THE INFORMATION #810 NOVEMBER 14, 2014

THE INFORMATION #810
NOVEMBER 14, 2014

Copyright 2014 FRANCIS DIMENNO
http://dimenno.gather.com
francisdimenno@yahoo.com
https://dimenno.wordpress.com

Ad ogni pazzo piace il suon del suo sonaglio.–Italian Proverb

WHEN THIS WORLD CATCHES FIRE
BOOK THREE: SAVAGE NOXTOWN
CHAPTER NINE: PART THIRTY-SIX: THE MAYOR OF HELL

Now, you can gab and gobble all you want about the doin’s at Bughouse Square, but I will say this. You can talk and talk all you want, ye yobs and yellofs, about the working man and the war between capital and labor, but most working men don’t understand ner care about no such highfalutin terms. 

What sets your everyday working Joe on the earie is the whole concept of fairness. 

Likety-like, is it fair for the cop to lay an egg-sized lump on my head just because I stole an apple from Luigi or whatever his name is when the cop hisself helps himself to all the fruit he pleases and Luigi never says a mumblin’ word–or say some jacketeer dressed in a smart sharkskin suit sidles up to the old fruit stand and pinches him a few choice peaches–what’s Luigi–that’s his name–poor sap–what’s he a-gonna do? What’s he a-gonna say? 

He’s not a man of violence. With his short runty built and his thick old fashioned mustache and his conical hat and his comical accent–why don’t he learn to speak English good like all the rest of us had to learn, Yob? 

With his thick eyebrows and his slouchy posture and his shiny suit jacket that screams greenhorn he shambles into a bank–I saw him–and shrieks at the Bank Teller, “Ees a safe, my mo-nee?” And the bank teller chuckles with a patronizing air, “Yes, Luigi,” (for that, the Teller has decided, is the greenhorn’s name–must be–regardless of what it says on his bankbook–does the ignorant animal even know what a bankbook signifies, he wonders, with a scratch to his well-groomed head–the Teller, whose name, incidentally, is Grant Grandison–don’t ask me how I remember that–is smartly dressed from head to toe with a blonde thatch of well-oiled hair, making it appear wavy–and with a celluloid collar and a briskly tailored suit jacket in a shade of crimson-shaded red approved by the bank for its minions and lackeys who work with money (management wears strict black).) 

“Yes, Luigi,” he says, with a chuckle rising in his well-bred throat, for he is the scion of a line of Grandison moneymen going way back, “Your ‘mon-ee’ ees a ‘safe’,” or, to put it in simple language which your kind can easily understand, nobody touch-a da money, for the mon-ee, she is yours,” and there is the very trace of a sneer on those thin and aristocratic Protestant lips, for the ape-like Luigi (where do they GET these people? from the dregs of Rome and Naples? From what sewer do these guoppos crawl out of?) is still standing there in front of the teller’s cage. still hunkered precipitously in front of the bars, although he is also standing there in his fruit-spattered and beat up old work boots, which make him look faintly ludicrous, him in his cheap suit–a suit cheap enough to be buried in–why doesn’t this monkey disappear back into the jungle, thinks the teller, and slap at his fleas, and stop pestering me? Give me a real customer, a customer with cash money, give him a chance to make a deposit–but the teller, with three years on the job, is anxious for a promotion and a raise, both of which are long overdue, so he manages to control his rising temper and says to Luigi, yet again, because apparently the lunkhead needs to have things repeated to him several times, for such is his ape-like comprehension of plain English that he just doesn’t GET IT, “Yes, Luigi (heh heh) I assure you, your mon-ee ees a-safe,” and still Luigi just stands there, like the rock of Gibraltar, with his shrill voice shrieking like a parrot, albeit one with beetle-dark eyebrows, “My mon-ee, ees a safe?” and then the Teller (who, after all, is only human) decides to have some fun at the greenhorn’s expense and he says to the other teller standing in the teller’s cage next to him,  “Luigi, here,” (could he be more patronizing?) “wants to know if his money is safe. Tell him, Bob.”    

Bob joins Grant Grandison in the teller’s booth (although strictly speaking, this kind of behavior–mocking a perfectly good customer–is strictly forbidden and they could both be in a lot of trouble if the bank manager found out. But the manager just happens to be Grant Grandison’s Uncle Pete, so it’s unlikely there’s be any serious consequences anyway.)

Bob, who has witnessed this entire encounter in between customers, leans into the window and hisses, in the voice of a conniving drunkard, “Yassh, your money ish shafe!” Grant begins to chuckle in that affable way which some people, like me, find so infuriating. But I was just a young whippersnapper myself, so what did I know. Don’t ask me why I bothered to follow Luigi into the bank in the first place. Maybe because I wanted to see him outside of his ordinary life as a fruit vendor. 

Grant starts in on Luigi again, with Bob as his interlocutor. “Bob–Luigi here wants to ask another question. What is it, Luigi?”

“I no like-a you. I theenk I take-a my mon-ee out of here.”

Grant chuckles. “Fill out this slip then, Luigi.”

But Luigi’s thick ape-like fingers have trouble holding the pen, so, finally, he say ‘Scrooch!’ and hustles out of the bank. The mocking voice of Grant Grandison following him, “You mon-ee ees a safe! Heh heh heh.”

I heard that Luigi did take his money out of there. It was quite a pretty penny, and three weeks later the bank closed its doors. Not because of Luigi, but because one of the periodic bank panics that were hardly unknown back then. 

Anyway, you have all these people saying how they’re going to do this and that to help Tom, Dick and Harry–but who is going to help Luigi, the produce peddler? He stands there all day selling peaches and plums and lumpy pomegranates and dreaming of Rome or Naples or wherever he’s from, and wondering why he ever came to savage Noxtown. Who is going to help HIM?

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CONTROVERSIES IN POPULAR CULTURE.

768. THE HATE BUS

Hate, sinister and old,
Come Aboard. We expect the bold.
Hate, and the sweetness of death.
Let it flow, and flow in every breath.
The Hate Bus soon will be making another run
The Hate Bus promises something for everyone
Set a course for gravity,
Your mind on a new depravity.
Hate will hurt forevermore
It’s an open snarl on a hostile shore.
Yes HATE! It’s HATE!
Hate Bus soon will be making another run
The Hate Bus promises something for everyone
Set a course for gravity,
Your mind on a new depravity.
Hate will hurt forevermore
It’s an open snarl on a hostile shore.
It’s HATE! It’s HATE! It’s HATE!
It’s the Hate Bus-ah! It’s the Hate Bus-ah!

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