By
Denise Galasso
I am nervous just being a few feet away from my Dad. He just got here at work and he's making coffee. I think he's annoyed because I didn't get to it yet. He's cursing under his breath but I can't be sure what he is cursing about.
He's wearing his perfectly starched signature gray McGregor t-shirt. It matches his gray hair that is perfectly smooth on his head without one single hair out of place. He always tucks his shirt in his jeans and his black sneakers do not have a single scuff.
My dad could be a model for the Italian "GQ," except that he has gained weight and has an extra amount of fat under his chin. His face is so red. He looks like he is about to explode 24-7 even when he is completely at peace. Is he at peace? I don't know. I don't think so.
He makes himself comfortable in the gross, green easy chair that matches the putrid, green, sofa. The chair is straight across from my desk. I can't imagine what he is going to say to me today.
"We're having a meeting at ten to discuss the Ramsey property. I want you to take good notes, okay?"
I react like a heavily trained army soldier and instantly grab a yellow pad and a pen as if the meeting has already begun. His right gray eyebrow raises itself at me.
"Whenever Uncle Sal shows up, I mean."
We are looking at each other in an awkward silence. He repeats the name of our client
"Ramsey."
His head bobs up and down.
"Ramsey."
My dad is in a trance. I imagine a hypnotist behind me with an invisible string connected to my father's forehead. The hypnotist is pulling the string and mouthing the word "Ramsey." My dad breaks the hypnotic state that I too have fallen in.
"That poor bastard is not getting his house."
He says this as if he is sorry that the Ramsey's are not getting their new pre-manufactured home. At the same time he seems sorry that he himself is not getting a new pre-manufactured home.
"Why, Dad?" I ask.
"Why what?"
He's fallen back into his trance.
"Why isn't Ramsey getting his house?"
"Cause he's a mool-ee-yan.
Moolian is the "N" word in Italian. My heart sinks. I know my dad isn't a racist. He frames pictures of the kids that he sends money to in Ethiopia. He prays for them. I've seen candles in his bedroom representing each of his children. Why is he talking like this? I think about it and I know.
Ramsey isn't getting his house because he is African American but simply because Uncle Sal did something wrong. Uncle Sal either lied to the bank or forgot to turn in signed documents to the notary or something else completely stupid. Quite possibly, he sold the house to someone that offered more money.
I'm racking my brain trying to figure out what could have went wrong with this property. If anything, I'm sure the water quality passed. I know this because Uncle Sal takes sendswater samples from the water cooler to the lab instead of actualy going to the real property.
For some reason it is easier for my father to take on the stance that we are a family business of racist bigots instead of admitting that Uncle Sal is a screw up.
I am careful to arrange the donuts neatly in the center of the conference room table. My father instructed me to make them look nice. It takes me an hour to do this as I balance them and assemble them in a Roman Coliseum piece. My father is annoyed with me.
"Just make them look edible. You don't have to take all day."
The donuts are from the bakery down the street that has a sign above the store that says "Italian bakery."
My father is outraged that the owners of the bakery are not Italian and they should take the sign down and state exactly what kind of bakery it is.
"Why don't they just call it Polock bakery?" He admits that they do make good cannolis. Although
he has no idea how this concept is possible that a non-Italian could make quality baked goods. Uncle Sal chimes in.
"Those fuckin' polocks can't claim their Italian if they're not."
I'm so ashamed to be a part of this immoral t�te-�-t�te. This is actually a conversation that lasts over an hour between my dad, Uncle Sal and my grandfather who stops by the office now and then for a visit. My grandfather adds that suddenly there is a bunch of chinks playing for the Yankees baseball team.
"Those goddamn Yankees don't know what there doing. They ain't gonna win no world series with a bunch of rice eating chinks playing ball."
My stomach tightens and I feel as if I'm about to vomit. This is my family, my blood and my very being and they are prejudice assholes.
What is stupid is that I'm pretty sure that the Polish, Italian bakery is run by people of a Czechoslovakian descent. I only know this because when I picked up the donuts, the guy behind the counter winked at me and ask me if I was Czechoslovakian because that is what he is and thought I looked familiar. I sighed.
"No. I'm Italian. " I say it shamefully.
He then realizes that I am picking up for the real estate office. His facial expression changes as if to say,
"Take your donuts and get the hell out of here."
I'm sure my Dad or my Uncle has let them know about their false advertising. He slides the box to me across the counter.
"I put this on your tab."
My dad is tapping his hands rhythmically on the table but not to any one song in particular. He smiles at me and says
"Nice donuts."
I am ecstatic that he approves of my masterpiece and yet I am horribly uncomfortable that there could possibly be an underlining joke that should not be shared between a father and daughter.
The new sales-man arrives for the meeting. Uncle Sal just hired him yesterday. His name is Phil. He is a short bald man with those ghastly sunspots on his head. He looks like a short, fat, Gorbechev.And he reminds me of George Castanza at the same time. I am instantly uncomfortable when Phil is around. He reeks of vodka.
Uncle Sal's so-called partner is also here today. I feel even worse when he is around. It is obvious that his partnership with my uncle was a mistake and he hates all of us for it. I wonder just how much money this guy gave to my uncle and lost. I look at the clock and I can't believe that it's only eleven o'clock in the morning.
Uncle Sal stumbles in. He is skinny and taller than my dad but no more than 5'10. His hair is short, dark and thick and curly and it dries as soon as it gets wet. A typical trait for an Italian man. There are traces of gray hair combed as neat as my fathers. His salt and pepper mustache is perfectly trimmed.
"Hey Niecie."
He grabs a donut from my carefully constructed pile and they all fall. He exchanges a look with my father. They have their own language but I understand it.
"Who arranged the stupid donut pile?"
Uncle Sal sits down had the head of the table. He is rubbing his temples with both of his hands. He has a headache. His eyes are just tiny slits after what appears to be a sleepless night. We are all sitting there watching him and waiting for him to begin. He starts eating his jelly filled powdered donut. He finally begins the meeting with his mouth full.
"Um�Ramsey's probably not gonna get the house."
I can barely hear what he is saying. Not only is he chewing but his words are slurring and he is trailing off. He keeps taking deep breaths in between his words.
"That� fuckin'�. Asshole� at Bank One�. sent me the wrong paper�.. to sign."
I'm thinking that this is something that could have been taken care of. I'm also thinking that my uncle is having a stroke. Uncle Sal keeps talking but his eyes are now blank. He's not making any sense.
"�.stupid Ramsey�can't get a house."
I'm aware now that he is not having a stroke but he probably took too many pills for his headache. Like 10 or 12 I'm guessing. Uncle Sal is falling asleep. He wakes up and looks around. Then he falls asleep again. He is still eating his donut in between naps and he begins salivating on himself. He is mashing the donut into his mustache and the powder and jelly is smearing all over his face. There is a string hanging from his chin. This is very disgusting.
Everyone is sitting there as if nothing is happening. I'm wondering if anyone is going to do something. I am aware that I am to continue my duties as secretary and take minutes of this meeting, which is impossible because I can't interpret this drug induced, muted, dysfunctional speech pattern.
I have to contort my face really hard so that I don't laugh or cry or just react like a normal person. I look at my dad for help and he just shrugs his shoulders like this is an everyday occurrence. Uncle Sal finally falls asleep for good. His face is planted smack down in what is left of the donut mess. One by one, people just leave the room. I know Uncle Sal is alive because he is snoring.