Tony Partly Cloudy (2 page)

“METEOROLOGY?” VINNIE SPOKE THE WORD SLOWLY, piecing together the syllables. “What – you wanna go to some snooty college to study big freakin’ rocks that fall out of the sky? What’s to study? They fall, they take out some dinosaurs, they leave a big hole in the ground, am I right?”

“No, Vinnie, not meteors,” Tony said patiently, smiling at his friend’s rather succinct take on prehistoric geology. “The weather. Meteorology – well, that’s just the scientific name for studying weather. It comes from some old Greek word for—”

“Freakin’ Greeks. You ever taste the sauce they put on their spaghetti? They put freakin’
cinnamon
in their meat sauce – you never seen nothing like it. Thought I was going to puke first time I tasted it. I mean, what the hell are they thinking, putting cinnamon in perfectly good meat sauce?”

Tony tried to steer Vinnie back on topic.

“Vinnie, listen. In a couple of months, summer will be over. We’ll be
seniors
.”

Vinnie’s eyes lit up at this statement; apparently he hadn’t thought of that. Then again, Vinnie was not known for his forward thinking. Or for even thinking at all. But he had been Tony’s best friend since the second grade, when he had helped defend Tony from a fourth-grade bully intent on creating a new form of homicide: death by dodgeball. They had been inseparable since that time, joining forces to face the challenge of surviving the New York public school system. Initially, Tony had been the brains and Vinnie, the brawn. But then the growth spurt kicked in, and as he began inheriting his father’s size, Tony found himself both the brains
and
the brawn. And Vinnie – well, he was just Vinnie. But Tony loved the guy, and chose him to confide in first about his unorthodox career aspirations. The two were sitting in Luigi’s Pizzeria, their favorite place to stop for a slice or two. Or three or four.

Tony sipped his Coke, then continued. “Senior year – that’s when I gotta send all these applications and stuff in. It takes a long time to process all this crap, so if I want to get in next year, I gotta get going on this, chop-chop.”

Vinnie smiled at Tony. “Whoa, Tony, you sounded just like Frankie B just then! Always with the chop-chop. Hey, what the hell does chop-chop mean, anyway? I mean, who started saying that? Some butcher? Or maybe one of those karate guys?”

Tony smiled. It was sometimes difficult to keep Vinnie focused.

“I don’t know, Vinnie. But back to this college thing. I gotta start sending this stuff in
now
.”

Vinnie shrugged, speaking with his mouth full. “So send it. What’s the big deal?”

“All these forms – they ask a lot of questions. Some of it is stuff about money. You know, how much you make, how much your house is worth. Stuff like that.”

“Well, the first part of that is easy,” Vinnie said, dabbing at his cheek with a napkin. Vinnie approached each meal like a hyena tearing at a carcass, and the results could get messy. “You and me both make the same: four bucks an hour. Christ, do you think we’ll ever get a raise? Mario’s been paying us the same for the last two, three years, am I right? Cheap freakin’ bastard.” The cheap freakin’ bastard Vinnie referred to employed both Tony and Vinnie in the kitchen of his Brooklyn restaurant.

Tony said, “Vinnie, Mario pays us in cash. It’s under the table – it’s not getting reported, and we’re not paying taxes on it. You know about taxes, right?” Vinnie nodded his head, his mouth now too full to even attempt to speak.

“Anyways, that’s not what the college wants to know. They want to know how much your parents make. That’s part of how they figure out who gets financial aid – you know, like scholarships and stuff. And I’m definitely gonna need financial aid to be able to afford to go.”

“So you need to ask Frankie B how much money he makes.” Vinnie was starting to get it. But his casual use of Tony’s father’s name was teenage bravado – nobody under the age of 21 would ever address the man to his face as anything less formal than
Mr. Bartolicotti
or
sir
, not if they liked the way their teeth were currently arranged.

“Bingo,” said Tony. “And I got a feeling that how much he makes and how much he
says
he makes when he pays his taxes – well, I kinda doubt those amounts are the same. And I also kinda doubt that he’s going to want some college snooping into his, you know, financial situation.”

“Yeah, I see what you mean. That’s gonna go over like a turd in a punchbowl.”

“That’s what I’m saying.”

The boys brooded for a moment, focusing on their pizza. Then Vinnie said, “Does he even know you’re thinking about college?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve tried to bring it up, but when I do, he’s like,
I never went to no freakin’ college, and look how good we’re living.
”

Vinnie smiled at Tony’s spot-on impersonation of his father, while Tony went on. “It’s like he can’t imagine anything better than working for the moving line. And, you know, doing some stuff for the family business.”

The
family business
was what they called it – nobody Tony knew called it the Mafia or the Mob. And definitely not the Outfit, like they called it in Vegas. Frankie B had always scoffed at that Vegas affectation, calling the Vegas families a bunch of suntanned pussies who watched too many Godfather movies.

Vinnie shifted uncomfortably in the booth, taking a swig of his Coke to collect his thoughts before speaking. “You know, Tony, not for nothin’, but I gotta tell you, your old man does do okay for himself. He’s got a decent job, he maybe pulls down a little extra with the family business, but it ain’t nothin’ real bad – I mean, he’s not a made guy or nothing. What I’m saying, a guy could do worse, you know?”

The boys looked at each other, both realizing the truth in Vinnie’s words. Frankie B did do okay for himself. And unspoken between the two boys was the knowledge that a career like Frankie’s was probably the most realistic aspiration for a guy like Vinnie. He was not what you would call college material.

“Yeah, I know,” said Tony. “He’s done all right for himself – hell, for all of us. I can’t complain. It’s just...” Tony paused, struggling with the words. “I just wonder what it would be like if things were... I don’t know...
different
. I mean, I know I could do okay for myself just sticking around here. I could probably get my Class B license, and drive for the moving line. And my old man’s been hinting that he might be able to get me some, you know, family work, on account of me being big and all. And I’m okay with that. But... jeez, how do I say this? My old man, your old man, all the grownups we know – they all got decent jobs, and they all do okay. But I don’t think any of them have any, you know,
passion
for their jobs.”

Vinnie nearly choked, managing to turn his head to keep from spraying Tony with a mixture of Coke and half-chewed pizza. “Passion?” he asked when he’d recovered. “What the hell you talkin’ about? Your old man works with a bunch of freakin’ palookas – guys that lift pianos and shit. You want he should feel
passion
for those guys?” He dangled his wrist limply as he emphasized the word.

Tony gripped the table, to quell his desire to slap Vinnie. “No, man – come on, you know what I mean. I’m talking about having a job you really care about. You know, like being an artist, or a ball player or something.” Tony paused, his thoughts clarifying. “Or a priest.”

At this Vinnie fell silent. His older brother Johnny had heard the call, and was currently in his second year in seminary school. His decision had made him the pride of the neighborhood. Despite the fact that Johnny’s sharp mind and physical strength would have made him an asset to the family business, nobody criticized a choice like that.

Tony realized he had scored – Vinnie was looking at him with a new level of understanding. But then Vinnie’s face turned skeptical.

“Tony,” he said, “there’s a big freakin’ difference between being a priest and being a meteorwhaddayacallit. My brother Johnny, he’s like a freakin’ saint. He’s got a... a
calling
!” Vinnie had become animated, looking skyward as if expecting God to strike Tony down for his presumptuousness.

“I know, I know,” Tony hastened to say. “Johnny’s the greatest – absolutely. No question about it.” He saw Vinnie begin to relax, and continued. “I’m just saying that some people got a calling, or a passion, or whatever the hell you want to call it. The bottom line is they got something they really care about, something they really want to do, or at least try to do. Some people got that, and some people don’t. A guy like my old man, I don’t see that in him. Somebody like your brother Johnny,” Tony looked upward for dramatic effect, “they got that kind of passion, bigtime.”

Vinnie nodded, understanding. The skyward glance had been a good move, Tony decided. He went on.

“So what I’m saying is that I got a thing I feel that way about. You know me – I been interested in the weather since I was a kid. My Nona Maria, she says I even got a
gift
.”

Vinnie was with him now, Tony could see it. Like most of the neighborhood kids, Vinnie held Tony’s grandmother in a combination of fear and awe, although she had never treated any of them unkindly. There was an ominous tone to her heavily accented pronouncements, and nobody doubted that she could curse you or turn you into a frog if it suited her. Tony knew Nona Maria’s softer side, but also knew his grandmother delighted in maintaining her exotic façade, so he did nothing to dispel his friends’ perceptions.

“No shit – she said that?” Vinnie asked.

“Swear to God,” Tony said. “She’s been saying that since I was little.”

Vinnie nodded approvingly, as if his respect for Tony had just gone up a notch. “So when you gonna talk to your old man about this?” His question brought Tony back to reality.

Tony shrugged. “Soon. I got no choice. This paperwork needs to be sent in, you know...”

“Chop-chop?”

Tony laughed. Every now and then Vinnie surprised him with a brief glimmer of wit. “Yeah,” said Tony. “Chop-chop.”

♠ ♥ ♣ ♦

Bolstered by what he considered a reasonably successful dress rehearsal for pitching his college idea, Tony resolved to talk to his father that night. He planted himself on the living room couch shortly before the hour his father usually returned from work, with several college brochures and application forms conspicuously spread out on the coffee table in front of him. To his right, Nona Maria dozed in her rocker, her time-etched face occasionally creasing into a secret smile while she dreamed.

Frankie was running late. Tony fidgeted, shuffling papers and going over his sales pitch. Finally, he turned on the TV, using the remote to tune in MTV with the volume low enough not to disturb his grandmother’s nap.

Forty minutes later than usual, Frankie stormed into the house, slamming the door behind him with a force that left the portrait of Jesus hanging at a crooked angle next to the door.

“Anybody wanna take a number?” Frankie bellowed. “‘Cause apparently today is National Bust Frankie’s Balls Day.” He jammed a cigarette into his mouth, lit it, and closed his Zippo with a savage flick. “So go ahead. Take a freakin’ number and get in line. Gimme your best shot – everybody else has.”

Now was not the time, Tony thought. Hurriedly he began gathering up the paperwork in front of him.

“What’s all this crap?” Frankie demanded, his arm sweeping in the direction of Tony’s hastily assembled stack of brochures and forms.

“Nothin’, Pops – just homework. Can I maybe get you a beer or something?” Tony squared the edges of his paperwork against the surface of the coffee table, and began to rise. “Or maybe I could ask Mama to make you something stronger?” he suggested.

“Nah, she never makes them strong enough. I’ll do it myself. Like I do everything else around here. God forbid anybody should ever give me a freakin’ break.”

No, this was definitely not the time, thought Tony.

As Frankie lumbered through the room, his gaze locked on the television, where a heavily made-up man with a huge mouth sang about love in an elevator. “Jesus Freakin’ Christ,” he said. “What kind of sick bastard likes this kind of crap?” He swung to face Tony with an accusing glare. “You like this kind of crap?”

Tony did like that kind of crap. He liked it a lot. But as he had already determined, now was not the time.

“No, Pops,” he said. “It was just what was on when I sat down. I like to have music going when I, you know, do my homework.”

“That ain’t music,” Frankie said, grabbing the remote and clicking it off. “Not by a long shot.” With that he stomped off to the kitchen, to find more things to complain about.

Tony let his breath out, unaware he had been holding it. Tucking his papers under his arm, he headed toward his bedroom. Nona Maria’s voice stopped him.

“Is gonna be okay.”

Tony turned to look at her, surprised that she was awake. But then, who could have slept through Hurricane Frankie?

“Is gonna be okay,” she repeated softly, her eyes bright with understanding and affection as she nodded. “You gonna tell him... another time,” she said, then closed her eyes.