'74 & Sunny Read Free Page A

of patience for things that used to come so easily, like throwing a spiral to his only son, or getting out of his favorite recliner without a boost. The type of old that simmered with the exasperation at the changing of the times, at the world around him and the people who were taking it over. An old that bubbled with anger at the suggestion that his way may no longer be the best way. That his opinion, despite his wisdom and worldliness, no longer held water.
    Not that he ever shied away from making his opinion known. One morning I watched as my father, shirtless, bent over to bury his head deep into the refrigerator (or iceboxas he called it), muttering to himself in Sicilian. After a few minutes, he popped his head out and called to my Neapolitan mother, a saint of a woman who always knew how to toss a wet blanket onto his fiery spirit.
    â€œLilly, do me a fuckin’ favor, would ya? Don’t buy the tub of Breakstone’s Butter no more. Every fuckin’ time I open it up to spread some on a piece of semolina, I gotta see all the crumbs from whoever the hell used it before me.”
    â€œAll right, all right,” my mother said, dropping whatever she was doing to make it all better. “I’m sorry, Al. There was a sale.”
    â€œIt’s just a thing with me, Lilly. Just don’t do it. Is that so hard?”
    â€œNo, no, you’re right. I’m not even that crazy about it. I’ll throw it out.”
    Of course, that wasn’t really what was eating at him at the time. The butter fight was his outlet for whatever was really on his mind.
    My older sisters and I, sitting in front of the TV, knew what was to follow. After all, this was 1974. The president was in disgrace, and young GIs were suffering in the jungles of Vietnam; gas lines stretched out for miles, New York City was going to shit, and I was struggling with pimples and puberty in a tough-love Sicilian-American household. On top of that, Archie Bunker was dealing with a black neighbor. Maude had had an abortion. And Mary Tyler Moore was going to “make it after all.” All this stuff was happening too quickly for my father, Al Benza.
    â€œI’m gonna tell you all something before I go to work. The TV Guide says West Side Story is on the television tonight.” He was just getting started. “If I come home and find out any of you watched it, I’m gonna put my foot through the screen and no more TV. Capiche ?”
    My middle sister, Lorraine, who was wild for Richard Beymer, spoke up.
    â€œOh, Daddy . . . why? I love West Side Story . Why do you hate it?”
    Now he was in the zone. “Because it promotes Puerto Rican gang violence and I’m not gonna have that in this house. It’s enough these spics have invaded New York City with their fuckin’ switchblades and cockroach-killer shoes. I don’t wanna see it in my house.”
    My sister Rosalie, who was twenty-nine, married and lived with her husband Jack and their two-year old son, Jackie, in the house next door, was the only one with the balls to ask the real question. Maybe because Jack was half Puerto Rican.
    â€œBut why is it okay that we went to see The Godfather twice in the same week at the movies? That was more violent than West Side Story , and—”
    He cut her off and bent down to look her in the face. The black eyes they shared were inches apart.
    â€œListen to your father. The Godfather is about family , love ,and honor ,” he said through clenched teeth. “The other one is horseshit. And you know how much I love Jack.”
    â€œAll right, Al, all right,” my mother said. “Don’t drive to work mad. The kids won’t watch the movie.”
    Of course, later that night we all watched West Side Story until we heard his red convertible Mustang glide into the driveway.
    On some school mornings, I remember using the ridiculously massive lion’s head brass door knocker my father