Say That To My Face
The story of Joey Frascone, a boy from Yonkers, NY and his eccentric Italian-American familyJoey Frascone is a young kid growing up in tense, violent, racially divided Yonkers, New York in the Seventies and Eighties. His childhood is marked by four different homes, rotating sets of parents, and a whole bag of confused emotions. There are crushes on older girls to comprehend, new boyfriends and girlfriends his parents bring home to contend with, a serial killer on the loose in the neighbourhood, and a whole cast of violent, aggressive Italian-American uncles and cousins that Joey is desperate not to turn into. As he gets older, Joey's teenage dreams pull him away from Yonkers, towards the excitement of New York City, away from his family, but he is still, in many ways, just a handsome, charismatic kid trying to make sense of his world.Complete with a cast of sassy women, psychotic men, love-lorn teenagers, Say That To My Face has all the colour, charm, violence, nostalgia and schmaltz of an episode of The Sopranos. But Joey Frascone is the hero of this book and male and female readers will fall under his spell in equal measure.
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Say
That to my Face
F I C T I O N
David Prete
FOR MY SISTER
Were it possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches, and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divining, perhaps we would endure our sadnesses with greater confidence than our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered into us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy perplexity, everything in us withdraws, a stillness comes, and the new, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it and is silent.
—Rainer Maria Rilke
This was the part of the ride I loved the best. It was my part. When I got up to a good speed and pulled the skid brake, it made the back wheels of my Big Wheel lock and kick out to one side, which sent me into a spin and then a stop. If I got scared and tried to stop the spin with my limbs, chances were I’d get hurt: I could scrape up my feet or tip myself and go shitcan-over-teakettle onto the pavement. Either way, if I tried to stop what it was I had gotten myself into, I’d end up face-ass down on the street.
At four and a half, as I would fall asleep, I’d remember the rides I took that day. I could feel the motion of the skids playing themselves over in me as I lay in bed. Like spending the whole day in the ocean and that same night still feeling the waves going back and forth in my body as if the tide got stuck there. I’d hear the sound of the plastic tire grinding against the asphalt and feel my eyes watering from the wind. It was simply the best thing that ever happened to a kid since the beginning of kids. That’s what I thought about in my fifth year when I would fall asleep.
The other thing I would think about was why there were four different homes in which I was falling asleep.
WHEN MY PARENTS were married they lived in the Bronx. When they got divorced it was decided that my mother, my sister and I would move a few miles north, into my grandparents’ house in Yonkers. My mom was twenty-one years old and broke. Her parents’ house was small, so my sister, my mother and I shared a bedroom. It was a converted attic with a pitched roof and a crawlspace behind one of the walls. Just big enough for three beds and three dressers. The one decorative touch was an almost-life-size poster of Robert Redford playing the Sundance Kid. Our mother hung the poster directly over the headboard of her bed. We lived in that house with our grandparents from when I was one year old until I was six.
The address was 15 Verona Avenue. Verona Avenue was a long and steep hill. The bottom of the hill intersected Central Park Avenue, which was a major six-lane roadway that ran through all of Yonkers. During a hard rainstorm the water would come down that hill and overflow the gutters. That’s when my sister and I put plastic bags over our sneakers and splashed around in what all the adults were cursing the city about.
After dinner, before we would go to bed, I’d get up on my grandfather’s lap. Everyone knew what that meant. My grandfather would yell playfully but really loud, “Get the hell outta here! Now I gotta scratch his back?”
I’d play like he really wasn’t going to. “Ah, Gramps, come ooooooon.”
Then he’d slap me on the back and shake his head at me as if to say, Look at the prince here, sit me on his lap and scratch. We had a pretty smooth routine.
My grandfather was the best back-scratcher I ever knew. The guy was a butcher. He worked with his hands. He understood the force of cleaving and the subtlety of carving. He had thick heavy fingernails, which he kept very well. They were perfect for our routine. He had his clipper and nail buffer (not a file, a two-sided nail buffer), which he kept on his nightstand right next to the whetstone he used to sharpen his butcher’s knives. He took as good care of his nails as he did all of his tools.
There was also a paved walkway that ran from the front of the house all the way to the back, eventually connecting to the back patio. Hugging this walkway was a fence that separated my grandparents’ house from their neighbors’. This walkway was a long enough strip for me to get some pretty good speed on my Big Wheel and hit some nice spins. If ever I rode to the front of the house my mother would yell, “Stay away from the street!” then mumble to herself, “That Big Wheel scares the shit out of me.”
The house at 15 Verona Avenue was where I would fall asleep during most weekdays. House Number One.
If I wasn’t there on a weeknight, it was because I went with my sister to sleep at House Number Two—Aunt Marie and Uncle Ernie’s place. They had two daughters, our cousins, Dina and Vicky. They were not our blood relations. They were self-declared family, friends from the Bronx who were so close they needed to be deemed Aunt, Uncle and Cousin. My mother and my Aunt Marie had known each other since grade school. They got married about the same time, had kids about the same time and moved not only to the same neighborhood in the Bronx, but to the same block. We lived at 2224 Grace Avenue; they lived at 2216 Grace Avenue. Some nights, if we were playing at the other family’s house and we happened to fall asleep on their couch, our parents would just leave us there until morning. We got breakfast no matter where we woke up. I guess they were better than family. When we moved to Yonkers, my mother would drive us down to the Bronx and Aunt Marie and Uncle Ernie would take us in for the night. This happened about once a week. Our grandparents’ house didn’t lack love, but nonetheless my sister and I often gravitated back to Grace Avenue. Maybe we were leaning toward a type of normalcy or honoring a need we felt for some kind of completion. They had a house with a mother, a father and two kids. We couldn’t get enough of it.
