Taurus 21°

Taking a bath in an aluminum tub with my first cousin Karen outside at my Aunty Margies house. My father, the oldest, had three siblings: Marge, Junior and Donny (surely not their actual names—I told you all my life my father’s name was James, right, until he told me in my thirties that his name was really Vicenzo?). Marge lived in Lyndhurst, New Jersey. And like I tried to tell Georgeann Walken (Christopher’s wife) who was the casting director of The Sopranos (on which a slew of friends and acquaintances like Michael Imperioli and Aida Turturro appeared): I knew the entire landscape of that show from growing up and going to Auntie Margie’s, passing, like the Soprano’s opening credits, all they pictured there plus the endless cemetaries and cemetary themed shops—yes I think they were cemetary shops where you could by tombstones and fake flower decorations because, in that part of New Jersey, death-themed outlets and fledgling fast food restaurants—the first ever McDonald’s I ever saw—was in Lyndhurst and Kearny, where New Jersey children of immigrants went to die. You could entered Auntie Margie’s house without ever going into the house at all. They had the first electric garage door opener I ever saw. It was just a doorbell near the garage door that you pushed, meaning anyone could at any time but didn’t because people didn’t assume such a thing existed then. The door opened and before it was fully raised, as soon as you could, you ducked into the garage and then immediately into the “basement” which was all tile and lineoleum (easily wiped down with cleaner on a cloth) and there was a kitchen and a cheap outdoor/indoor table, glass and iron, and other smaller, mainly card, tables, that doubled as “kids tables” and places where poker would happen. Karen was uncle Donny’s daughter. I never saw her growing up past the age when we were three. But for that time we were inseparably bathed, bedded and put to play together.


Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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