'SALESMEN OF THE F.....G YEAR'

Chapter One:  IN THE BEGINNING

     This stuff happened before the other stuff:

     They came in waves, it seemed the hordes were crashing along the gates of Paradise, leaving their homelands empty.  Thousands, hundreds of thousands left.  They came from Ireland, they came from Italy, Poland, Eastern Europe, England, Spain, all points East and West.  The great portal was flung open and the immigrants flooded ashore, each with a dream, each with hope in their hearts and eyes, each coming to this land of freedom, where it was said the streets were paved with gold.

     They landed in New York, in enclaves, in little hovels, families jammed together in small spaces and they set out to make their mark upon the world, this exciting and terrifying new world.  Some left the bustling city, moving away, trying to find space, to find room to grow and prosper.

     Many came to the Next Big City.  Those who would, after a time, form themselves into a group, and with this group would forge a sprawling enterprise, a business like no other, controlled by these men, sons of Italy.  They worked hard, seven days a week, struggling to build businesses, the carting of refuse.  They conspired to drive out of the city other organizations, pushing them aside, their onrush of hard work and the imposition of fear drove all before them.  After a while they were the masters of their craft, controlling a small but growing industry.

     Then, friction.

     The great unsettling, a war, the fight over rights and territories, the struggle to live and expand, the infighting, men died, businesses were smashed one atop another.

     One man, later to be known as The Big Fella, later The Old Man, he saw the way and he worked hard to make the others see his wisdom.  They were crooks, gangsters, they knew that, but he taught them to survive by working together, keep outsiders out, divide up and settle disputes with a meal and some wine.

     Prosperity came, the lived well, they protected their little corner of the world, and slowly seeped into the outskirts, the suburbs, the bedroom communities which would rise up from the ashes of the inner cities.  The Old Man discovered Havens Cove and saw what was happening in Silver Shores, a housing development on a barrier island just across the bay from Havens Cove and Finchville.  And he liked what he saw and he went to the man, and said, Listen, we like this, what you are doing here and we want to buy some of these fine homes."

     Mr. Havens, the builder, smiled, thinking to himself, look at this guy, can't hardly speak good English, what does he know about this stuff?  Maybe, he thought, I can shake this guy down and whoever he is tied in with.  He took their money and proceeded to do what swindlers do with money and soon the Old Man was mighty sored up at Havens.

     On a Friday afternoon, the Old Man and his "assistant" rode up to Silver Shores, maybe a week before the infamous gate was to be built to keep the riff-raff out, much to the displeasure of the citizens of Havens Cove and Finchville.  It was raining, it was cold, a dark sky, grey clouds scuttling across the horizon, the sea a steel color, waves pounding the shore.

     They found Mister Havens in his garage.  They quickly explained to him the error of his ways, and Mister havens was fast to understand.  Maybe it was his scrotum encased in a metal clamp that produced the desired effect, but shortly the deed to the entire Silver Shores, lock, stock and scrotum was signed over.

     Not to leave any stone not turned, The Old Man and his "assistant" decided the very best place for Mister Havens would be at the end of a rope, hanging from one of the cheap cross beams in the garage, a suicide note on the hood of his car.  With the garage door closed, the cold body of Mister havens absorbing enough Carbon Monoxide to kill the entire population of Finchville, the Old Man and his "assistant" left, headed back to their Big city and brought big, exciting news to the other fellas  in the trash business.

     "We work hard all week, running these mighty big outfits, settling beefs, keepin' other guys out of our way, we need a place to relax after the strenuous work we do, and I have found the perfect spot.

     Within a few months, the fellas, all owners and operators of the special businesses, moved their families into the cheap homes along the water at Silver Shores, all the while cursing the cheesy workmanship, thinking, we're crooks, but that Havens guy musta' been a bigger crook, looka' these paper thin walls.  Why, if I was torturing somebody, shit, everyone would hear.

     Repairs were made to the houses, torture was kept to a minimum, but when employed, was relatively quiet.  The infamous gate was erected.  That guy in the black suit, white shirt, bolo tie, wide brim hat, delivered the gate.  He smiled at the Old Man before driving away, thinking, I have a mighty big beef with these guys, and when the time is right, I'll come back to settle things up.

     He sure did.