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Inside: Cultural Sausage. ~ Ludic Lists. ~ Skullbucket. Outside: Jandek has played a live show.
Nothin' means nothin' anymore.
"Flash's catchphrase" "blue pencil starfish origin" "Kitty Pryde bad girl" "Tit City" "Justice League naked" "Mister Banjo racehorse next entry" "surprising cocks" "Pee Wee big then we kill him" |
10.18.2004
Dear Joey, I'm writing you a letter rather than use your 'normal channels of communication', on account of how I don't really think you'll want to see me again after this, not alive anyways. So you'll forgive me for not calling you on the phone or turning up directly. This will be the last you'll hear from me and I wanted to clear a few things up before I said my goodbyes. First of all, I want you to know, this ain't a personal thing. You always been good to me, Joey, and treated me right, from the day you got me into the business to the last time I seen you, at that strip club down on Lawrence Avenue. Ever since we was kids you know I wanted to be in on the life and you're the one what brought me into it, and I'm always gonna be grateful for that. I feel like a real prick for leaving you in the lurch like this, particularly after all you done for me, but you gotta believe, it ain't you. It's them. Now, I know what you're gonna say. I heard you say it a million times before. Times is changing, and the Outfit has to change with them or it'll die on its feet. I know that, Joey, and I appreciate it. It ain't like I think we ought to go back to bootlegging or anything. When you got me into the life, I told you I would take any job, no matter how little, because I knew -- or at least I thought I knew -- that I'd be able to work my way up the ladder, to get in with the big boys. I didn't kick when my job was driving Johnny Lettieri back and forth to the OTB. That old fucker smelled like menthol cigarettes and linseed oil, and he told the same stupid stories a hundred times every day, but I didn't complain because I was finally on the way up. But, see, I wasn't. There ain't no 'up' in the Outfit no more. After old man Lettieri snuffed it, I figured, I done a good job carting him around, maybe this is my break. So the Outfit says they're gonna get me in on the gambling racket, and I feel like it's the Fourth of July and Christmas wrapped up into one. But then I find out, what they mean is, I gotta drive all the hell around the suburbs picking up payments from the video poker machines. You know who plays them video poker machines, Joey? Guys so old they was probably yellin' at Johnny Lettieri to get off their lawns back in the Stone Age. And it didn't get no better after that. I kept doin' my job, never raisin' any ruckus about it, and I kept getting the shitwork. Bringing legal briefs to the downtown boys. Cleaning up potholes for the committeemen. Changing license plates on the construction trucks. Hell, Joey, if I wanted to be a damn delivery boy, I coulda gone to work for my uncle Louie's pizza joint. I'd ask for more dangerous work, and the Outfit would put me in charge of directing traffic at the Columbus Day parade. I'd tell them I was happy to do rough stuff or wetwork, and they'd tell me they sourced all that stuff out to the Gangster Disciples. I'd say that I wanted to get in on the drug racket, and they'd say to take Mrs. Oteri her heart medicine. I started to figure the angles by that time: it wasn't that they were holding me back from the heavy work. It's that there wasn't any heavy work to do. It's all real estate and ghost payrolling and pension funds nowadays. Do you know the biggest job I've had in the last twelve years? Supervising that job where we drove a truckload of bootlegged J. Lo CDs up to Milwaukee. I mean, sure, we made a couple mil on it. But I didn't get into the life so I could violate intellectual property laws. I know the world is a different place, Joey. I know the old days, when it was us and the Jews and the Micks running the outfit, them days is gone, and America ain't the same country. And it's not like I mind handing over some of the rough stuff to the hoodies, or that I want it to be me selling dime bags at the high schools instead of Alfredo Lopez. But Christ, them Russians! I can't deal with those boys. That crazy language, and them women all hopped up on pills, and plus they wear too much damn cologne. That Vietnamese kid we were dealing rhino horn to (and what the fuck is that, anyway? Powdered rhino horn? Can you see Lucky Luciani trafficking in some damn jungle animal's ground-up nose, Joey? Be honest), he almost cut my face off with a razor because I said I liked his hubcaps. And I know we're making good money on the charity scams with those Arabs, but damn it, it's un-American. So it's goodbye from me, Joey. I'm moving far away from here, and you'll never see me again. Maybe I'll go to law school or something, I don't know. At least I'd be able to keep the suits. Thanks for all you've done for me, and I'm sorry it ended up like it did. And you don't gotta worry about the feds, about me ratting you out for all the stuff we did. They're only interested in organized crime, and as far as I know, we never committed any. Sincerely yours, Tom Ruglio |
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| TODAY'S DRIFTWOOD: "When I feel depressed I write my way out of it. If I told you anything more I'd go into business." (Bernard Malamud) |