Table of Contents
___________________
Copyright & Credits
one
two
three
four
five
six
seven
eight
nine
ten
eleven
twelve
thirteen
fourteen
fifteen
sixteen
seventeen
eighteen
nineteen
twenty
twenty-one
twenty-two
twenty-three
twenty-four
twenty-five
twenty-six
twenty-seven
twenty-eight
twenty-nine
thirty
thirty-one
thirty-two
thirty-three
thirty-four
thirty-five
thirty-six
thirty-seven
thirty-eight
thirty-nine
forty
forty-one
forty-two
afterwords
acknowledgments
about michael imperioli
about akashic books
to Victoria, for a love inconceivable
to my children, for being my greatest teachers
I’ve known you for years. Everyone says you were beautiful when you were young, but I want to tell you I think you’re more beautiful now than then. Rather than your face as a young woman, I prefer your face as it is now. Ravaged.
—from Marguerite Duras, The Lover
one
On this, the 24th of July in the year 1977, in the Borough of Manhattan of the State of New York, being of sound mind and body, I . . .
This was originally meant to be a last will and testament type of thing, maybe it still will be at some point. I don’t know. Right now I just want to get as much as I can down on paper. I have been praised for this effort and told that it may bring me some clarity. I was not aware I lacked clarity or that the events described here were unclear, but that is what I have been told by people who are supposed to know about such things.
I have also been informed that this is a very difficult time in one’s life and it’s not uncommon for folks my age to find themselves in similar situations. This brings me no comfort, and I feel it is important for me to state that for the record. Even if the record is a shitty little ninety-nine-cent notebook.
With this in mind, I would like to start at the most logical beginning. Although to be technical, dear sirs or madams, my birth would be the most formal or official beginning, and even further we could trace things back to my parents—how they met, their courtship and marriage, my conception . . . But I will spare you all those gory details and jump to the year when shit started to happen and people died and life as I knew it altered itself beyond recognition.
My parents split up a few days after the new year began so my dad hit the road in his shit-brown ’72 Chrysler Newport. He had three garbage bags of clothes in the trunk and not much else.
I would never see him again.
In June, the day after I finished my sophomore year of high school, we found out he was dead. Legend has it that he checked out in an LA freeway pile-up that may or may not have been his fault. The facts of the terrible accident were never completely explained to me but in my gut I know it was him.
He was a reckless man who always let his emotions get the best of him and denied himself nothing. Driving at speeds over 110 miles an hour chasing down someone who dared to cut him off. Fucking half the women in Jackson Heights. Blowing eight thousand dollars of the family fortune on a lock at Belmont. I vowed I would never be an unfaithful husband, infidelity being something that I find unforgivable and repulsive. I also swore that when I eventually drove a car I would be patient and calm behind the wheel. I have yet to learn to drive nor have I ever placed a bet.
There was no funeral but my mother insisted I go to church with her one Friday to say a prayer in his honor. I went with her but I refused to say the prayer. Not after all the shit he put my mother through. Not after the disgrace and indignity she suffered on his watch. She deserved much better.
From what I could gather through eavesdropping, my mother would not accept possession of his ashes, despite her still being his legal wife. My dad had cut off all ties with his sister years ago, and she was his only living immediate family besides me and Mom. But Aunt Yol, short for Yolanda, was a fall-down drunk and a professional whore who lived out of a car in Seattle or Portland or some Pacific Northwest territory and nobody was able to track her down.
I have no idea where his remains wound up nor do I care in the least.
two
I spent the first few weeks of that summer in my friend Willie’s attic watching him smoke pot while listening to Pink Floyd’s Wish You Were Here. Please do not read anything into that title; it was my album but I assure you I did not wish my dad was here or anywhere. I was fine with wherever he was.
Willie was my best friend at the time. He was also a big fat fuck. Like really very fat. Slob fat.
To maintain his level of obesity, every night around nine or nine thirty we’d walk over to Christy’s on Northern Boulevard and eat cheeseburgers. Willie would sometimes eat two, but usually he would eat three. With double cheese, bacon, and fries. And one or two vanilla milkshakes. His record was four burgers, four orders of fries, and four milkshakes. This triumphant milestone of human achievement was reached on the fourth of July that same summer. Willie considered it an act of high patriotism.
Each time we went to Christy’s, I would hope that we would luck into the-waitress-with-the-long-red-hair’s station. I had a huge crush on her. One night, after we ordered our food I tried to strike up a conversation with her. I asked if she was just beginning her shift or if she was finishing up for the night. She didn’t really answer me, she just smiled and said, “Cute,” kind of under her breath.
I got hot and my face must have flushed red. I had given myself away; cards on the table. She knew how I felt now
