of Christmas is this ? Lets get on the phone to Gastrone at his deli and get some real food...!"
"What kind of Christmas is this, indeed ?" I asked, "What would Christ say if He had been here ?"
Jerry stopped munching on a ham sandwich to reply, "If He had stood on the wrong side of the room, ... We'd have run Him off too..."
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