Monthly Archives: September 2013

The Motel Family: Part Seven

The Motel Family: Part Seven.

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The Motel Family: Part Seven

A family christmas tree.

© Copyright 2013  by Sara Jacobelli

Getting Away From the Getaway Motel

Sunday, December 27, 1981

 

Cara Nonna:

I know you must be worried about us. I just wanted to tell you that we are all OK. Mama said the shootings at the Getaway Motel were something about a “Drug Deal gone bad.” Two guys got killed and two others are in bad shape in the hospital. Papa said it’s a good thing he didn’t hock his gun at the Pawn Shop. Mama said he’s been “crowing like a Rooster about saving our lives.” Sometimes Papa gets on my nerves, but now I’m glad we have him. The way Mama looks at him, I know she feels the same way.

Well, that night, after the cop cars and ambulances left, Mama said, “That’s it. It’s time to Get-away from the Getaway Motel.” She called a United Cab and we went to Tootsie’s apartment above the Bastille Bar. None of us got any sleep, we stayed up all night drinking coffee, talking to Tootsie and Dakota and telling them everything that had happened. Gino and Antonietta dozed off and on, but they both had nightmares and woke up crying throughout the night. The next day, we went back to the Motel and got the rest of our stuff. Papa was mad because we were paid through until Friday, and “that cafone wouldn’t give us a refund.” Papa pulled out his gun, stuck it in his fat face, and the guy gave him the rest of the money. Mama wasn’t even mad when Papa told her how he got the money.  He handed her a couple twenties to go Make Groceries. She just sighed and sank back into Tootsie’s comfy couch. She looked exhausted.

Mama said she has to talk to Mr. Carlo about when our apartment will be ready, because we are all crammed into Tootsie’s place, and that means seven people in a one bedroom apartment with one bathroom. That means long lines for the bathroom, with the Grown-ups taking turns banging on the door and the Little Kids in the Hallway jumping up and down doing the Gotta Pee Dance. Plus Tootsie’s sister is going to Prison soon, and that means her Three Kids will be moving in here.

The Good Thing though is Tootsie has a kitchen. It’s small, it’s really part of the living room.  But the next day, Mama went to the French Quarter A & P and got some food and cooked up a Pot of Delicious Red Beans and Rice. You should have seen us all gobble that down.  Tootsie ate two platefuls before she went to work. Papa and Mama and Dakota and the rest of us ate like Hogs.

The funny thing was, there was a big ole ham hock in the pot and the Little Kids started fighting over it. Gino punched Antonietta and grabbed that ham hock and sat in the Corner chewing on it like a Cave Man and growling at anyone who tried to get near him. Me and Dakota couldn’t stop laughing, but Mama cried, “My baby is Starving!”

“He’s not a BABY!” I said, standing up. “He’s in second grade and he needs to act like it, or else he’ll STAY BACK and be the Oldest Kid in second grade next year.”

Mama wiped the tears from her face with a Kleenex. “Enough!” she told Gino, and grabbed the ham hock from him. He had meat juice sliding down his face. She rinsed off the ham hock in the sink and put it back in the pot. “YUCK!” said Dakota. I started to say something Smart but Mama held up the ladle.

“I don’t want to hear it! I rinsed the damn thing off. We are NOT wasting food. And we’re not getting Food Stamps anymore. I used the pay phone at the bar to call my caseworker and she said the letter they sent to us was returned to them.  That Stupid Motel!” Mama stood by the tiny stove stirring the Big Pot of Beans. “We’ve got Red Beans and Rice and French Bread and Butter and we’re gonna enjoy it.” She looked like an old Italian Mama in the Movies, with her long wavy messy black hair getting in her eyes, the thin yellow flowered housedress with a hole in it and her dirty bare feet. Mama always fixed her hair and wore cute outfits and never went without shoes and it surprised me to see her like that. She always said she was no “barefoot peasant.” I kept staring at her feet.  Her toenails didn’t even have polish on them.

“FOOD STAMPA? What food stamp?” Papa was pissed. “I told you no Sicialiano begs from his neighbor. He might steal from his neighbor, but he don’t beg. Sicilians no take handouts!” Papa yelled.

“I DON’T WANTA HEAR IT!” Mama screamed.  “I’m Half Irish—and the Irish half is  fucking hungry!” She chased after Papa with the big ladle, ham juice dripping off it. Papa leaned back in the recliner chair watching a boxing match on TV and gulping his beans and rice. She conked him in the head with the ladle. He grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard.

“MAMA STOP! Don’t get him Mad!” I jumped on her back and tried to pull her away.

Papa threw his plate of beans across the room. “Fuck you!  Va fanculo, I’m going to the bar, maybe I’ll meet a nice girl,”

“NO! Mama grabbed his shirt sleeve. “DON’T GO!”

“Mama, let him go!” I grabbed her housedress and pulled her back. She started crying. I thought the Little Kids would start crying too, but they had found a stool and were standing on it by the stove, helping themselves to more beans and rice, spilling some on the floor. Then Antonietta changed the channel to some Stupid Kids show, and they fought over the recliner chair.

“Let’s go walk around the Quarter,” Dakota said.

“OK,” I followed her out the door.

“You’re not going anywhere!” Mama said.

I don’t usually disobey Mama. I know she needs me. But I left with Dakota.

Mama stood in the stairwell. “Dani, don’t stay out late. I need you to help me.”

“I need to be a Teenager and have some Fun!” I yelled up the stairs. Mama’s eyes looked hurt. I felt bad about leaving her, but the call of Dakota and the Streets of the Quarter were too hard to resist. Besides, Gino and Antonietta will keep her Company. And Papa will come home later, Drunk, and he’ll sweet talk her and she’ll hang all over him. They won’t need me at all.  The thrill of disobedience surged through me like electricity.  I could be daring like Dakota.

************

Nonna, I must tell you something sad. That night was Christmas Eve, and we never got the Little Kids any Presents. We didn’t have a Christmas Tree or Christmas Stockings or Anything. There wasn’t going to be any big fat Turkey or delicious lasagna cooked by Mama on Christmas Day.  So what was the point in staying in? It wasn’t our Home anyway. I was mad at Mama and Papa for doing such a lousy job taking care of us. I still wanted to live on Spain Street in our old shotgun, with Old Mr. Kitty. I wanted to go to Midnight Mass Christmas Eve like my best friend Laney DeRosa’s family did every year.

Dakota said we needed to stay away from the Bastille, because Tootsie is working there and Papa might be drinking there. So we walked up and down Bourbon Street a few times. Whenever we got to St. Peter we cut over to Dauphine. We had to stay off of Bourbon and Toulouse. We hung out in front of Shakey Jakes for awhile, at St. Peter and Dauphine. There were some cute guys on motorcycles out front and we talked to them. One of them passed a joint around and me and Tootsie took a few hits. I never Smoked Weed before, but Papa sells it so it can’t be all bad. Tootsie laughed at the way I tried to smoke. “Girl, you gotta take a big hit and hold it in, like this.”

I tried to do like she did and all I did was cough. One of the guys started laughing but he gave me a sip of his long-necked Budweiser. “How old are you?” he asked.

“Thirteen, um, well almost thirteen.”

“God Damn! JAIL BAIT! Come back when you’re sixteen and I’ll give you a ride.”

He roared off on his Harley, no helmet, all blonde hair and beard and Gorgeous Green Eyes. He must have been about twenty two.

One of the bartenders came out and chased us off. We ran down the street, headed to Decatur, over to Café du Monde. We grabbed some beignets that were left behind on the plates of tourists, gobbled them down greedily, our faces and shirts covered with the dusty white powder.

“I wish Gino was here,” I said. “He’s the fastest one I know at grabbing donuts. He’ll take em off people’s plates when they’re still sittin’ there.” We both couldn’t stop laughing.

We walked over to the Moonwalk and sat on a bench, watched the big ships make the turn on the Mississippi River.

“Do you wanna stay out all night? Or are you gonna get tired and want to Go Home? You’re Younger than me.”

“I don’t know.”

The Quarter was pretty Quiet, since it was Christmas Eve. We got bored and headed to the Bastille. I was surprised that Tootsie didn’t send us upstairs. Papa was drinking Boilermakers—shots of whiskey with beer chasers. He put his arm around my shoulder.

“This no place for Christmas,” he said. He smelled like cigarettes and booze. I wished he had on cologne like Mr. Carlo.

“I know.”

“We should go upstairs, bring her a glass of wine.”

“She’ll have to settle for a Go Cup,” Tootsie said.  “No glasses in this bar, too dangerous in a fight. “ Tootsie lit a cigarette. “You kids should go upstairs and watch some Christmas shows.

“Mom, I’m kinda OLD for that,” Dakota said.

Tootsie rapped her knuckles on Dakota’s head. “OH, I still watch them, and I’m Fifteen Years Older than you. I like that Grinch, that Mean Ole Grinch, and that Charlie Brown one and the Jimmy Stewart show, the old Black and White one. And that one with Natalie Wood when she was just a kid.” Tootsie ruffled my hair. “She reminds me of Dani in that Movie, so Smart.” Tootsie leaned over the bar. “Girl, I hate bartending Christmas Eve. All you get are people with No Place Else to Go. It’s Depressing.”

 It was true. Only a few old drunks sat on bar stools, moping into their drinks. None of the regular crowd was there. The Jukebox sat Silent in the Corner. “Tomorrow it’ll be Better, though. Everyone’ll come for the Turkey Dinner, like Thanksgiving. They can’t pass up a free meal for nothin’.”

Dakota clambered onto a bar stool. I envied her her tube top and curvy figure. “Mom, we should’ve bought stuff to make Christmas Cookies.”

“Yeah, that woulda been nice.” Tootsie fixed us both Cherry Cokes.

“You know I need something stronger, Girlfriend,” Dakota challenged her Mom.

“You ain’t my Girlfriend, you’re my God Damned Kid and don’t you Forget it. Now take your Cherry Cokes upstairs. Dani, here’s a glass of wine for your Mama, don’t spill it.”

“Boun Natale!” Papa said. “Buona notte.” We headed up the stairs with Papa.  His words were a little slurred, but he wasn’t as drunk as I expected him to be. I took a sip of Mama’s red wine. Part of me still childishly wished Papa spent his money on presents for us instead of in the Bar. I wanted something to wake up to and unwrap on Christmas morning.

“MERRY CHRISTMAS YOU GUYS!” Tootsie yelled after us. “Look on the Bright Side, at least you weren’t killed in that Motel Shoot-out!”

I thought maybe Papa would say something like, “That’s true, at least we have each other,” but then I realized that stuff like that only happens in the Movies. And more than anything, I wanted to go upstairs, curl up on the couch with the Little Kids and snuggle under lots of blankets, drink hot chocolate, and watch Christmas Movies. No matter how babyish Dakota thought they were.

**********

Photo Credit: “A family Christmas Tree” by Wikipedia. CC License Attribution ShareAlike.

 

 

 

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Rising Tide Conference: New Orleans 2013

Rising Tide Conference: New Orleans 2013.

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Rising Tide Conference: New Orleans 2013

Flag of New Orleans

Rising Tide Conference: New Orleans 2013 is Saturday, September 14, 2013 at Xavier University. This annual conference is aimed at bloggers and new media who care about New Orleans.  Registration is only $20!

http://risingtidenola.com/

http://risingtideblog.blogspot.com/

http://www.wwoz.org/events/223917

neworleansunplugged.com/main/dpsimage_c.php?id=46422

http://toulousestreet.wordpress.com/tag/greg-peters/

****************

Photo Credit: “Flag of New Orleans,” by Wikipedia. Public Domain Photo.

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Think Big!

Think Big!.

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Think Big!

Early '50s AC/DC tabletop radio

Vintage Rotary Dial Phone

Think Big!

A Play in One Act

©  copyright 2013  by Sara Jacobelli

Fiction

TITLE: Think Big

CHARACTERS:

MOM: 30 year old female Irish Catholic, blue collar, wearing casual slacks and top

TORI:  11 year old female child, short hair, tomboy-type

TIME: Mid 1960s

SETTING:  A very small, cluttered 1960s kitchen:  stove, sink, refrigerator, ironing board that folds down from the wall, iron, a rotary wall telephone, chrome kitchen table and chairs.  There is a percolator type coffee pot, cream and sugar and coffee cups on the table. There is a radio on the table, an ashtray and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes and a Zippo lighter. The only attempt at decoration is a free hardware store calendar.  A 1960s radio show plays softly. The mother is standing up and ironing a stack of clothes from a plastic hamper. The clothes are men’s, women’s, boy’s and girl’s.  The girl is sitting at the kitchen table drawing pictures on scratch paper.

The telephone rings. The daughter clambers over to answer the phone. There is a large hand-lettered sign taped next to the phone that says, “Thing Big!”

TORI:  In a very loud eager voice    Think Big!  Then, very excited.  MOM! We won! WE WON! It’s Big Wilson on the radio! He says we won a million dollars! A MILLION DOLLARS! Mom! She jumps up and down.

MOM: Shaking her head, puts down the iron and turns down the radio. Gimme the phone. It’s probably just Uncle Leo. She grabs the phone. Her daughter sits down at the kitchen table, head in her hands. She pouts.

MOM: Leo? I KNEW that was you! Tori’s upset. She thought you REALLY were Big Wilson. She thought all our troubles were over. She thought we were millionaires. She sits at the kitchen table, sighs, and lights a Lucky Strike cigarette with a silver Zippo lighter. She’s already spending the money, on yachts and race cars and a big, fancy mansion down in sunny Florida and a jet plane and a private zoo.  She laughs. The prize is five hundred dollars, by the way, not a million bucks. You’re a riot, Leo, a regular riot. You should be on Johnny Carson. To her daughter. It’s JUST your Uncle Leo!

Tori makes faces while sitting at the kitchen table and listening to her mother on the phone. After a while, she gets bored with making faces and goes back to drawing pictures.

Her mother puts the cigarette in the ashtray and resumes ironing while talking on the phone. As she gets more upset with her brother on the phone, she irons more and more furiously.

MOM: Leo, you need to go home. She’s your wife, I don’t care. You need to go home to your family. I really don’t want to hear all that shit. Getting louder and madder.  CHRISTINE my ass! I don’t want to hear about your skinny whore.  She smacks down harder and harder with the ironing. Leo, do the Right Thing. GO HOME! Hanging up the phone, she fusses with folding some of the previously ironed clothes.

She puts down the clothes and discovers her cigarette has gone out. She relights it, sits down at the kitchen table. Tori walks in and out of the kitchen a few times. She sits down at the kitchen table and fidgets with the radio dial.

TORI: Mom! I’m bored!

MOM: Go outside! Go play in traffic!

TORI: But I just came back in!

She grabs the girl and tries pushing her out the door. The girl wriggles away and goes back to the table and resumes playing with the radio dial.

MOM:  sitting at the kitchen table, pours another cup of coffee and stirs in milk and sugar. Now GO OUTSIDE!

The phone rings again. Tori tries to grab it but her mother gets it first.

MOM:  Think Big! She makes a face at Tori and points toward the door. Yeah Leo, I know. I know.

TORI:  OK, I’m going! I’m going out! She runs out the door but lingers in the hallway, eavesdropping.

MOM: Leo, listen to me. You need to go home to Felicia. She needs you. Sober up and go home. She resumes ironing again. Yeah, sure. The kids can stay here when she goes to the hospital to have the baby. Sure. Why not?

Tori pops back in the doorway. But Mom, where’re they gonna sleep? In OUR room? Mom?

Her mother waves her away and sits smoking and listening to the radio. She pours a cup of coffee and sighs.

MOM: Didn’t I tell you to go outside and play, and to go to the store on the way back?

NEIGHBORHOOD KIDS:  yelling up the stairs. Hey Tori!  Wanna come out and play kickball?

TORI: Gotta go play kickball! Bye!

MOM: Leo, I gotta go. I gotta clean this house, thaw out some hamburg for dinner. All right. All right. Let me know. Bye.

She screams down the stairs to her daughter. Come home when the streetlights come on! And don’t forget to charge milk and cigarettes at the corner!  In a few minutes, Tori is back.

TORI:  Breathless from running up the stairs. Mom! Can we have some Kool-Aid?  And some snacks?

MOM: Who’s “We”?

TORI: Me and the Benedetto kids!

MOM: YellingNO! I’m not feeding nine Benedettos! Tell the Pope to buy them Kool-Aid and Devil Dogs! I don’t have enough money to feed my own, the way your father plays poker. She sighs and puffs on her cigarette.

TORI: Can I show them the “Think Big!” Sign? I told em how we got to say “Think Big!” every time we answer the phone, cuz—

MOM:  NO!!! Don’t let those Benedettos in here, there’s too many of em. They’ll eat us outta house and home. House and home! Just go, go outside, sweetie—and don’t forget, I need milk and two packs of Lucky Strikes.  Put it on our account. Tell Bruno, the old man. Don’t ask his wife, that bitch’ll say no!

TORI: I know! I know! As she runs down the stairs.

MOM:  She puts her cigarette out in the ashtray, sits at the kitchen table and fiddles with the radio.   Shit. Three more kids in this house. That’s all we need. The phone rings. She picks it up.

MOM: Think Big!

1960s music—such as Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra, Peggy Lee—plays softly on the radio as the curtain closes.

 

The End

***************

Sound Clip of Big Wilson Radio Personality:

http://airchexx.com/2010/03/02/big-wilson-66-wnbc-new-york-april-1969/

*************

Photo Credits:

“Vintage rotary dial phone,” by RightBrain Photography. License CC NonCommercial NoDerivs.  Flickr.

“Early 50s AC/DC tabletop radio,” by Wikipedia.  GNU Free Documentation License.

 

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The Heiress and The Transvestite: Part Three

The Heiress and The Transvestite: Part Three.

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