15. ANTONIO
ANTONIO
L ife on Staten Island was better than it had ever been. After the Yankees game, I discovered a love for baseball. By the following Monday, I’d already made up my mind. I marched straight to Coach Artie and told him I wanted to try out for the team. There were just two problems. First, tryouts were still a month away. Second, even if I made the team, the expenses that came with it were steep—way more than I could ask my mother to handle when she was already working so hard to keep us afloat.
So, I came up with the next best idea.
“A paperboy? Are you sure about this?” She adjusted her victory curls in the bathroom mirror, turning to me with a hand on her hip, skepticism written all over her face.
“Ma, I’ve got it. Just a bike and a bag. It’s not like I’m working in a factory or something. It’s a win-win situation for me.”
“And how do you figure?” she asked, crossing her arms and giving me a pointed look.
“We need the money, right? And I’m the man of the house. So I have to help you out. ”
She sighed deeply, her scowl softening. She didn’t want me to feel responsible, but she couldn’t deny the truth. “You shouldn’t have to worry about money, Antonio. That’s my job. And if you do this, I want you to keep the money you make.”
“Ma, you’re already doing enough. Besides, it’s not just about the money. This’ll help me get on the school baseball team. Think about it—throwing newspapers all over town is great pitching practice. Who knows? It might make me the next Joe DiMaggio . Then you’ll never have to work another day in your life again!”
There wasn’t a baseball player alive better than DiMaggio , at least in my eyes. I didn’t just admire his skills on the field; the fact that he once had Marilyn Monroe on his arm made me admire him more. I’d always had a thing for blondes ever since I saw Marilyn Monroe in The Seven Year Itch .
She sighed, shaking her head, but smiling this time. “Promise me you’ll be careful, okay? And promise me you’ll come right back when you’re done. You can’t be late for school.”
I knew she was more worried about someone spotting me and blowing our cover. But cops were rarely seen on the streets of Staten Island—strange, yes. But maybe we’d just gotten lucky, ending up in a place so safe the police weren’t even needed.
“I promise.” I forced a grin, even though I didn’t feel it.
The next morning, I stood in the alleyway behind the diner as Mr. Russo, a stocky man in his fifties with a cigar hanging from his mouth, leaned against a stack of newspapers. He handed me a canvas bag crammed full of neatly folded papers.
“You get these out by seven sharp, kid. No later. And don’t even think about skipping a house. Last boy who tried that? Docked his pay. You got it?”
“Yes, sir. Got it.” I nodded.
He smirked around his cigar. “Route’s marked on the map in the bag. Lose that, and you’re out.”
“Yes, sir. I won’t let you down,” I promised .
He turned away, and I slung the heavy bag over my shoulder, hopped on my beat-up bicycle, and pushed off. The streets were deserted in the early morning, and I already liked that about the job. The air was crisp, and the world felt hushed like it was just waiting to wake up.
It was the best thing in the fucking world.
As I rode, my heart raced—not with nerves, but excitement. The real challenge came when I started tossing the papers, trying to land them as close to the front doors as possible. Sometimes, I nailed it perfectly, the paper smacking the door with a solid thud. That usually brought some groggy husband barging outside in his bathrobe, hollering at me. Those moments had me pedaling off like my life depended on it.
DiMaggio, watch out!
I stayed en route, hit every house, and finished the deliveries in record time. By the time I rode home, sweaty and grinning, I knew one thing for sure—the job was mine .
I burst through the front door, my breath coming in quick, sharp gasps. Ma was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. She looked up, eyebrows raised, as I leaned against the doorframe, still panting.
“Ma! I did it! Every paper delivered right on time!” I said, grinning from ear to ear.
She set her mug down, her expression softening into a proud smile. “Good. That’s good, Antonio. I’m proud of you.”
Mr. Russo paid me $12 a week to deliver fifty newspapers around the neighborhood, but I must’ve impressed him because he bumped me up to $15 after just one week. I could hardly believe it.
There was something oddly satisfying about being up before the rest of the town, hopping on my beat-up bike, and making those perfect throws to the front steps. By the time I got to the fortieth house, the sun would usually start to rise. One morning, the sunrise was so breathtaking that I had to stop for a moment to take it all in.
As I paused, I fished a paper out of my bag, planning my next toss. That’s when a bold headline jumped out at me, demanding my attention.
Local Mafia Ties Alleged: Joey “The Shark” Romano released from Rikers After Decade in Prison.
Alleged mobster, Joey “The Shark” Romano, Staten Island resident and longtime associate of the infamous Giordano crime family, recently returned home following a ten-year prison sentence for extortion on mafia-related offenses. Sources suggest The Shark’s return has reignited activity within the family’s operations like never before, though authorities remain tight-lipped about any investigations.
A black-and-white photo of Joey stepping off the Staten Island ferry was plastered beside the article, leaving no doubt in my mind—it was him. Joey . The same Joey I thought I’d gotten to know—a mobster. Or so the paper claimed.
I flipped the paper over, my hands trembling, and skimmed through the rest of the article. Words like “organized crime,” “violence,” and “illegal activity” jumped off the page, painting a picture so dangerous it felt unreal. My breathing quickened as the realization hit me—this wasn’t just any guy from the neighborhood. I clenched the paper tightly, my mind racing, a thousand questions forming, but no answers.
“Hey, kid! You planning to keep that paper, or should I come get it myself?”
The voice cut through my thoughts, sharp and startling. I turned quickly, my heart still pounding.
“Sorry! Uh, here you go!” I said, tossing the paper at his feet and speeding off.