Beach Home-Personal Narrative
“And you are part of the garbage whether you know or care to admit, you have been in this business as long as you have been in Galveston, and soon you will be a recognized member of The Family.”
“Filippo, what else, my God, what else?”
“I’ll be with him in the living room of your beach house. Notice that I said your beach house. You’ll come in from the beach by way of the deck that faces the Gulf. He’ll be sitting with his back to you and I will introduce you as my baby. Then I’ll say to you,
“Get my friend a glass of Ruffino, the Reserve, or the best bottle of Italian
wine we have.” You can’t find it so I get up and get the silencer and shoot him three times in his big red head. We pick him up, wrap him in a blanket, a blanket which I …show more content…
bought for the occasion, and we put him in the trunk of your car and drive him to the end of West beach, by the bridge. Later we call the police from Red’s grocery store on a pay phone.
The next day I will call the Don and tell him we sold the stock in the Irish Oatmeal Company.
“It’s done.”
“One more thing, Picca, in The Family you have to earn “Respecto” You learn how to do it, and some never learn and they pay for it. Still hungry?”
‘’No, Filippo, I think I’ve had enough for this night. I guess this is one of those nights.”
“Picca, things will be different for you from now on. Being part and partner of a business makes life more exciting and easier to understand, and a hell of a lot more money. The Family likes America because they can pick grapes off of the vines immediately without the nonsense of buying the seeds, waiting for the vines to grow, watching the grapes, carrying for them, and then fighting to keep the business. Now in America all you have to do is own the winery. Do you understand …show more content…
me?”
“I don’t know if I ever will.”
“You have to know the system and know how it works. It’s no different here than in Italy except there you have hundreds of years of customs, more bull shit, and plenty of fancy and polite words. In America money is it from top to bottom. By the way, this meal is on The Family. The evening is free.”
“Or very expensive.” And to himself Picca is thinking that after all these years I will continue to think for myself, but someone else will be listening, and my thoughts will have to be correct, or else.
CHAPTER 4
TWO FUNERALS
Figures of the past, listless, drained and white
As silent as the drifting dark of night Then, all the lucid sounds of now and then and sounds of meditation, sounds a/ Zen
Figures of the past are as much a part of the interior of a Catholic Church as are crucifixes, quietude, and holy water. You are never alone yet your mind can be in neutral or as active as the ceremony that is taking place at the altar. Generally, a Mass is complex and beautiful and your mind is in a mood of concentration or it can wander, especially when you are in a routine of repeating your prayers as fast as your mind desires. Actually, even though you are concentrating on the holy rituals, you can be out of focus, and the younger you are the worse it can be. Though no one else in the church knows what your thoughts are you know for sure that God does, and sometimes you wonder about the innocent statues of the Saints who have spiritual power beyond the ordinary. Such thoughts can put you in a spiritual mood and make you feel that you are protected by the holiness that surrounds you.
Although the interior of Saint Mary’s in Memorial was beautiful and yet common the church and its complex of buildings was different for it was far away from the noise and calamity of Katy Freeway, as it was tucked away on a quiet street that was surrounded by tall trees, beds of flowers, pruned bushes and lush grass that changed color with the seasons. Today it was as clean and manicured as an English manor. On this special Wednesday morning Saint Mary’s was swelling with a sadness, notoriety, and a church filled with
parishioners and outsiders who were attending a High Mass for three young brothers who died of asphyxiation only three days ago.
They were Jerome, Raymond and Gerald LaFleur, and they were nine, thirteen and fourteen respectively. The weather in the Houston area for the past week had been much colder than usual, and the new gas heater in the boy’s bedroom had been turned on for the first time. It had been installed incorrectly by the Father, Mr. LaFleur. Such a burden of grief is unthinkable. The church was filled with poor souls who wanted to express their grief. There also was a special section for the Media who were there to do a job under trying circumstances. Most noticeable was a section of young men and women who were friends of the victims, all dressed in their best. They were immaculate and fresh in appearance as were their thoughts that they were sheltering and saving for the ceremony. The funeral was a first for many of the children who appeared as sweet and innocent as. the colorful flowers that gracefully covered the railings of the altar and the three caskets. The LaFleur family was of French descent and a family of very modest means who managed on the Father’s meager salary, and the kindness of several of the church members who were more fortunate, and who, unknown to the father and mother, were subsidizing his salary. It was money that never made it to the collection box. Frank Banion was part of this remuneration and in a quiet way, so quiet that his wife
Jullia was unaware of this act of generosity.
The ceremony began in a frightening silence that was followed by physical fidgeting, restlessness and a mixture of thoughts, young and old, with memories as resolute yet as distant and afar as is usually the case when death is honored by those in its presence.
“Filippo, what else, my God, what else?”
“I’ll be with him in the living room of your beach house. Notice that I said your beach house. You’ll come in from the beach by way of the deck that faces the Gulf. He’ll be sitting with his back to you and I will introduce you as my baby. Then I’ll say to you,
“Get my friend a glass of Ruffino, the Reserve, or the best bottle of Italian
wine we have.” You can’t find it so I get up and get the silencer and shoot him three times in his big red head. We pick him up, wrap him in a blanket, a blanket which I …show more content…
bought for the occasion, and we put him in the trunk of your car and drive him to the end of West beach, by the bridge. Later we call the police from Red’s grocery store on a pay phone.
The next day I will call the Don and tell him we sold the stock in the Irish Oatmeal Company.
“It’s done.”
“One more thing, Picca, in The Family you have to earn “Respecto” You learn how to do it, and some never learn and they pay for it. Still hungry?”
‘’No, Filippo, I think I’ve had enough for this night. I guess this is one of those nights.”
“Picca, things will be different for you from now on. Being part and partner of a business makes life more exciting and easier to understand, and a hell of a lot more money. The Family likes America because they can pick grapes off of the vines immediately without the nonsense of buying the seeds, waiting for the vines to grow, watching the grapes, carrying for them, and then fighting to keep the business. Now in America all you have to do is own the winery. Do you understand …show more content…
me?”
“I don’t know if I ever will.”
“You have to know the system and know how it works. It’s no different here than in Italy except there you have hundreds of years of customs, more bull shit, and plenty of fancy and polite words. In America money is it from top to bottom. By the way, this meal is on The Family. The evening is free.”
“Or very expensive.” And to himself Picca is thinking that after all these years I will continue to think for myself, but someone else will be listening, and my thoughts will have to be correct, or else.
CHAPTER 4
TWO FUNERALS
Figures of the past, listless, drained and white
As silent as the drifting dark of night Then, all the lucid sounds of now and then and sounds of meditation, sounds a/ Zen
Figures of the past are as much a part of the interior of a Catholic Church as are crucifixes, quietude, and holy water. You are never alone yet your mind can be in neutral or as active as the ceremony that is taking place at the altar. Generally, a Mass is complex and beautiful and your mind is in a mood of concentration or it can wander, especially when you are in a routine of repeating your prayers as fast as your mind desires. Actually, even though you are concentrating on the holy rituals, you can be out of focus, and the younger you are the worse it can be. Though no one else in the church knows what your thoughts are you know for sure that God does, and sometimes you wonder about the innocent statues of the Saints who have spiritual power beyond the ordinary. Such thoughts can put you in a spiritual mood and make you feel that you are protected by the holiness that surrounds you.
Although the interior of Saint Mary’s in Memorial was beautiful and yet common the church and its complex of buildings was different for it was far away from the noise and calamity of Katy Freeway, as it was tucked away on a quiet street that was surrounded by tall trees, beds of flowers, pruned bushes and lush grass that changed color with the seasons. Today it was as clean and manicured as an English manor. On this special Wednesday morning Saint Mary’s was swelling with a sadness, notoriety, and a church filled with
parishioners and outsiders who were attending a High Mass for three young brothers who died of asphyxiation only three days ago.
They were Jerome, Raymond and Gerald LaFleur, and they were nine, thirteen and fourteen respectively. The weather in the Houston area for the past week had been much colder than usual, and the new gas heater in the boy’s bedroom had been turned on for the first time. It had been installed incorrectly by the Father, Mr. LaFleur. Such a burden of grief is unthinkable. The church was filled with poor souls who wanted to express their grief. There also was a special section for the Media who were there to do a job under trying circumstances. Most noticeable was a section of young men and women who were friends of the victims, all dressed in their best. They were immaculate and fresh in appearance as were their thoughts that they were sheltering and saving for the ceremony. The funeral was a first for many of the children who appeared as sweet and innocent as. the colorful flowers that gracefully covered the railings of the altar and the three caskets. The LaFleur family was of French descent and a family of very modest means who managed on the Father’s meager salary, and the kindness of several of the church members who were more fortunate, and who, unknown to the father and mother, were subsidizing his salary. It was money that never made it to the collection box. Frank Banion was part of this remuneration and in a quiet way, so quiet that his wife
Jullia was unaware of this act of generosity.
The ceremony began in a frightening silence that was followed by physical fidgeting, restlessness and a mixture of thoughts, young and old, with memories as resolute yet as distant and afar as is usually the case when death is honored by those in its presence.