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An excerpt from
Frank and Me

Frank and Me front cover.jpg

My grandfather pulled his blue Lincoln into one of the vacant spaces on the side of Whitey’s Diner. He took one last drag on his unfiltered Camel before tossing it out the window. He patted the pockets of his suit coat, finally pulling out a series of folded papers from the inside breast pocket. Satisfied after a cursory review, he stuffed them back into the pocket and looked at me in the passenger seat.

 

“Hungry?” he asked, his black eyes twinkling like stones on the bottom of a shallow river.

 

I nodded. I could always eat, a family trait he always appreciated. He smiled and reached out a large hand and tussled the hair on my head.

 

“Best desserts in the city as far as I’m concerned,” he said as he straightened his tie in the rearview mirror. He removed a comb from his jacket pocket and smoothed back the black hair along his temples. He always used tonic that gave his hair a sleek sheen. “Hell, best of everything.”

 

He got out of the car and smoothed out any wrinkles in his pants. My grandfather was dressed in a dark blue suit and black shoes that shined like a seal’s wet fur. Anytime he left the house, my grandfather made sure he looked like a million dollars even if he only had a few bucks in his pocket. At home was a different matter. In the living room recliner, he was more relaxed in a white tee-shirt and slacks, but when out in public, he was always dressed to the nines.

 

Whitey’s Diner stood at the intersection of Boston and Fountain Avenues. It was one of many diners dotted throughout the town of Bridgewater, Connecticut. It featured large picture windows bordered by polished metal and trimmed with royal blue awnings. My grandfather spent a lot of time in diners. He’d often take me with him when my mother was working one of her jobs and my grandmother and great-grandmother were busy doing things around the house. In a house full of women, he understood the need to get away for some “guy” time.

 

Usually, our diner trips were just us, with my grandfather sometimes making a few phone calls while I ate in the booth. We’d talk about what was going on in my life, how I was doing in school, things like that. But today was different. He had to meet someone for business, and so our normal routine would be disrupted. The way he said it made me feel like it was important, and because it was important to him, it was important to me.

 

“This won’t take too long,” he said to me. “Mr. Lomanico’s a good friend of mine. An old friend.”

 

I nodded again, not able to offer up much more than that. I never heard of the name before, but I loved being with my grandfather, and if that meant sharing him over a cup of coffee with a Mr. Lomanico, then that was just fine with me. My dad died when I was a baby, and he was the only male figure around. When I wasn’t at school, I was at my grandparents’ house. Mom usually worked during the day at a plant in Stratford, and at night she took care of the church’s books. She had a few jobs in those days; steady, good-paying work was hard to come by for women with only a high school education. My grandfather always made sure he took me with him as much as he could to give my grandmother and her mother a break from looking after me. Going with my grandfather usually consisted of driving around town, making stops at various places — sometimes a construction site, sometimes little grocery shops. He’d spend some time, and usually come out with an envelope or two. He never mentioned what he was doing, and I had never met the men he did business with. He just told me that he was doing “a little business,” which appeared akin to a travelling salesman, constantly on the move or in motion. So, being able to put a face to his business was new territory for me. Most of our discussions in the car consisted of talking about sports and who I thought would win what game and why. He liked boxing and the horses best, football and baseball, less so. We’d take breaks during our drives, going to a diner for some coffee and something to eat. One time, we ended up eating all three meals at three different diners!

 

My grandfather knew everyone. It didn’t matter what diner we went to; the moment we walked through the door, he was welcomed with smiles and hugs from whomever was there to greet customers. It would be, “Mickey, good to see you!” “Mickey, what do you say?” Then the man or woman would escort us to my grandfather’s “usual” booth. Typically, these were close to the bathrooms and payphones and faced the front where he could see who was coming in every time the bell above the door sounded.

 

“Mickey, it’s been almost two weeks? Where you been?”

 

A fat, balding man with slicked-back hair raced over when he saw us enter. He was a few inches shorter than my grandfather and wore black pants and a crisp white shirt with the collar opened wide and the shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. Around his neck was a series of thick gold chains that looked like ropes. Despite the gaudy ostentation, his gray and black chest hairs poked through the links.

 

“How you doing, Val?” my grandfather asked, hugging the pudgy man and kissing him on both cheeks. “You remember my grandson, Mike?”

 

Val turned to me and gave me an appraising look. He pressed the fingers of his hands together and shook them.

 

“Madonna,” he said. “He grows like a weed. What are you feeding him?”

 

“His grandmother’s cooking.”

 

Val turned to me. He bent down, putting both hands on his knees. “Last time I saw you, you were this high.” He placed a level palm about where my chin was. “You going to be big like your grandpa. You eat well, get your sleep. You watch.”

 

I just smiled, my failsafe when I didn’t know what else to do. My last checkup, my doctor told me I was just under fifty-seven inches, and three pounds heavier than the average, so I didn’t know if Val was referring to my height or weight or both.

 

Val made a gesture I didn’t quite understand. Then his smile quickly dissipated into seriousness.

 

“He’s waiting for you,” he said. “In the back.”

 

My grandfather nodded. He then smiled at me.

 

“Come on,” he said. “I want you to meet somebody.”

 

My grandfather led me around the corner where a sign pointed to the bathrooms. The red vinyl booths were vacant except for the last one. A man around my grandfather’s age flipped through a newspaper. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was taller than my grandfather. He had short, wavy black hair, a crooked nose, and a clean-shaven face. He wore an immaculate dark suit and tie and sipped coffee with his pinkie extended. When he looked up, his sharp dark eyes softened with recognition. He stood up and met my grandfather halfway.

 

“Mickey,” he said in greeting. His voice was deep and one that commanded attention.

 

“Frank,” my grandfather said. He opened his arms, and the two men gave each other a hug and kisses on both cheeks.

 

The man looked past my grandfather at me. His gaze was imposing, and I could tell he was someone that didn’t back down from many staring contests. I looked away immediately.

 

“Who’s the kid?” he asked.

 

My grandfather turned to me. With his hand, he ushered me to the forefront.

 

“This is my grandson, Mike. Mike, meet Mr. Lomanico.”

 

“Frank,” the man said, then after a long pause he corrected himself. “Uncle Frank.”

 

I reached out my hand. Mr. Lomanico took it. I squeezed firmly and shook, maintaining eye contact just like my grandfather taught me to do.

 

“Good grip. Nice to meet you, kid.” He turned to the woman bussing one of the back tables. She was older and wore too much makeup and her blonde hair came straight out of a bottle.

 

“Diane, come over here a sec, will you?”

 

“What do you need, Frank?”

 

“Get this kid something to eat. You hungry, kid? You want a hamburger or ice cream or something?”

 

I looked at my grandfather who tapped out a cigarette from his soft pack. He lit it, giving me a curt nod. I turned to the waitress.

 

“Ice cream, please. Chocolate if you have it.”

 

Diane’s eyebrows raised. “Such a gentleman,” she said. “Chocolate ice cream coming up.”

 

Mr. Lomanico guided me with his hand to the booth next to the one he was sitting at.

 

“Why don’t you have a seat here while your grandfather and I discuss some things.”

 

He flagged down another waitress. She was younger and smaller than the first woman and very eager for the chance of waiting on him.

 

“Yes, Mr. Lomanico?”

 

He removed a wad of bills and peeled what looked like a twenty from it.

 

“Do me a favor, hon. Get the kid some change for the juke box and some paper to draw on or whatever.”

 

“Yes, sir. Sure thing.”

 

Mr. Lomanico nodded at me, and then turned to my grandfather who sat across from him with his back to me in the booth.

 

“There are three pieces of property on Peace Street that you’d be interested in. Tear-down jobs from what my man at the TPZ is telling me. They’re looking to build luxury condos…”

 

While they talked, Mr. Lomanico would look up from time to time to see who came in the front door, just like my grandfather did when he sat in that position. The waitress brought me over a few rolls of coins. I played some music and removed a small spiral notebook from my back pocket. This was my English teacher’s idea. After failing to turn in an essay on a family memory for homework, she recommended that I carry it around and record my thoughts and feelings whenever I was around my grandparents. It didn’t have to be full sentences, just words that evoked a thought, an emotion, a sense. So, while they talked, I watched how my grandfather interacted with Mr. Lomanico. I noticed how relaxed his body was in the book, how he used his hands to emphasize a point he was making, and captured the belly-laugh that sounded when he thought something was funny. I don’t know what they discussed, and the few phrases I heard didn’t make any sense. Diane delivered my ice cream — three scoops and a mountain of whipped cream — and I dug into it immediately.

 

As I had expected, it wasn’t a quick meeting. Nothing was quick when it came to my grandfather. When you had that many friends, every encounter became a meeting. Every meeting became a meal. And every meal became an all-day affair. We spent close to five hours at the diner. During the whole time, the two waitresses hovered around my grandfather and Mr. Lomanico, refilling their coffee cups, or bringing them a Portuguese roll and butter, catering to their needs first before any other customer, even when they got slammed with their lunch time rush.

 

Several cups of coffee, a hamburger, fries, a chocolate milkshake, and a monster chocolate sundae later, my grandfather was finally finishing up. I knew this because hearing my name snapped me from daydreaming about a girl I liked.

 

“He’s sharp as a tack,” I heard my grandfather say. “Ain’t that right, Mike?”

 

Mr. Lomanico looked at me. His mouth cracked a slight smile.

 

“Is that so?” Mr. Lomanico said. “This old man right, kid? You as sharp as a tack?”

 

My cheeks flushed from the attention. I shrugged my shoulders like I usually did when I didn’t know what to say when an adult asked me a direct question.

 

“I’m going to see for myself,” he said. His coal-black eyes regarded me for what seemed like forever. “What’s twelve times twelve?”

 

“One hundred and forty-four.”

 

“If I drive sixty miles an hour and I go two and a half hours, how far did I go?”

 

I paused to do the math in my head. “One hundred and fifty miles.”

 

Mr. Lomanico chuckled. “I didn’t even know the answer to that before I asked it.”

 

“He’s smart alright. He understands things,” my grandfather said, touching his finger to his temple.

 

Mr. Lomanico took out a cigar and bit the end, spitting out a nub into a nearby ashtray. “He don’t say much.”

 

“He’s a thinker. Keeps things close to the vest.”

 

“That’s good. People that talk too much have the least to say. He must get that from you.”

 

Mr. Lomanico dipped a hand into his pants’ pocket and produced a dirty quarter. He held it out in front of me so I could see it.

 

“You like magic, kid?”

 

I nodded.

 

“Someone asks you a question, you answer him,” my grandfather said sternly.

 

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, sir.”

 

“Please. Uncle Frank.”

 

“Yes, Uncle Frank. I do.”

 

He put the quarter into his right palm and put his left over it. Then he made a big production of shaking it up and down and all around. He swiftly separated his two fists and placed them on the table.

 

“Here’s the deal. You find the quarter, it’s yours.”

 

He shuffled his hands quickly. It wasn’t a frenzied display, but quick, practiced, and methodical. Although I was studying the movements of his hands, I felt his eyes looking at me, trying to figure out what was going through my mind. He escalated his movements in a flurry then slapped both palms on the table.

 

“What do you think, kid? Where’s the quarter?”

 

The display garnered the attention of the two waitresses. I studied Mr. Lomanico’s hands. They were large, with thick fingers. Three knuckles on the right were disfigured and there was a thin scar along the back of his left. The sheer size of his hands smothered the quarter, preventing any hope of surrendering a clue as to which one concealed the silver coin.

 

After a few moments, I looked up. My grandfather sat back smoking his Camel.

 

“Which hand, Mike?” he asked.

 

“I think I stumped him, Mick,” he said, chuckling to my grandfather. “Give up, kid?”

 

“No, sir,” I said.

 

“So, pick a hand. Wait, tell you what. You get it right, I’ll give you ten bucks. How does that sound? Ten bucks for using those brains of yours and telling me which hand the quarter is in.”

 

I shook my head. “I can’t do that,” I said.

 

“Why? Too hard for you?”

 

“No. I can’t because it’s not under either.”

 

“What are you talking about, Mike?” my grandfather interjected. “Play the game.”

 

The sound that emerged from Mr. Lomanico sounded more like a spasmed growl than a laugh. But it was a laugh. The big man was laughing.

 

“Well done, kid,” he said. He lifted both hands. There was no quarter.

 

“How’d you know that, Mike?” my grandfather asked.

 

I shrugged my shoulders. I remembered reading that magicians used hand tricks to divert the audience’s attention from what they wanted to hide. When Mr. Lomanico raised his fist and made a big show of shaking it around, I correctly guessed that his other hand slid the quarter from the table.

 

Mr. Lomanico stood up.

 

“I’ll get back to you on that other thing, Mickey,” he said to my grandfather. Then he walked over to me.

 

“You’re pretty sharp, I’ll give you that.” As promised, Mr. Lomanico handed over a ten-dollar bill.

 

“I can’t,” I said.

 

“Sure, you can, kid. You work for it, you earn it, let no one tell you different. This is for being observant,” he said.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Lo— I mean, Uncle Frank.”

 

He nodded appreciatively with the title.

 

“I got my eye on you, kid,” he said with a smile and a wink.

 

And with that he walked away toward the entrance. I turned to my grandfather, who was finishing his coffee. He had a smile on his face, as if I was let in on a secret. The only thing was — I didn’t know what that secret was.

 

“Who was that?” I asked.

 

“I told you. A family friend,” he said. He set the cup on the saucer and stubbed out his cigarette. “Come on, let’s get out of here. You hungry?”

 

“Are you kidding?”

 

“Well, buck up. You don’t eat dinner tonight, your grandmother will have my hide.”

 

He put his arm around my shoulders, and we headed out the door.

 

I was a month shy of my eleventh birthday.

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