Mr. And Mrs. Vinny

The rightful place to start is with Joey’s parents because they molded him more than anyone besides me and the crew. When Joey was two they visited a psychic out in Greenwich Village. It was a basement apartment with plastic beads dangling from the door frame, walls that needed paint and candles that reeked of sandalwood. A typical shyster operation. The City was built on them. By the way, by City, I meant New York City. Anyways, that night the old, wrinkled face psychic forecast a long and uncertain journey for Joey. She declared that with more sessions, the path might clear.
His mother spotted that ploy right for more money. Not really the smartest move for the psychic. One liar never believes another. And Mrs. Vinny was a horrible about lying. She lied about everything. My mom said that she just wasn’t bound by convention.
I loved my aunt. Really I did. She was my kind of liar. Her tales were top shelf. If you bother to do something, might as well go for it all the way, no holding back.
You know how some lies are just flat and pathetic, like the people who spew them? Just no way anyone would ever buy them. They ooze insincerity. Well hers were out there, stretching the bounds of reality and good sense, but they were entertaining. Even though she didn’t intend it, she could’a buried any stand up comic. The best part was she couldn’t understand how funny what she said was.
Like one time Joey was real late for basketball camp, and his mom drove him and told the coach they were late because the entire street blew up on account of a construction project that went wrong. Mind you, I made it on time and lived right next door. To be fair, road crews had painted a new crosswalk lines at the other end of the block the previous month. A construction job, just like she had claimed. Just there weren’t no explosives involved.
Hell yeah Mrs. Vinny saw right through the psychic scam. Shaking her fist and cursing, she never returned to the ripoff parlor with Joey. So much for astrology. Cosmically speaking though, that was one shyster who spoke the truth. The path of Joey was murky.
Maybe Mrs. Vinny didn’t want to admit that she had suspected the same fate for Joey. There were plenty of cues. Like how she spoke to him. She stood on the front stoop yelling, wearing light blue sweats, palms hovering near the rail without clutching it. Mrs. Vinny never used the rail even though she was heavy and her backside rippled when she walked. She didn’t want to break a nail. They were blue and real expensive and matched the eyeliner. And at two minutes to seven six nights a week, she yelled, “Break it up ya losers! Joey, get your ass in here!”
Sure she loved Joey. Mrs. Vinny just showed love differently. Like on his birthday she always bought cupcakes for the whole class. Actually she never paid for them. What she really did was order from a pay phone with a phony name, send Joey in first, trot behind and tell the baker that her purse was back in the car. Every year Mrs. Vinny stiffed a different shop. She stiffed every bakery in the five Boroughs. Joey was real good at sprinting with a box.
At school Joey opened the classroom door and carried the sweets in, then passed’em out like a cigarettes to everyone while she watched in the corner, breathing heavy and checking her nails. The sugared treats were pretty cool when we were seven. At eighteen it was sorta odd, but what the hell, you know? If it’s free it’s for me. Besides, there was nothing I could do to stop my aunt. Ratting her out was unthinkable. She just wanted the best for her boy. Only the worst kind of scum turns on family. There had better be a grand jury with a sealed indictment and your name on it, before you even dreamed about thinking about doing that. It sure as hell was not over a buck and half worth of flour. Anyway, she taught them bakers a lesson – cash deposit in advance.
Joey had other problems besides a lying mom. His dad was a boozer. One year the day after Joey’s birthday I ran into Mr. Vinny on the front stoop draining a half liter of vodka. “Hi!” I said, rushing past the apartment on my way to park, bouncing a basketball. As leader, I was in charge of the gear. I was in a hurry that day too, but I stopped. Mr. Vinny was my uncle and godfather.
“How dare you look at me like that!” he said. “Your godfather no less.” The words struck hard. He meant no harm I thought.
“Huh?” I asked.
“I know what you kids say about me behind me back.”
“Who would talk smack about you?”
“Don’t lie to me Gerald. You’re an amateur.”
“But I’m not lying!”
“Are you saying I’m a liar?” she asked.
“No Uncle Ron.”
“How many times I gotta tell you? Don’t call me that.”
“OK, OK Mr. Vinny. I’m sorry. I don’t think you’re a liar. I swear.”
“I’m calling my sister right now, and when your father gets home tonight you better start apologizing for hurting his hands. Cause he’s going to smack that pretty boy face of yours raw. You’re going to learn some respect.”
Mr. Vinny never did call mom about whatever it is that he thought was said, and I never asked about it. Maybe all the other vodka bottles each week in their trash can had something to do with that temper. I could be wrong.
Looking back, the cards were stacked against Joey in a number of ways, right from birth. Still, nobody loved Joey Vinny more than Mrs. Vinny. And that was good. She had a big heart. It’s not just those cupcakes she bought him either. It was tons of other little things. Come Christmas time, everyone wanted to be Mrs. Vinny’s friend. She gave the fattest gifts.
Money was no object with her. One thing was you never asked her what store she got them from, because she said the same thing. “Just fell off the back of a truck,” she said.
One year she gave my mom a solid glass coffee table. Pretty impressive that it didn’t break falling onto the street. Guess it was made from special bullet proof glass. Anyway the table was nice and shiny and my mom polished the table once a week. That same year Joey Vinny got a television, an awesome set with surround sound, huge speakers and a massive screen. Now that was love. Picking that big set up off the street and dragging it inside, risking her nails and all. And she had sciatica.
Her love didn’t stop there. Like I said, Mrs. Vinny put on the production to end all productions at the funeral. There was barely a dry eye in the house. But that was for later.
We’ll get there.