(posted with admin permission)

That is the title of the memoir I just published on Kindle. https://www.amazon.com/gp/prod...hsch_vapi_tkin_p1_i0

I grew up on "The Hill" in the 50s and 60s, when it was a stronghold of the Cosa Nostra.

"College" was street slang for prison. I actually went to college, but many of my friends went to "college." Others became addicts. Some were killed in hits, including the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, who lived a few houses away and had the bad luck to be with her mobster boyfriend when two hit men opened up on them with shotguns.

My sister had a wiseguy boyfriend who I thought-- at 12 years old-- was the coolest guy in the world. Sharp dresser, drove new cars. He once took me along for ice cream and when the waitress brought the check he said, "What's this?" "That's your check for the banana splits." "No, no" he said, "My name is crime. And crime don't pay." She laughed and of course he gave her a big tip.

He was found just months after that in his parked car with two bullets in his head.

I decided to share with you a funny episode. And yes, the story about what happened in the men's room at the roller skating party is 100% true.

You do not need a kindle e-reader to read a Kindle book. Such as Of Blood and Love. You can download the app on your computer at the Kindle Store-- for free.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: justjoe,

Lash Lerew


My buddy Ray and I were at urinals in the men’s room when Lash Lerew appeared in the doorway, outstretched hands bracing him inside the tiled arch, feet jitterbugging beneath him, eyes wide. Only if he’d had a neon sign hanging from his neck flashing “Disaster! Disaster!” would it have been more clear what was about to happen. Ray and I zipped up quick and got out of the way.

Herky-jerky, Lash made his way toward a urinal between Ray and myself. How he made any forward progress at all is a mystery. Hands, feet, head, arms, shoulders, hips, legs— his body parts were distant outposts in foreign lands, no two speaking the same language. In many tongues, they all yelled at one another, “What the fuck??”

In this way, Lash Lerew entered the men’s room, arms flailing, arching backwards, tipping forward, “Whoooaaaa!” he said, and “Ahhhhhhh!” he said, as he inched toward the urinal. Finally, arm’s length away, he lunged at the urinal with both hands as if to strangle it, and snagged the flush lever in a death grip.

“Fucking skates, huh?” he said to Ray, shaking his head. “Man oh man.”

Ray and I should have left. But we knew this would be too good to miss.

He was now positioned where he needed to be. But that was only half the battle.

He had to let go of his anchor, the flush lever, to unzip and commence the purpose of his mission. He fumbled with his zipper, quickly grabbed the flush lever again, got his feet under him, and fumbled some more. At last, as he stood with a look of Zen-like concentration, the sound of success hissed from the urinal. “Ahhh,” he said, with a sigh of relief. “Cripes. I had to pee so bad I—“

He broke off talking. Instinctively, Ray and I drew back. Ray was now cornered. Almost imperceptibly at first….. but with gathering momentum……Lash was…….. rolling……………..rolling!………………… backward!! Away from the urinal! He flung out a hand at the flush lever—missed!— and the yellow stream whipped around like a snapped power line, hitting the wall, the floor, sending a spray like sparks!

Ray, flattened against the wall, yelled, “Louie, you piss on me I will break your face!” Louie! Not “Lash,” which conveyed friendliness, even affection— but just “Louie.” Which conveyed a broken face.

What happened next was pure Lash Lerew. Right out of Looney Tunes.

Lash panicked. His skates flew out from under him in one swoop, legs and torso parallel to the floor. In a cartoon, he would have hung a moment in mid-air, suspended until he looked down over his shoulder. But in this actual men’s room, he slammed onto his back, pee squirting up— and arching back down.

The moment is frozen in my memory, like a monument. I will christen it The Lash Lerew Memorial Fountain. Dedicated to all of us whose best made plans rain down humiliation.

This message has been edited. Last edited by: justjoe,

Just Joe, I grew up in the North End and Eastie, probably have a lot of stories in common, same circus different tent.

I think this is gonna be 3 bucks well spent.

Thanks, guys.

Yes, I'll bet same circus.

I think you will enjoy the book, SigJacket. And if you don't-- it's three bucks....

You & I may know (or should I say"may have known") a lot of the same people!!!!

quote:

He broke off talking. Instinctively, Ray and I drew back. Ray was now cornered. Almost imperceptibly at first….. but with gathering momentum……Lash was…….. rolling……………..rolling!………………… backward!! Away from the urinal! He flung out a hand at the flush lever—missed!— and the yellow stream whipped around like a snapped power line, hitting the wall, the floor, sending a spray like sparks!

Ray, flattened against the wall, yelled, “Louie, you piss on me I will break your face!” Louie! Not “Lash,” which conveyed friendliness, even affection— but just “Louie.” Which conveyed a broken face.

What happened next was pure Lash Lerew. Right out of Looney Tunes.

Lash panicked. His skates flew out from under him in one swoop, legs and torso parallel to the floor. In a cartoon, he would have hung a moment in mid-air, suspended until he looked down over his shoulder. But in this actual men’s room, he slammed onto his back, pee squirting up— and arching back down.

The moment is frozen in my memory, like a monument.

I grew up in Providence in the 80s. Buddy Cianci the royal prince. He had his hands full. But Federal Hill was clean, Camilles was always busy and the bakeries always paid their protection.

I loved how the Pro Jo would print the mafia guys names in the obit.

Vette02, did you grow up on The Hill? If we could sit down over a beer, it would be a lot of laughs to figure out who we both knew....

Timdogg6, Buddy did a lot for the city. So he took some kickbacks. Like that was unheard of....

Federal Hill is now like an imitation of itself. Camille's is still there. One of my uncles was a waiter there for 30 years. Other restaurants have great food-- if you are prepared to drop a couple hundred for dinner for two.

My mother knew the mothers of all the made guys. They shopped at the same stands. They all thought their boys were wonderful sons....

Try being the only protestant polock in Providence. Irish and Italian everywhere you look, I was like a leper.

I still have family there. My dad steered clear of the non-sense if you will. He was a reputable attorney and he wasn't going to get involved in all that. But it seemingly was everywhere you looked. Laugh of the day, I think it was Blaze Marfeo, might have been Blair, that was teaching "ethics" at RIC . You couldn't make the shit up.

Timdogg6, I went to RIC and had a math course with John Nazarian, who went on to become president of RIC. His brother was "Naza Nazarian." Can't make this shit up.

Your dad was wise to steer clear of the nonsense. Yes, it was everywhere. My memoir is about how the love of family kept me steering clear. Mostly. Nobody who got involved led a good life. I knew lots of them. Not one.

Either of you guys know of Father Joe Moffo? He was a Catholic priest in Providence in the late 60's and in the 70's.
He had family here that I knew. I'm told he probably would have known those types of guys there.

The stories of a passing generation were truly amazing.
I met a client here in FL, Anthony Altobelli, the son of an immigrant italian shoe maker in NY. He would be a cobbler has his father was, that was how life was. Drafted in WW2, he went on to europe, a small, almost elfish sized man. He showed me photos of the concentration camp he liberated.

When he got back he thought he could make more money making prosthetic shoes, which turned into make prothetics themselves. Barely a HS graduate he was taking medical classes in prosthetics at NYU on Uncle Sams dime, no college needed then.

He made a good sum working for the government using his cobbler skills, new prosthetic skills and his beaming smile to get done what he had no clue how to do. Charm went a lot further then than it does now. His stories of being in NY growing up were identical to those I heard in the barber chairs growing up in RI.

These guys could teach a master class in charisma.

quote:

Originally posted by justjoe:
Vette02, did you grow up on The Hill? If we could sit down over a beer, it would be a lot of laughs to figure out who we both knew....

Grew up in North Providence but had many "friends" if you know what I mean.

WaterburyBob, no, that name does not ring a bell. But there were so many active Catholic Churches in those days, so many priests. People would place you according to your parish. "So where do you live?" "Sutton Street." "Oh so you're St.John's then."

Vette02, to me, growing up, North Providence was where the rich people lived.

I grew up in Warren in the '70s and '80s. The Patriarca family was beginning to lose control as the FBI was after Ray senior, and, when he died in '84 the weakness of his son, Ray Jr.

Still have some funny stories from that era, though. You couldn't live in southern New England and not know people who knew people in the rackets. Hell, my father taught school with teachers who were married into the families.

quote:

Originally posted by justjoe:
Vette02, to me, growing up, North Providence was where the rich people lived.

LOL

My memoir does not deal with the mafia. That is a story that has been told and retold, usually in hackneyed ways. "Mean Streets" is a good portrayal. So is "Goodfellas." The Godfather is my favourite movie, a work of genius, but a romanticised portrayal of the mafia. It is instead a brilliant study of corruption. ("This is not personal. It's just business.")

My memoir deals with the power of blood-- of family, of love. Not sentimentalised. It is a power much diminished in our times when family is undervalued, or totally neglected.

Those who only know The Hill's reputation would never guess that in the 50s and 60's it was a very safe place to live. No one locked doors. Most of the made men lived on the hill, or their families and extended families did so. So, break into the wrong tenement, or assault the wrong girl, and death would be the best thing that happened to you.