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“Hey, Mush!” Tony Pellegrino called to Michael standing on the other side of the street. Michael was a full head taller than Tony at just over six feet tall. His dark almost black hair made his light blue eyes stand out in his handsome face.
Lifelong friends, they had known each another since kindergarten, and now both young men worked in the Aetna mill across the Charles River on Pleasant Street.
Newton, Massachusetts, in 1938 was a melting pot of Irish, Italian, Jewish, and French immigrants. Each holds fast to his culture. A French bakery next to an Italian deli and flanked by a Jewish tailor shop is not unusual. It was a friendly town where kids play together sharing their languages as well as their sandwiches.
Michael watched Tony dash across Watertown Street dodging cars and ignoring the honking and shouts of angry drivers. He shuffled the bag he was carrying to his other arm. Canned goods get heavy. “What, no work today? It’s only Friday,” Michael said.
“Naw, I took the day off.” Tony pulled out a Lucky Strike and lite it, exhaling slowly so the smoke made almost perfect circles. He grinned and waited for a comment. Tony was Italian and had the swarthy good looks and dark eyes that drove the girls crazy. When Michael doesn’t respond, Tony continued, “I’m working at the carnival down at Our Lady’s. Ya’ comin’?”
“Can’t, I’m working the night shift at the mill tonight. Probably because you took the day off,” Michael answered, giving him a friendly punch. “Ma doesn’t like us going to the carnivals anyways; says it’s just a way to part a fool from his money.”
“But it’s at Our Lady’s. Surely, she can’t find fault with that? Come on. You deserve some fun.”
“I can’t afford to pass up the work, Tony. Things are really tight at home.”
“Then let’s stop in Murphy’s for a beer at least?”
“Ma needs me.” Michael paused as if considering. “No.” After another pause, he grinned, “She’ll probably want me digging a new garden plot or cleaning out the chicken coop,” both young men snigger in agreement.
Crushing his cigarette out on the pavement Tony said, “Ok, you be the momma’s boy, and I’ll see ya’ later. Oh, and tell Ellen I said hi, would ya’?”
“If you’re so sweet on my sister, why don’t you do something about it?”
“Come on, Ellen’s different, ya’ know. . . I don’t wanna say the wrong thing. Hey, maybe she’d come with ya’ tomorrow night?” Tony was charming. When he got nervous, he dropped his head, causing his dark hair to fall over his eyes. He quickly brushed it away. “Come on. Have some fun once in a while?” tony persisted.
“I can’t. You know how Ma is.”
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Tony cocked an eyebrow and flashes his familiar cheeky grin.
“Aw, I’ll try. . . Maybe I can think of a way, but don’t count on it.”
Tony’s grin widened with mischief in mind.
“And you, don’t go getting involved with any of those carnival girls, hear me?” Michael poked his friend; maybe a little harder than he intended. “They are bad news. I’m not kidding.”
“Oh, geech, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.”
“Yeah? Somebody’d better.” Michael cautioned.
They grew up together, best pals since kindergarten, and in high school even chased the same girls, but trouble always seemed to be around the corner waiting for Tony. His charm and dark Italian good looks are gifts, and he has learned to use them all to his advantage. His reputation with the girls was not a very good one.
“See you and Ellen tomorrow night?” Tony persisted
“I said I’ll try.” Michael answered getting annoyed.
“Good enough.”
Tony and Michael went their separate ways. At the corner, Michael paused before crossing Bridge Street. When he turnd, he saw Tony go into Murphy’s Tavern. He shook his head. “Use some sense, Buddy,” he said under his breath, “. . . and don’t stay in there all afternoon.”
He shifted the weight of the grocery bag again and crossed the street. It’s half past twelve as a man staggered past him. The man caught himself and paused blinking in the sunlight.
“Afternoon, Mr. Collins,” Michael said in passing. Stayed too long in Sullivan’s again, Michael thought to himself.
“Oh, yeah. Nice day.” Collins straightened his jacket and tried to keep things in focus. “Uh, say ’ello to yur folks, Son.”
“I’ll do that, Sir.”
He reached the corner of Adams Street and shifted the weight of the bag again. ‘The Lake area’ of Newton is small, and most people know one another. St. Mary’s was the biggest football rival of Our Lady’s, but they were friendly rivals of course. Father Sheridan wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Now, boys,” he’d say, “you can beat the stuffin’ out of them on Friday nights. But if I hear in confession you’ve hurt them any other time, your absolution will be tripled.” And everyone knew he meant it.
“Yoo-hoo, Michael Flannigan!” called a female voice. He looked up to see Sally Watson coming toward him. He waited for her to catch up. “I thought that was you. I called before, but I guess you didn’t hear me.”
“Sorry.”
Standing on the sidewalk in front of Pasquale’s barbershop, Michael waited for her to catch up. Sally is a sweet girl, a few years younger than him. Not bad on the
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eyes either but a little flighty. He knew she’d a crush on him for a while now.
“Are you going to the carnival at Our Lady’s?” Sally asked hopefully.
“I don’t often see you without your friend Gladys,” Michael said changing the subject.
“We’re not friends anymore. She’s gone high hat since she started going out with a Harvard boy. She’s turning into a right snob.”
“I’m sorry. I know you were friends a long time.”
“She’s a twit! Well, it was good running into you. I hope I’ll see you at the carnival.”
“Maybe.” Michael said. He knew the girl likes him, but he has responsibilities at home.
“I’d better run, or I’ll be late,” Sally said.
Watching her dash off, Michael heard the red, white and blue barber pole spin around and around to a steady click, click, click before he moved on.
Michael turned right, walking up Adams Street. As he walked, he heard tinny music coming from the open door to Sullivan’s Tavern. The owner, Eddie, was wiping down the bar.
Looking up, he noticed Michael and called, “Top o’ the day to ya’, Michael.”
“I heard the music.”
“You like it? It’s new. It’s a Victrola. Ya wind it up, and it plays music. Pretty good, huh?”
“It sure is, Mr. O’Dowd.”
“Still got a few Irish Boxty, if you’re hungry.”
“No thanks. Ma is expecting me home. Maybe another time.”
“How is your ma?” Eddie asked as he takes several of the crusty potato pancakes from a plate and wraps them in a clean bar towel. He came around the bar and walked to the door. “No sense in wasting them. Take a few home to your Ma, Boy-o. They’re fierce good. The missus made them this morning.” He put them in the bag Michael is carrying.
“Thank you, Mr. O’Dowd.”
Sullivan’s was where many of the parishioners from Our Lady’s stop for a drink and fish and chips on Fridays. Saturday night is a great night to enjoy some of the locals playing Irish music.
To Michael it seemed like every other building was a tavern or a brewery on Adams Street.
Small wonder the locals call this area “Bottle Alley,” Michael thinks about how life changed the day his da got hurt in the same mill he worked in now.