If you’ve been to our spot on S. Jessup street you’d know that our neighbors are a couple of characters.  Real goonies.  Sonny, the 50-something, usually fucked up on xanax, barely literate, trusted ally across the street (try his broccoli rabe). Walt from down the block, 70+ years old, doesn’t drink, smokes  a pack a day, tells us perverted dad jokes, and has an incredible mustache.  Of course, Dot (and Pete) our nagging neighbors.  Our reputation on the block lives and dies with their opinion of our house.  Thankfully, they mostly like me.
And then there’s Richie, he’s at least 60.  He lives with his mother, Minnie, who’s now 92 years old.  Richie’s got entirely white hair, a white Cadillac, and red, leathery skin not unlike that of a baseball glove.  He’s a man who has spent a lot of time down the shore.  He’s got the beach bod to go with it too – he’s cut up as hell.  Probably served him well when he was breaking knee caps for the mob.  Don’t believe me?

Flash back to almost 2 years ago, my roommate is on the porch with a laptop and Richie asks “you know how to use that thing?”

Alex: Uh, yeah, what do you need?

Richie: Can you look up Louie Dagotelli [fake very Italian mobster name] on that thing?

Alex: *googling furiously* Oh yeah, he’s on trial for…racketeering charges in November.

Richie: November? They must have moved the trial up some. Used to work with that guy.

Richie’s in the mob. I could cite a dozen other examples but if you don’t believe me I’ll have him break your knees.

The otha’ day we were sitting on our porch and Richie comes home, wearing gym shorts and a wife beater. “Gentlemen!” his usual greeting.

“Aww yeah what’s up Rich? How you doing?”

“I’m good fellas I’m good.” He then fumbles with his keys, “I got a doctor’s appointment Thursday.”

“Oh yeah? What for?”

“I got cancer. Right in my kidney.”

We’re a bit alarmed and certainly concerned. “Oh shit man, are you ok?”

“Oh yeah kidney’s the best place to get cancer.  Doc says we can just scoop the cancer outta there.  90% chance he just has to take out a little.  He couldn’t see the rest of the thing because of my hip.” He slaps his metal hip, for emphasis. “10% chance the whole thing’s gotta come out.  But then I got another one.  And no chemo, no radiation, no nothing. Best place to get cancer, right here.” Pointing once again at his hip. “I just hope I come back quickly. They said 6-8 weeks? I can’t wait that long.  I was running 2 days after they replaced my knees.”

We nervously smile along.  He was making a pretty good point.  And if anyone’s bouncing back from cancer, it’s our boy Richie.   When he gets it scooped out, I’m saying it’s 2 weeks tops until he’s back to normal.

“I got this pamphlet here too.  Explains the whole thing.  90% chance they only have to take out this little bit.  I almost gave the thing to my mudda.  But if I did, she’d be in the hospital before me.”