The Eternal Return

There are recollections that seem to run like an ever looping film, a memory train that never arrives at the station. Forever running in your head and with time deluding you into thinking that this is not nostalgia but flesh and blood , current not past. Per secular secularum. This story takes such a journey, a memory that transcends the cerebral and enters the temporal. The Eternal Return.

Billy Pinto was the light in his mother’s eye. His father died while Billy was a small boy and his mother embraced her only child as both offspring and surrogate husband. This is not as odd as it seems, family plays an important part in the life of Italian Americas and mother son relationships are often very strong , made stronger when a father is absent.

So they lived in Oedipal contentment in a small angular home, called so because it sat on a corner or angle of a small street off Passyunk avenue. The house , unlike other homes in the area, had a small garage which held various motors.

Cars and motors played a part in this boys life. He grow to beauty and was the type of man that caught the eye of men and women, I don’t imply this in a vulgar sense but in a sense that he could attract man and women to him regardless of sexuality. He had a natural charisma built on his good looks and open personality.

Billy was related to my neighbors and his family held cumpare relationship with my Aunt Maria’s family. I first remember Billy in the late 60’s when he worked at a local petrol station that existed on Passyunk avenue and Dickinson street.

Amazingly there was once a time when gas stations would be located on street corners with scant regard to safety. The station was owned by a real character in the old neighborhood, Augustino Auggie Di Giacomo, the father of a man , also Augustino Di Giacomo, that in the 60’s -80’s was vice Principal at St. John Neumann High School. The son was a career educator and a man of integrity and intellect, the old man was the father of educators and an education in himself. Old Mr. Di Giacomo spent the live long day in soiled tee shirt bemoaning the latest tragedy to engulf the Phillies which , in the late 1960’s and 70’s under its obtuse manager Danny Orzark, was without rival the worst team in Baseball. The old man was at times crass or curt and I would suspect he was also disenchanted by the fact that just 50 meters away, at Dickinson and Garrett street, stood a similar gas station owned by a man whose name sounded like that of a Spanish Conquistador- Ponzio. How either of them did business and raised their families in close competition and at a time when fewer people had cars and gas was only 20 cents a gallon , is another profound mystery of my youth.

Billy , with a very 1960’s Mod mustache, provided a breath of freshness and youth to the ancient tottering business. In addition every girl I knew from my sister to my cousins were in love with him. Many a father was directed by their daughters to take petrol at Di Giacomo’s so that Billy could pump the Gas. Perhaps the old man brought Billy there for that purpose? Billy Pinto was a better more attractive gas pumper then either Old Auggie or rival Ponzio, to be sure.

Billy also rode a motorcycle and had an interest in the machines. In a positive way, not like Mob Guy. Billy was never any type of crook or gangster wannabe, he was just a kid that liked bikes.

Billy was the kind of guy boys of my generation looked up to. He always would share a story with you or help you out when playing half ball or any of the other streets games we played back then.

When I worked in the Twin Shop at 10th and Tasker Billy would come in alone or with one of his cohort of friends, especially a man named Reds, and entertain us with what really were the most uninteresting stories, but Billy had a way to make even the mundane sound momentous.

I remember one summer night in the late 70’s when a group of us were hanging out on the corner of 10th and Tasker until a policemen drove by at 2 am and told us to please get off the street cause the neighbors were calling and complaining about our noise. Billy convinced the policemen to drive us to the Melrose.

Yes Billy was a fixture in the neighborhood and the various corners that comprised its social life. Like a fish he swam through the South Philly social scene of the time, everyone’s friend, everyone’s buddy.


As I grew up and went thought college and moved about South Philly after my marriage, Billy was always there. I would walk through John Wannamker’s on a Saturday afternoon and bump into – Billy Pinto. I would go to a disco in Atlantic City and see -Billy Pinto. I would leave Mara’s Pizzeria on Passyunk avenue and in comes- Billy Pinto. When I lived on South Street at 3rd (1983-87) I would often see Billy at a bar and then we , his friends , and my wife would stand around 3rd and South talking and joking, turning Philly’s little Soho into a South Philly Hang Out corner.

Billy never married and never had any long term girl friends that I knew of. He lived with his mother in the house with the garage and was joyfully content with the arrangement, as was his mother.

I remain totally uncertain of what it was he actually did for a living, but he did something , and it was legal. His passions seem to be his motors and his mates.

As the 80’s gave into the 90’s Billy remained unchanged like the Picture of Dorian Gray and I continued to run into him everywhere I went. When I left South Philadelphia in the 90’s and would only return at Christmas or the summer , I would still run into Billy at most of my outings.

It seemed to be our Karmatic destiny that we would cross paths continually.

As the 21st century approached it seems Billy Pinto would remain forever cruising the streets and the local shops. He was destined to be one of those quintessential figures in South Philly, a perennial nice guy , the kind you would always stop and have a chat with. Billy was the kind of guy that typified many of the good qualities of Italo South Philly, warm unthreatening friendship, consistency, and a sense of community.

However we delude ourselves when we take comfort in consistency , for nature is not consistent. Life is fortuitous and you must always be ready for the unexpected. One spring day in 1998 Billy was attending to a car in the garage of his home. The car was idling and Billy had gone in front of the car to get a tool, perhaps the emergency break was not set or did not function. The car moved, Billy was hit. A freak accident. Billy died ( Requiescat in Pace).

I was greeted with this sad news when I returned to Philadelphia that summer. It was very hard to believe as Billy was young and just seemed to be a permanent figure in the neighborhood. It seem incredulous to me that he was dead, until the next day while walking along Passyunk avenue I caught sight of his mother, a slender women with dyed hair, one look into her eyes confirmed what I could not believe. Billy was dead. The look in his mother’s eye haunts me still, for it was the most melancholic glance I have ever seen.

I still find it hard to believe he is gone, on subsequent trips to Philadelphia I would ask- how is Billy Pinto, to be responded with a cocked head and- Frank Billy died, remember.

But when I think of South Philly I still have visions of Billy surfing its streets and businesses, this is the memory train that never reaches the station.

Billy Pinto is now a thought possessed by a fondness of the past, of nights at the twin Shop at 10th and Tasker in the late 1970’s, of South Street in the 1980’s.

It is a trick our memories play on us, we subconsciously see the present through the eyes of the past.

Nietzsche had a theory that everything that has happened, happens again and again, The Eternal Return he called it. Perhaps Billy Pinto is for me like an Eternal Return. Perhaps in a quantum physics time warp Billy still makes his rounds of South Philly and pumps gas for old Auggie Di Giacomo.

The Sacred and the Profane Or Peace, Palms, and Gossip

With Easter upon us I think of Old South Philly and its curious mix of the sacred and the profane. I remember the Easters of my youth as fun affairs with a mess of religious services candy and Ricotta pie.

It would start on Palm Sunday when we excitedly went to church to get something for nothing- Palm. Palm played an important role in Old South Philly- every crucifix over every bed had a stalk of decaying palm running thought it, never quiet sure what purpose it served. I did know a cumare named Angelina that claimed with the authority of a hierophant that old Palm must be burnt every year and its ashes washed down the kitchen sink or else you would have bad luck.. This was the Sacred Rubrics of Angelina There was also an entire Palm culture with people who were experts at twisting and shaping the Palm into all sorts of things, rather like a balloonist at a child’s party. People sold these Palm Sculptures and braids along 9th street or Passyunk Avenue. They were not blessed so I surmise people bought them as decorative items only. Although I never knew what was so decorative about twisted, braided , and dried palm. Still a large piece of this would bring many a smile to many a cumare. I always thought it looked best on a grave

Palm Sunday would also bring a flurry of visitors as there was a tradition to visit people and give them a piece of palm. So Palm Sunday saw an army of guests bringing peace, palms, and gossip. My great Aunt Magdalena, the daughter of the Duchess, would lead the pack. She was especially good at securing copious amounts of palm, perhaps she bribed Horace the old sacristan at our church or smuzzed a member of the Sodality, but every Palm Sunday she entered out kitchen with enough stalks of the stuff to cover Passyunk Avenue had Christ desired to enter South Philly in triumph. Which was perhaps a good thing that He did not so desire, as I am not sure what sort of reception a long haired non Italian that went about with poor people and prostitutes and preached love and forgiveness would have met with the discriminating rancorous people I grew up with.


Palm Sunday would also require one of those odysseys to Holy Cross cemetery with my Uncle Romeo. Many a dead Gumba received palms on their grave, complete with tidbits of stories from my uncle Romeo about the great Gumbas of the past, hints of the world before my birth in 1958. I believe on an average Palm Sunday we palmed about 63 graves.

Holy week - I remember my father was enthralled by the fact that the Wednesday of Holy Week was traditionally referred to as Spy Wednesday, I think he remained us of this consistently from Passion Sunday to Good Friday. I never knew what was the cause of my father’s obsession with Spy Wednesday, yet he was enthralled with it. On Good Friday he would also make the claim that no one ever suffered as much as Christ. This was rather odd as my father was not in any conventional way religious, he respected the church because it was , in his eyes, an Italian institution. There was no conviction apart from an ethnic identity, he would just as soon pray to Iupiter Optimus Maximus if Rome erected his temple anew.

I was an altar boy and every Easter was corralled into a number of acolyte and servant duties; for this we were rewarded by Father Carbo, chief of the altar boys, with a very large butter cream filled Easter egg. Father Carbo was a very nice priest and well liked by us all, he also was rather portly and prone to wearing a large black cape. Needless to say he was a sight walking along 10th street, especially when the wind took hold of his cape.

About our gift Easter egg, it was large and must have weighted 2 kilos. My Grandmother Ma saw this egg as an commodity of great value and tried her best to ration it. She would dole out to us exceedingly thin slices, this guaranteed a long life to the Egg. A life that far exceeded its shelf life. By late May it was an unhealthy additional to our refrigerator and my mother would quickly dispose of it. My Grandmother’s desire to conserve had only resulted in waste, yet again the old South Philly irony.


With Maundy Thursday would come the visits to the seven churches, a social outing at best. I remember many of my female relatives from La Duchessa Magdalena to my Aunt Norma would make a tour of the local churches on the feast of the institution of the Lord’s Supper. Of course to them it was like a Churches of the Rich and Famous tour, at about 10 pm they would pile into our kitchen and the comparisons would start- Did you see the flowers at St. Edmund’s ohh so cheap.. The draperies was so beautiful at Stella Marris, St. Monica’s does a good job, That altar at St. Paul’s looks so cumary…No reference was made of Gethsemane, The Blessed Sacrament, or God’s Grace.

Good Friday was for dying eggs,. “Why do we dye eggs at Easter?” I would ask. The response ranged from “cause you do” to “the colors represent the blood of Christ…” It was not until years later that I discovered that the egg in fact represents birth and renewal.

Easter Sunday - baskets and the new clothes from Passyunk avenue ( Arnold’s and Kiddy Land did their best business at this time) and a day out. Perhaps we spent the day at a massive Ravioli and Roast Pork dinner at my Aunt Norma’s after an egg nog and Ricotta pie morning at my Aunt Maria’s ( she made the best Ricotta pie) or perhaps the Easter Show at Palumbo’s (I recall one Palumbo Easter with Jimmy Durante with his Midriff formed dancers).

I also remember the time we all ( and by all I mean the entire Braccia clan) spent Easter at the famed Pub Tiki restaurant at 17th and Walnut in Center City Philly. The Old Pub Tiki offered traditional Pub and Polynesian food (??) and the perfect place for a group of Italian Americans to spend Easter. I remember my paternal grandmother- called Mama- sitting in one of those high backed rattan chairs like Morticia Addams. She loved the PuPu platter. Mama was a creature of 19th century rural Italy so her enjoyment of a PuPu platter was indeed an incongruous event.

There were also the great times spent at the Twin Shoppe at 10th and Tasker, Easter was a very busy time for them as they made Easter Baskets to order- and what orders they received. In Old South Philly adults also received Easter baskets! Yes perhaps filled with cigars or gourmet food and wine.. or jewels.. And the twin shop made them all to order. Large immense baskets in the shape of ships of the line and absolutely bursting with treats. Viola, wife of Joe one of the twin owners, was extremely apt at creating these baskets. I remember the Easter season working in the twin shop and the crowds of people and the many made to order baskets, as well as the conversation that touched on everything from movies to opera. We sometimes worked till 2 am !

So Easter was fun, but to be honest some of the best Easters I every had were not in South Philly at all but in Damascus Syria. I lived in Syria from 1991-1996. Damascus has a 30% Christian population and takes Easter very seriously. I very much enjoyed the somber and serene churches and the ancient rituals in Greek, Aramaic and Latin as well as visiting the 7 churches in the Christian neighborhood of Bab Touma every Holy Thursday. What was nice about Easter in Syria was no one came to visit on Palm Sunday with gossip about their neighbors, people understood the meaning of their faith and the rituals it practiced, and they visited churches as a sign of devotion, not to critic the decor.

So Fear not there is life beyond South Philly, and to be honest things are sometimes even better.

Still, sure would like a great big Twin Shop Easter Basket with Jellybeans, Chocolate and Cigars as well as a chunk of Aunt Maria’s Ricotta Pie.

One other thing, Easter also is the arrival of Spring , but I am in the tropics where every day is summer… I sure do miss spring..

So to all - have a Happy Easter a Kosher Passover a prayful Maulidur Raza and enjoy the Spring.

MOB GAL

MOB GAL

Some people are born to crime, others thrust into it by privation or inclination, but a few bypass birth and situation and marry into it.

There lived in my proximity a girl known to be of good family. Good being defined as from the right part of Italy and with a family in a strong Cumpare relation. Cumpare relations were build by families over the years by participation in sheared births, weddings, confirmations, and deaths. So if say you were an usher at someone’s wedding and they were the Godfather of your son and your brother was the pallbearer at the funeral of their father- then you could say you were Cumpare or in dialect Cumbars or Gumbas 3 times.. got it .So judgment of a family as good or not good was a personal and relative thing.

This girl was considered by my family to be of a good family because she came from the same part of Italy as us and we were Cumbars about 127 times…

The girl grew to young adulthood in the mid 60’s attending the Amazon academy or St Maria Goretti. Teasing and doming her hair and highlighting her eyes she embraced the 60’s as Carlo’s sister embraced the 40’s.

At the age of 16 she met a young man a few years olden then she. He was a stranger, un straniero, for he came from a far away land, around 7th street. His family could be traced back to a large island near Calabria , and he rode a motor cycle. Yes that vehicle reserved only for depraved criminals , not a big Lincoln that good criminals who worked for Angelo Bruno would use. Needless to say he was judged not to come from a good family for he was not Cumpare, not from a good part of Italy (in reference to the girl’s family) and drove a motorcycle.

The Motorcycle Man was an upcoming Mod mobsters who led a dangerous free life in the outback of South Philly , the Lakes on Patterson Avenue. ( for those uninitiated into South Philly, the Lakes refer to the manmade FDR park and small lake reserves at the end of the peninsular South Philly sits on).

The young girl from the good family became enamored of the man on his free riding bike. The sprit of the 60’s had entered South Philly.

Her family were grief stricken with the arrangement. This was, I should note, one of those families in which decent from a Duke or Count was claimed. I need not remind the reader that Count’s daughters don’t marry Motorcycle dudes.

So the fated couple settled on a course of action that was unthinkable, unfathomable, unimaginable, and completely unbelievable to her family and neighbors. They ran away- they eloped … they skipped town ..they married silently and swiftly in a Pennsylvania courthouse ( the girl lied about her age ).

This action was more then just a shock it was a betrayal of the great and noble traditions of a South Philly wedding. Yes a grand South Philly wedding with all the trimmings. The priest in white polyester, the off pitch singer, the white dress, the rented blue tux from Chadwicks on Broad Street, the straciatela (an escarole soup with tiny meat balls called Wedding soup), the Tarantella, the serenade at the brides house with Vinnie Gumbats and his accordion/mandolin band , the little white bag bursting with currency filled envelopes like a Chinese New Year celebration , and the grand cutting of the cake so majestically heralded by the band leader at Palumbo’s the Bride cuts the cake, the bride cuts the cake Hi Ho Didero the Bride Cuts the cake… Well I can understand why they eloped. In fact these weddings would cause any sane person to envy the unmarried and the celibate. A lifetime of solitude was small price to pay to avoid the old fashion South Philly Wedding. I will admit they were splendidly fun if you were a guest, and perhaps that was why her neighbors and family were upset as she denied them all a chance to sing and dance and eat the tiny meat balls floating in ‘scadole ( escarole in dialect).

But the couple knew her parents would never approve and they saw no choice but to run away and wed.

Her family was mortified. I remember the long line of her relatives and cumbars coming to our kitchen, this was our equivalent of CNN Breaking News, along with our own mini McLaughlin group of pundits and prognosticators commenting at length on this action and its ramifications.

The family, amazingly, put it about that their daughter had died! Causing some of the neighbors to raise a collection to offset the funeral cost!

Yet the deed was done and the family realized it would be less scandalous to accept the marriage then to disown their child. I am unsure if the collected money was ever returned, maybe it was put into a funeral mutual fund?.

The Girl shed the Goretti uniform and the two zoomed around South Philly like Synder Avenue Easy Rider. The Biker man engaged in all types of petty crimes. The girl enjoying being the moll of the bimotored gangster.

As the 60’s turning into the 70’s the true nature of their personalities came through. The motorcycle and helmet were exchanged for a Bonneville and cap, she stayed home and cooked up a hurricane. Children came rapidly as a testament to their affection. They moved into a little row home and entered cumardom.

The Guy was more then just tough, he existed on the plain of bold, brazen and strident criminality. He moved like a satellite around the world and henchmen of Angelo Bruno ( SP Mob boss 1960-1980) and if not a made man was being made. He was a fixer and I don’t mean household appliances. He fixed people of their bad habits, not showing respect, not paying their debts, incorrect filing of numbers files.

The good little Girl married the mob, and she loved it.

As life progressed his work and their lives became somewhat stressful. He released the stress by staying out with the guys or with a girl or two on the side. Now his wife, the Mob Bride , was opposed to this behavior as she sought a man who could pamper and take care of her and give her all the attention her looks and upbringing required.


By the dawn of the disco era (late 1970’s) their marriage was on the rocks, the rock being Gibraltar. Mob Guy flew into a rage at the slightest pretext. While he never struck the girl, well not really for if he did she would be the Mob Corpse Bride, he did break plates and furniture. He even committed an unspeakable act- he once lifted from the stove the Gravy pot and threw its tomato based contents about the kitchen- coating the walls and floor with thick red sauce, afterwards it looked like a Bull had been sacrificed on the kitchen table.

She soon left the Mobster and sought refuge with her family. Mob Man felt hurt and betrayed and with his particular sense of morality this only inflamed an already burning situation. He harassed his estranged wife and even showed a bizarre sense of humor as he once called the girl’s aunt claiming to be her recently deceased husband. He even sent an undertaker to collect his wife’s body at the home in which she was staying. The girl now made press with how she was being harassed by her husband to her attending audience of friends and relatives.

She demanded , and often received, a good deal of money from Mob Guy, but it was never enough. She once took him to court for child support , showing up bedecked like the Tsarina Maria Fedonova compete with diamonds and rubies ,protesting her poverty and declaring the hunger of her children . The judge cruelly, asked why she did not sell her jewels to fed her children.

She also began to make the rounds of Discos and night clubs in Philadelphia, New Jersey , and Atlantic City. In frosted Farrah Fawcett hair and dangling jewelry. She had her share of beaux , but somehow Mob Guy always found out and the mere mention of his name deflated even the most desperate of libidos.

I once encountered Mob Guy at the Dolce Vita night club at Front and Chestnut in May of 1978, he told me, in regard to his wife, Boy she became a real whore, to which I said yes indeed ( he was not the sort you disagreed with). I did want to say , I am sure she was a whore when you married her and now she has turned you into a ‘gudanud (Cuckold in dialect and a very very insulting remark), but had I said that I would surely not be here today.

Stuck in a struggle with Mob Guy the Mob Gal found no one who would keep her company, as no man in his right mind would even speak to her unless he sought passive suicide. Anyway she found normal men dull and uninteresting after her years with the Mob. The Girl was not unintelligent and found a way out of her predicament, a way to return excitement into her life, she found another mobster! Yes another man, a man with red curly hair, freckles, a winning smile and working for Mr. Gambino’s firm , I believe. Thinking herself safe , she flaunted the freckles and curls at every disco she could. The mob is wonderful the second time around. Mob Guy was very sore about this, he threatened. He once drove his young son to the apartment of Freckles in New Jersey and while sitting in the car told his son this is where your whore mother’s boyfriend lives and I am gonna shoot the son of a …

One Saturday night in august as Freckles was on his way to pick up Mob Gal, he was met by a shadowy figure.

Three shots and a quick getaway through the forest of South Jersey.

Oh how Mob Gal howled and assumed an imitation of widowhood for her audience. Mob Guy was suspect number #1. He protested his innocents from Washington to Oregon avenue. How could I do such a thing, he said I would be the first one the cops come after, I ain’t nuts. The argument did make a great deal of sense, yet we all knew he did it.

My grandmother Ma , who had a fondness for this man, defended his innocence for he told her he did not do it and he would never lie to her. Ma was not related to the mob guy and never associated with such people, so why she thought he would confess to her and then believe it perplexes me. I believe it was because they both disliked the same people, so she trusted him.

Soon the papers began to report that Freckles was secretly relaying information to the Feds! Yes he was a snitch , a turncoat, a rat. The mob had to silence his song. It was being viewed as a mob hit not a South Jersey Othello story. We figured the Mob Guy saw a golden opportunity to sort out his wife while advancing his career with the Mothers and Fathers of the Italian Association (M.A.F.I.A.).

Mob Guy was arrested and put on trial. He swore his innocence, his lawyer tried his best but the state had forensic evidence and the testimony of his son regarding the conversation in the auto proved very difficult to discount, even for the sharpest Philadelphia Lawyer. I would assume mother gleefully coached the boy for his appearance in court.

Mob Guy, swearing his innocents to the end and protecting a number of people in the process, was found guilty by a jury and sentenced to 20 years to life.

And so the Mob Gal was freed from the Mob Guy. Mob Guy continuing to protest his innocents, spent the 80’s and 90’s as a guest of the state of New Jersey. He missed Reganomics, the Fall of the USSR , Gulf War I, the Clinton Boon years, the birth of the internet and Monica Lewisnky. He mellowed in prison with privileges provide by the Mob in his benefit plan. He even allowed for a proper divorce from Mob Girl.

Ex Mob Gal became cheerless without the excitement of mobsters, shootings and trails around her. Her audience grew bored. By the mid 80’s she made contact with her ex behind his prison walls and by 1990s they were fast friends again. Freckles remained in his sepulcher.

To fight the boredom she also took up with another man, a petty crook who bounced checks by the dozen . She enjoyed this liaison as well as the renaissance in her relationship with the caged Mobster. However there are only so many checks you can bounce , so many relatives you can borrow from, and so many probations you can break. Soon Mob Gal and Rubber Check guy fell on hard times. Prison and the poorhouse yawned , opening for them the road to indigence.

But step in fate, Mob Guy was released! Yes like a Deus ex machine Mob Guy reappeared , released on good behavior. Why is it mobsters can behavior in prison but not in civil society? Mob Guy now enjoyed a place of great honor among the made men, for he did his time and kept his mouth shut. Soon he had home, business and new girl friend (mobsters can always get a date, remember that). Who says crime does not pay.

Feeling for his ex wife he opened his doors in a sign of great forgiveness and they all moved in together under his care, Mob Guy , new girl friend, Mob Girl and her petty criminal Check Bouncer. I would assume Mob guy gave Rubber Check lessons on how to be a real criminal. They were all very very happy! Mob Guy and Girl back together again despite the past, or perhaps because of it. Freckles had no comment.

But Mob Guy was getting older and ill, I saw him in the early 21st century at a funeral (funerals are always a chance in South Philly to catch up with the quick and the dead). He hobbled in like an old war hero and despite the fact that we had not seen each other in over 20 years, I normal don’t visit prisons except for the Moyamening, we had a very nice long conversation, discussing the past and the future. Prison certainly made him a reflective mobster.

Mob Guy was nearing however the end of his road, a few years later he joined Freckles. His ex wife was with him to the end and finally got to play a real widow, unfortunately her audience had long left.

At his funeral Mob Girl reflected on the past, it was a long motorcycle ride from the lakes to Holy Cross, and with sadness she bid Farwell to Mob Guy.

Mob Girl has grown into a happy matronly grandmother and continues to enjoy herself.

I guess the moral of this story is love conquers all, or the power of forgiveness, or perhaps that people sure do use each other or Gals like mobsters.

Or maybe Gals love to forgive mobsters then can use.

Death Mayhem and Family Feuds

After the Moyamensing prison was razed the city of Philadelphia left it as an open wound in our neighborhood for close on to 10 years. We were at a lost not knowing what to make of the vacuum where once stood the stone edifice. We still referred to the space as the Prison, sometimes refining the description to the Prison Lot.

The Prison Lot was a monument to municipal plight. Yet we played soft ball there, had snowball fights there , held mock battles there, and even skated on the water puddles when a freeze set in. But people dumped trash here, did drugs here, engaged in sexual tryst here and left and discarded all sorts of things they no longer wanted, from appliances to cars. It was a playing field of the absurd.

Old autos would be dumped unceremoniously and eventually removed by the city of Philadelphia to their old car grave yard. Meanwhile we got to play in the broken vehicles. An urban decay theme park was born in the shadows of the Moyamensing prison.

There was one car we did not play in however, the burnt car, the Scorched Coupe.

The Scorched Coupe

The Scorched Coupe occupied the Prison Lot for a few months in 1974, a time when I was nearly 16 and no longer playing in abandon cars. But even if I were to still play in abandoned cars, I would not go near the Scorched Coupe While it sat in the Prison Lot I, like everyone else, carefully avoided it..

The Scorched Coupe told a story of death mayhem and a family feud. A story that shattered the lives of two families and caught in its tentacles two boys I knew.

I begin the story in 1971 while I was in 7th grade at the Annunciation BVM elementary school at 12th and Reed. Midway through the school year it was decided to move me into a different math group. This Math group included some 8th graders. Among the 8th graders was a boy name Sabbie, short I would imagine for Sabatino. He was a dark Italian of hot temperment , from a family equally known for their dark looks and hot tempers. Sabbie was a tough kid but not a bully, don’t mess with him and you would be alright. Cross the boy and that Southern Italian temper would singe you. I had seen him in enough fights to know not to cross him.

I had some initial concerns about the new Math class as it was run by a nun/teacher I did not know, Sister Carmel Maria, and had a number of bad 8th grade boys- including Sabbie. Imagine my angst when Sister Carmel Maria placed me directly in front of Sabbie. I feared for my life for surely I would commit some terrible faux pas like speak to him or step in his shadow. Amazingly things turned out quite the opposite, Sister Carmel Maria turn out to be one of the best and most caring of the Nuns that ever taught me and Sabbie was in reality a friendly boy who easily helped me and took help from me. He even spoke up for me when other more bulling students made negative comments. Sabbie and I never became friends , he was older and very different from me, but we did get on well. After a few years we were both at John Neumann High School and he would even stop in the hall and say hi to me.

While in High School I started to hang at 10th and Cross Streets. Hang, short for hanging out, was a major aspect of teen life in old South Philly. You had your corner or place and mine was 10th and Cross. I hung with a nice groups of kids- among them Stanley, Roy, Carmen, Mary, Wendy, Karen, Danny, Joanna, Jeanni , Biagio ( watch those Candles) and a boy a year younger then I named Steven.

Steven was a natural comedian and one of the most easy going and funniest kids I ever came across. We became fast friends and I always enjoyed a night out with him and the 10th and Cross gang at the CYO Dance or the Colonial Movies, which looked and smelt I would imagine like some porn house, or a meal at Fiore’s Pizzeria on Passyunk Avenue or the little steak and hoagie shops along 11th street. During these nights out Steven would entertain us with jokes as well as humorous stories of the neighbors that lived on his street. Steven lived on a small side street around 12th and Tasker- a street that dead ended, literally. We called it the Blind Street, or Blind Camac as it was a franchise of the famous Philadelphia street that runs the breath of the city from South to North.

This Street was also shared by a number of other friends and acquaintances, Stanley, Roy, and Biagio, Sabbie even lived around the corner.

I can not lie and say in old South Philly we lived in a gravy hazed Nirvana. We did not, people had likes and dislikes, prejudices, obsessions, vices, envy, bad habits and some families even had feuds. In the summer of 1974 our nights out started to darkened by some not so funny stories, stories that involved Steven and Sabbie- or rather their families.

In Old South Philly parking was a God given right to some and as I have mentioned in other stories some people took parking issues very seriously. Perhaps it is a sort of delayed road rage? The steady chain of terrible events that broke upon the blind street began with a parking. Sabbie’s family had a new 1973 Gran Prix Coupe. A car of great value and beauty in old South Philly. However a disagreement over a predetermined parking space for the car caused a conflict between Steven’s parents and Sabbies brother , father and mother. This soon spiraled into a fill fledged Feud between the two families. The feud resulted in nightly shouting matches and threats thrown about the blind street while the Cumares were putting on the water for the macaroni and setting their tables. Since Sabbies family were not known for their calm disposition or smooth dealings with people, it was becoming obvious to us all that the situation was headed for a tragedy. Steven was spending less time with us as his family did not want him out and about for fear he would be attacked or jumped by Sabbie and his brother. I can recall one night when the Grand Prix made a turn onto Cross street and Steven hid behind us as I waved to Sabbie as he passed in the passenger seat. This situation was made worse by the fact that both families hunted and were known to possess fire arms.

By the fall of 1974 the situation was about to blow. The explosion came one crisp early fall night as the sun was begin its decent along Tasker street. Sabbie with family came to Steven’s house for what was to prove the final showdown. Threats, shouts , curses then Steven’s father appeared at the steps of his row home brandishing a gun , calling Sabbie’s family off, telling the wolfs to leave. In the course of this increasingly out of control situation Steven’s father fired a warning shot ,then leveled the gun toward Sabbie’s mother. Sabbie leaped to her protection. The gun was fired ,why -accident, fear? But fired it was and Sabbie took it full in the chest falling back into the arms of his mother and brother.

The violence had been unleashed , the feud was consummated.

Sabbie, only 17, fell back. His family realizing their son was mortally wounded, were brought to reason, they let go of the feud to save the boys life. Sabbie’s brother loaded him into the Grand Prix and rushed to St. Agnus Hospital. Sabbie was gushing blood in the car, staining the seats with his expiring life.

Sabbie died in the emergency room soon after. (Requiescat in pace).

I was with my friends at 10th and Cross when word came via Biagio, we rushed to what was now a crime scene. Police everywhere , neighbors in the street all pontificating on how and why this happened. Good neighbors, where were they while this feud was boiling over? Where was the Old South Philly sense of community they all like to talk about? Why didn’t the cumpare bring peace instead of hiding behind their gravy pots discussing with zeal in their kitchens each new twist in the feud.

Among the crowd was a girl who claimed to be Sabbie's girlfriend, a post I believe she held unofficially. She was a pretty girl but a fashion catastrophe. She gave what must still be her greatest performance of grief and whaling, and of course fainting into the arms of her friends- certainly providing the comic relief.

Steven’s father had already been taken into custody. We were able to comfort Steven who was pale and distraught. Soon his extended family came and spirited the boy away from the tragedy. The sun had set and we were left amid the throng the pundits and the curious. I stood by the curb and below me on the sidewalk I noticed what was the stain of Sabbie's blood, illuminated by the street lamp. The spot of the tough kid who once befriended me. I looked up and saw sister Carmel Maria the nun who originally seated me in front of Sabbie. She had came to comfort those that would be comforted. Her expression revealed a sincere sadness as she taught both Sabbie and Steven.

Sabbie's brother was maddened with grief and remorse. He drove his once prized car now stained with the blood and stink of death to the Prison Lot. Once there he cursed the vehicle plummeting it with rocks and his fist- blaming the car perhaps? His tirade ended with him setting fire to the car. Engulfing in flames the recent misery. No one dared douse the flames, including the firemen.

The fire burned itself out, the Gran Prix was now the Scorched Coupe.

Steven’s father was arraigned on Manslaughter charges and received a very light mostly suspended sentence. Mitigating circumstances the jury and judge felt. Steven moved out and away from South Philly and we never saw him again.

I lost two friends that fall night.

Sabbie’s family also moved- but only to the next street. They never again engaged in a feud.

Sabbie’s brother married and named one of his sons Sabbie, he was a good neighbor and eventually left South Philly in the late 1980’s.

The Scorched Coupe remained in the Prison Lot for a few months and then, like Stalin’s body, was quietly removed.