The Bookie's Daughter

by Heather Abraham

  “But you said no one was bigger than Daddy,” I cried, to which Bonnie assured me that the two oversized men were friendly and would never cause me harm. “You knew about them? Why did you lie to me?”

  “Hush now, you’re making a scene,” my mother admonished. “This is Big John. You knew him when you were very little. He is a good friend of your father’s. Now be nice and say hello. I promise he won’t hurt you.”

  Concerned at causing me such a fright, Big John sat on the ground beside me and put his arms out for a hug. Caught between fear and curiosity, I was reluctant. Laughing, he instructed Bud to get something from the truck. Bud produced a box full of colorful balls, which Big John began to juggle. After entertaining me with his juggling abilities, he reached behind my ear and pulled out a chocolate coin, and presented me with the treat. Eventually, I climbed up onto his immense shoulders and he announced that I was now the largest of all giants. Squealing with delight, I decided then and there that Big John would be my favorite playmate. It was love (after screams) at first sight.

  Big John stayed in Jeannette for a few days before going back on the road. Eventually, he brought his wife back to Jeannette, where they lived for the remaining years of their married life. Big John and his growing family lived close by the store and so he often witnessed the Abraham family dramas and squabbles. Because of his natural sweetness and genuine love for my family, he often found himself acting as a buffer between my parents and their two headstrong daughters, who increasingly challenged their outrageous actions.

  Like my father, Big John was adored by the neighborhood kids and he regularly accompanied us on adventurous trips to the movies, circus, amusements parks, and fairs. He and Al played games with more glee than all the neighborhood kids combined. As with my father, eating was his favorite pastime. Big John and Big Al were quite a spectacle when they were hungry, invading restaurants and gobbling up plates of food for hours on end. Of course, men of these proportions loved buffets. Seven Springs Ski Resort was their favorite place to feast. As famous for their fabulous cuisine as they were for their beautiful ski slopes, Seven Springs provided an array of the most delectable treats for their insatiable appetites. The Springs’ Friday night Neptune Buffet was the ultimate repast for these two giants, who would sit for hours on end eating a small school of fish and numerous pounds of shrimp.

  During one such trip to the Springs, I dropped the ravenous men off at the buffet and headed to the swimming pool for a few hours of relaxation. I luxuriated in the steamy, glass-enclosed pool area, which afforded swimmers a spectacular view of the ski slopes and snowy landscape. After enjoying an hour in the pool, I settled into a lounge chair to read a book, wrapped in a thick terry cloth robe. This was my escape, my favorite place in all the world—a sanctuary from my life on the Avenue. Three hours after leaving my giants, I emerged showered and refreshed to find that they had not made it to our agreed upon meeting spot. Sauntering through the lodge, I peered into the restaurant and found Big John and Big Al still at table.

  Astonishingly, I noticed the wagon of chilled shrimp, usually placed at the end of the buffet, was sitting astride the table. The giants were gleefully devouring mounds of the tiny delicacies. Passing by the host, who knew my family well, I noticed a look of discomfort on his face and realized that I had to put a stop to this show of gluttony. As I approached the table, I could see Al and Big John exchange a look that indicated they were prepared for the coming lecture.

  “Okay, guys, dinners over. Let’s go play some pool,” I cheerfully exclaimed, to which Big John complained that he wanted dessert. “You guys have been here for three hours and are terrorizing the guests and staff.” Exasperated with the cozy scene they had constructed, I added loudly, “What the hell is that wagon doing here?”

  Sheepishly, Big John explained that the plates were too small and he was tired of getting up for a refill, so he brought the entire wagon back to the table. Glancing around the room, I took in the looks of astonishment, amusement, and distress. I knew I had to get them out of the restaurant. Speaking to each one’s inner child, I challenged them to a game of pool. I upped the ante to make it more appealing to my father. “Dad,” I proposed, “if you guys beat me, I will forfeit my salary for a week.” Well, Al could never resist a bet. He agreed to meet me in the game room in fifteen minutes. True to his word, they arrived at the appointed time. I skinned them both!

  Afterwards, Al went off to play skeet ball as Big John stared longingly at the pool, bemoaning not having brought along his swimming trunks. When he conveyed this regret to Al, the two planned a return trip the following week for a day of swimming and another shot at the Neptune buffet. The following Friday, determined to prevent a repeat of the previous week’s outrageous spectacle, I joined them at feast. Their appetites temporarily satiated, we then moved on to the game room where we played pool and air hockey before retiring to the swimming pool for some wet and wild fun.

  Both giants loved to swim and both were quite athletic, considering their massive size. My father loved to dive. He gleefully sent enormous waves through the air, most often soaking those trying to relax poolside. As you can imagine, two 500-pound plus men diving into the pool created more than a little turbulence. Al would swim and then float on his back, a human floating dock. In the water, the giants were surprisingly agile and would often race each other, which made it virtually impossible for anyone else in the pool to enjoy a swim.

  Al and Big John were a magnificent spectacle, their size at odds with their boyish natures. Their intimidating bulk made for countless adventures. Wherever they went, they were the object of many stares, especially when together. Hanging out with them was not for the faint of heart. Early on, my sister and I became used to the attention, and learned to ignore the numerous stares.

  Seven Springs also offered a wide range of outdoor adventures for my giants to enjoy. The summer Alpine Slide, a large, winding snake of a slide affixed to the length of a ski slope, provided much entertainment. Big Al and Big John would race each other to the chairlifts, vying for first place before they even began their journey to the top of the mountain. After a ten-minute ride up the slopes, they would patiently wait in line until both slides became available, allowing them to race side-by-side down the mountain. Once squeezed into sleds made for average-sized men, they began their controlled descent, skillfully maneuvering the hairpin curves via the sled’s joystick. Upon reaching the open leg of the downhill journey, however, they let loose in an all-out mad dash to the finish line. Al would fly down the mountain screaming his characteristic cry of excitement, “Wahooooooo!”

  In the winter, the giants rented snowmobiles and raced through the woods like two teenagers. I often wondered at their energy and imagined that they must have been hellions in their youth. My sister and I marvel, even today, at their playfulness. Neither giant was aggressive by nature, as both were acutely aware that their size and sheer strength could be dangerous if unleashed. Yet, for all their sweet natures, they could become quite menacing when pushed to defend themselves or their loved ones. Unfortunately, I was the target of some shady characters over the years and on more than one occasion, one, or both of the giants would have to come to my aid.

  The Tacky Pimp and His Pimpmobile

  The pimpmobile made its first appearance while I was sitting at my station, guarding my fruit market. Of course, I was doing double-duty as a lookout for police officers intent on threatening the illegal poker game taking place in the basement of the store. I sat reading my book amidst mounds of fresh fruits and vegetables, but within reach of the hidden warning buzzer. Trouble unexpectedly approached in the form of a pimp who worked out of a neighboring town. The “Tacky Pimp,” as I quickly dubbed him, drove a garish burgundy Lincoln Continental. Pimping up the once elegant car, he had installed a black light in the rear window, which cast its bluish glow on a vibrant pink fur rug that covered the window ledge and seemingly flowed into the back seat. Large, blue stuffed dice hung from the r
ear-view mirror, swinging with the beat of the blaring music that one could hear—and feel—long before the car came into view.

  Apparently determined to look like a peacock, the driver was dressed in a red suit jacket, violet shirt, and a floppy, green hat. Stopping his pimpmobile at the red light in front of the store, the pimp whistled to get my attention. Glancing up, I marveled at the tacky spectacle but did not acknowledge him in the least. Minutes later, he was back at the red light, having driven around the block. The Loogie Man incident of the year before still fresh in my mind, I again ignored the pimp. It was on his third pass that he began to drop his vulgar word bombs, most involving how much money he could make on my “young, pink pussy.”

  Having learned my lesson the year before, I entered the store, bypassed my mother, and descended into the noisy, smoke-filled basement. Accustomed to my presence, the poker players barely looked up from their game. Rounding the table, I whispered in my father’s ear, describing my problem with the Tacky Pimp. He immediately folded his cards, made his excuses, and headed for the stairway. I followed along, grateful that I would not have to handle the pimp alone. At the top of the stairs, we bumped into Big John, who had just returned from a family vacation.

  “Hey, buddy,” my father explained, with a touch of amusement in his voice, “Heather has a problem outside that needs attending. Want to have a little fun?”

  Al filled Big John in on the pimp problem as we walked through the store. At the doorway, my father directed me to retake my post, while he and Big John stayed hidden just inside the entryway. Within a few minutes, the Tacky Pimp reappeared and renewed his vulgar, one-sided discussion. He was cut short by the honking horns of traffic behind him. Obviously agitated by my refusal to acknowledge him, he gunned the engine and laid tracks up the Avenue. Having now assessed the situation, Big John insisted on handling the pimp personally. Confident that he would properly take care of the pimp, my father acquiesced and returned to the basement.

  Exiting the store, my cuddly giant directed me to stay put, while he took up post in the walkway a few buildings down from the store. From this vantage point, he would be able to see and hear anything that occurred without the pimp becoming aware of his presence. It was not long before the pimp reappeared and resumed his vulgar barrage. Intent on getting a reaction out of me, the Tacky Pimp did not become aware of Big John’s presence until he felt the rear end of his car move.

  As soon as the pimp began to assail me with off-color remarks, Big John moved swiftly from his hiding place and took up position behind the pimpmobile. Squatting down, he grabbed the rear end of the Lincoln, lifting the back end into the air as he stood tall. The pimp’s crude utterances stopped in mid-sentence as the back of his vehicle became airborne. Turning to the rear, he exclaimed, “What the fuck?”

  At that moment, Big John dropped the rear end, sending the vehicle into a violent bounce. The pimp’s hat slipped sideways, and his head danced like a bobblehead doll. With the car still shuddering from its unexpected collision with the roadway, the pimp pushed his hat to its proper, upright position. He looked around in confusion.

  Spying Big John in the rear view mirror, the pimp’s puzzlement turned to sheer panic. Looking around, he must have realized his escape was impeded by several cars stopped for the light. The pimp began to roll up his window, desperate to put some form of barrier between him and the raging giant who was once again holding the rear of the car in mid-air. On the second release, the vehicle bounced with renewed vigor, sending the green hat flying into the back seat. Big John raced to the driver’s side and tried to open the door. Finding it locked, he effortlessly punched his fist through the window, grabbing the now-screaming pimp by the throat and dragging him halfway from the car.

  Big John seized the pimp by his hair and made him look directly at me. Uncharacteristically, he raised his voice. “Take a good look at her! I want to make sure you never forget her face. Or mine. If you ever bother her again, I will come for you.”

  The terrified pimp stared at me pleadingly.

  “Now, apologize!” Big John ordered. The pimp mumbled an apology but my giant was not satisfied. “Repeat after me: I am a pig and the scum of the earth. I make money from mistreating women. I am sorry to have bothered you.”

  The Tacky Pimp repeated Big John’s script and was duly released.

  Shimmying backwards into the car, the frightened and disheveled pimp tore up the Avenue and out of sight. As Big John sauntered toward the store, he was met with cheers. Vanessa had come on the scene just minutes before he performed his first lift, and both of us were duly impressed with his bravado and feats of strength. We jumped up and down with sheer pleasure, but we were taken aback by Big John’s still seething temper. Anger still evident on his naturally smiling face, he refrained from commenting to us. Instead, he walked to the nearest telephone pole and punched it full force.

  My sister and I ran to see if he was hurt. Our gentle giant shooed us away, explaining that he had to “walk off the rage.” Vanessa and I ran into the store, grabbed the first aid kit, and returned to find him pacing the street. When he finally calmed down, we cleaned up his wounded hand and thanked him for vanquishing the Tacky Pimp. Brushing aside our appreciation, he sweetly ruffled our hair and sauntered into the store.

  As Big John settled into the basement to watch the ensuing poker game, Vanessa and I checked out the telephone pole. Even though we were well aware of his mind-boggling strength, we were nonetheless amazed to find his knuckle marks clearly imprinted into the wooden pole. Vanessa and I spent the next few hours sitting at our post and laughing about the morning’s incredible spectacle. Our job ended when the gamblers in the basement took a break to watch their favorite soap opera, The Guiding Light. They followed the show intently, eagerly waiting for the detested Roger Thorpe to get his comeuppance.

  Given his terrifying encounter with Big John, I felt confident that the Tacky Pimp would not return to the scene of his crimes. Nevertheless, I stayed on the alert for his easily discernible pimpmobile. Thankfully, Big John’s warnings were effective and I never again encountered the vulgar flesh peddler.

  Gnocchi and the Skin Runners

  The Tacky Pimp incident would not be the last time I relied upon the brute strength of my protective giants. A few years later, I encountered more sinister flesh peddlers whose menacing trade was not so easily discernible. This particular misadventure would have none of the dark comedic attributes of the Tacky Pimp and would end dramatically—in frayed nerves and bloodshed.

  The sinister incident was put in motion when I accompanied Al and Big John to an Italian restaurant and bar located in a rural area near the Pennsylvania-West Virginia border. Mama Rhea’s was a tiny family owned restaurant that my father regularly visited, to enjoy a fabulous homemade meal as he collected monies owed and paid out to winning gamblers. Over the years, our family occasionally accompanied my father. Our visits ceased when my mother deemed the increasingly dodgy clientele too dangerous, and declared it off limits to her daughters.

  The owner’s mother was an elderly Italian woman who spoke English with a heavy accent. Mama Rhea was a formidable woman who ran the tiny restaurant while her son tended to seedier business in the attached bar. Both were absolute dictators in their own environment. Although the restaurant was lacking in decor and its clientele was questionable, Mama Rhea’s food was exceptional. Her fluffy gnocchi were a feast for the senses. My mouth salivated at the mere mention of the restaurant. So upon hearing my father and Big John making plans for a visit, I jumped at the chance to join the giants on their expedition.

  Not wanting to defy Bonnie’s orders, Al at first refused my request to accompany them. After a good amount of cajoling, Big John took my side. He pointed out that I had worked the entire week without any time off, and after all, they would be with me. Who would dare to bother me with the two of them by my side? My father finally acquiesced, but insisted that my mother not be informed of our actual destination. He also ord
ered me to keep a low profile, because he had business to conduct. I agreed to his terms, and off we went.

  At Mama Rhea’s, we settled into the customary corner table which provided us with a measure of protection. My father most always sat with his back against a wall, thus making it impossible for anyone to approach him from the rear. Once seated, I placed my order for a steaming bowl of gnocchi, a house salad, and garlic bread. Then, I settled in to read the book I had brought along. Many of the bar patrons, intent on the evening’s hockey game, came by the table to talk to Al during commercial breaks, some casually leaving payment envelopes on the table. Our salads and an array of appetizers were promptly delivered to our table, and we fully indulged. After the table was cleared, I returned to my paperback adventure. I was fully engrossed in its plot when two boisterous ruffians came in from the cold and sat down at the bar. Aside from their noisy demeanor and scruffy appearance, I did not notice anything that would warrant concern, and returned to my book. Fifteen minutes after their noisy arrival, the bartender approached our table and set a frothy beer in front of Al. I considered this odd, since my father did not drink. Looking to the bartender for an explanation of his strange actions, I noticed the tense set of his jaw and watched curiously, as he bent and whispered something in my father’s ear. After relaying his message, he nervously darted into the kitchen on the pretense of checking on our meals. Once he disappeared from view, Al whispered something to Big John, who suddenly became very tense and agitated.