“Screened, ya say? Hmmm...never heard of screened dirt before.” Peppers answered, “What do you screen it for...bugs and such?” Tim said. “This guy is a landscaper?” I wondered to myself. “Mostly for sticks and rocks and grubs.” I explained, “Clean topsoil is much easier to work with. Can you find me some?” Tim was rustling some papers. “Tim you aren’t driving right now are you? I mean, you can get back to me on this.” Peppers answered, “Yes sir Mr. Mezilli, I can call my buddy over at Appomattox Farms and see if they have some.” “Okay Tim,” I said, “Just bring the prices with you when you come to my house on Monday night. I’ll see you then.”
I rolled into Lowe’s parking lot and got my lime and compost. I also bought myself a composter because at nineteen dollars a bag, I was not going to buy this stuff forever. I looked at the bed of my pickup and realized that I still needed a tiller and a composter. So I bought myself a trailer to haul stuff with.
“I’m becoming a real country gentleman.” I thought. I instantly laughed at that. I loaded up the lime and the compost bags in the bed of the truck. I put the composter and the tiller in my shiny new trailer, and set off for home. I was pulling out of the parking lot when Joey Fanucci called me. The smile that instantly spread across my face caught me off guard. I was really missing my old paisanos. “Yo! Domanucce!” I said loudly, “Come stai?” Joey was laughing. “It’s like you never left, Paisan.” “Yeah well, all good things come to an end, right, Mi Fratello?” I snickered. I wanted to stop short of getting wistful again, so I jumped right in. “So Cuz, you found me some mushroom soil?” “Sort of,” Joey said, “Pop had to pull some strings, but he found some. It will be delivered this week if you’re ready for it. Will ten yards do?” “Perfect!” I said, “You even arranged delivery? Thanks Paisan. What do I owe you guys?” Joey laughed. “Just pay the man when he gets there.” He said, “It’ll be reasonable. What day do you want it. The weekend works better for this guy.” I was elated. “How about Saturday?” I’ll be home and I can get right to work on it.” “Saturday it is, pal.” Joey said. “We’ll call you this week to confirm. Say hey to Anj for me.” “Domanucce!” I yelled, “you’re the best!’
I had my dirt, and my mushroom soil all arranged. Then the thought hit me... “Ten yards is a whole lot of mushroom soil sitting in my driveway. And where am I going to make the dirt rolls?” Angie would kill me for sure if I even considered dumping ten yards of horse poop in the front of our new house. I decided the best plan was to dump it all at my hunting camp and make the rolls there. Then I could bring them back to the house a few at a time. Piece of cake, right?
I drove straight to the hunting camp and unloaded the bags into my barn. I backed the trailer in, unhitched it, and locked it all up. It only takes about twenty minutes for me to get home from the hunting lodge. It was a warm afternoon for late February, and I actually had the window down in the pickup. I turned down my street and as usual, there was Phil Lowery, my neighbor, the peeper, standing inside his garage. He was just inside the shadow lines, where he obviously thought nobody would notice him. The only thing is, he smokes a pipe sometimes and the pipe smoke gives away his presence. I had already begun toying with old Phil whenever I caught him nosing around, so I started beeping and waving at him when he thinks he is being clever. I did it this time and he almost tripped on his own feet as he tried to duck further back into his garage. Back home, we had a peeper on our block. One day we all decided that the best way to cure the problem was just be rude about it. So we all got our Sunday Inquirer and pasted newspaper over all the downstairs windows. I mean every house on our block, had the windows papered over. Poor Mrs. Begnetti couldn’t see a darned thing in any of our houses and her well of gossip dried up.
We knew that she thought we were all busy remodeling, because in South Philly, if you are remodeling, you take down the drapes and cover the windows with newspaper until the job is done. Old Mrs. B. was desperate to find out what we were doing to our houses, but the old bird couldn’t ask anybody.
For one thing, every house had paper on the windows so which one would she ask first? Then too, if she asked, she would appear nosy. And, honest-to-God, Mrs. Begnetti never did understand that spying on us all the time from her living room was being nosy.
Not until we told her.
Anyway, Phil was really starting to bug me with his constant staring. And he was still peeping through the blinds at night with the light on behind him, like some stunod stalker. I was sure he was harmless, but still...I have a wife and kids, you know? It was really starting to bother Angie, and to be honest, I was afraid she’d go over and pop the old fart right in his nose one of these days. Angie is all lady, until she feels threatened. Then she’ll tear you a new one.
So I parked in the front driveway, and walked across the street to old Phil’s house. Now, Phil is not directly across from me, that’s Hank Milledge’s house. Phil lives next door to Hank, and since we have decent sized lots here, it’s about a quarter of a city block to the left of my front door if you were looking out from there. So I couldn’t exactly sneak up on ol’ Phil. Apparently he still labored under the delusion that he was being stealthy, because I watched him carefully slip back another foot deeper into the shade on his garage. “Seriously, Phil,” I thought, “You really think you’re invisible?”
“Yo! Philly-boy!” I said loudly. I thought it would be friendly of me to give him his own nickname. “Is that Captain Black you’re puffing in that thing?” I was going to go with some version of a “Prince Albert in a can” joke, but thought maybe Phil wouldn’t get it. Phil didn’t share my affections, apparently. “It’s Teender Box” Phil said with a mild snarl. “It’s what?” I said. “Teender Box.” he replied, not too happily. “What is Teender box?” I asked. Phil pulled the pipe out of his mouth and looked like he was going to try hitting me any minute now. “Teender...Teender!” he said, “Tee-aaah-ayunn-dee-ee-oar. Teender!” For just a second I thought about mimicking his drawl and breaking his balls a little. But Phil is just a curmudgeon and you can’t kid with those kinds of guys. “Oh, okay.” I said, still not understanding what the heck he was saying. “So whatcha doin’ over here Phil? Wife won’t let you smoke that thing in the house?” I was trying to strike up a conversation, while letting him know I saw him. “I smoke where I wish to smoke.” Phil muttered. Sheesh, what a grouch. I decided that old Phil here just doesn’t want to be friendly. I also got the feeling that, while he does try to hide his peeping, and he thinks he’s doing a good job of it, the truth is that old Phil doesn’t care that you see him. I was pretty sure he sort of liked you knowing he was watching. For some this is creepy. But I sized Phil up as it being more arrogant. Like he was telling me “This is my street and my neighborhood and I’m watching you.” I was starting to dislike old Phil a lot.
“I see you got yourself a new truck.” Phil said, “Whatcha need a second pickup truck for?” Now that was ballsy. The guy doubles down on his rudeness by asking me why I own a second pickup truck. I was going to ask him what business it was of his, but apparently the answer to that question is that everything in this neighborhood is Phil’s business. I decided it was too soon yet for me to get “South Philly” on him. That’s what my wife calls it. My brother is worse about it than I am. I never needed the mechanism much. But it’s there. Anj calls it “getting South Philly.” It’s when I become like the men I grew up around.
When pushed, I can become a sarcastic, incredibly acerbic, smart-mouth that dishes out caustic one-liners like a professional. You know the way the guys on The Sopranos talked to each other most of the time? Yeah...like that. But I almost never employ that device. For one thing, as a businessman I couldn’t risk getting that reputation. Not if I wanted to be taken seriously. Being Italian from South Philly is an automatic stereotype as it is. On top of that, I was in the “Waste Management” business for my whole adult life. Vito Corleone used “Olive Oil importer” as his cover. Every TV or movie mob boss since then has been in the
“Waste Management” field. I tried, for most of my adult life, to put a little distance between myself and “that guy.” So instead of saying, “I bought it to haul my equipment over to my still and brew up a little ‘shine, Phil. You got a problem wit dat?” (Which is what I wanted to say.) I simply played it close to the vest. I figured that would piss him off plenty. “Aaah you know, Phil. A guy needs to haul things sometimes. Sometimes I need to haul things that might mess up the bed of the Tundra. It’s a fifty-thousand dollar truck, you know? And Angie’d kill me if I used the Escalade.” I almost said “I don’t have her under control like you have Gladys.” but I decided against it. Wives are off limits until death is on the line.
“What kinda things you haulin’ that you can’t clean out with a hose?” He asked. He pulled the pipe from his mouth before asking me this so I knew he was serious. Good God this guy is like the Inquisizione I thought. This was my chance to have fun. I knew Phil wanted to know everything I was doing. Every. Single. Thing. But I’d be damned if I’d tell him my business. So I toyed with him. In hindsight, it was a colossal mistake. But I’ll get to that. That sunny February afternoon I just wanted to break his balls a little. So I said, “Oh you know Phil, things a man hauls. Stuff you need to get rid of without a lot of mess. Junk you need to dispose of.” I actually emphasized “dispose.” Boy, was that dumb. Only I didn’t know it then.
I saw that attempting conversation with Phil was getting me nowhere. So I figured I’d send one shot across his bow. “Well, I gotta run, Phil. Thanks for keeping an eye on everything. I’m thinking of cancelling my alarm system thanks to you.” With that, I turned and walked back toward my house. I don’t know how Phil took that comment, I never thought to turn around and look. But knowing what I know now, he didn’t like it much.
Mushroom Soil, and Burlap Burritos
Friday night I get a phone call from Joey Fanucci. “The delivery guy will be at the house at 8AM,” he said, “Pop said he knows this guy and that you should have coffee for him.” That was odd. The guy can’t just make some coffee before he drops off my poop? But I figured Joey’s dad knew what he was doing here. Maybe the guy takes better care of you if your coffee is fresh, who knows?
Saturday morning, I woke up at 5AM, like always. Even “retired,” I still like to be up and moving around before the sun comes up. I made myself a pot of coffee and sat at the kitchen table glancing at the paper. The Lynchburg News and Advance was a whole sight different than the Philadelphia Inquirer. The Inquirer is full of the poison and bite of the city, so to speak. Its editorial page is filled with importance and pith. The News and Advance was more genteel. The people even disagreed casually. I was reading a point-counterpoint about the expansion of Liberty University into the River Ridge Mall when my cell phone rang. It was Joey Fanucci.
“Domanucce!” I said joyously, while trying to keep my voice down. Anj had joined me by now but the kids were still asleep. “Go out on your front porch, the guy says he’s on your street right now. You might need to flag him down.” Joey said. “Call me back when he gets done, let me know how it went.” Click. Joey hung up without a word. Odd, I thought, but I figured maybe he was busy at the moment. I walked to the front door and before I could step onto the porch there was Joey and his Dad, in a very new dump truck I might add, sitting in my driveway with ten yards of horse poop and compost, still steaming in the back.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed. Angie smacked me on the arm immediately. “Joseph!” She said playfully. I was floored. “What the heck are you guys doing here? You’re crazy, both of you!” Joey jumped down from the truck and gave me a huge bear hug and a kiss on the cheek. I returned the affections, and we danced around like we were in high school again. Gosh it was good to see them! Mr. Fanucci took a while to get down from the driver’s seat. It was hard seeing him getting so old. He walked over and gave me a much softer hug than his son did. He grabbed my face and kissed my cheek like he was my own father. What a sweet and gentle man this is. He was always like that.
I didn’t know where to start. Joey could tell that I was flabbergasted. So he just began by telling me how it was that they were standing in my driveway in Forest, Virginia with a steaming load of horse poop on the back of their truck. “Pop called around a few places. He even had the people out in Avondale at the Mushroom houses call and ask. But nobody even knows what mushroom soil is down here, much less have any.” Joey explained. “You can find horse manure all over the place but not the combination, you know.” So Dad got the notion to make a road trip of it and come see you. And here we are.” Joey was laughing now. His dad had a big grin on his face when I asked him about the new truck.
“Poop must be paying more than ever, mister Fanucci! That’s a really nice truck. When did you get this?” Joey’s dad had less of the old-world accent than he did when we were growing up, but he still sounded like an immigrant. “The old trucka she fall apart. She runn-ah like-ah the Chitty Chitty Bang-guh, Bang.” I looked at Joey and we both burst out in laughter. We had seen “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang” in a suburban drive-in with Joey’s parents when we were little kids. His dad thought it was the funniest movie he’d ever seen. Ever. And every time he saw a beat up old car he’d point and laugh and say “Look, boys, it’s-ah the Chitty Chitty Bang-guh Bang!” and he’d just laugh himself silly. “Well this one is beautiful, Mr. Fanucci. Really beautiful. Have you let Joey drive it yet?” Joey laughed at that. I knew better. Mr. Fanucci was pretty much married to his dump truck. He only let Joey drive if he was really fatigued. “Pop made it the whole way down here.” Joey said, “He was tuckering a bit when we got to Lynchburg but he pushed through.” I was amazed. The man is seventy years old. “How long did it take you to make the trip?” I asked Joey. “Oh about six hours.” he said “We loaded up at Kaolin last night and drove to Warrenton. That’s where we spent the night. We got on the road from there at five AM.” “The stuff’s still steaming!” I answered Joey, “How’d you manage that?”
“We covered it with thermal tarps, to trap the heat. And Pop ordered this truck with the bed heater like asphalt trucks have. He can deliver year-round now.” Joey said. Old Man Fanucci climbed up on the bed of his truck like he was Walenda. “We pulled back the tarps before we got to your neighborhood, Giuseppe,” he shouted from the side of his truck. “I wanted your neighbors to enjoy-ah the aroma.” He was grinning like a little boy. “Come-ah smell this, Giuseppe. You remember how good this-ah smells?” Mr. Fanucci was the only man on the block who could get by with calling me Giuseppe. He was old world and old school, both, and so I didn’t mind. He stood on the tire of the big truck and pulled me up by the arm. Joey climbed up on the other side and we stood there, all three of us, breathing deeply the aroma of real, honest-to-God, Avondale, Pennsylvania mushroom soil.
We jumped down and Angie joined us with coffee for Joe and his dad. I said, “Come on inside, I want to show you guys the house.” But Mr. Fanucci grabbed my hand and asked me could we go to the back yard first. “Sure Mr.
Fanucci,” I said, “But do you need the bathroom, or want to wash up or anything?” He smiled softly, “No,” he said, “I wanna go and see those mountains from your back yard. Joey says-ah they look like the Campania.” I led Joe and his dad around back and we stood on the deck sipping coffee. Mr. Fanucci was very quiet for a long time. In fact, nobody said anything for a long time.
Finally, he grabbed Angie’s hand in his, and with the other, he made a big sweeping arc across the horizon, in the direction of those mountains. Like a painter laying down the base color on a canvas. His voice was full of emotion. “Joey...he was right.” He said, holding Angie’s hand and looking at Joey and me. “This place, it reminds me of Campania. It reminds me of back home.” He was getting teary eyed. Mr. Fanucci had come from a small town in the Campania not too far from my grandfather. In fact, one of the few people that Giuseppe would talk to, besides Mr. Kroyczek, was Joey’s dad. Even though there was a pretty sizeable age difference. I think it was be
cause Mr. Fanucci is from the same area in Italy and talking to him reminded Giuseppe of himself at a much younger age. We drank coffee in silence while Mr. Fanucci got lost in memories of the old country. Eventually, Joey touched his dad on the shoulder and said, “Pop, we gotta dump this load, and we need to see this house of theirs!” The old man turned and smiled. “You’re right,” he said, then he looked at Angie and said, “Show me your house, Bella.” Secretly, I always thought Mr. Fanucci had one of those innocent, oldman crushes on Anj. He held her hand a lot whenever we were around. Angie picked up on it, and used to tease him sometimes, just a little. I never gave it a second thought. Mr. Fanucci is as good a man as walks this earth. Anyway, we walked inside and gave them the tour. We had another cup of coffee and stepped outside.
The Legend of Joey Trucks: The Accidental Mobster Page 14