Red Mazzo was chipper. The July morning was still brisk, although weather reports warned of mid-90s and dense humidity by noon. "Enjoy it while ya got it," he mused as he left church. His denim bells flapped at his ankles as his Wallabees marched the sidewalk. From a pocket he retrieved his pipe, tamped with a fresh fill of Borkum Riff. He paused to light it, made sure the match was cold to his touch before tossing it.
Mazzo's red locks and beard gleamed in the morning sun as if scrubbed with Penny Brite.
Red loved morning Mass, a Low Mass on an ordinary weekday. A High Mass at midnight on Christmas was grand, a cathedral of a Mass! But a Low Mass on a regular old workday? He adored its plainness. It was as humble as Francis of Assisi. Or a manger in Bethlehem. And it was quick! A half hour and you'd had Communion, were as good-to-go, spiritually speaking, as if you'd attended an Easter Mass held at the Vatican officiated by Pope Paul VI. A Mass was a Mass was a Mass, no question, even without the incense and chimes, the pomp and circumstance.
After Mass, he stopped by the rectory for breakfast, coffee and a donut. It was as it had been when he was an altar boy. In those days it was a short walk after his little breakfast to school, the day commenced on the good foot.
A lot of water under the bridge since those JFK-era days. He'd been thinking as much last night when listening to a Carole King album on which she performed a magisterial version of a self-penned song that'd been a hit when Red was young. At that time, he paid scant attention to any annoying rock 'n' roll; even then he was drawn to folk music. Red didn't "go rock" until Dylan did. Where Dylan led, Red followed.
When Red was in elementary school, he loved the folk songs they sang in music class: sea chanteys, Irish airs, cowboy laments, spirituals. And he loved the folk songs that climbed the Top 40. After reading about a NYC radio station with a folk program, he tuned in. Despite the poor reception he was introduced to a broad spectrum of folk music: blues shouters, bluegrass, Anglo-Saxon ballads, Dust Bowl ditties, topical tunes. And Dylan. The earth moved. That Christmas he got the first Bob Dylan album. And he'd dutifully acquired each one as issued.
Red didn't really remember Ike. He did, certainly, remember Dallas. And LBJ, etc. And here we are, the Bicentennial, Ford in the White House. "What a long, strange trip, indeed," he said aloud to no one.
The morning was splendid, the day off to a glorious start.
On the spur of the moment, Red decided to go the cemetery, to visit the grave of Grandma Mazzo, to pray, commune with her ghost.
He never knew any of his other grandparents. They'd either died before he was born or when he was an infant. Grandma Mazzo loved Red and doted on him with comic books, toy dinosaurs, candy bars. A few years ago, cancer claimed her. Red had been away at college, but made weekend visits home to visit her in the hospital. It hadn't been pretty, and even though her death had been something of a blessing, the entire ordeal left him bereft in a way he'd never been. It took something out of him that he’d never fully recover. Graveside prayer might ease the sorrow.
As Red approached the cemetery, he passed gaudy fast-food chains, filling stations, drive-in banks, discount warehouses, eyesores of various sorts. One afternoon, Red's one friend, Jack, was visiting, the two of them sitting in Red's attic room. He told Red that if you knew where to look, down a certain back alley, there was a "massage parlor" and a bookie joint, both operated by Ronnie Campello, a former high school classmate.
"Man, you should see Ronnie's house! I did some work there last week. Huge! Unbelievable! With an Olympic pool! Three-car garage! And the cars! A Caddy, a Corvette and a Land Rover! And his wife is one gorgeous blonde! 36-24-36!" The numbers he indicated with his hands, drawing an hourglass in the air. He shook his head and uttered, "Phew!" He lit a cigarette as if it would give him the extra energy to deal with the mere thought of this suburban Venus.
"How does he get away with running criminal operations?"
"Wise up, Reddy! The police chief is Bobby Hutchinson, his best pal! You're such an innocent."
Red steamed.
"Around four, she and a maid came out with a tray of roast beef sandwiches for us, the roast beef rare and sliced thin, with horseradish dressing! On rye bread, lightly toasted! And a tub of ice-cold beer! Michelob! Did I say she was gorgeous? What a piece! I wouldn't mind tearing one off with her, pally!" Red was nauseated by this crude remark. In high school, Ronnie Campello never gave nobodies like Red the time of day. But Ronnie was a former classmate, and this was his wife Jack was talking about. Out of bounds!
"I ate three sandwiches and drank four Michelobs, di'n't need dinner that night. Man, Ronnie's got all the luck! Can you imagine hopping into the sack with that sweet bitch? Every single night! Some guys luck out! And some guys don't. Look at you. No offense."
Red steamed.
"Hey-oh! Maybe you should go to the massage parlor?"
Red steamed.
"Aw, poor baby. Gonna give me the silent treatment?" Jack tilted his head and pouted his lower lip in a cartoon of mock sadness. "That's okay, I was just leaving. Give it a thought. Let a professional pull your pud for a change. Just an idea. Hey-oh! Maybe Ronnie can get you a discount? I could put in a word, if'n ya want..."
"Get out! Go home! Get out!"
Red remembered when this road had been two-lane with woods on either side. And he remembered, bitterly, when the town decided to rezone it, allow four-lanes and commercial use. He'd attended a meeting, tried to make a case that an area surrounding a cemetery should be considered sacred, that such a plan was vulgar and profane. It took a mustering of courage for this bashful fellow to stand up and let his nerve-rattled voice be heard. Red's reward was hoots. A young guy, younger than Red, leapt up and pointed at Red and snapped, "Listen, bud! What you just said, that's a stinking pile of... organic fertilizer!"
The packed room burst into uproarious laughter. Red knew he was sunk. He had to admit the man's timing was Jack Benny level. The bastard was suppressing a smirk; he had the audience in the palm of his hand. He nodded, a sort of bow to his army of instant fans. They were the violin to his Jascha Heifetz. And with this violin, Red was, well, Jack Benny.
"People around here need jobs! Good jobs! And this proposal will facilitate just that! Not all of us are buncha lazybones hippie crybaby trust-fund brats!" Cheering pandemonium broke out before Red could defend himself; he was far from a trust-funder! His dad was a janitor, his mom was a waitress. But his sputter couldn't be heard above the uproar. The mob was gaveled into quiet, and in short order the plan was allowed to go to a public vote the following month.
The hideous result of that vote Red tromped past this morning, fuming. The first sour note on this day.
Entering the oasis of Saint Agnes of Rome Cemetery, Red spied a fat lady in a white t-shirt and purple gym shorts walking a dog the size of a pony. She was at the cemetery's far end, waddling into a wooded area that bordered the new condo village.
As he headed to Grandma Mazzo's grave, Red thought little of the woman, other than he'd never witnessed a dog so enormous, and that someone should be dressed more respectfully in a cemetery.
At the grave he was welcomed with an immense mound of dog crap, still warm, steaming on this chilly morning, dead center on Grandma Mazzo’s plot. The stench burned his nostrils. He felt as if he'd been punched, good and hard, in his gut.
Dumbfounded, fists clenched, he struggled with how to correct this outrage.
He sprinted to the woods to confront the obvious culprit. He came to the condos, acres and acres, seemingly infinite acres, of identical housing, uniform in their spanking new white vinyl siding, although some siding was already warping. The fly-by-night builders used the thin stuff, pennies saved.
She was nowhere to be seen. Dammit!
Red raced back to the cemetery, sought a workman to clean the mess. After running around like a headless chicken, he found a short man in a tank top and cuffed jeans pushing a wheelbarrow. Red tried to explain his dilemma. But the man said, in a heavy accent, "No speak English." Red persisted, gesturing to the grave off in the distance. The man looked at Red as if Red were a Martian, smiled, shrugged, and pushed the wheelbarrow away.
Furious, Red decided to take matters into his own hands. He ran to the tool shed, way off in another far corner. Out of breath, his chest heaving, salty sweat stinging his eyes, he managed to locate a shovel amidst the gloom. The workman popped up out of nowhere, shouting, "No! No!" He wrestled the shovel from Red, and swung it overhead, threatening to strike, and shrieked, "Police! Police!"
There was little chance that the police, or anyone, would hear the man, but Red knew when he was beat; the sour taste of defeat was all too familiar. He scurried away, exited the graveyard, stared at the sidewalk, trekked along the aptly named Commercial Drive, homeward bound, hoping to find succor and solace with a volume of Gregory Orr.
Red looked up to see his dad approaching in the family Plymouth. Red smiled and waved, but his dad didn't recognize him, passed, part of the rushing river of traffic, going, going, gone.
The heat and humidity were soaring. One could almost feel the misery rise by the minute.
When Red arrived home, he clomped upstairs to his attic aerie. It was already stifling in his room. He opened the window, turned on the floor fan. Exhausted, he needed to nap.
As he slept, he dreamt that he was in the family car, Mr. Mazzo at the wheel, Red and Grandma Mazzo in the back seat. She turned to him and said, in a jarringly metallic tone, "I suppose it's my fault that you are such a weakling, such a disappointment. I should not have spoiled you so."