I knew not to bother him when he was knee-deep in futility. “Pop, let’s have dinner tonight. Pagliacci’s, on me. Wear your new suit. I’ll pick you up at six.” The Old Man perked up a bit, “Pagliacci’s? What did you do, up the ante on them?” I laughed out loud at this. The Old Man never quite appreciated my skills as a negotiator and always thought I was sticking horse’s heads in someone’s bed whenever I came away with a win-win. In fairness, Pop never saw things as win-win. If you won anything, you won. If you compromised at all, he saw that as a loss. Not because he was a “black-white” sort of guy, but because he never knew his own value or the value of our company. He saw winning a negotiation as blind ignorance on the other guys’ part. If he budged at all he usually wound up feeling so immediately defeated that he gave away the store. He was too emotional when he bargained. Big mistake.
“We did very well today Pop. I’ll explain it to you tonight. Six PM sharp. Just you and me, okay. Tell mom we’re going to look at a boat or something.” I heard the garden hose turn on and water spraying. The Old Man bellowed over the din of the water, “Okay son, see you at six.”
I got back to the office and walked in quietly. Margie was there and I could tell she was a bit apprehensive. I hadn’t told anyone about the deal, but I knew that people in the neighborhood talked and so I assumed Margie had figured out what was going on. If she did, the guys weren’t far behind. So I knew I had work to do right away. I was going to take very good care of my people and I wanted to have a plan. I buzzed Margie into my office. “Margie, put the phone on voice mail and come in here for a minute please.” I said to her.
Margie walked into my office sheepishly. She’d come to work for us the year before Sylvia left. She was my mother’s sister-in-law’s cousin or something like that. That lefthanded Italian thing that makes you “family” even though you’re no more related than you are to the butcher. Margie was younger than my mom but older than my wife, Angie. I liked this because I never got into that whole “Young hot receptionist” thing. For one thing, it’s nothing but trouble in a thousand ways. People don’t respect a guy with eye candy answering his phones. The other thing is, my wife is smokin’! I outkicked my coverage when I married Angie...at least I thought so. I love her more every day and I’m not looking to trade in. So why tempt the fates, right? Anyway, Margie walked into my office and I told her to have a seat. Margie is a “Tab” drinker. She thrives on the stuff. I teased her about her affection for it and even bought her a life-sized cardboard cutout of “Austin Powers” holding a can of Tab and put it behind her desk on her birthday one year. I got her a Tab from the fridge in my office and sat down at my desk. This was not going to be easy.
I decided to just jump right in. “Margie...” I began. She started crying even before I said another word. Oh Maddon! “Margie, I’m sure you know what’s going on. You’re a smart girl. I’m going to tell you some things and I want you to promise to keep it between us until I get the chance to tell the rest of the crew. Okay?” She sniffled and said “Yes Joe.” I gave her the basics. We were selling; it was time, better now, than too late to make a profit. Blah blah blah. My grandfather’s voice suddenly yelled in my left ear, Cut the shit Joseph, she wants to know about her job! Good old Giuseppe...dead for five years and still scaring the crap out of me.
“Margie, listen...one thing you need to know. I have demanded that my staff remains in place. They agreed to it.” Margie let out a long breath. “But Margie,” I continued, “You won’t have to stay here after I leave. Not if you don’t want to.” She looked at me quizzically, like a puppy trying to comprehend a dog whistle. “I have to work,” she said, “The kids are in college for three more years.” I smiled at her, “I know, but you’re going to be compensated. After I leave, work will be optional for you. That’s all I can tell you right now, okay?” She grinned and shook her head. My reputation with my people was stellar. When I said I would take care of someone, it usually went beyond their expectations. Margie wasn’t worried anymore. “Margie,” I warned, “Not a word of this until I can talk to the boys, right?” “Of course Joe,” she said in her Bensalem accent (Margie wasn’t from the neighborhood, she was from Northeast Philly) She got up and gave me a hug and said, “You’re a good man, Joe. You deserve this. You and your whole family deserve this.”
I had work to do. I was sixty- five million dollars richer – besides what we had in savings and assets- and we were here because a lot of good guys worked those five days a week, eight-to-twelve hours a day. I paid them well, but they earned it too. They were good men and hard workers. And they were family. This was their victory as much as mine, and so I knew I was going to share this with them. I buzzed Margie, “Margie, do me a favor. Get me a spreadsheet with every employee and their current salary, and their last three years earnings. Everybody from Tito on down. Even Khalif, whatever we paid him the last three years, include that too.” Khalif is the guy who pressure washes and cleans our trucks. He does an amazing job and our rigs always look brand-new. “Can you have it by Four PM?” Margie laughed. She always laughed at me because I always asked her for things and never ordered her to do anything. My requests were always preceded by “Can you do me a favor...?” “Sure Joe,” she answered, “I’ll have it for you in a couple hours.” And she did.
I worked the rest of the day on my exit strategy. I was going to have a party, for the guys and their families. That’s when I’d tell them the whole story. But I was going to have to tell them about the sale tomorrow. That much I knew. Margie buzzed my office at 12:45PM. “Joe”, she said, “I just sent you the spread sheets with the payroll information. I also included each man’s 401K information and their Years of Service.” That was Margie. No formal training in business or office management, but a head full of common sense. She was way more than just a family member we gave a job to.
I spent the afternoon reviewing each man’s earnings, his age, and his years of service with us. I had to do something equitable. I was planning on bonusing everybody in the company and I wanted to be fair about it. I had forty-three employees, including my dad. He was getting a very different kind of bonus so I didn’t include him. I worked out some calculations until my watch beeped at 4:45PM. I called Margie into my office.
“Margie, I’m going to dinner with my dad tonight, so I’m going to change here. No more calls this afternoon, okay?” “You bet Joe!” she said. I continued, “Just lock the door when you leave at five, and I’ll get the alarm on my way out. And Margie thanks for your help today.” Margie smiled. She loved her mani-pedi’s and the two-hundred dollar up-do’s as much as any woman. But the old girl sure appreciated a complement to go along with it. She turned and went back to her desk.
I have a shower and dressing room in my office. Not because I’m a high roller, but because sometimes the place stinks. Especially in the summer. I have meetings some days and I can’t run home. So I had a shower installed and I keep a few suits here. I took a shower and shaved and put on a nice two-piece. Nothing fancy. I try to avoid stereotypes when I can, ya know what I mean? I called the Old Man on my way out. “Pop, you ready?” He was tying his tie. I can always tell because he can’t do it right and he asks my mom. Usually he gets so frustrated that he is ready to kill someone. “Yeah, as soon as I tie this damned tie!” He barked. “Pop...just get mom to do it before you get agita and ruin your dinner. It’s gonna be a good night, Pop. Don’t start it off angry.”
“Okay son,” he said. “I’ll be ready at six.” then I heard: “ ...Annalisa! Help me with this goddamned thing!” That’s my dad. He never fought the idea of having a cell phone, he just can’t remember to how to end a call. He usually pushes the wrong button and you can hear him talking for another ten seconds after he thinks he hung up.
I set the alarm and locked the door behind me. It occurred to me that my days of doing this routine were numbered now. In a year, there would be a new sign on the door and I would be a very wealthy man, but my family legacy would be ending
. I have to admit, it was a little hard.
Exorcising Zippies Ghost
I picked up the old man promptly at Six PM. I pulled up to the house and walked to the front door. My dad is a typical South Philly Italian. He lives in a row home on Wolff Street. The little patch of front yard has long been replaced with concrete. In the middle there is a beautiful marble statue, of a peeing cherub. A gift from my Uncle Tony for my mom and dad’s fortieth anniversary. Uncle Tony always gave statuary for important milestones, and they were always peeing cherubs. Sometimes I think it made him happy to make people a tiny bit uncomfortable about the gift.
Uncle Tony was a powerful man, both physically and politically. He was big and tough and larger than life. He was also one of the most kind-hearted people you’d ever met. If he came across someone who needed help, he just helped. No fanfare and usually no recognition. Uncle Tony taught me about loving people.
I rang the bell and walked in. Pop was still fidgeting with his tie and my mother shot me a look that said Help me. Please help me! She sighed and said “Joseph fix your father’s tie before he chokes himself with it...or I do.” I laughed and walked over to my dad. “C’mere Pop, let’s see what we have here.” My dad was sweating and red faced. The tie was making him angry. “Dad, how did you ever teach me how to tie one of these things when you can’t do it yourself?” I said softly as I tried helping him. My dad held up his hands and said “It’s the arthritis, Joseph. All those years rolling cans with your Nonno and working on the trucks when they broke down, before we could afford a mechanic. I’m paying for it now.” He held his hands up to me. They were huge and slightly disfigured at the knuckles. “They get so stiff some days. Sometimes, son, I can even wipe my own...”
“YO! Pop! Jeez, too much information here!” I cut him off loudly, before he spoiled my dinner with his description. My mother smacked him in the arm. “Giuseppe! For the love of God! Your son needs to hear this? Go get your dinner. You know how you get when you don’t eat.” My mom planted a little kiss on his cheek. Then on mine. “You boys have fun. I’m going to Aunt Peg’s to play Pinochle.” “Okay Ma.” I said. We’ll call you when we’re on our way back.
My mom walked out the door and headed over to Uncle Franny’s to play Pinochle for a few hours. My dad and I looked at each other for a moment. Here we were, standing in his kitchen, getting ready to plan our exit from the only business our family had ever known. The end-game to grandpop Giuseppe’s dream. “”You ready, Pop?” I asked him. “Yeah” he said. “Yeah, let’s go.” “I handed him his hat. My dad always wore a hat, even now in the early summer when it was getting quite warm out. “Shoot your cuffs, Pop” I told him. He smiled and shot his arms downward in a quick snap, causing the cuffs of his shirt to be exposed perfectly about an inch past the sleeve of his suit jacket. He got teary eyed, which caught me off guard. “I remember teaching you to do that.” he whispered. “I’m proud of you, son.” He said. Then he put his hat on and spun on his heels, before I could see the tears welling in his eyes, and led me out the front door.
We didn’t talk much in my truck on the ride to Pagliacci’s. Pagliacci’s is the Italian restaurant in Philly. Everyone who is anyone in town eats there. Most of the mob bosses eat there, or they did before the busts, and the breakup of the families. The Zephanelli family has owned the place since 1937. They say Sinatra used to have their Eggplant Parm flown out to Vegas twice a month, on a private plane. It was that good.
My grandfather knew the Zephanellis when they were all kids here in Little Italy. Mario Lanza actually lived next door to the Zephanellis before he got famous. That’s why they named the restaurant Pagliacci’s, because Lanza used to sing Pagliacci on warm summer nights on the front stoop before he hit the big time. Once when Lorenzo Zephanelli, the patriarch of the family, was still alive, I asked him why Lanza’s picture wasn’t on the wall with all the other famous people. I mean, everyone knew he ate there all the time. They used to make jokes that the weight problems Lanza had late in his career were because of all the dinners at Pagliacci’s.
Mr. Zephanelli smiled proudly and said, in his thick accent: “Because, Mario Lanza is-a my friend! You don’t-a put-a the picture of-a your friend on the wall of your biz-aneece. You put-a those pictures in-a your house.” He rolled the “R” whenever he said “friend” and he smiled broadly when he spoke of Mario Lanza. When Lanza died in 1959, Lorenzo was beside himself with grief.
My dad and I walked in, and Brian, the headwaiter smiled and waved. “Hey! It’s my favorite father and son!’ He laughed. “Come on fellas. I have your table” My dad shot me a sideways glance. Nobody gets seated immediately at Pagliacci’s. “Have we come that far?” he whispered. I grabbed his elbow lightly, “Tonight we have, Pop.” I smiled.
Brian pulled out my dad’s chair and he sat across from me. “Two anisettes Brian.” I said. No sooner had I said this, when a waiter appeared carrying two small aperitif glasses on a tray. He set our anisette in front of us. Brian smiled and said he would send a wine list over in a minute.
My dad and I toasted our good fortune and drank our anisette. Anisette is a tradition to Italians. It warms you up a bit. I love it. The sommelier brought a wine list and I pointed to one particular red. It was a winery from the Montecassino area...Grandpa Giuseppe’s hometown. “Very good sir.” The wine master said. “I’ll send it right out.” My dad fidgeted with his fingernails a bit. I knew the Old Man well enough to recognize apprehension. My dad is a complex man for someone in such a rough line of work. I knew that despite our tremendous blessing and good fortune, I had to handle this evening delicately. This was, after all, the business his dad had started from scratch.
I slid the envelope containing the reworked boiler plate of the deal with Waste International across the table to him. I had highlighted the most important items in the agreement, and circled the final number. I know my old man, and he wants to know the bottom line right away. He blinked slowly, his left hand absentmindedly adjusted his necktie and he took a sip of water. His lips puckered in an attempted whistle but no sound came out. Finally he whispered softly: “Joseph, this number here. That’s what they gave us? This number circled in red?” I was grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Yeah Pop,” I said, “That’s what Mezilli Trash Hauling and Cartage is worth to the big-time world of Waste Management.” My dad tried to whistle again. He settled for a low, baritone, “Maaa-ddon!”
“You did good son. Very good. I never would have dreamed...” Pop’s voice trailed off a bit. His eyes grew moist and I knew he was thinking about Nonno. “Zippie would be happy for us, Pop.” I said. He smiled. “Zippie...” He chuckled, “I haven’t heard him called that name since...” “Since Hank Kroyczek died” I finished the sentence for him. My dad laughed. Mr. Kroyczek was a Polish immigrant who worked on the trucks for my grandfather in the fifties and sixties. He had a thick Polish accent and snow-white hair that he always wore in a crew cut. Mr. K. could never pronounce Nonno’s name correctly. He always called him “Zippie.” Kroyczek had died a year and a half after Nonno did. They had been friends since they were teenagers working in the textile factories in Chester. Once we got things going with a few trucks, Nonno brought him over as a mechanic and relief driver. They both saw terrible struggles on their way to America, and they’d formed a deep bond.
Mr. K. was probably my grandfather’s only close friend. They were fishing buddies on the rare days you could get Giuseppe away from the trucks. He obsessed over making the business work. He’d rolled the dice on that one broken down Ford trash truck he’d bought off the Township in 1953.
We called it “The Crusher.” Even the grille on the thing looked menacing. My dad had it repainted and we parked it out front of the office and it’s a landmark now. It gets a Santa hat at Christmas, flags at Fourth of July and a plastic stork whenever one of the employees’ wives has a baby. It’s a hulking steel monument to Nonno’s determination and grit.
His obsession paid off for his son and grandson. My da
d and I were sitting there at Pagliacci’s, about to decide how to equitably divide sixty million dollars. Giuseppe never saw that coming, I assure you. My dad asked me quietly, “You think he would have been happy with this?” I knew what he meant. Nonno was not happy. Not really. He was not satisfied. Not because he was greedy or materialistic, but because he was afraid. For all his life, no matter how well we did and how much he had, he lived in fear of losing it somehow. Not that he’d blow his money, because Nonno threw nickels around like they were manhole covers. In fact his best friend used to tease my grandfather that he “Wouldn’t pay two dollars to see Jesus Christ cross the street on a pogo stick.” Nonno was more concerned that something bad would happen. A lot of people who endured the Depression were like that. Especially the ones, like Giuseppe, who immigrated during that time.
“He’d be proud, Pop. I know that much,” I told my dad. “But no, I don’t think Zippie would have been ‘happy’. I don’t know that he had that in him, ya know?” My dad smiled softly. He was quiet for a long time. I poured us a couple of glasses of the Montecassino vineyard wine and slid one to him. “To Nonno...” I said, raising my glass toward my dad’s. “The Mezilli name was always well represented. Salud” My dad raised his glass and clinked mine gently. “Salud” he whispered. His eyes were moist again and he said softly: “Salud, Pappa. Gah-bless.” That’s how my dad always said “God bless” like it was one word; “Gah-bless” I looked at him a long time. I knew what he was thinking. He was wishing Giuseppe could be here and see this. He’d like to put that money in his hand and see what he would do. My dad lived in his father’s shadow his entire life and never heard him say he was proud of him for being a good son, good dad, or good business man. And my dad was all of those.
The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster Page 5