Not that he had much to do by that time. His days were occupied mainly by listening to the birds chirp on the utility lines along the alley next to the house. That and waiting for the garbagemen to come by. He was drawn to the garbagemen, as was I.
The sound of the garbage truck, still a block or more away, would prick up the ears of the two of us, separated in age by some 70 years. In those days, people threw their garbage into round, metal 55-gallon drums. After the garbagemen emptied each, they'd let it bounce on the ground, creating an echoing boom. I'd mimic the noise as the garbage truck came closer: boom, boom, boom.
Jim never failed to laugh at that. In his thick Sicilian accent, he'd say, "Mockie! Gah-bidge-ah can boom!"
Jim always had some tiny bit of garbage wrapped in a brown paper grocery bag. For reasons known only to himself, he kept his garbage separate from the rest of the family's. As soon as the garbage truck turned the corner behind our garage, Jim'd jump out of his rocking chair and toddle, bow-legged, through the backyard, waving. He'd hand his garbage to one of the crew and then engage them, whether they wanted to be or not, in a broken-English conversation - or more accurately, soliloquy.
Every once in a while, Ma would shake her head and ask, "Pa, why don't you leave them alone?"
Jim would look at her as if she were daft. "D'ey-ah my friends-ah!" he'd insist.
The beer truck drivers were also his friends. Jim's ears would prick up every other day when he heard the Hamm's truck come by, stopping at all the bars and restaurants across the alley. Again, he'd toddle through the backyard, waving. This time, though, he'd press a couple of dollars into the driver's hand in exchange for a case of beer. He never needed to explain his relationship with the Hamm's drivers to Ma.
At night, Jim would sit in the rocking chair and sip beer after beer out of a heavy, clear glass mug. Often, I'd stand between his knees, my butt leaning on the edge of the seat, as he imbibed. The aroma of the beer was intoxicating. Every once in a great while, Jim would let me take the tiniest sip out of his mug. I felt like the luckiest kid in the world.
It was odd that I remember the smell of the beer. Ma tells me that poor old Jim smelled like a goat. I don't remember that. She'd fight with him for days on end to take a bath. Once, he'd been working in the garden and Ma refused to let him sit at the dinner table until he washed his hands. He did so, in what seemed record time. Suspicious, Ma marched into the bathroom and fetched the erstwhile clean, white towel upon which he'd wiped his hands. She held it in front of him. "Look, Pa! Look! It's black!" she exclaimed.
Jim was defeated. After dinner, he sat in the tub. He refused to use soap, though. He claimed the smell of soap made him nauseated. Ma still shakes her head when she recalls scrubbing the ring he left.
He came from the rural outskirts of Agrigento, where daily baths and deodorant soaps were unheard of. As a nine-year-old, he went to work in the local sulfur mine. The sulfur dust was so corrosive that it could eat away at his clothes in a matter of days. Nobody could afford that so he and the rest of the mine crew - grown men and children - worked in the nude.
By the time he was 20, he found himself in an arranged marriage to an energetic girl named Anna Lazzara. The couple moved to America, settled in Little Sicily around Grand and Ogden avenues, and opened a corner grocery. Jim ran a bathtub gin and wine operation in the back room. Eventually, he began to take a jug of his homemade wine into the basement, where he kept a cot, and drank himself to sleep.
To Anna, Jim was a cafone. The mere sight of him turned her stomach. Still, they had seven kids. She divorced him after the kids had grown up. He always carried a torch for her, though.
One night, Jim, Ma, and I all sat in lawn chairs in the backyard, watching the dark sky and hoping to catch a glimpse of Telstar or Echo, early artificial satellites. A thumbnail moon was about to set in the west. Jim didn't know much about geography but he knew that Anna was in the west. She'd moved to Pasadena after the divorce because its weather reminded her of Sicily.
Jim stared at the moon for a few minutes and then broke the silence. "Susie," he asked Ma, "does-ah you mother have-ah the same moon in Kahleefornyah?"
He never learned to read or write. But one day, curious, I rifled through his belongings and found an orange booklet resembling a passport. It had his picture in it and his X on the signature line. The cover read "Enemy Alien Registration." For a hot minute, I imagined my beloved, simple Grandpa was a spy. What was I to do? Turn him in? I'd never get to sip his beer again. Tearfully, I confronted Ma with my discovery.
Ma roared. Grandpa had never become a citizen, she explained. During World War II, Japanese, German, and Italian nationals had to register so the government could keep tabs on them. She assured me Jim was a true-blue American. What a relief!
Vicenzo Parello died on April 9, 43 years ago. Every time I see the garbagemen, I think of him.
