One Hit Wonder

by Charlie Carillo

  When you walk the streets of your old neighborhood your eye picks out the way things have changed, things you can’t believe you bothered to remember as having been different. The McElhennys had added a new porch to their house. The Spellanes had changed the color of their trim from midnight blue to apple green. And of course the Lomuscios had added another two rooms to their house, one up and one out, eating up the last bit of yard they’d had left.

  When I was a kid the Lomuscio house had been one of the smallest on the block, but every time they got a few dollars ahead they expanded, waking the neighborhood at dawn each Saturday with the banging of hammers and the roar of electric saws.

  My mother would hold her hands over her ears every time a saw blade shrieked its way through a pine knot.

  “If they want a bigger house why don’t they just move, once and for all?”

  “That’s not it,” my old man would say. “Some Italian people just can’t leave their houses alone. Gotta keep adding on all the time.”

  “Not you.”

  “I’m what you’d call the contented type.”

  “You certainly are.”

  Ahh, the memories…I walked on past P.S. 94, the local public school I had not attended. But the P.S. 94 schoolyard was special because it was where I’d tasted my first beer one Saturday night when I was fifteen, out by the seesaws with Jimmy Nailer and Tommy Gordon, who’d swiped three cans of Rheingold from his father’s cellar refrigerator. I drank the beer and walked home dizzy, chewing a triple-wad of Dubble Bubble grape gum to mask my breath….

  “My God, Mickey, is that you?”

  I turned to see a woman with her hair up in curlers under a kerchief, her wrinkly hand straining to keep a cocker spaniel on a leash from chasing a squirrel. It was Eileen Kavanagh, whose windows I used to wash for walking-around money.

  I offered my hand. “Good to see you, Mrs. Kavanagh.”

  She clasped my hand with her free one, a pink lipstick smile stretched across her hawklike face. Suddenly, the smile collapsed.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Is somebody dead?”

  “Oh! No, nobody died. I’m just visiting.”

  In Little Neck nobody comes home unless it’s to bury a loved one. At least that’s how Mrs. Kavanagh figured it. She was a real estate agent, and if one of my parents was dead, their house might go on the market, and she’d want to be on top of that.

  She jerked on the leash, told the dog to sit still. “Staying long?”

  “A while.”

  “Your mother never mentioned it.”

  “Well, it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

  “Hmmm.”

  The wheels were turning. Once she got back to her house she’d start phoning around about her Mickey DeFalco sighting, eager for the real story. I had to distract her, keep her from digging for more….

  “How’s Mr. Kavanagh?”

  Her cheeks went slack, as if she’d just heard a tasteless joke. “He died six months ago.”

  “Oh, my God, I’m sorry.”

  “Your mother never told you?”

  “You know, I’m sure she did, but…” I tapped myself on the forehead, maybe to let her hear how hollow my skull was. “I forgot. I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank God your mother was there.”

  “My mother?”

  “At Eruzione’s. Let me tell you something, Mickey. That mother of yours really knows how to handle people when they’ve lost a loved one. She knows just what to say. It’s a gift, I tell you. A gift. Either you can talk to people at a time like that, or you can’t. Your mother can.”

  I knew Mrs. Kavanagh was right. My mother is great in situations involving dead people. It’s the living who’ve always given her trouble.

  The dog squatted to pee on the grass. Mrs. Kavanagh gave the leash another yank to get him out on the curb, and I used the moment to escape.

  “Nice seeing you, Mrs. Kavanagh.”

  “Welcome home,” she said, and coming from her it sounded almost like a threat.

  I had to get out of the damn neighborhood. I quickened my stride along Northern Boulevard, shocked at the way things had changed. The Asians had found their way to Little Neck—nail salons and neck-massage parlors, and even an acupuncturist whose sign promised cures for everything from baldness to bad breath. Ponti’s Pizza had become part of the Domino’s Pizza chain, and the old Carvel ice cream shop had given way to a tattoo parlor. The movie theater where Lynn and I used to go was now a check-cashing place, with a scowling attendant behind a Plexiglas barrier. Bernstein’s soda fountain and candy story was gone, replaced by the dreaded Starbucks my father had been ranting about.

  Soon I crossed the border from Queens into Nassau County, the town of Great Neck: bigger houses, bigger lawns, bigger taxes, bigger attitudes. The roar of lawn mowers drew me toward a cul-de-sac I’d never been down before, but I had a feeling, just a feeling….

  The sound of the mowers grew louder with every step, and then there it was, the battered red truck with J. P. FLYNN LANDSCAPING sprayed in white stenciled letters on the rusting driver’s door. An equally battered green trailer was hitched to the truck, jammed full of gardening equipment. Two guys I didn’t know were pushing lawn mowers across a spacious front yard, while a gray-haired guy I did know squatted to fill the crankcase of a hedge clipper with oil. As in the old days, a Marlboro dangled from the lips of my old boss, John P. Flynn, for whom I’d toiled for two summers during high school. He didn’t hear me approaching.

  “Jesus, these are the same mowers I pushed around. Invest in some new equipment, for God’s sake.”

  He squinted up at me, and then his eyes went wide in recognition. “My God! Look who it is!”

  He stood to greet me, wiping his hand on a rag before extending it for a shake. “What the hell are you doin’ back here, superstar?”

  “Visiting.”

  “Yeah? How’s life with all the movie stars?”

  “Actually, Mr. Flynn, I never really met any.”

  “Yeah, bullshit!”

  A second thrill went through him, like a spasm, and he reached out to squeeze my shoulder. “Jesus Christ, it’s you! My one and only rock star!”

  I nodded, shrugged. “Sweet Days” was hardly a rock song, but what the hell.

  “Mick, you look good. Heavier, but good.”

  “You look good, too, Mr. Flynn.”

  That wasn’t exactly the truth. His face had grown seamed and his belly, once a slight bay window, was now more like a tire inflated to the bursting point. He knew I was lying and waved me off.

  “Ahh, I’m just glad I’m on the other side of the hill, goin’ down. This is my last summer with the lawns, Mick. Me and Charlotte are movin’ to Florida in November.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Carmine Eruzione ain’t gettin’ any o’ my money. No disrespect to your mother. I hear she’s great over there.”

  He dropped his Marlboro butt, ground it out on the sidewalk, and gestured at a young Hispanic kid struggling to push his lawn mower through the tall grass. The red bandana on his head was soaked through with sweat and he breathed heavily through his open mouth.

  “See this guy? He’s out every night ’til all hours. Nice enough kid, but you can’t do that and work for me. Hungover. Dehydrated. He’s stoppin’ to drink from every hose along the way. I feel bad, but I gotta let him go.”

  “Could I take his place?”

  The words were out before I could stop them. Flynn grinned, then his face went slack when he realized I was serious.

  “Hey, Mickey. You all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’m good. But what I said before about visiting…well, it’s going to be a long visit. See, I moved out of L.A. It just wasn’t working out.”

  He stared at me as if I’d just been in a car wreck, and in a funny way it was even worse than the looks I’d gotten from my parents. Of all the guys who’d pushed lawn mowers for this man
for the past thirty years, I was the one who’d gone out and done something big, and now suddenly I was right back where I’d started.

  I was rocking everything he believed in. Flynn was a war veteran who’d been wounded in Korea, and he loved his country with all his heart and soul. I was the one never-fail story he had to tell his laborers during lunch breaks in the shade of oak trees, the kid who wasn’t even out of high school when he scored a number one hit single…. Think that could happen in Russia? Huh?

  Yes, I was always the kicker to his story about America being the land of opportunity, and now, suddenly, I was a punch line to a bad, sad joke.

  His eyes were actually wet. I’d forgotten how soulful a man he was, front row of the seven o’clock mass every Sunday morning, always holding hands with Charlotte, according to my mother….

  “You really want this job?”

  “Only if you need me.”

  He nodded. “Sure thing, Mick. Be at the garage tomorrow at eight.”

  “Yeah, I remember the drill.”

  “Got the shoes you need? Can’t do this work in those friggin’ cross-trainers!”

  “My mother never chucks anything out. I’m sure my work-boots are in the attic.”

  “All right, then. Tomorrow.” He extended his hand for another shake, but this time there was a clinical aspect to it—he was sizing up the goods. A grin full of mischief crossed his map.

  “Wear gloves, Mick. You’ve gone soft in the hands.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  I watched him limp to the truck. He’d been shot in the hip in Korea, an injury that left one leg shorter than the other. He was entitled to a government-financed artificial hip, but he wouldn’t get one. He was proud of his limp. He wanted people to see that men like him were still around, men who did what they had to do and didn’t whine about the consequences.

  I broke the big news about my new job at the dinner table, and let’s just say they didn’t break into applause.

  Steady Eddie stared at me. My mother’s mouth literally fell open. She closed it, swallowed, and sighed.

  “You came all the way back here to push a lawn mower?”

  I slid my plate of macaroni and cheese toward the center of the table. “I wouldn’t put it that way.”

  “How exactly would you put it?”

  “I need work. This is work.”

  “John Flynn is moving to Florida in a few months. Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “What will you do when he leaves?”

  “Get another job, I guess.”

  “Where?”

  “Why are you breaking his balls?”

  My father said it to stop my mother in her tracks. Vulgarity was his stun gun. She retreated from her attack long enough for him to make his point.

  “It’s good he’s doing this, Donna. Let him do it.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Pushing a lawn mower for seven dollars an hour is good?”

  “Eight, Mom. More than twice what it paid last time I had the job.”

  “That’s just wonderful.”

  “What are they paying you at the stiff parlor?”

  Her eyes were as big as baseballs. “Michael!”

  “When the Flynn job ends, maybe you could pull a few strings. Get me on as a junior undertaker. No complaints from the customers, right?”

  She pointed right at my face. “Do not mock the dead!”

  “I’m not! I’m mocking the living who make their living off the dead!”

  “Enough!”

  My father had risen to his feet, arms spread wide. He glowered first at me and then at her as he settled back in his chair.

  “He’ll work outdoors. He’ll clear his head. Lot of time for a man to think with a job like that, Donna.”

  “Think about what?”

  “Things. Or nothing. Maybe he just wants a job that’ll make him tired enough to sleep at night. Been a while since you’ve slept good, am I right, Mick?”

  I was shocked. Steady Eddie had hit the nail on the head. He shook a Camel out of his cigarette pack and tamped it on the table. He did this to pack down the loose tobacco flakes but also to torment my mother with the fear that he’d light up in the house.

  “Am I right?” he repeated.

  All I could do was nod in agreement.

  My mother tore her gaze from the cigarette and turned to me. “Is that really how you feel about it?”

  I had to laugh. “I’ll tell you how I feel. I feel that the sooner I earn some money, the better off I’ll be.”

  The coffee can money was off-limits. I didn’t know what I was going to do with it, but I knew I wasn’t going to spend it.

  My mother’s face softened. She felt bad for me and mad at me. The two emotions warred briefly within her, fought to a draw, and left her face slack with exhaustion.

  “Work is work, Mom,” I ventured. “It’s not supposed to make you happy, right?”

  She almost smiled, and then her eyes welled up. “You had that job when you were in high school!”

  I nodded. “Yeah, that’s right, Mom. Speaking of high school, you probably also remember that I never graduated. That sort of limits my options, you know? So I guess I’ve come full circle, here.”

  My father stuck the cigarette in his mouth, reached for her forearm and gave it a squeeze. “Come on, Donna, don’t worry. Let the boy heal.”

  He caught my eye, winked, went to the kitchen door and opened it, lighting up on the door saddle before stepping into the backyard. We got the barest whiff of smoke before the door slammed shut, enough for my mother to notice but not enough to complain about. The man was a maestro.

  I got up from the table. “I’m sorry I made fun of the funeral parlor,” I mumbled to my mother, then gave her a clumsy kiss on top of her head before going up to my room.

  That night she got my old work shoes out of the attic. I set them beside my bed along with a pair of work gloves I’d found in the garage and went to bed before ten o’clock to be fresh and strong for my first day back on the job.

  The very job I was doing when I lost Lynn Mahoney.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  While I’m obsessing over the girl I lost, I should probably mention my ex-wife.

  Her name is Lois Butler and I doubt very much that I could pick her out of a police lineup if I saw her today, given the toll of time and cosmetic surgeries that have certainly happened since we parted.

  I met Lois on the set of the doomed-from-the-start TV pilot for Sweet Days. The premise of the show was that an aspiring singer-songwriter (guess who) working as a dishwasher falls in love with a waitress (Lois) who dreams of being an actress. Late at night after work they drink coffee in the deserted hash house kitchen, share their dreams, fall in love, reach their goals, get married, have kids, grow old together, and are buried in adjoining plots.

  Kidding, kidding! As I said before, three episodes aired and that was the end of Sweet Days, the TV show. The critics crucified it, and one guy even went so far as to say I was “unconvincing” as a dishwasher.

  He was probably right. My mother never let me anywhere near the kitchen sink for fear that I’d “splash too much” when I did the dishes, and so the first time I ever had my hands in a sink full of suds was the day the director yelled “Action!” on the Sweet Days set. Maybe if I’d played a gardener, the show would have worked….

  Lois wasn’t half bad as a waitress, having actually put in time supporting herself that way. She was a tall, wiry girl with flame-red hair and a big cobblestone of a chin, the kind of chin you’d expect to see in profile on a coin commemorating some great pioneering feminist.

  Lois was no feminist, though. We got involved soon after we got working on the pilot (you spend sixteen hours a day together, things are going to happen) and right from the start she made it clear that a boyfriend was supposed to light a girl’s cigarettes, open car doors, and “pay for stuff,” as she put it in her giggly way.

  So I did. Why
not? She was willing and wild in bed, the perfect distraction from a broken heart. We were either on our feet shooting scenes the writers couldn’t stop rewriting or flat on our backs at my condo, resting up for the early morning call.

  Nine days after Sweet Days went belly-up Richard Robinski, my trusted agent, died of a massive heart attack. Suddenly I had no job, and no representation. Meanwhile, Lois started having nightmares about returning to her hometown in West Virginia and waiting tables for real again. Her career was in ruins, her confidence was shot, and there was one other thing.

  “Mickey, I’m pregnant.”

  She broke the news while we were cuddling in bed the day after the show got the axe. At this point she was living with me, though I don’t exactly remember having invited her to do that. Each time she came to stay over, another item of clothing or furniture came with her, but I guess I didn’t take it seriously until the plants started arriving.

  Suddenly, it was serious. Grim, to use a more appropriate word.

  I remember my lips going dry and my legs tingling. If I’d been standing up, I certainly would have fallen. Lois peered into my eyes all this while, looking for truths I was trying to hide.

  “It’s definitely mine, right?”

  “Oh, Mickey, how could you even ask me that?”

  I embraced her, merely to protect myself from that gaze, the way a losing boxer hugs his opponent to stop the rain of punches.

  “What are we gonna do, Mickey?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are you happy about this?”

  “Jesus, Lois….”

  She was wise to my false hug and broke the embrace, shoving me away to get back in my eyes. “This isn’t the greatest thing that ever happened to me either, you know. My career is screwed.”

  “Take it easy, Lois.”

  “An actress has a baby in this town and that’s it. Kiss it all good-bye.”

  I hesitated. “There’s another way, you know.”

  Funny, how I couldn’t even bring myself to use the word “abortion.” Instead I called it “another way,” which I’m pretty sure was the title of a catechism they made us study back at St. Anastasia’s grammar school.