Open Bar

by Speranza

He was lucky, and had found himself a place to hide out—a little corner on the short side of one of the L-shaped bars, where the waiters took their smoking breaks. There were eight open bars around the hall because Lucia Belluci had had six at her wedding, so the great-aunts had had themselves a pow-wow and decided that no way was Gina Vecchio gonna be outclassed. So eight open bars, plus she hadda have lobster at the cocktail hour (along with the calamari, the scungilli, the mussels and the baked clams; the platters of soppressata, prosciutto, cappicola & olive loaf; slices of tomato and fresh mozzarella drizzled with virgin olive oil and sprinkled with oregano), plus the choice of penne a la vodka or ravioli, plus one of three entrees (chicken marsala, veal piccatta, or prime rib) and my god, the Viennese hour was gonna kill neighboring families, or so the Vecchio aunts were hoping, because there were over thirty cakes plus pastry plus spumoni plustricolore cookies not to mention the wedding cake, which was six tiers high and topped by a tiny white bride and groom tilting sideways.

The bride on the cake didn't look a lot like his cousin Gina, but the cake itself kinda did, because Gina was big around the bottom (big boned, the great-aunts said) and, put it this way, white was not her color. Ray grinned to himself as he patted down his burgundy tuxedo, found a pack of Kools, and lit one up with a white book of matches that said "Gina & Tony, June 30, 1979." Ma would have a cow if she caught him smoking at a family thing, but he figured he was pretty safe for now. Even from here, he could hear "Night Fever" blaring and the shuffle-shuffle-thump of three hundred Vecchios, Pasquales, Maglieros and Callaras doing the Bus Stop.

He did a pretty mean Bus Stop himself, but right now it was more important to get a drink, have a smoke, and get away from Donna Argullo. Donna wasn't bad looking—she was skinny and had long, almost-blond hair, even if her skin was bad enough that she really had to slather on the makeup—so he didn't want to blow her off entirely. But if she kept hanging around his neck all night, he wasn't ever gonna get near Angela Russo, and he had to at least try with her. He'd forgotten that Angela Russo and Cheech Callara were first cousins on her mother's side, and so here she was—gorgeous, with black hair all swept up high and a va-va-voom figure in a red and white dress. Angie had the most beautiful eyes, too, and here was the perfect chance to get in good with her, without any of those dip-shits from school trying to horn in or make him look bad.

"Whattya have?" The bartender, a skinny kid in a stained white jacket, snapped his gum and waited for his order. "White Russian," Ray said, flicking the ashes from his cigarette into a cheap metal ashtray. Back in the main room, the family had abandoned disco for the old time songs: "C'e na luna mezza'o mare, Mammamiam'ho maritari, Figlia mia a cu t'ho dare? Mama mia penscitu..."

Ray stared down at the bar's marble top; he could feel his Uncle Giaco's gnarled hand grabbing his shirt and shaking him hard, and heard the cigar-roughened voice in his head: "Non 'e bianco, Raimundo, non pensi quello." You ain't white, kid—don't think you are. And there was a saying, too: "A rubar poco si va in galera, a rubar tanto si fa cariera." Steal a little, go to jail; steal a lot, make a career of it,. He didn't have the heart to tell Uncle Giaco that he was gonna try being a cop. Uncle Giaco was not gonna approve, anyhow—and he might even laugh in his face.

Irish and Polish became cops in this city. White guys.

The bartender was pretty white, though—pale and pustulent with scruffy blond hair, Polack probably. Ray watched as he set out a cocktail napkin and carefully centered the small glass on top of it. "Grazie, per tutti," Ray said with narrowed eyes, wondering if the guy was feeling high-minded at having to work a wop wedding.

But the Polack surprised him. "Prego," he said to Ray and Ray laughed. The bartender grinned cockily, showing him a mouthful of white teeth, and then went down to the other end of the bar to get his cousin Nicky a Long Island Iced Tea.

Ray picked up his glass and took a sip of the cold, milky liquid. Delicious. He took another drag of his cigarette and watched the Polack pouring different liquors into a long, thin glass. The guy looked about Ray's own age, but Ray didn't know him, which was weird because he thought he knew everybody for miles. Ray Vecchio got around, talked to people, knew what was what. But this kid he didn't know, which meant that he was either way out of Ray's league or below him. From the kid's bad haircut and the scars on the back of his pale knuckles, Ray was betting he was from even lower down on the totem pole than he was.

Maybe he wasn't as white as he seemed.

Still, people like him couldn't afford to go looking for trouble, not this kind of trouble—not when something as gorgeous as Angie Russo was within his reach. Not to mention that bringing Angie Russo home to Ma would do a lot toward smoothing over the cop thing with the family.

Like it was fate or something, Ray suddenly realized that the DJ was playing "Angelina":

I eat antipasta twice just because she is so nice Angelina...

Angelina the waitress at the pizzeria

I keep zoop-ing minestrone just to be with her alone Angelina...

Ray felt a joyful burst of optimism, threw out his arms, and sang to the bartender, "Ti volgio bene—I adore you! E volgio bene—I live for you!" The Polack bartender first looked bemused, then burst out laughing, his pale, pocked-marked face flushing pink. "But if she'll be my Cara mia / then I'll join in matrimony / with a girl who loves spumoni / and Angelina will be mine!!"

Ray bowed to the clapping bartender, picked up his White Russian, and went to rejoin his family, who were dancing to the Theme from Shaft.  

The End

← Back