Insensitive

The PC insanity continues, headline from nypost.com: “Washington school board removes ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ from curriculum due to racial sensitivity.” It happened outside Seattle. And to think I’ve shunned the novel to avoid a lecture on race. This sounds like an item from Ripley’s Believe It or Not.

From an article by Joseph Ostapiuk: “Staten Island artist Scott LoBaido was taken into custody Tuesday after pouring red paint on the sidewalk outside Manhattan District Attorney Alvin Bragg’s office in a protest against the official’s crime policies.” Here’s a pic:

That’s enough commentary on the news. Here’s an excerpt from Vito’s Day, a novel inspired by James Joyce’s Ulysses, of which I understood perhaps ten-percent. Throughout it, the protagonist’s subconscious thoughts are revealed. Here, he and his friend Mike are at lunch in the Wall Street area:
They entered a small establishment. Several types of pizza, as well as calzones, sausage rolls, stromboli, rice balls and meat and vegetables pies were on display atop and under glass.
“I know what I want,” Vito whispered, referring to the young woman behind the counter.
“She’s not on the menu. Besides, one of these guys is probably her boyfriend. Guido’s ain’t afraid to go out with Puerto Rican girls no more. Ask Yusef Hawkins. Poor kid got shot ’cause that stupid chick said she only goes out with black kids.”
“That’s just a lame excuse for morons to spill out their poison. I laugh at the people who blame her for the murder. Why didn’t they kill her instead? They were jerk-offs, Mikey.” Enough. These guys look like they’re from Bensonhurst.
Vito ordered stromboli, Mike a slice of chicken and peppers pie.
“Can I have a Diet Coke?” said Vito to the girl at the register, avoiding her dark, alluring eyes, her inviting ruby-red lips. Damn, she is hot. Workin’ up a sweat just standin’ here.
As he was gathering plastic utensils, someone called out to him.
“Hey, old man. Nobody knows you’re an old man, but I know it.”
Damn, she heard that. So what? Not like you were gonna ask her out. Imagine you together. Wouldn’t know what to do or say. ‘d be like bein’ with Yvette.
Flushing, he climbed the short flight that led to the small dining area at the rear. “What’s up, fat boy?” he said, approaching a short, light-haired man seated alone, who had a half-eaten sausage roll in hand.
“What d’you mean fat? I lost 15 pounds.”
“And your ass’s still bigger than a boat. How d’you get anything on your pitches carryin’ that load behind you? You know Mikey, right, Bob? He just had his first anniversary. When’s yours?”
“I don’t think I’m gonna make it.”
“I saw Stevie this mornin’. He must be workin’ ‘round here.”
“I don’t talk to him no more.”
“What’s this now? When’re you guys gonna grow up?”
“He screwed me. He gave me an empty envelope at my wedding.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. He still owes me for softball goin’ back five years. What’re you gonna do? That’s the way it is. Forget it.”
“He hurt me! We’re best friends since high school. I called him up and asked him how much he gave me. ‘Same as you gave me,’ he told me. I told him: ‘Look, I don’t blame you. I know your wife took it.’ And he got all mad and hung up on me, and we ain’t talked since. It’s been five months now. I heard the cops came to his house the other day. He beat the shit atta her, pregnant and all. He found out she’s still doin’ drugs.”
“Poor Lynn. She’s so screwed up. I used to hear stories about her all the time. I couldn’t believe he married her. I thought maybe she’d changed, grew atta that stage. I should’ve known better. People don’t change, at least not a lot.”
“Linda says I shouldn’t’ve said nothin’.”
“She’s right. You put yourself between him and his wife. Right or wrong, he’s gotta side with her.”
“I don’t care. He hurt me. When he got married I gave him more than anybody. He told me so himself.”
“What’s that compared to friendship?”
“Would a friend do what he did to me?” He rose, clearly peeved, leaving his meal unfinished. “Let me get atta here. You playin’ softball next year, you old bastard?”
“I’m done.”
“You’re too old, anyway. Stay home. We don’t need you no more.”
His loud, abrasive tone drew the gaze of everyone in the area.
“You better go,” said Vito, chuckling; “before they throw you out.”
Bobby having gone, Mike said, softly: “The girl’s pregnant and she’s doin’ drugs?”
Vito shook his head. “She’s screwed up, Scunge. She’s a sweet kid from a broken home. I think she has some kind of rare disorder too. It can strike any time and might even be fatal. She was doin’ guys before she was in her teens. Their whole crowd’s screwed up. Talk about a drug culture. How can you be surprised by things like that? It’s so common nowadays. It’s in the paper every day.”
“The baby’s probably gonna be born with all kinda defects. People like that shouldn’t be allowed to have kids.”
“I know, but how d’you stop it? You want Nazi tactics? Then anybody who ever made a mistake in his life wouldn’t be able to have kids. Maybe by some miracle the kid’ll turn out okay. A lotta people who don’t do drugs have no business havin’ kids, either. It’s not a perfect world and it never will be. Just do right by your own kids when you have ’em. That’s all you can do.”
“How old’s Bobby?”
“28, I think. Yeah, that’s right. He went to elementary school with Michelle. He was crazy then too. Ask her. I remember when we first started workin’ here, before we had lunch together, he was wild. The workers in the cafeteria hated him. You could see it in their faces as soon as he walked in. He yelled at everybody in that whining nasal tone. He was always coked up then. His friends call him Mousie ’cause he’s like a little rodent. I guess you can’t expect a kid who was sniffin’ glue at eight to act any other way. He’s lucky to be alive, considering all the drugs he’s done. He drove people nuts. He got punched-out by the manager of a McDonald’s and sued ’em. The kid who hit him was wrong, even though, knowin’ Bobby, it’s easy to understand why he did it. I bet the other customers wanted to applaud. They were about the same age. The other kid was an Arab. He lived two doors down from me.”
“How’d it turn out?”
“He won. I don’t know how much he got, but he bought a house in Marine Park, so it must’ve been a lot. The bastard even bought two option seats when they were goin’ for peanuts. What’re they worth now?”

As usual, the wind was blowing along my prime nook. Combined with the temperature, it wasn’t a good proposition to set up there, so I took the floating book shop to my alternate spot, and things worked out fairly well. My thanks to Carol, who bought Those Who Saved Us by Jenna Blum and The Opposite of Love by Julie Buxbaum; and to the gentleman who purchased seven hardcovers in Russian; and to the young man responsible for the most satisfying sale of the session, a language tome on modern Greek.

My Amazon Author page: https://www.amazon.com/Vic-Fortezza/e/B002M4NLJE

FB: https://www.facebook.com/Vic-Fortezza-Author-118397641564801/?fref=ts

Read Vic’s Stories, free: http://fictionaut.com/users/vic-fortezza