by Tom Sheridan
Franco threw another hook. It swung past T’s head and pulled him in for a hug. Franco’s new vantage point: his vanished rear windshield. “Now let’s get dafuckouttahere.”
The beastie boys broke north as families of deer came forth. They lined the hills in droves as Franco and T drove. The temp suddenly sat damn near 60. March was looking like it was gonna be in like a lion and out like a lamb after all. And after all the lion and lamb had been through, they were still divided on tunes. The lamb wanted to hear some of that Wu-Tang. But the lion, feeling as part of the earth, felt like putting his ear to the street. He spun the FM dial. To his surprise, it turned out to be 100.— that had him jumping. Almost out of his seat. “Oh shit! Little Steffanie! Girl’s been cuttin this up in North Jersey.” Franco turned it all the way up.
TJ wrinkled his face. What the fuck is this?
“I seen her up in a club in Clifton. Little girl. Big voice. Biiig voice. Lit the piano on fire. Lit the place on fire.”
TJ couldn’t believe his ears as Franco popped the pop beat.
“I asked a guy who she was. Thought it was her manager. Turns out it was her father. A Jersey Joe named Joe. Made it big. Hopped over the Hudson. Anyway. I’m tellin you. Do not fuck with this girl.”
“Dad. Eff with means the opposite now. Do not eff with her would now mean, don’t listen to her. You should be telling me that I should eff with her.”
“Fuck with means somethin nice now? That don’t make no fuckin sense.”
Father and son laughed.
Franco cranked the song all the way as the Mustang cranked into overdrive.
TJ shook his head. Of all the artists they could’ve ridden home to—Pac, Biggie, The Wu just to name a few—TJ definitely did not have his money on Lady Gaga.
Franco bobbed his head. “She could be, like, the latest part of the whole Italian Jersey thing.”
“The mafia?”
“No!” Franco shook his head as the Mustang shook a car on the left. “The Italian Jersey music thing. Goes all the way back to Sinatra.”
TJ wrinkled his face. Then. “What about us? Are we Italian?”
“Yeah. Your mother’s mother. Jewish-Italian.”
“No but…what about…you? What are you?”
Franco revved the Mustang into the red. He had given the kid the juice to take on Ray. And now the kid was comin after him.
The old pony roared through the rolling hills of the Garden State. The sun overhead. Trees budding green as the pony galloped past the Veterans’ Memorial. The arena’s circular edge was decked with Star-Spangled Banners billowing in the wind. Like it was a birthday cake for Uncle Sam himself. While Franco had finally found the answer himself. The one he’d be searching for his whole life. “I ain’t nothin…if I ain’t American.”
As the Mustang’s gears turned, so too were the ones in TJ’s head. Franco had given him some food for thought for his presentation. And he couldn’t wait to get home to feast on it.
It was a day so eventful, father and son would almost forget about the trooper who pulled them over for the rear windshield. Franco had kept his hands at ten and two. As one was supposed to do. Then told the trooper the truth. “I’m real sorry, officer. But…we were attacked by a bear.”
TRACK 9. DON’T CALL IT A COMEBACK
TJ WAS HALF-ASLEEP as the third presenter in a row linked Lincoln to a beard, being tall, and a log cabin. Shit TJ knew since Lincoln logs. Then Lane called his name. Gave TJ one of her patented glasses-at-the-end-of-her-nose stares. “Your turn.”
TJ got out of his desk with his index cards in tow. Walked up the aisle like it was death row. He looked out at his fellow inmates. UN sneaking a T9 text. Ray carving his desk. (DRAY.) Poor Lenore next to the boor. Not the prince she pictured when she was four. And the rest of the first-period class. Tired as fuck and feeling like ass. School would start at ten. If it was up to them.
“What if I told you that someone from the very same streets you walk on, the ones you walked on this morning to get here, made it out with music?” TJ cold opened in the cold room.
T’s fellow inmates sat up.
“Let me ask you something else first. What do you think of when you think of Italians? Jersey Italians.”
The inmates threw out answers faster than hands.
“Mafia.”
“Guidos.”
“Big T. Tony Sopranooo,” responded Ray with a hand over his mouth.
“What if I told you that there was another Jersey Italian thing? One much bigger than the mob. One that has lifted countless souls from the soles of their boots. All around the world from here to Beirut.”
The inmates at attention, T went on to explain what Franco tried to figure the day before. “The real Italian Jersey thing has been to make music to move the world. With real deal Italian—” TJ looked out at his eclectic cohort. “Real deal immigrant—” T looked at Dragon. “Real deal American ideals. Hustle. Heart. Heads on straight.”
T’s comrades leaned in.
“It all started back in Hoboken. A hundred years ago when a bunch of mostly brown and totally broke immigrants moved in. It became a dock town of tough guys and gals who stared at the Empire State Building with even bigger dreams. One of them was Frank Sinatra. Now you gotta—have to—understand that this guy was Jay-Z and Timberlake back when Woodbridge was timber n lake.” T punctuated his punch line with a playful smile.
The gen pop gently snickered.
“You know how if you go to a Yankee game, they always play ‘New York, New York’ at the end? That’s Frank Sinatra. I mean, this guy coming up was just a hobo from Hoboken. But he went on to inspire people around the world. To this day. From Billy Joel’s ‘New York State of Mind’ to Nas’s ‘NY State of Mind’ to Biggie lyrics, you can trace it all back to the Chairman of the Board.”4
TJ looked to Lane. Couldn’t get a read on her furrowed brow. Was she intrigued? Or could she not believe her goddamn ears? Lincoln ending the slavery nightmare. MLK having a dream. And now Lane’s listening to TJ spout off about some hood from Hoboken? Was the Future Problem Solver wannabe creating a Current Problem? What the fuck was he thinking? Then. He remembered. He was thinkin, maybe the old lady loved the guy. He was thinkin, his inmates had him covered on King n Lincoln.
So on T went. “You know those Jersey Boys ads that are all over the place right now?”
UN slouched in his chair. “No son, no. Don’t even go there with those corny—”
TJ pointed back at UN. Like he was at the podium of the UN. “Yes son! Yes!”
The other delegates delighted in T’s response.
“I know you probably see them as some corny boy band from Bernardsville or something. But these guys were straight outta—out of—the projects. Newark projects. Yeah, you see the glitz and glam of the Jersey Boys on the commercials. But what you don’t see is how they came up. How Tommy DeVito, who needed a few bucks to get going, went to prison for a heist in an alley. How Francesco Castelluccio had to change his name to Frankie Valli. Something more vanilla for the vanilla audience.”
The Jersey boys and girls as diverse as UN delegates sat up in their seats.
After T sprang Springsteen on them, You know, the guy we all danced to at homecoming. Living our Glory Days, he moved on to the main event.
“Who’s Snoop’s main man?”
“Dre!” offered a now engaged UN.
“Who’s Biggie’s?”
“Diddy,” said Lenore. Giddy.
“No doubt. Who’s Richie’s?”
“Like, Little Richard?” asked a little student named Richard.
“Nooo,” said T with feigned offense. “Richie from Woodbridge. Richie who balled on the ball team and walked the very same streets you beat feet on this morning.”
The Jersey boys and girls gave curious looks. Who?
“His main man was little Johnny Francis. Little Johnny who sailed over from Sayreville on the Driscoll, l
ike we’ve all done a million times, and picked up Richie Sambora. Right off the streets of Woodbridge. Two working-class kids livin on a prayer who were gonna make it out dead or alive.”
Ray shook his head. “Oh I feel ya, son. I feel ya.”
The overweight UN weighed in, “He’s talkin about—”
“Shut the fuck up and let him finish!” roared Ray. The big cat then purred to the teacher like a pussy cat. “Sorry Miss Lane.”
Lane sat stone cold. Motioned for T to finish.
T wrapped up and from that day on everyone in the class, from the homies to the crass, had mad respect for Bon Jovi. And mad respect for T. Ray stood up and slow-clapped. Followed by them all clapping.
T’s eyes changed lanes to Lane. Her stare longer than ever. Glasses at the end of a nose as long as Pinocchio’s. “You were supposed to start with the name of the presentation.”
“Oh. It’s called Stereo Types.”
“One word or two?” interrogated Lane with an eyebrow raised.
“Two.” T threw up two fingers across his chest. In the form of a peace sign.
The phone call came after school. TJ picked up the off-white phone from the kitchen wall on Bunns. It was Mom. Droppin a bomb. She had just gotten a call from Miss Lane. Apparently, TJ’s presentation had hit Lane like Anchorman had hit T. So different, the observer wasn’t sure what to make of it. Only to realize hours later he/she loved it. In Lane’s case, she said it was because it was thoroughly original and exquisitely crafted. TJ’s presentation. Not Anchorman. (Although Lane did appreciate Anchorman as well for both its politically incorrect 1970s setting and positive feminist message.) And not only did Lane love it, Julie’s boy, her boy as Julie kept calling TJ, had an open invite to join Future Problem Solvers.
TJ stood stunned in the kitchen on Bunns. “That’s…great.”
“My boy. I’m so proud of you.” Julie then told TJ she had to get back, but the call had been a nice shelter from the storm. Mom. Always killin with Dylan.
But when TJ hung up the off-white phone, something was off. Her boy. As she said over and over. But as Lane said, Exquisitely crafted and thoroughly original. Exquisitely crafted. Yeah, TJ had honed that presentation all night like he was high school Julie circa 1990. But. It was based on something Franco had said as they tore through the streets of Jersey. Her boy. A more accurate tale would be the one T learned about in A Bronx Tale. A line from C occurred to T. About how he was getting two educations. One from school. And one from the street. That way, he’d be twice as smart. TJ looked in the living room mirror. Big eyes like Mom’s. Exquisitely crafted. A chiseled chin like Dad’s. And thoroughly original.
TJ looked out the front window to the projects across the way. A smile lit up his face as four five-year-olds ran in a race. And it wasn’t just that sight that caused him delight. The son of The Brawler had come up with his own nickname. The Brain from Bunns Lane.
TJ waited by the front window for hours. Like he was five years old all over again. When he used to wait for Daddy to dock his car after a shift at the docks. TJ, now damn near 15, was once again excited to tell Daddy all about his day.
Franco parked the pony and unsaddled. On his cell phone. He bobbed back and forth on his brown grass.
TJ came running out. “Dad! Dad—”
Franco halted T with a hand. Spoke into the cell. “Are you fuckin kiddin me?” Franco paced back and forth so many times he coulda mowed his little lawn by now. “Gimme an hour.” Franco flipped the phone shut.
“Dad. You’re not gonna believe—”
“Not now.” Franco again threw his hand up. Hopped back in the Stang. “I’ll be home…” Franco couldn’t finish his sentence. Couldn’t think straight. Like that time Julie dropped the D-word on him. He couldn’t process anything T said. He had to cruise and clear his head.
Franco took the Turnpike North debating a call, what to do, on the call that just came through. Like he was sitting at a Borgata blackjack table. The rider ran through his life’s hands. He figured his birth was a 16. Not the best of hands, his own mother letting him out of her hands. But considering the alternative of not existing at all, he’d take it. The Dealer then dealt him a childhood full of busts. Foster parent after foster parent in it for the rent. His last mother moving on to a better place. Leaving Franco with the old man and his unshaven face. Lost in space. Little Franco always belting out “Happy Birthday” as he wondered what it was like to be the kid behind the cake. The hosting parents taking a host of pictures. Franco always on the outskirts. Halfway in the frame. Smiling to conceal his shame. Meanwhile, his own birthdayyys was as bad as Biggie’s. “Dad” too busy drinking Tanqueray to acknowledge the day. Had money for booze but not for shoes. While little Franco wore Adidas sandals in winter. Walked through slosh that soaked his socks. Little Franco would wonder if he should leave The Table altogether. The cold shoe leaving him cold and without shoes. But there were the intermittent wins that kept him hanging in. Getting seated next to Joey Cano in kindergarten. Twenties for the kids who would be friends past their 20s. And more 20s, two jacks Franco would figure, as the new jacks got bigger. From balling on Bunns to chasing buns. And Franco’s favorite. Cooling at the Cano’s. Where Joey’s Puerto Rican papá and Mediterranean mamma would make pasteles n lasagna. Where the fami(g)lias on both sides would converge on little Joey’s birthday and argue over which was better. Which side had more pride. More who fought n died. More blondes that dyed. But little Franco had another vantage point from atop the pool’s slide. He saw below the surface as he slid toward the pool’s surface. He saw two similar sides. Full of love and laughter. Matching arms to see who was tanner. Those intermittent 20s from The Dealer that had Franco concluding, That’s what he must be. Puerto Rican-Italian. Or at least what he wished he was. Wished, in the middle of one of Joey’s joyous parties, that for once he would be the star. That the stars would align and Joey’s tío or tía or zio or zia would reveal himself or herzelf as Franco’s long-lost parent. The intermittent 20s that would finally come around after a recurring run of busts. The 20s that would look so good all the way around the horn. Until The Dealer dug up a 21 and sentenced Franco back to his hell of a home.
The Mustang droned past Turnpike oil tanks. Its driver half there, half at The Table handing out his life’s hands. A song emerged from the radio deep within the recesses of the rider’s brain. All these years later and the man was still slayed by Manfred Mann. Could still hear that ditty. “Do Wah Diddy Diddy.” And remember when he first saw Julie. Damn, so pretty pretty.
The first day of Franco’s freshman year. (He loved how whenever he referred to his freshman year, more upwardly mobile mopes would ask, Which college? Ha. They musta read a million books and they couldn’t even read the walking talking one right before them.) September. Easily the most underrated chronology on the calendar. With its warm weather and clear skies. School kids with hopeful eyes. And of course. The month that Franco met Julie. The stunner who needed no stunners. Walking along with her little backpack and her little back packin. Her blue orbs floating along as if God had pulled two pieces of September sky and stuck one in each eye. Then yanked a sheath of October night and laid it atop the fair lady. Blessed her with skin as fresh as November rain. The Goddess decked Franco like a December wind. At first sight, he had fallen. For the Female of Fall.
Young Franco hurried over and improvised. Asked her where the gym was. They were right next to it. Stupid. Wanted to hit himself in the head. Well, where you goin? Followed by, Oh yeah, me too! I was…just jokin about the gym. Jokin? What a joke. Nothing funny there. Swore ta God he’d kick his own ass if he kept it up. She hit the halls and he kept up. Made chit chat about this and that. Then the freshman tried to shock her. Told her he made varsity soccer. She hid her interest along with books at her locker. Then brought the courter to her home court. She asked if he was doing any clubs. Young Franco shrugged, “Just teen nights at Hunka Bunka.” As his joke sat for a beat,
his hopeful hazels searched her blues for clues. Like he was that nerd from Blue’s Clues. The little lady bust out laughing. So surprised by her own outburst that she covered her mouth. Young Franco smiled back. Looking like a million bucks back then. His full head of hair in its heyday. His pre-fighting fresh face. Charming grin upon his chiseled chin.
Franco would joke for years that it took Julie ten times longer to fall in love. Franco in five seconds. Julie in five minutes. Julie would then always correct him and let him know that’s actually sixty times longer. Yeah but sixty times longer don’t sound as good. And on and on they’d argue. Till Franco would concede a loss to gain a kiss.
And on that first day of freshman year, Franco followed Julie right into class. Stared at her eyes as they stared at the board. For once in class, he wasn’t bored. He looked on, impressed as she summoned the answers from summer reading. It wasn’t until the end of class that the literature-loving teacher remembered to attend to attendance. It wasn’t until then that everybody raised his or her hand. Save for the hood in the hoodie. Doting on the goody-goody. It wasn’t even Franco’s class. (Though for the rest of his life, he would casually mention how he was once in Honors English.) Franco missed his next class, too, as he was sent off to the office. His first high school period ever…and Miss Lane had brought the pain.
Still, Franco had booked meeting Julie as a blackjack. After fourteen years of cold shoes, The Dealer had finally bestowed him an unbeatable hand. Sure, The Dealer was also showing an ace. But Young Franco didn’t need insurance. His head, his heart, and his other part gave full assurance. And for years, he felt great about his blackjack while The Dealer tended to other hands. But sure enough, The Dealer too turned over a blackjack in the early aughts when Julie said they oughta divorce. Best Franco could do was chalk it all up as a push as Julie pushed out of their marriage and took T across town. Franco had let them all down.