M is For Men

Chapter 1: All Those Strangers

"History is always written wrong, and so always needs to be rewritten."

~George Santayana

It was 7:30 p.m. on the south side of Chicago. on an unusually gloomy Sunday. Dinner ran late for the Baldwin family as it did every single Sunday. Mostly because of me. I swiftly made my way up the creaky wooden steps of my oversized brick home in the Hyde Park area. I couldn't sneak up those creeky steps if I wanted so I made extra noise in order to create a sense of urgency. To make my family feel as though I'd been rushing to get here. Maybe they'd feel sorry for me and my wife wouldn't stress the importance of being on time for Sunday dinners. But I wasn't in a rush to get home to all those faces. It would be hard to muster up a smile after a long day of work... Especially in my profession. After the type of day I'd had, the confession box and somebody's priest were the only place and person I needed to see. I walked into the front hallway, drenched from the rain outside. My wife swiftly made her way to the door as if she'd been awkwardly anticipating my arrival. She helps me take my coat off and she says to me "Oh I'm glad you're finally home, we've been waiting."

"You could have fed the kids no need to wait on me Hunny." I smartly replied

As I slip my shoes off and wipe my soggy feet on the animal skin rug under me.
As she swiftly parts the swaying beads in the doorway that lead to the next room she says and points with her palms upwards.

"Should I have fed them to?"

As I make my way between the beads, I noticed many faces sitting at the fancy brown oak table in my kitchen. There is a feast waiting for us. Us as in me and
My wife's family, whom I'd seemingly forgotten would be joining us tonight. There were many faces sitting at the dinner table; some familiar, some I'd forgotten, some I didn't recognize at all. It was my wife's birthday. I swallowed hard and made my way to the table. Greeting mother's, shaking the hands of cousins, all the while shaking the hands of uncles and grandparents along the way.

"Frank!" My father-in-law Charles calls my name. "Late as usual," he says to me as I sit down.

To which I reply "Yes, it would appear so"

"Well don't hold us any longer pass the Turkey". He says to me in a calming voice

"You know someday you'll be late to your own funeral"

We all share a chuckle. After a few minutes of small talk, my mother-in-law Abigail shares a thought.
"You know Frank this is a wonderful house! It's the biggest house on the Southside and that Grand Piano must've cost a fortune. D-do you even play?" I smile and accept her comments as a compliment, but she continues. "My daughter tells me she doesn't work. How is it that you afford this on a single salary?"

Charles then decides to chime in as well
"Yes Frank, how is it you afford this? What is it you say you do for a living again?"

After he asks, the entire room stops or so I had imagined. Those cousins, uncles, and grandparents simultaneously put their forks down and stop eating, only to stare directly at me, Frank, who sits conveniently at the end of the oak table. The room goes dark, my breathing becomes shallow, and my whole day flashes before my eyes. But a particular memory stands out. It's one I'll never forget. It'll haunt me for the rest of my days. It was... 8:30 this morning and I had gone to talk to Tony Simirioni. A fat son of a bitch, mob boss, who had a thing for little boys. But as long as he gave "Us" information we turned a blind eye to his "thing". Tony's short and stumpy figure matched his personality. He had called me to meet with him this morning. As I entered a fancy office in the back of a shitty mechanic shop. The office must've been bigger than the rest of the shop, it was obvious the shop was just a front for a much larger operation. Tony asks me to sit down, one of his bodyguards insists. I had no choice but to oblige. "Cigar?" Tony offers. To which I politely refuse. He tells me in his Chicago-Italian accent, his mooly mixed nephew "Angelini" was "dipping his dick in the sauce". In fat Italian language that meant his nephew was mingling with too many black folks. Tony tried hard to keep his nephew from learning to much about his "Nigga" heritage, but curiosity kept rearing its ugly head as it always does when it comes to the makings of a man.