Out
In The Be-Bop 1960's Night- The Tonio’s Pizza Pie Dough Toss Bet
By
Frank Jackman
[The
late writer and journalist Peter Markin, a friend of Frankie Riley’s, the subject of this recently found sketch
that he had written in the early 1970s in the days before he let his formerly
in check “wanting habits” get the best of him and turned him to an early grave alone
down in Sonora in Mexico after a busted drug deal loved to write about the corner
boys around his old neighborhood. This short sketch about his and Frankie Riley’s
crazy need to always be betting on some proposition from Red Sox games to whether
a girl did “do the do” or as here how high Tonio could toss some pizza dough had
been found in Sam Lowell’s file cabinet when he was beginning to clear out his
old files in the process of turning the day to day operations of his law firm
to his younger partner.
This
was one of a series of sketches in the East
Bay Other out in San Francisco, really Oakland on the East Bay at the time,
an alternative newspaper that also printed his award-winning series on his
fellow Vietnam War returned soldiers. Soldiers who had nothing but problems
dealing with the “real” world when they came back from that hellhole and so
some of them had banded together down in Southern California in order to do “the
best they could” was the way he had put it in the introduction to the series.
Yeah, Markin was really a man’s writer, had most of the aspects of a thinking
man thinking about what funny things men do down pat. Had been a guy who had
been through enough so that telling the stories of guys he met was pretty easy.
He was always less successful dealing with women, except as tooth and nail adversaries
or love interests, so he tended to shy away from writing much about such
misunderstood by him members of the species.
Yeah,
Markin loved, like only a guy who lived the corner boy life to its fullest, to
drag up memories later on after he had left the neighborhood, the Acre section
of North Adamsville, to travel the great wide world. Loved to write about
Frankie best of all since Frankie was the acknowledged leader of the corner, the
Tonio’s Pizza Parlor corner reserved by tradition for high school guys (Doc’s
Drugstore was for the younger set, Jimmy’s Diner for junior high kids, and Harry’s
Variety Store for highs school drop-outs and will be felons), where they held up the wall in front of that
establishment all through high school (Markin had actually met Frankie in
junior high school where Frankie had snubbed him, had kept an arm’s length
since Markin had just moved into the neighborhood from across town, so he did
not get close to him until later).
Loved
that Frankie had dubbed him “the Scribe,” a moniker that would travel with him
when he headed west to the Coast to take part in whatever was happening out
there in the 1960s before he was drafted into the Army. Loved to let the world
know that despite their poverty, despite their unalleviated “wanting habits,”
the working poor corner boys of his old town had their own ways of coping with
a candid world (Markin’s phrase). Here after some forty years of gathering dust
is Markin at his corner boy high style working his madness against Frankie’s-
mano y mano, winner take all.
********
You
all know Frankie, right? Frankie, Francis Xavier Riley, map of Ireland, fierce
Frankie when necessary, and usually kind Frankie by rough inclination when it
suits his purposes. Yah, Frankie from the old North Adamsville neighborhood.
Frankie to the tenement, the cold-water flat tenement, born. Frankie, no moola,
no two coins to rub together except by wit or chicanery, poor as a church mouse
if there ever was such a thing, a poor church mouse that is. Yes, that Frankie.
And, as well, this writer, his faithful scribe chronicling his tales, his regal
tales. Said scribe to the public housing flats, hot-water flats, but still
flats, born. And poorer even than any old Frankie church mouse. More
importantly though, more importantly for this story that I am about to tell you
than our respective social class positions, is that Frankie is king, the 1960s
king hell king of Tonio’s Pizza Parlor, if not then North Adamsville’s finest
still the place where we spent many a misbegotten hour, and truth to tell, just
plain killed some time when we were down at our heels, or maybe down to our
heels.
Sure
you know about old Frankie’s royal heritage too. I clued you in before when I
wrote about my lost in the struggle for power as I tried to overthrow the king
when we entered North Adamsville High in 1960. By wit, chicanery, guile,
bribes, threats, physical and mental, and every other form of madness he clawed
his way to power after I forgot the first rule of trying to overthrow a king-
you have to make sure he is dead or forget it, and not forget that you will
wind up on the wheel or drawn and quartered for forgetting that first rule. But
mainly it was his "style,” his mad-hatter “beat” style, wherefore he
attempted to learn, and to impress the girls (and maybe a few guys too), with
his arcane knowledge of every oddball fact that anyone would listen to for two
minutes. After my defeat we went back and forth about it. He said, reflecting
his peculiar twist on his Augustinian-formed Roman Catholicism, it was his
god-given right to be king of this particular earthy kingdom but foolish me I
tried to justify his reign based on that old power theory (and discredited as
least since the 17th century) of the divine right of kings. But enough of
theory. Here’s why, when the deal went down, Frankie was king, warts and all.
All
this talk about Frankie royal lineage kind of had me remembering a story, a
Frankie pizza parlor story. Remind me to tell you about it sometime, about how
we used to bet on pizza dough flying. What the heck I have a few minutes I
think I will tell you now because it will also be a prime example, maybe better
than the one I was originally thinking about, of Frankie’s treacheries that I
mentioned before. Now that I think about it again my own temperature is
starting to rise. If I see that bastard again I’m going to... Well, let me just
tell the story and maybe your sympathetic temperature will rise a bit too.
One
summer night, yah, it must have been a summer night because this was the time
of year when we had plenty of time on our hands to get a little off-handedly
off-hand. In any case it would have had to be between our junior and senior
years at old North Adamsville High because we were talking a lot in those days
about what we were going to do, or not do, after high school. And it would have
had to have been on a Monday or Tuesday summer night at that as we were
deflated from a hard weekend of this and that, mainly, Frankie trying to keep
the lid on his relationship with his ever lovin’ sweetie, Joanne. Although come
to think of it that was a full-time occupation and it could have been any of a
hundred nights, summer nights or not.
I
was also trying to keep a lid on my new sweetie, Lucinda, a sweetie who seemed
to be drifting away, or at least in and out on me, mostly out, and mostly because
of my legendary no dough status (that and no car, no sweet ride down the
boulevard, the beach boulevard so she could impress HER friends, yah it was
that kind of relationship). Anyway it's a summer night when we had time on our
hands, idle time, devil’s time according to mothers’ wit, if you want to know
the truth, because his lordship (although I never actually called him that),
Frankie, out of the blue made me the following proposition. Bet: how high will
Tonio flip his pizza dough on his next pass through?
Now
this Tonio, as you know already if you have read the story about how Frankie
became king of the pizza parlor, and if you don’t you will hear more about him
later, was nothing but an ace, numero uno, primo pizza flinger. Here’s a little
outline of the contours of his art, although minus the tenderness, the care,
the genetic dispositions, and who knows, the secret song or incantation that
Tonio brought to the process. I don’t know much about the backroom work, the
work of putting all the ingredients together to make the dough, letting the
dough sit and rise and then cutting it up into pizza-size portions.
I
only really know the front of the store part- the part where he takes that cut
dough portion in front of him in the preparation area and does his magic. That
part started with a gentle sprinkling of flour to take out some of the
stickiness of the dough, then a rough and tumble kneading of the dough to take
any kinks out, and while taking the kinks out the dough gets flattened,
flattened enough to start taking average citizen-recognizable shape as a pizza
pie. Sometimes, especially if Frankie put in an order, old Tonio would knead
that dough to kingdom come. Now I am no culinary expert, and I wasn’t then, no
way, but part of the magic of a good pizza is to knead that dough to kingdom
come so if you see some geek doing a perfunctory couple of wimpy knead chops
then move on, unless you are desperate or just ravenously hungry.
Beyond
the extra knead though the key to the pizza is the thinness of the crust and
hence the pizza tosses. And this is where Tonio was a Leonardo-like artist, no,
that’s not right, this is where he went into some world, some place we would
never know. I can still see, and if you happened to be from old North
Adamsville, you probably can still see it too if you patronized the place or
stood, waiting for that never-coming Eastern Mass. bus, in front of the big,
double-plate glass pizza parlor windows watching in amazement while Tonio
tossed that dough about a million times in the air. Artistry, pure and simple.
So
you can see now, if you didn’t quite get it before that Frankie’s proposition
was nothing but an old gag kind of bet, a bet on where Tonio will throw, high
or low. Hey, it’s just a variation on a sports bet, like in football, make the
first down or not, pass or rush, and so on, except its pizza tosses, okay. Of
course, unlike sports, at least known sports, there are no standards in place
so we have to set some rules, naturally. Since its Frankie’s proposition he gets
to give the rules a go, and I can veto.
Frankie,
though, and sometimes he could do things simple, although that was not his
natural inclination; his natural inclination was to be arcane in all things,
and not just with girls. Simply Frankie said in his Solomonic manner that
passed for wisdom, above or below the sign in back of Tonio’s preparation area,
the sign that told the types of pizza sold, their sizes, their cost and what
else was offered for those who didn’t want pizza that night.
You
know such signs, every pizza palace has them, and other fast eat places too,
you have to go to “uptown” eateries for a tabled menu in front of your eyes,
and only your eyes, but here’s a list of
Tonio’s public offerings. On one side of the sign plain, ordinary, vanilla,
no frills pizza, cheap, maybe four or five dollars for a large, small something
less, although don’t hold me to the prices fifty years later for christ sakes,
no fixings. Just right for “family night”, our family night later, growing up
later, earlier in hot-water flats, public housing hot-water flats time, we had
just enough money for Spam, not Internet spam, spam meat although that may be
an oxymoron and had no father hard-worked cold cash for exotic things like
pizza, not a whole one anyway, in our household. And from what Frankie told me
his too.
Later
, when we had a little more money and could “splurge” for an occasional
take-out, no home delivery in those days, when Ma didn’t feel like cooking, or
it was too hot, or something and to avoid civil wars, the bloody brother
against brother kind, plain, ordinary vanilla pizza was like manna from heaven
for mama, although nobody really wanted it and you just feel bloated after
eating your share (and maybe the crust from someone who doesn’t like crust, or
maybe you traded for it); or, plain, by the slice, out of the oven (or more
likely oven-re-heated after open air sitting on some aluminum special pizza
plate for who knows how long) the only way you could get it after school with a
tonic (also known as soda for you old days non-New Englanders and progeny),
usually a root beer, a Hires root beer to wash away the in-school blahs,
especially the in-school cafeteria blahs.
Or
how about plump Italian sausage, Tonio thickly-sliced, or spicy-side
thinly-sliced pepperoni later when you had a couple of bucks handy to buy your
own, and to share with your fellows (those fellows, hopefully, including girls,
always hopefully, including girls) and finally got out from under family plain
and, on those lucky occasions, and they were lucky like from heaven, when
girl-dated you could show your stuff, your cool, manly stuff, and divide,
divide, if you can believe that, the pizza half one, half the other fixing,
glory be; onion or anchovies, oh no, the kiss of death, no way if you had the
least hope for a decent night and worst, the nightmarish worst, when your date
ordered her portion with either of these, although maybe, just maybe once or
twice, it saved you from having to do more than a peck of a kiss when your date
turned out not to be the dream vision you had hoped for; hams, green peppers,
mushrooms, hamburg, and other oddball toppings I will not even discuss because
such desecration of Tonio’s pizza, except, maybe extra cheese, such
Americanized desecration , should have been declared illegal under some
international law, no question; or, except, maybe again, if you had plenty of
dough, had a had a few drinks, for your gourmet delight that one pig-pile
hunger beyond hunger night when all the fixings went onto the thing. Whoa.
Surely you would not find on Tonio’s blessed sign this modern thing, this
Brussels sprouts, broccoli, alfalfa sprouts, wheat germ, whole wheat, soy, sea
salt, himalaya salt, canola oil, whole food, pseudo-pizza not fit for manly (or
womanly) consumption, no, not in those high cholesterol, high-blood pressure,
eat today for tomorrow you may die days.
On
the other side of the sign, although I will not rhapsodize about Tonio’s
mastery of the submarine sandwich art (also known as heroes and about
seventy-six other names depending on where you grew up, what neighborhood you
grew up in, and who got there first, who, non-Puritan, got there first that is)
are the descriptions of the various sandwich combinations (all come with
lettuce, tomatoes, pickles, the outlawed onions, various condiment spreads as
desired along with a bag of potato chips so I won’t go into all that); cold
cuts, basically bologna and cheese, maybe a little salami, no way, no way in
hell am I putting dough up for what Ma prepared and I had for lunch whenever I
couldn’t put two nickels together to get the school lunch, and the school lunch
I already described as causing me to run to Tonio’s for a sweet reason portion
of pizza by the slice just to kill the taste, no way is right; tuna fish, no
way again for a different reason though, a Roman Catholic Friday holy, holy
tuna fish reason besides grandma, high Roman Catholic saint grandma, had that
tuna fish salad with a splash of mayo on oatmeal bread thing down to a science,
yah, grandma no way I would betray you like that; roast beef, what are you
kidding; meatballs (in that grand pizza sauce); sausage, with or without green
peppers, steak and cheese and so on. The sign, in all it beatified Tonio misspelled
glory.
“Okay,”
I said, that sign part seemed reasonable under the circumstances (that’s how
Frankie put it, I’m just repeating his rationalization), except that never
having made such a bet before I asked to witness a few Tonio flips first. “Deal,”
said Frankie. Now my idea here, and I hope you follow me on this because it is
not every day that you get to know how my mind works, or how it works different
from star king Frankie, but it is not every day that you hear about a
proposition based on high or low pizza tosses and there may be something of an
art to it that I, or you, were not aware of. See, I am thinking, as many times
as I have watched old saintly Tonio, just like everybody else, flip that dough
to the heavens I never really thought about where it was heading, except those
rare occasions when one hit the ceiling and stuck there. So maybe there is some
kind of regular pattern to the thing. Like I say, I had seen Tonio flip dough
more than my fair share of teenage life pizzas but, you know, never really
noticed anything about it, kind of like the weather. As it turned out there was
apparently no rhyme or reason to Tonio’s tosses just the quantity of the tosses
(that was the secret to that good pizza crust, not the height of the throw), so
after a few minutes I said "Bet." And bet is, high or low, my call,
for a quarter a call (I have visions of filling that old jukebox with my
“winnings” because a new Dylan song just came in that I am crazy to play about
a zillion times, <i>Mr. Tambourine Man</i>). We are off.
I
admit that I did pretty well for while that night and maybe was up a buck, and
some change, at the end of the night. Frankie paid up, as Frankie always paid
up, and such pay up without a squawk was a point of honor between us (and not just
Frankie and me either, every righteous guy was the same way, or else), cash
left on the table. I was feeling pretty good ‘cause I just beat the king of the
hill at something, and that something was his own game. I rested comfortable on
my laurels. Rested comfortably that is until a couple of nights later when we,
as usual, were sitting in the Frankie-reserved seats (reserved that is unless
there were real paying customers who wanted to eat their pizza in-house and
then we, more or less, were given the bum’s rush) when Frankie said “Bet.” And
the minute he said that I knew, I knew for certain, that we are once again
betting on pizza tosses because when it came right down to it I knew, and I
knew for certain, that Frankie’s defeat a few nights before did not sit well
with him.
Now
here is where things got tricky, though. Tonio, good old good luck charm Tonio,
was nowhere in sight. He didn’t work every night and he was probably with his
honey, and for an older dame she was a honey, dark hair, good shape, great,
dark laughing eyes, and a melting smile. I could see, even then, where her
charms beat out, even for ace pizza flinger Tonio, tossing foolish old pizza
dough in the air for some kids with time on their hands, no dough, teenage
boys, Irish teenage boys to boot. However, Sammy, North Adamsville High Class
of ’62 (maybe, at least that is when he was supposed to graduate, according to
Frankie, one of whose older brothers graduated that year), and Tonio’s pizza
protégé was on duty. Since we already knew the ropes on this thing I didn’t
even bother to check and see if Sammy’s style was different from Tonio’s. Heck,
it was all random, right?
This
night we flipped for first call. Frankie won the coin toss. Not a good sign,
maybe. I, however, like the previous time, started out quickly with a good run
and began to believe that, like at Skeet ball (some call it Skee-ball but they
are both the same–roll balls up a targeted area to win Kewpie dolls, feathery
things, or a goof key chain for your sweetie) down at the amusement park, I had
a knack for this. Anyway I was ahead about a buck or so. All of a sudden my
“luck” went south. Without boring you with the epic pizza toss details I could
not hit one right for the rest of the night. The long and short of it was that
I was down about four dollars, cash on the table. Now Frankie’s cash on the
table. No question. At that moment I was feeling about three feet tall and
about eight feet under because nowadays cheap, no meaning four dollars, then
was date money, Lucinda, fading Lucinda, date money. This was probably fatal,
although strictly speaking that is another story and I will not get into the
Lucinda details, because when I think about it now that was just a passing
thing with her, and you know about passing things- what about it.
What
is part of the story though, and the now still temperature-rising part of the
story, is how Frankie, Frankie, king of the pizza parlor night, Frankie of a
bunch of kindnesses, and of a bunch of treacheries, here treachery, zonked me on
this betting scandal. What I didn’t know then was that I was set up, set up
hard and fast, with no remorse by one Francis Xavier Riley, to the tenements,
the cold-water flat tenements, born and his cohort Sammy. It seems that Sammy
owed Frankie for something, something never fully disclosed by either party,
and the pay-off by Sammy to make him well was to “fix” the pizza tosses that
night I just told you about, the night of the golden fleecing. Every time I
said "high" Sammy, taking his coded signal from Frankie, went low and
so forth. Can you believe a “king”, even a king of a backwater pizza parlor,
would stoop so low?
Here
is the really heinous part though, and keep my previous reference to fading
Lucinda in mind when you read this. Frankie, sore-loser Frankie, not only
didn’t like to lose but was also low on dough (a constant problem for both of
us, and which consumed far more than enough of our time and energy than was
necessary in a just, Frankie-friendly world) for his big Saturday night
drive-in movie-car borrowed from his older brother, big-man-around- town date
with one of his side sweeties (Joanne, his regular sweetie was out of town with
her parents on vacation). That part, that unfaithful to Joanne part I didn’t
care about because, once again truth to tell, old ever lovin’ sweetie Joanne
and I did not get along for more reasons than you have to know. The part that
burned me, and still burns me, is that I was naturally the fall-guy for some
frail (girl in pizza parlor parlance time) caper he was off on. Now I have
mentioned that when we totaled up the score the Frankie kindnesses were way
ahead of the Frankie treacheries, no question, which was why we were friends.
Still, right this minute, right this 1971 minute, I’m ready to go up to his
swanky downtown law office (where the men’s bathroom is larger than his whole
youth time old cold- water flat tenement) and demand that four dollars back,
plus interest. You know I am right on this one.
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