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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 4 years

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Blue Eyes Part 19

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 19: Tea leaves don’t lie.

Warnings: Miscarriage

Niall Devlin was having quite a day. The Shelby brothers had been winding up the entire factory with an impromptu boxing match and they were still unaware of the revolution. The man blamed this on Tommy’s lack of listening. Not that Devlin thought it would matter whether they knew or not. It would just spare him so grief later on.

Bonnie had displayed his fighting prowess much to the shock of the workers. There was still a lingering crowd, all buzzing with disbelief at what they’d just witnessed.

That’s when the doors to the factory flew open and Mr. Devlin’s day got even hairier.

Most of the works quieted when Alfie Solomons stormed across the floor. No one dared stand in his way because he looked beyond pissed.

The Jewish man snapped his fingers at Niall, assuming he had at least some sort of power because he was better dressed than the others and holding a clipboard. “You. Where’s Tommy?” He demanded.

Mr. Devlin looked rattled. “Erm, he’s upstairs in a meeting now.” He relayed.

“Great.” Alfie began climbing the stairs, his cane falling heavily on the wood floor.

“Well-wait, sir, I cannot have you interrupting Mr. Shelby.” Niall scurried after him. “It’s very important and-”

Alfie stopped halfway on the stairs and looked at the assistant. His eyes teeming with rage from under the brim of his hat. “Mr. Shelby and I are family now. Family is very important, innit? S’pecially to him. Family comes first, therefore,” He put a hand over his heart. “I come first.” With that, he continued towards Tommy’s office.

Mr. Devlin swallowed nervously and trailed after the man, ready for Tommy to chew him out for letting Alfie that far.

Alfie banged on the door, rolling his eyes at the S initial embellished everywhere around him.

“I’m busy!” Tommy yelled back.

Frankly, it was laughable that anyone thought they could turn Alfie away. So he barged through the door.

His brother-in-law, fuck that would take some getting used to, looked incredulous. A woman was sat across from him at his desk and looked a little annoyed, albeit confused by the intrusion.

“Alfie, I’m in a meeting.”

“Oh, that’s nice, mate. I don’t fucking care.” Alfie spat. “Love, if you could give us a minute, this is about family matters.” He addressed Jessie.

The woman scoffed. It was difficult enough trying to secure the appointment with Tommy, she wasn’t about to let it be interrupted. “I think you could wait a minute.” She shot back. “And don’t call me that.”

Alfie raised an eyebrow. “Tommy I didn’t think you associated with women who actually fucking stood up for themselves.”

Jessie wasn’t impressed. “We have business to discuss. If you wouldn’t mind…”

“To be honest, I don’t fucking care if you’ve got business.”

Tommy removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes wearily. “Jessie, he won’t leave until I’ve spoken to him.” He informed her frankly. “It’ll only be a moment and we’ll resume talking.”

Jessie frowned sourly but stood up to leave.

“Thank you.” Alfie shut the door behind her. “Did Ella come here?” He demanded.

“No. I haven’t seen her since this morning.” Tommy replied. It was exhausting going back and forth between business and family issues.

“Did she ask you for anything?” Alfie remained standing, both hands placed over the top of his cane.

“No.”

“Nothing? You fucking sure ‘bout that?”

Tommy placed his glasses back on and looked up at the man. “She spoke to me about unsettling dreams she was having.”

“Right, mentioned the same thing to me. Now she wants you to give her dope so she won’t dream. Won’t fucking listen to me, right, when I tell her to stay away from that shit. Any reason why?”

“Alfie-”

“‘Cause her fucking brothers drink that shit like it’s fucking water!” Alfie shouted. “You’ve got her thinking it’s the answer to all her issues ‘cause you lot like to repress your fucking emotions!”

Tommy took a deep breath. “I never told her it was okay.”

“Oh right, mate, do as I say not as I fucking do.” Alfie rolled his eyes. “She is pregnant and if I find out that you or anyone in your family has given her drugs, I’m going to wrap you up in a nice little bow and hand-deliver you to Luca Changretta.

The Blinder looked mildly amused. “Is that a threat, Alfie?”

“Oh, you’re damn right it is, mate.” He snarled, his face clouding over. “Something about Birmingham, yeah, that makes you more violent. A pit of hell, innit? Guess that fucking explains why you’re the way you are, Thomas. But mark me fucking words, my wife and I are walking out of this place unharmed. Won’t have Birmingham fucking her over. Even if that means we have to walk over your dead body.”

Tommy lit a cigarette. He’d grown used to Alfie’s colorful vocabulary a long time ago. Sure he knew that the London gangster was more than capable of keeping his vows, but Tommy had a feeling he wouldn’t do anything of the sort. “If she comes to me asking for anything I’ll turn her down.” He responded. “I’ll warn the others to do the same, I’ll pass along your message.”

The other man had been expecting a little resistance. Tommy did love to argue with him. But it appeared they were on the same page this time around. “Good. Then we won’t have any issues.” Alfie retreated a little from the desk. “I’ll send her back in. Oh, and Tommy, try not to get this one pregnant, aye? Two children outta wedlock, well that’ll just tarnish that glowing reputation of yours won’t it?”

“Alfie, kindly fuck off.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The soft nicker was all too familiar. It was the sweet sound that was like a melody to Ella. The warm greeting from a friendly horse, an old friend, even.

Ella pushed through the fog on the moor. The rocky terrain unsteady under her bare feet. Her hair was long, almost to her waist, just as she used to keep it as a child. Polly and Ada would braid it for her to keep it out of her face, sometimes sticking wildflowers into the plaits. It made her feel like a Romani queen. Wild and one with the forest.

Lilac’s sturdy frame came into view. The perfect specimen of an Irish cob. Built to pull and traverse through the toughest of environments. Her coat was a painting of God’s. Beautiful black and white patterns swatched over her form. Her mane was long but kept clean and untangled. The heavenly scent of her namesake wafted in the air. Dried lilacs falling from her wiry mane.

The mare nickered again to her beloved Romani chavi. She bobbed her head as if nodding to coax the girl over.

Ella smiled serenely and continued through the fog. When she grew closer, she saw the two foals that had been hidden by the thick fog. Both splattered with identical black and white patterns. They stood on shaky legs, staying close to Lilac.

Then, they all began to walk away from her.

Ella wanted to call out to them, to tell them to wait for her but she couldn’t speak. The air was trapped inside her chest. So she kept following the three horses, trying to run to catch up to them but stuck at a walking pace.

Finally, one of the foals stopped and turned to look at her. Then, a haunting voice traveled over the moors.

“Mumma?”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Ella shot up in bed. Sweat plastered her hair to her face, her heart was beating relentlessly against her chest. Through the darkness, she let out a sob that startled Alfie, Cyril, and Anthea awake.

“El?” Her husband grumbled and groped the sheets to try and find her. “Whasamatter?”

Cyril whimpered and padded over to the bed, pressing his cold nose to Ella’s hand.

“The babies...the twins. It’s them. Something’s wrong.” Ella’s voice quivered with fear as she rambled on.

“What?” Alfie blinked blearily and reached for the bedside lamp. “Ella, what on Earth are you talking ‘bout?”

“The foals. The foals...oh my God.” She cried and tucked her knees to her chest. “It’s the twins. Something’s going to happen.”

Warm light flooded the room and Alfie reached out to her. “Ella, it was just a dream. I told you it’s nothing.”

“It’s not nothing!” She threw the covers back and got out of bed.

He didn’t want their argument from the previous day carry on into the next but they needed to get through it. “Ella, I’m listening to you. But you need to speak! I want to hear you! If you pull this Shelby nonsense of keeping everything inside ‘til you explode then what am I supposed to fucking do except damage control?”

“These dreams mean something. Something bad is going to happen!”

Alfie could’ve argued that bad things were already happening and had been since her brother was shot dead. But he decided being a smartass wasn’t the best course of action.

He rubbed the heel of his hand into his eyes and groaned. “Okay, so what’re you gonna do ‘bout it, love?”

“I need to talk to Polly.” Ella grabbed Alfie’s discarded shirt off the floor and threw it on over her nightgown.

“Hang on, you’re gonna go there now?” Alfie got up as well, disturbing Cyril and Anthea at the end of the bed. As he followed his wife, he spotted the time on the old clock in the hallway. “It’s past midnight, love, you can talk to her tomorrow morning.”

“No, no, no, this is important.”

“Ella.”

“This is important.” She repeated again as if they were the only words she knew. “This is important.”

Alfie reached out to stop her and pulled her into his arms. “It is important. It’s important, love. But we can wait a few more hours. If you don’t want to sleep then I’ll stay up with you until the morning.”

Her knees went a little weak as she cried against his chest. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Nonsense, don’t think like that.” He scolded softly and guided her back to the small bedroom. “Let’s just both calm down.” With care, he got her settled back into bed. “Take a deep breath and just try to forget ‘bout everything.”

Ella was shaking with anxiety but stifled her quiet sobs and reached out to Alfie.

“I’m here, I’m here.” He assured her and laid down, letting her cuddle close. Cyril rested his chin on Ella’s feet and Anthea scrambled to sit in her lap.

She sniffled and pressed her lips to the pitbull’s head.

“Take a breath.” Alfie soothed again. “Pretend we’re in Margate. Just pretend we’re far away from here.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You look like you haven’t slept much.”

Ella muttered a sarcastic reply under her breath but she was too tired to argue with anyone. After Alfie had managed to calm her down the night before, she didn’t fall back asleep.

“What was that?” Polly raised an eyebrow.

“I said can you read my leaves?” Her niece spoke up and chose not to repeat herself in the risk of losing Polly’s help.

“Why? You know you’re pregnant and I’m glad you came to terms with it too, saves me a lot of arguing in the future.”

She yawned and tugged a hand through her tangled curls. “Are you going to help me or not?”

“Not with that attitude.” Polly retorted and refused to move from her spot by the kitchen table.

“Please?”

Her aunt moved to the stove while muttering something about Shelbys. Ella dozed off a little at the table while the water boiled. The sound of the kettle whistling woke her up.

Polly poured the tea and handed her the pale yellow cup before sitting down near her.

Growing up with Polly and the Lee girls, Ella had her leaves read many times before. Most were vague readings about fortune and misfortune. She’d become a little disillusioned with the practice in her later years. But the dreams of Lilac had reawakened the Traveler beliefs in her. There was a reason for the recurring dream and there was no use in ignoring it anymore.

Her palms warmed against the porcelain surface. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, smelling the rich leaves.

“Right, here.” Polly took the cup back leaving Ella in her semi-peaceful state. As her niece kept her eyes closed, she examined the patterns in the dark leaves.

Something caught her eye and she felt her stomach twist in fear. Clearing her throat, Polly put the cup aside.

The clink made Ella open her eyes again. “And?”

“It says you’re in danger,” Polly admitted truthfully. “But that’s clearly because of the Italians.” That had to be it. Ella wasn’t in any more danger than the rest of them were.

Ella wasn’t too alarmed by the reading. It seemed sound enough. Of course, they were in danger, that came with being a Shelby. Their family was cursed. “Did it say anything about the horses in my dreams?” She leaned over the table to try and see inside the cup even if she couldn’t decipher the pattern.

“No, it’s just a dream.” Polly forced a comforting smile and touched her shoulder. “Go home with Alfie and rest. If the dreams come, welcome them. Ask what its purpose is. Perhaps you’ll get more answers if you stop fighting.”

Ella swallowed and nodded. “Thanks, Pol.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfie was still waiting by Polly’s front door when Ella came out. He was pleased to see she was noticeably more at ease. The tension in her shoulders and worry in her eyes had diminished significantly. The man knew he would have to thank Polly later. “Feel bit better?” He offered his arm to her.

“Yeah, think so.” She smiled lightly and let him escort her down the street. “I’m sorry about everything. I didn’t mean to scare you or make you angry.”

“Love, relationships ain’t ever perfect, yeah? They’re work but it’s work that’s fucking worth it.”

Instead of going home to rest, Ella wanted to walk around Small Heath for a bit with Alfie. The morning was bleak but that was standard for Birmingham. They talked softly, both happy to be back to the semi-normal they could have in Small Heath. They spoke about returning to Margate once it was safe again. It sounded like paradise. The promised land. A little beachside cottage with a newborn boy and girl on the way. A perfectly even family of six. Ella smiled at the idea of Cyril and Anthea meeting the children. How they would get to grow with the dogs and have a bond with them. It was the heaven that seemed so close.

“Hang on, the strap on me shoe’s slipped.” Ella grimaced and leaned down to fix her heel. “Bloody things are giving me blisters.”

Alfie was stopped a few feet away from her. “Well, take ‘em off then, I’ll carry them for you and we can head back.” He offered.

“And get my stockings dirty?” She rolled her eyes and straightened up just as a car passed them on the uneven road.

Neither noticed the window of the passenger side roll down. Nor did they see a gun being pointed out. “Per Angel e Vincente!” Someone shouted in Italian before three shots rang out.

Alfie’s blood went cold when he saw the look on Ella’s face turn into shock. A hand went to her abdomen.

“Alfie…”

Instinct set in quickly. He drew his gun and turned to fire at the car that was already speeding off. His hand was shaking and he only managed to hit the side and a street lamp.

“Alfie.”

Her voice brought his attention back. Alfie pocketed his gun and rushed to her. Both hands clutched over her stomach. Blood was already starting to seep into the blue fabric of her dress.

His hands were shaking. He’d seen countless wounds of all sorts. In France, he had to learn a little bit of trench first aids to keep his subordinates alive. He knew how to get a bullet out and wasn’t too shabby at stitching someone back up. But seeing his wife bleeding caused him to hurtle into such a state of panic that he couldn’t even see straight.

“A-Alfie.” She began to cry. Her blue eyes rolling up to look at the sky above her.

“Sh, sh, s’alright.” He had to force his brain and body to work. Pulling off his coat, he wrapped it around her torso, pulling at the sleeves to keep it snug. It was no proper tourniquet but it would have to do. “I’ve got you. It’ll be alright.” He bent down to pick her up.

She inhaled sharply at the movement and wailed in pain.

“I know love, I know.” Alfie’s heart was racing so fast. Closest ally. Polly. Polly was one street over. Closest ally, closest telephone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Polly was a bit more levelheaded than Alfie but that wasn’t saying much. The woman couldn’t take another loss so she was damn well sure her niece would survive.

“Finn!” She shouted for the youngest Shelby. “Call an ambulance!” She rushed Alfie into the parlor and got Ella onto the couch. “Go to the kitchen, get as many towels as you can.” She ordered Alfie.

“Polly…” Ella moaned. “Polly, the babies.”

“Hush, chavi, you’re safe.” Her aunt soothed and opened Ella’s blouse so she could find the wound.

Her breathing began to become shallower. Tears streamed down her face. “Polly, please. Please save them.” She pled helplessly.

Alfie returned with the towels and passed them over to Polly one by one. He crouched by Ella’s head, holding her hand and trying to calm her down.

She screamed when Polly attempted to soak up the blood and apply pressure. It wasn’t out of pain. It was agonizing grief and rage.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The ambulance arrived shortly after and whisked Ella to the hospital. While she was in surgery, Alfie waited outside in the hallway. It felt like he was slowly being crushed. He slid to the ground, his arms over his head. Ella’s screams echoed in his mind.

He stayed there. Long enough for Tommy to pass by him and speak with the doctor. The man returned to stand across from Alfie. But he didn’t speak.

Finally, the silence got to Alfie. He was terrified of the answers to the questions that he asked. “She okay?”

“Yeah,” Tommy answered. “She’s sleeping now. Doctor says she’ll wake up in a bit.”

He exhaled shakily. “The babies?”

There was a pause. Tommy was afraid of unleashing Alfie’s wrath in the middle of the hospital but he had no choice. “They’re gone. She miscarried.”

Alfie’s hands curled into fists over his head.

“We formed a blockade. Stopped and searched every car. We found one with two men who had guns. Italians.”

At the news, the Jewish gangster stood up with the strength of a hurricane. “Where are they?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfie once found himself thinking about death. For so long he’d become indifferent to the idea. But that was before he met Ella. Before he held another person’s heart. Before he realized he would take an infinite amount of bullets for her. It got him thinking about the death of his family. Something he’d long tried to cover up with the notion that he was stronger than grief. Too busy to properly mourn. And yet they were always there with him because he had yet to let them go. It was safe to say that he would never let them go even if he did acknowledge his grief.

But death was inevitable, wasn’t it? What was the use in fighting something that was guaranteed to happen? All he could do was make the best of what he had now and worry about greeting death once he was finished.

That was all well and good but it didn’t account for the fact that Ella would also die. Before or after he did, there was no way of knowing. But it caused him immense pain to consider she would go before he did. Then what would he do? What would he do if she were taken from him too soon?

He’d once slogged through knee-deep mud in a trench with one of his wounded men on his back. He pushed through the pain to get him to safety and to a nurse. And that was a man he hardly even knew. If something happened to the woman he loved? He was sure he would rip the fabric of time.

These men, these cowards had nearly taken his Ella from him. Even worse, they had ended the lives of his children. They would learn to hope for immediate death, but Alfie would keep them alive. He’d keep them alive for at least two torturous days. One for each child.

The warehouse door made a loud bang when it was slammed closed. Alfie stepped inside and felt it was torturous to even walk. He wanted to jump across the room and rip out the throats of the men who had killed his children.

The two young men were tied up in chairs side by side. The fear in their eyes only grew when they saw Alfie stalking towards them.

The epitome of rage. A man who had been brought to the edge and shoved off without warning. A sinner with nothing left to lose.

“Who are they?” Alfie demanded, not glancing behind him to where Tommy was standing. “They Changrettas?”

“No,” Tommy replied. “Just Italians from London looking for something to give them credibility.”

“Fuck.” Alfie began to pace. He was too angry to stand still. “Not even fucking part of…” Unable to finish his sentence, he grabbed one of the men by the throat. “I’d love to hear your reasons, mate, yeah? Reasons for what you fucking did. ‘Cause I can think of two very good fucking reasons to squeeze your neck so hard your fucking eyeballs pop out.” He snarled.

The man spluttered but couldn’t get any words past the grip around his neck. And the longer Alfie held him there, the more purple he turned.

Finally, most likely seconds from choking the man out, Alfie released his hand.

“What ‘bout you? Aye?” The gangster grabbed the second man by the hair and forced him to look him right in the eyes. “Any reasons? Make ‘em good to, ‘cause they might be the last fucking words you speak.”

“L-Luca…”

“Luca nothing.” Alfie backhanded him. “Luca ain’t your fucking boss, me colleague’s just told me. Luca didn’t shoot me wife in the street.”

The man whimpered and held back a sob. “Please…”

“Tommy, you gotta flask?” Alfie interrupted.

The Blinder reached into his coat and handed it over.

“Now it’s been years since I last drink, yeah, drank while I were in the war.” Alfie began to speak as if he had an audience. An audience of men headed right for the gallows. Dead men breathing. “Drank to forget ‘bout all the atrocities I came across. Now you lads look like your too fucking young to have even fought in the war. Don’t mean you haven’t seen your fill of violence, yeah. But I’ll tell you a story. Story ‘bout Italians.” He made a show of unscrewing the cap off the silver flask and pocketing it. “Italian like you, fucking pain in the arse, weren’t he? Kept calling me nasty names. Nasty weren’t they? Disrespecting me religion. The chosen people.” With a measure of grace, Alfie began pouring the gin over the two men. It wasn’t enough to drench them, but enough to douse their hair and clothes. When the flask was empty, he threw it to the side. The echo of the metal on the concrete echoed a few times. Alfie put his hands on his knees and bent down slightly to look the men in the eyes. “So I took a fucking nail and I drove it right through his brain. But I weren’t satisfied. Wanna know why?” He raised an eyebrow. “Why? Well, ‘cause he didn’t suffer. He died like that.” He snapped his fingers. “Woulda liked him to suffer a little. Yeah, some sufferings good. I get a headstart on the devil, don’t I?” Alfie straightened up and held a hand out to Tommy. “Your lighter, Tom?”

The Blinder obliged without questioning.

“Already know what flesh burning smells like.” Alfie flicked the lighter a few teasing times. The men were sweating and quietly pleading for mercy. “You two wanna find out?”

“Please!” One of the men broke down in tears and struggled against his restraints.

“You’d be so lucky.” Alfie snarled and returned the lighter to Tommy. “No, I’m gonna fucking tear you to shreds with me bare hands. You’ll stay alive, awake until I fucking let you die.”

“We didn’t mean-”

The words fell on deaf ears. “She were fucking pregnant!” Alfie’s voice rumbled through the room like thunder that was near enough to feel in the ground. You killed my children! Killed them ‘fore they were even born!” His face turned red and he heaved a few breaths before continuing on. “If they don’t get to live, then neither do you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alfie kept his word. The two assailants were kept clinging to life until forty-eight hours were up. Tommy didn’t leave. In fact, he participated for much of it. Alfie wasn’t the only angry one.

Once the men stopped breathing, Alfie slumped into a chair. He was covered in blood. His white shirt soaked almost completely, his arms sticky and flecks of red spattered over his face.

Tommy walked over with a towel. He’d gone to call a few people and wash up a bit. “Ella’s asking for you.” He said quietly.

Alfie took the towel and weakly scrubbed at his arms. “Didn’t help, Tom.” He muttered.

“I know. It never does.”

He put his head in his hands. “Both of ‘em. Fucking hell, I could’ve lost all three of ‘em, mate.”

“You didn’t though.” Tommy reminded him. “Ella’s going to be okay. You’ll both be okay.”

To Tommy’s surprise, the man let out a strangled sob. “We were happy, Tom.” His voice shattered beyond repair. All the embellishments he used to convey confidence had fallen to the floor. All that was left was a man stripped to the bare bone. A man who lost a dream and nearly lost his source of joy. He laughed bitterly and wiped at his eyes. Blood streaking over his forehead. “She fought it at first but-but we were happy. Was gonna have the babies born at Margate. She wanted them to see the ocean. Not this fucking-fucking shithole.” His fist clenched but he dropped his hand after a moment. Too weak to fight anymore. “I shoulda taken her away. Brought her somewhere else. Overseas. Somewhere safe.”

Tommy swallowed and felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. He’d promised his family they’d be kept safe. Now John was dead and his sister and cousin had both been shot.

“What do you need from me, Tommy?” Alfie lifted his head. Tears welled up in his blue eyes. “Aye? What do you need from me to make sure those wops pay?”

His brother-in-law took a deep breath. “I need this boxing match. And I need people to think Arthur was killed during it. I need you to take a job from Luca.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ella was turned on her side in the hospital cot. Her back faced the door.

Alfie had scrubbed away all the blood. Patched himself up, wound gauze around the cuts on his hands. He walked into the room. The sun was filtering through the thick, glazed glass. Everything was white and hollow.

A few bouquets had been left in Alfie’s absence. An outreach to try and comfort Ella even when most of them couldn’t fathom the loss.

Polly was sat beside the cot, her hand steady on her niece’s shoulder. An anchor point to remind her the world was still spinning and she was still alive. But when Alfie entered, Polly stood and went to give the two privacy.

But before she left, the older woman paused and touched Alfie’s arm. “This wasn’t your fault.” She said quietly.

Alfie didn’t believe her and simply nodded. After Polly shut the door behind her, he approached the bed. Ella’s form hadn’t moved in response to his heavy footsteps against the clean floors.

“Love.” He tested out the air between them.

She didn’t react.

He sat down with a sigh. “El, please…”

“Do you know what it’s like to have your heart pulled out?” Her hoarse voice whispered.

Alfie leaned forward so he could hear her. “Yeah, love.” He whispered. “Know how much it fucking hurt me but dunno how much you’re hurting. Can’t even imagine.”

His wife pulled the thin sheet further over her shoulder. “I felt it. Just like that, they were gone. Both of them. Both of them, Alfie.” She shuddered a sob.

“Ella, please.” Alfie’s chest tightened and he pressed his face to her shoulder. “Love, please look at me.” He begged.

“They said I might never have kids again. Not after this. M’all fucked up.”

“That’s not the problem right now. What matters is you’re okay.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “Okay? I’ll never be fucking okay.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “M’nothing anymore. They took everything from me. Everything...everything. Everything and everything.”

“They didn’t take me away.” He asserted. “I’m still here and ain’t anyone taking me away from you.”

“Everyone leaves.” She whispered as if she was only talking to herself and Alfie wasn’t there. “Eventually.”

He wanted to shake her, pull her into his arms and never let go. But he knew she would push him off. “I ain’t going anywhere.” He asserted again. “Believe what you want, love, but I’m stitched to you. Stitched right to your side ‘n that’s that. That’s the end. I’m yours until the end.”

Her eyes glazed over and she pressed a hand to her stomach. “They’re foals now.” She whispered. “With Lilac. They’re so beautiful. Called me mumma. Isn’t that so nice?” A tearful formed faintly on her pale lips.

Alfie frowned. Something had turned as if she were taken over by something. Possessed. He stood up suddenly and went outside to where Polly was waiting anxiously. “What’re they giving her?” He demanded.

Polly was chewing on her nails and gave him a strange look. “What are you on about?”

“Drugs. What’re they giving her?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

“Fucking-” He grabbed the nearest nurse by the arm. A startled petite blonde looked aghast at him. “What’re they giving me wife?” He jabbed a finger at the door.

“Oh, I…” The nurse shook her head and gathered her thoughts. “Morphine, sir, for the pain.”

“Fuck.” Alfie released her and pressed his hand to his eyes.

“She’s in pain without it,” Polly replied in a warning tone. “It’s not bad unless they’re giving her too much.”

Alfie’s jaw tensed. “Fine, but we need to keep an eye on her after she’s outta here. ‘Fraid she’s gonna get lost in it if we’re not careful.”

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crue-sixx · 4 years

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Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Bride

Title: Always A Bridesmaid, Never A Bride

Fandom: The Dirt

Summary: The reader is Vince's long time friend (who he's had a crush on forever), who he is very fond of and who is fond of him as well. It's been a few years since they last seen each other and is indeed a shock at how much she's changed.

Warnings: swearing, mentions of abuse, murder and suicide, suicide attempt

In high school, things were much easier. You had your life all set out for you-meet a nice young man at church, marry him and have his babies and get a part-time job to help care for the kids and upkeep the house. As with any school, it did have the cliques and yours was the religion club that everyone dubbed "The Jesus Freaks" but that wasn't entirely true. The club welcomed people of all religions, most of them just happened to be Christian or Catholic with a hint of Jewish people in there. The purpose of the club was to research other religions to help the members understand the main aspects of them rather than make ignorant assumptions.

It was there you had met a surfer boy-brunette, a natural tan who had a very good singing voice. He was in a band, making him irresistible to the ladies. Well, saying that you met him in high school wasn't accurate. You actually met for the first time in third grade where he acted like a gentleman with you. He held open doors and kissed your hand whenever he led you through them. The teachers thought it was the cutest thing and informed both your parents.

As you grew up, he changed-not for the better either. You and him always stayed friends and since your families lived next door to each other he mistook your house for his when he was trying to sneak in. The layout was identical so where your bedroom was on the ground floor near the back of the house was where his room was in his own house. More than a few times he'd climbed through your window thinking it was his and flopped down on your bed next to you in a drunken or drugged up stupor, and you were a heavy sleeper by nature so you didn't feel him crawl into bed with you until you woke up to start your day.

The first time it happened, you let out a yelp in surprise and your father started banging on your door with "Y/N?! What's going on in there?!" the noise had scared Vince awake and it took him a minute to realize where he was.

You motioned for him to stay quiet and you answered "Just a spider, Daddy!" you then thumped your foot and shouted "Got it!"

Your father sighed in relief and said "Sweet Jesus girl, I thought that Wharton boy was in there!" Vince gave you a look and you mouthed that you'd tell him later at school.

However, when school did come around and you tried to talk to him, he wouldn't give you the time of day. This got you sneers from the other girls that hung around him and he caught the look of hurt in your face and he closed his eyes in frustration. He was being a horse's ass to the one girl he actually liked romantically. He was always attracted to your innocence, to him you were like Bambi. After school he walked you home, but just because it was on the way to his house too. "Hey...about earlier..." he started, but you cut him off.

"So now it's okay to talk to me when your whores aren't around?" you said sarcastically. He winced, knowing full well he deserved it.

"Y/N, I have a reputation to uphold! I'm a ladies man!" he laughed, but you didn't think it was funny.

"We've been friends since the third grade and THIS is how you treat me?" you turned to go into your house when you added "Maybe the next time you climb into my bedroom I won't be so willing to lie to my father!" you then slammed the door in his face. He was kicking himself as he awkwardly went to his own house to brood over it.

The next week he mistook your room for his again, but you were awake working on a project for class when you heard your window open. He wasn't that drunk, just a little buzzed when you helped him inside so he didn't make noise and wake up the whole house. If your father knew a boy had snuck into your room the wrath of God would have fallen upon both you and Vince. "What are you doing here, Vinny?" you softly asked him.

He giggled a little and said "I wanted to say sorry for being a jackass last week..." he gave a salute and said "sorry".

You rolled your eyes knowing he was sincere but you pitied him because he thought he needed alcohol to gather up the courage to talk to you. "Apology accepted" you smiled at him and settled him back on your bed. "Now sleep it off and I'll see you in the morning" you then kissed his forehead and he rolled over and began snoring softly.

He wanted so bad to kiss you that night, but he didn't. He knew you weren't that kind of girl that he was used to fucking then leaving. You were virtuous and beautiful in a baby deer kind of way, you still had childlike features to your face and personality. He didn't want to corrupt that in you so he buried his feelings under booze and whatever substances he could get his hands on. He wanted to know the feeling of you beneath him, him actually sober and making slow sweet love to you instead of a messy tumble of fucking he did with his groupies.

When morning did come and he went into your bathroom with you to take a shower, you were alone in the house with him. Your parents were on a mission trip with the church and your siblings were at your aunt's house. Your parents trusted you to be alone and take care of the house without throwing a wild party. "Don't you have any soap that isn't girly?" he snorted and poo-pooed at your lavender vanilla scented soap.

"Well I would have stocked Irish Spring if I knew I'd have a gentleman caller" you joked back to him. You didn't even hear the front door open and your little brother David come in, until he was at the bathroom door.

"Y/N?" he called out "It's David! I left my toothbrush in there! I just need to get it!" the bathroom door didn't lock so you panicked and jumped in the shower with Vince, who had his back to you

"Come on in Dave!" you called back, making Vince jump and go wide eyed that you were in the shower with him, you putting a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet "Just don't look at your sister naked!"

David came in and remarked "I would wash my eyes in bleach if I saw you naked, Y/N..." you were still in your pajamas, which were now getting soaked and your brother continued "Now don't be late for school! You have a presentation today!" he then walked out of the bathroom, closing the door behind him and you waited until you heard the front door close and lock when you released his mouth.

Vince went rigid when he saw you in the shower with him, this was one of the many wet dreams he had that contributed to his morning wood most days. You two would be making passionate love among the steam and hot water and just when he was about to admit his feelings for you, he woke up and he'd have to take care of the tent he'd pitched in his sleep.

"Someone's getting bolder" he chuckled and shut off the water, grabbing a towel before she noticed his hardening length. If it were any other girl, he'd wear his erection loud and proud but you were more than a one night stand.

"Not really" you said, hopping out and getting the floor wet from your dripping clothes "just if my brother caught me in here with a boy, he'd tell our dad and there would be hell to pay" you turned around to give him some privacy.

"You got a point there" he laughed, putting his clothes back on, hiding his growing erection in the waistband of his pants until he got home to deal with it. "So I hear some rumors you finally got yourself a boyfriend?"

You blushed at that, having met your first love Jeremiah at the youth group at church. "Yes, his name's Jeremiah" you smiled at the thought of him. He was a sweet boy, from a good family and had the same virtues you did. He also wanted to wait for marriage to have sexual relations.

Vince's heart sank when you confirmed it. He had waited too long and let his 'friends' influence get in the way of him revealing his true feelings for you. "O-oh...." he went silent a moment and asked "Is he good to you?"

"The best" you answered truthfully. He was the perfect gentleman in every way-he opened doors for you, pulled your chair out and in at meals and even paid when he took you out, despite your protests that you could pay sometimes too with your part time job at the grocery store.

Vince looked down only a moment and excused himself to his own room, where he relieved himself of the sexual frustration and cursed himself for not telling you how he felt sooner. It was after school when he was done fucking his baby mama Tammi that he heard something that made his blood boil. After they had fixed their clothes, Tammi asked him "You love Y/N, don't you?"

He paused only a moment and admitted "Yeah..."

"I know it's not my business, but I have lunch period with her about 1:30" she said nervously, stroking her pregnant belly.

"What does that have to do with anything?" he looked at her confused.

"Well, I have a morning class with her too" she twitted her fingers "And it wasn't until lunch that she had a fresh goose egg over her eye..."

This had his full attention "What? What happened?"

"She wouldn't talk about it to anyone" she shook her head "Just kept crying and saying she was sorry" Tammi was somewhat acquainted with you and from what she saw she did like you. She had noticed the way Vince gave you longing glances in the halls at school, but he dared not speak to you with his friends and groupies around him.

He only had to think a second before he hissed "Jeremiah..."

What had happened was that Jeremiah was more than in love with you-he was obsessed. He kept watch over your house nightly, making sure you were faithful to him. His mind was at rest for the first week but when he saw that no good Wharten kid sneak into your window and stay the night he was more than livid. When he finally got you alone at school before lunch he asked "Did you fuck him?"

You were taken aback, Jeremiah never cursed in front of you much less AT you. "What are you talking about?" you asked honestly, you not knowing he'd been watching your house.

"That brunette surfer kid" he growled "I saw him sneaking into your house last night and he didn't leave until this morning!" he was showing aggression where he had none before.

"You mean Vince?" you laughed "He's just a friend. We live next door to each other and sometimes he mistakes my room for his and I let him sleep it off" it was an unexpected thing for him to punch you in the face.

You fell back and your eye started swelling right away. He wasn't apologetic and he just said "Next time I see you with him, I'll make you regret ever knowing him..." in a dark tone. He left you to pick yourself up and took yourself to the nurse, where you told your first lie.

"I fell into a doorknob" you said, trying to smile "I'm just really clumsy..." the nurse didn't believe you for a second but she wrote what you said in the file none the less, gave you an ice pack and sent you on your way.

You had lunch next and you just broke down in tears when people asked you about it. You couldn't say anything other than "I'm sorry" repeatedly like a lunatic. Even Vince's baby mama Tammi was concerned, but she got the same words as everyone else.

After school you were walking by yourself, your eye a scarlet letter on your face. You held your books to your chest and walked quickly home. You heard your name being called and when you saw Vince coming towards you, you walked quicker. He sped up to keep pace and you ran the rest of the way home, him hot on your heels. When you fumbled with your house key he caught up to you and spun you around. He paused a moment when he saw your black eye, and his facial expression changed from shock, to sadness and finally rage as he asked "Did Jeremiah do that to you?"

"I can't talk to you anymore" you quickly opened the door and slammed it in his face. You didn't want to, but you were afraid of what Jeremiah would do if he found out about even that small exchange. Of course he was watching from the bushes across the street. He had heard everything and what you had told him, a swell of pride filled his heart.

The two of you graduated and moved in together, him proposing to you after graduation and you graciously accepted. You had almost forgotten about the black eye he'd given you, until you caught a glimpse of Vince looking totally crushed a few feet behind him. That summer is when all things went to Hell.

Four years later, you had moved to Los Angeles to get away from everything. The constant nagging from your mother and the memory of your wedding day still haunted you-the police had returned the wedding video from the evidence locker, you having requested it back so you had a reminder that the best way to survive was all alone.

You had moved in with some friends that lived in a crack den, who were more than happy to show you the unhealthiest ways of coping with trauma. You started hitting the bars and clubs with abandon, your whole appearance changing from the pristine good girl image to the dirtiest hooker on the Sunset Strip. A new up and coming rock band named Motley Crue was frequenting the Troubadour and you just so happened to see one of their shows and were surprised to see that you knew their front man. When their set was done, they all hit the bar and you saddled up next to the now blonde Vince and said "Long time, no see Vinny" he looked you up and down.

"Have we met?" he looked like he was desperately trying to remember your name, like you were a one night stand that was trying to get another round with his dick,

"We only lived next door to each other since third grade, goofball" you smiled at him, you having lost a considerable amount of weight. You looked more like a dying person than a woman with your features sunken in.

His eyes widened as he realized "Y/N?!" he got off his stool and took you into a corner to talk to you "What are you doin' here?! This isn't a place for someone like you!"

"You mean a Bible Thumper?" you laughed, then coughed a smoker's cough. "I put that life behind me, babe" you were already sloshed and falling over yourself.

He began to tear up and said "What happened to you...you never were like..." he motioned to your whole frame from your hair dyed black to the bottom of your high heeled shoes "this?"

You sobered up a moment and gave the best answer you could "Life" and you went on talking with him, not giving up any details about the past four years. He asked where you were staying and when you answered he looked even more disheartened.

"That's a crack den, Y/N..." he said, even he didn't mess with crack at that time.

"I know" you giggled "why do you think I live there?"

"Please Y/N...come with me" he pleaded. Him and his friends still partied and did drugs, but with people they knew would call an ambulance if the shit hit the fan.

You grew defensive and said "I'm not that same scared Bambi I used to be Vinny. She's long dead" you gathered your things but he grabbed your arm and insisted on giving you their number to the apartment in case you needed to get a hold of him. You took it, secretly wanting to be close to him too.

After the party had winded down and everyone left, Nikki asked Vince "Who was that chick you were talking to at the bar?"

Vince paled and said "Someone I used to know. I've been in love with her since the third grade. She used to be someone who I wouldn't even give a second glance to now, one of those good girl types..."

Tommy stumbled into the living room with "Dude, if you had feelings for her why didn't you ever tell 'er?"

"I was afraid it'd mess up our friendship" he put his head down, it pounding from the hangover he was nursing "besides, I heard she got married to her high school sweet heart" he pouted.

"Well what the fuck went wrong?" Nikki asked.

"I don't know, but I'm going to find out" he was determined to do just that. He had kept contact with you almost every day when he'd go to the crack den to check on you, to which you assured him that you didn't need to be babysat like a child. He was even more pissed off when he found out how you were funding your habits. One of the guys who owned a bar down the street said that you'd been prostituting yourself for cash, drugs and booze (which was true).

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!" he scolded "What happened that made you change so much?!"

You were just as angry with him getting into your business and you said "Why are you getting so mad at me?! You're just as bad as I am!"

"You used to be such a good girl, Y/N!" he started to sound like a square and he didn't care. He loved you even after all this time.

"You know you're starting to sound like my father-" you stopped and then broke down in tears. He tried to comfort you but you pushed him off. "If I wanted someone to yell at me, then I would have stayed with my fuckin' mother!"

That night, you needed a hit of the good crack. You took more than you were used to and had a very bad trip. Jeremiah came back, his skin colored like a corpse and the bullet hole where he shot himself at the alter was in full view. "You don't deserve to wear white" was all he was saying to you, the word echoing in your head. You just wanted it all to stop so you tried to end it all.

The next morning the phone in the apartment blared and Tommy picked it up with a groggy "Hello?" when the caller asked for Vince, he thew one of his drumsticks at him, hitting him in the eye.

"Tommy! What the fuck dude?!" he jolted awake.

"Phone" he handed over the phone and Vince listened intently.

"Ummm...this is gonna sound really bad...Y/N tried to kill herself last night..."

"What?!" Vince was now fully awake "How?! Where is she?!"

"She slit her wrists and let herself bleed out in the tub" he caller said "we called the paramedics in time. She's at L.A. General, on the crazy floor. She kept screaming for you while they were taking her away..." he hung up the phone and tossed a pair of shoes on, sprinting to the hospital in nothing but pajama bottoms.

He demanded that they let him see you, but they said that you'd be in detox at least a week and then in the regular ward for a month, then he could see you during visiting hours. The only rules he had to follow was that he couldn't bring anything in and that he couldn't be fucked up on anything. He obliged and visited you every change he could when he wasn't hammered or high. "Why'd you cut yourself Y/N?" he asked gently, his warm hand recoiling when he felt your icy cold ones.

"I don't want to talk about it" you said, getting uncomfortable. The only think you wanted now was your fix of crack.

"We're going to have to eventually" he put his hands on your shoulder and rested his head on top of yours. Him fucking you was the last thing on his mind right now, a first for Vince about any woman.

You turned to face him and looked up, a shadow of your former self seeping through "I will tell you, someday" you hugged into his chest and nuzzled there "but I'm not ready anytime soon...please be patient..."

He smiled and hugged you close to him "Okay Y/N" even after all this time, you still smelled like lavender vanilla.

When you were finally discharged, you went to live in the apartment with Vince and his friends, who knew well enough not to ask about the bandages on your arms. You did slow down on the drinking and drug use, but didn't stop cold turkey. It was a pace that Vince approved of, that he could keep an eye on you.

It was a few weeks into living with them that you'd left your wedding tape out on accident. You were looking for something else in your luggage and forgot to put it back. Tommy saw it on the counter and said "Hey, It's Y/N and Jeremiah's wedding video! Let's watch it!" you were sleeping deeply in Vince's room, where you had recently agreed to become a couple.

Mick was there too, him being over to make music with them. He had met you a few days ago, him wondering about the bandages on your wrists but not daring to ask. Vince had told him all about you and how he never shut the fuck up about you. He could see why the blonde was so enthralled with you. He said "Come on, guys. Leave it alone..." Nikki and Vince agreed with Tommy and popped it into the VCR. None of them were ready.

You looked beautiful in your white wedding dress, flawless hair and make-up. This was the day you'd been dreaming of since you were a little girl, and even more so when Jeremiah asked for your hand. You spent all summer planning for an early fall wedding and everything was in place. Your father walked you down the aisle to your husband to be, where he was looking rather annoyed. You figured it was just nerves on his end, you couldn't say anything against him about that. You were nervous too.

You held hands and did your vows, but instead of him saying his vows to you, he said "Did you fuck my brother?"

The whole crowd gasped and looked at you. His brother James was the best man, and he too looked just as shocked as you did. The accusation wasn't true and you said as such.

"Then why was my brother at our house all night when I was gone?"

"You know it's bad luck to see the bride 24 hours before the wedding bro" his brother stepped up, telling the truth "I was only there to help her write her vows to you dude!"

It was then Jeremiah pulled out a gun and shot his brother in the chest, him bleeding out right in front of you. You screamed and stepped away from him. Your father rushing to him to try and wrestle the gun away. He shot your father too, him being dead before he hit the ground. The church was in pandemonium, the people running around to get away from the madman with the gun.

He then turned to you, hugging you close to him and whispering something in your ear before blowing his brains out, spattering your pure white dress with his blood and brain matter.

You had gotten up because you heard something familiar and went to see if what you thought was going on actually was. You weren't ready to talk about it yet, but the cat was out of the bag now. You waited until the camera shut off and said "You don't deserve to wear white" causing all the them to jump and look at you, all of them with horrified expressions on their faces. "That's what he whispered in my ear before he shot himself" you pressed rewind and took the tape out when it was finished.

"He thought I was screwing his brother behind his back" you explained "but I wasn't. I only called him over to help me write my vows and he was tired so I let him sleep on the sofa" Vince then wished he had waited until she was ready to tell him herself, but that was impossible now.

"Killed his brother, and my father" you then sat down and started softly crying "my mother and brothers wouldn't even talk to me after that. I spent a year in a psych ward, then wandered around until I got to L.A. Found all the drugs and booze that could numb the pain" you then went to the kitchen to get yourself a snack like nothing happened.

Vince got up and could only hug you softly "I'm sorry" was all he could say, you feeling him crying on your shoulder. You touched his arm and cried with him. Tommy, Nikki and Mick vacated the apartment to give you some privacy.

"That man broke me, Vinny" you turned and hugged into his chest and he looked down at you "even after death, he still broke me...all it took was time and pressure..."

"You know" he pulled away and said "time and pressure make the most beautiful diamonds" you couldn't help but snort laugh at him and slapped his arm playfully.

"I should have waited until you were ready to tell me" he admitted "I'm sorry for violating that..."

"I don't know if I would have ever told you" you said honestly.

"I wouldn't have asked anyway" he stroked your hair and began kissing you breaking it off to say "I love you. I always have, and always will..."

"I love you too, Vince"

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Julius Henry "Groucho" Marx (October 2, 1890 – August 19, 1977) was an American comedian, actor, writer, stage, film, radio, and television star. A master of quick wit, he is generally considered to be one of America's greatest comedians.

Julius Henry Marx was born on October 2, 1890, in Manhattan, New York. Marx stated that he was born in a room above a butcher's shop on East 78th Street, "Between Lexington & 3rd", as he told Dick Cavett in a 1969 television interview. The Marx children grew up in a turn-of-the-century building on East 93rd Street off Lexington Avenue in a neighborhood now known as Carnegie Hill on the Upper East Side of the borough of Manhattan. His brother Harpo, in his memoir Harpo Speaks, called the building "the first real home they ever knew". It was populated with European immigrants, mostly artisans. Just across the street were the oldest brownstones in the area, owned by people such as the well-connected Loew Brothers and William Orth. The Marx family lived there "for about 14 years," Groucho also told Cavett.

Marx's family was Jewish.[7] His mother was Miene "Minnie" Schoenberg, whose family came from Dornum in northern Germany when she was 16 years old. His father was Simon "Sam" Marx, who changed his name from Marrix, and was called "Frenchie" by his sons throughout his life, because he and his family came from Alsace in France.[8] Minnie's brother was Al Schoenberg, who shortened his name to Al Shean when he went into show business as half of Gallagher and Shean, a noted vaudeville act of the early 20th century. According to Marx, when Shean visited, he would throw the local waifs a few coins so that when he knocked at the door he would be surrounded by adoring fans. Marx and his brothers respected his opinions and asked him on several occasions to write some material for them.

Minnie Marx did not have an entertainment industry career but had intense ambition for her sons to go on the stage like their uncle. While pushing her eldest son Leonard (Chico Marx) in piano lessons, she found that Julius had a pleasant soprano voice and the ability to remain on key. Julius's early career goal was to become a doctor, but the family's need for income forced him out of school at the age of twelve. By that time, young Julius had become a voracious reader, particularly fond of Horatio Alger. Marx would continue to overcome his lack of formal education by becoming well-read.

After a few stabs at entry-level office work and jobs suitable for adolescents, Julius took to the stage as a boy singer with the Gene Leroy Trio, debuting at the Ramona Theatre in Grand Rapids, MI, on July 16, 1905.[9] Marx reputedly claimed that he was "hopelessly average" as a vaudevillian, but this was typical Marx, wisecracking in his true form. By 1909, Minnie Marx had assembled her sons into an undistinguished vaudeville singing group billed as "The Four Nightingales". The brothers Julius, Milton (Gummo Marx) and Arthur (originally Adolph, but Harpo Marx from 1911) and another boy singer, Lou Levy, traveled the U.S. vaudeville circuits to little fanfare. After exhausting their prospects in the East, the family moved to La Grange, Illinois, to play the Midwest.

After a particularly dispiriting performance in Nacogdoches, Texas, Julius, Milton, and Arthur began cracking jokes onstage for their own amusement. Much to their surprise, the audience liked them better as comedians than as singers. They modified the then-popular Gus Edwards comedy skit "School Days" and renamed it "Fun In Hi Skule". The Marx Brothers would perform variations on this routine for the next seven years.

For a time in vaudeville, all the brothers performed using ethnic accents. Leonard, the oldest, developed the Italian accent he used as Chico Marx to convince some roving bullies that he was Italian, not Jewish. Arthur, the next oldest, donned a curly red wig and became "Patsy Brannigan", a stereotypical Irish character. His discomfort when speaking on stage led to his uncle Al Shean's suggestion that he stop speaking altogether and play the role in mime. Julius Marx's character from "Fun In Hi Skule" was an ethnic German, so Julius played him with a German accent. After the sinking of the RMS Lusitania in 1915, public anti-German sentiment was widespread, and Marx's German character was booed, so he quickly dropped the accent and developed the fast-talking wise-guy character that became his trademark.

The Marx Brothers became the biggest comedic stars of the Palace Theatre in New York, which billed itself as the "Valhalla of Vaudeville". Brother Chico's deal-making skills resulted in three hit plays on Broadway. No other comedy routine had ever so infected the Broadway circuit. All of this stage work predated their Hollywood career. By the time the Marxes made their first movie, they were already major stars with sharply honed skills; and by the time Groucho was relaunched to stardom on You Bet Your Life, he had been performing successfully for half a century.

Marx started his career in vaudeville in 1905 when he joined up with an act called The Leroy Trio. He was asked by a man named Robin Leroy to join the group as a singer, along with fellow vaudeville actor Johnny Morris. Through this act, Marx got his first taste of life as a vaudeville performer. In 1909, Marx and his brothers had become a group act, at first called The Three Nightingales and later The Four Nightingales. The brothers' mother, Minnie Marx, was the group's manager, putting them together and booking their shows. The group had a rocky start, performing in less than adequate venues and rarely, if ever, being paid for their performances. Eventually one of the brothers would leave to serve in World War I and was replaced by Herbert (Zeppo), and the group became known as the Marx Brothers. Their first successful show was Fun In Hi Skule (1910).

Marx made 26 movies, 13 of them with his brothers Chico and Harpo. Marx developed a routine as a wisecracking hustler with a distinctive chicken-walking lope, an exaggerated greasepaint mustache and eyebrows, and an ever-present cigar, improvising insults to stuffy dowagers (usually played by Margaret Dumont) and anyone else who stood in his way. As the Marx Brothers, he and his brothers starred in a series of popular stage shows and movies.

Their first movie was a silent film made in 1921 that was never released, and is believed to have been destroyed at the time. A decade later, the team made two of their Broadway hits—The Cocoanuts and Animal Crackers—into movies. Other successful films were Monkey Business, Horse Feathers, Duck Soup, and A Night at the Opera.[11] One quip from Marx concerned his response to Sam Wood, the director of A Night at the Opera. Furious with the Marx Brothers' ad-libs and antics on the set, Wood yelled in disgust: "You can't make an actor out of clay." Marx responded, "Nor a director out of Wood."

Marx also worked as a radio comedian and show host. One of his earliest stints was a short-lived series in 1932, Flywheel, Shyster, and Flywheel, costarring Chico. Though most of the scripts and discs were thought to have been destroyed, all but one of the scripts were found in 1988 in the Library of Congress. In 1947, Marx was asked to host a radio quiz program You Bet Your Life. It was broadcast by ABC and then CBS before moving to NBC. It moved from radio to television on October 5, 1950, and ran for eleven years. Filmed before an audience, the show consisted of Marx bantering with the contestants and ad-libbing jokes before briefly quizzing them. The show was responsible for popularizing the phrases "Say the secret word and the duck will come down and give you fifty dollars," "Who's buried in Grant's Tomb?" and "What color is the White House?" (asked to reward a losing contestant a consolation prize).

Throughout his career, Marx introduced a number of memorable songs in films, including "Hooray for Captain Spaulding" and "Hello, I Must Be Going", in Animal Crackers, "Whatever It Is, I'm Against It", "Everyone Says I Love You" and "Lydia the Tattooed Lady". Frank Sinatra, who once quipped that the only thing he could do better than Marx was sing, made a film with Marx and Jane Russell in 1951 entitled Double Dynamite.

In public and off-camera, Harpo and Chico were hard to recognize, without their wigs and costumes, and it was almost impossible for fans to recognize Groucho without his trademark eyeglasses, fake eyebrows, and mustache.

The greasepaint mustache and eyebrows originated spontaneously prior to a vaudeville performance in the early 1920s when he did not have time to apply the pasted-on mustache he had been using (or, according to his autobiography, simply did not enjoy the removal of the mustache because of the effects of tearing an adhesive bandage off the same patch of skin every night). After applying the greasepaint mustache, a quick glance in the mirror revealed his natural hair eyebrows were too undertoned and did not match the rest of his face, so Marx added the greasepaint to his eyebrows and headed for the stage. The absurdity of the greasepaint was never discussed on-screen, but in a famous scene in Duck Soup, where both Chicolini (Chico) and Pinky (Harpo) disguise themselves as Groucho, they are briefly seen applying the greasepaint, implicitly answering any question a viewer might have had about where he got his mustache and eyebrows.

Marx was asked to apply the greasepaint mustache once more for You Bet Your Life when it came to television, but he refused, opting instead to grow a real one, which he wore for the rest of his life. By this time, his eyesight had weakened enough for him to actually need corrective lenses; before then, his eyeglasses had merely been a stage prop. He debuted this new, and now much-older, appearance in Love Happy, the Marx Brothers's last film as a comedy team.

He did paint the old character mustache over his real one on a few rare occasions, including a TV sketch with Jackie Gleason on the latter's variety show in the 1960s (in which they performed a variation on the song "Mister Gallagher and Mister Shean," co-written by Marx's uncle Al Shean) and the 1968 Otto Preminger film Skidoo. In his late 70s at the time, Marx remarked on his appearance: "I looked like I was embalmed." He played a mob boss called "God" and, according to Marx, "both my performance and the film were God-awful!"

The exaggerated walk, with one hand on the small of his back and his torso bent almost 90 degrees at the waist was a parody of a fad from the 1880s and 1890s. Fashionable young men of the upper classes would affect a walk with their right hand held fast to the base of their spines, and with a slight lean forward at the waist and a very slight twist toward the right with the left shoulder, allowing the left hand to swing free with the gait. Edmund Morris, in his biography The Rise of Theodore Roosevelt, describes a young Roosevelt, newly elected to the State Assembly, walking into the House Chamber for the first time in this trendy, affected gait, somewhat to the amusement of the older and more rural members. Marx exaggerated this fad to a marked degree, and the comedy effect was enhanced by how out of date the fashion was by the 1940s and 1950s.

Marx's three marriages ended in divorce. His first wife was chorus girl Ruth Johnson (m. 1920-42). He was 29 and she was 19 at the time of their wedding. The couple had two children, Arthur Marx and Miriam Marx. His second wife was Kay Marvis (m. 1945–51), Catherine Dittig, ormer wife of Leo Gorcey. Marx was 54 and Kay was 21 at the time of their marriage. They had a daughter, Melinda Marx. His third wife was actress Eden Hartford (m. 1954-69). He was 64 and she was 24 at the time of their wedding.

During the early 1950s, Marx described his perfect woman: "Someone who looks like Marilyn Monroe and talks like George S. Kaufman."

Marx was denied membership in an informal symphonietta of friends (including Harpo) organized by Ben Hecht, because he could play only the mandolin. When the group began its first rehearsal at Hecht's home, Marx rushed in and demanded silence from the "lousy amateurs". The musicians discovered him conducting the Los Angeles Symphony Orchestra in a performance of the overture to Tannhäuser in Hecht's living room. Marx was allowed to join the symphonietta.

Later in life, Marx would sometimes note to talk show hosts, not entirely jokingly, that he was unable to actually insult anyone, because the target of his comment would assume that it was a Groucho-esque joke, and would laugh.

Despite his lack of formal education, he wrote many books, including his autobiography, Groucho and Me (1959) and Memoirs of a Mangy Lover (1963). He was a friend of such literary figures as Booth Tarkington, T. S. Eliot and Carl Sandburg. Much of his personal correspondence with those and other figures is featured in the book The Groucho Letters (1967) with an introduction and commentary on the letters written by Marx, who donated his letters to the Library of Congress. His daughter Miriam published a collection of his letters to her in 1992 titled Love, Groucho.

Marx made serious efforts to learn to play the guitar. In the 1932 film Horse Feathers, he performs the film's love theme "Everyone Says I Love You" for costar Thelma Todd on a Gibson L-5.

In July 1937, an America vs England pro-celebrity tennis doubles match was organized, featuring Marx and Ellsworth Vines playing against Charlie Chaplin and Fred Perry, to open the new clubhouse at the Beverly Hills Tennis Club. Marx appeared on court with 12 rackets and a suitcase, leaving Chaplin – who took tennis seriously – bemused, before he asked what was in it. Marx asked Chaplin what was in his, with Chaplin responding he didn't have one. Marx replied, "What kind of tennis player are you?" After playing only a few games, Marx sat on the court and unpacked an elaborate picnic lunch from his suitcase.

Irving Berlin quipped, "The world would not be in such a snarl, had Marx been Groucho instead of Karl". In his book The Groucho Phile, Marx says "I've been a liberal Democrat all my life", and "I frankly find Democrats a better, more sympathetic crowd.... I'll continue to believe that Democrats have a greater regard for the common man than Republicans do". However, just like some of the other Democrats of the time, Marx also said in a television interview that he disliked the women's liberation movement. On the July 7, 1967, Firing Line TV show, Marx said, "The whole political left is the Garden of Eden of incompetence."

Marx's radio career was not as successful as his work on stage and in film, though historians such as Gerald Nachman and Michael Barson suggest that, in the case of the single-season Flywheel, Shyster, and Flywheel (1932), the failure may have been a combination of a poor time slot and the Marx Brothers' returning to Hollywood to make another film.

In the mid-1940s, during a depressing lull in his career (his radio show Blue Ribbon Town had failed, he failed to sell his proposed sitcom The Flotsam Family only to see it become a huge hit as The Life of Riley with William Bendix in the title role, and the Marx Brothers as film performers were well past their prime), Marx was scheduled to appear on a radio show with Bob Hope. Annoyed that he was made to wait in the green room for 40 minutes, he went on the air in a foul mood.

Hope started by saying "Why, Groucho Marx! Groucho, what are you doing out here in the desert?" Marx retorted, "Huh, desert, I've been sitting in the dressing room for forty minutes! Some desert alright..." Marx continued to ignore the script, ad-libbing at length to take the scene well beyond its allotted time slot.

Listening in on the show was producer John Guedel, who had a brainstorm. He approached Marx about doing a quiz show, to which Marx derisively retorted, "A quiz show? Only actors who are completely washed up resort to a quiz show!" Undeterred, Guedel proposed that the quiz would be only a backdrop for Marx's interviews of people, and the storm of ad-libbing that they would elicit. Marx replied, "Well, I've had no success in radio, and I can't hold on to a sponsor. At this point, I'll try anything!"

You Bet Your Life debuted in October 1947 on ABC radio (which aired it from 1947 to 1949), sponsored by costume jewelry manufacturer Allen Gellman;[23] and then on CBS (1949–50), and finally NBC. The show was on radio only from 1947 to 1950; on both radio and television from 1950 to 1960; and on television only, from 1960 to 1961. The show proved a huge hit, being one of the most popular on television by the mid-1950s. With George Fenneman as his announcer and straight man, Marx entertained his audiences with improvised conversation with his guests. Since You Bet Your Life was mostly ad-libbed and unscripted—although writers did pre-interview the guests and feed Marx ready-made lines in advance—the producers insisted that the network prerecord it instead of it being broadcast live. There were two reasons for this: prerecording provided Marx with time to fish around for funny exchanges and any intervening dead spots to be edited out; and secondly to protect the network, since Marx was a notorious loose cannon and known to say almost anything. The television show ran for 11 seasons until it was canceled in 1961. Automobile marque DeSoto was a longtime major sponsor. For the DeSoto ads, Marx would sometimes say: "Tell 'em Groucho sent you", or "Try a DeSoto before you decide".

The program's theme music was an instrumental version of "Hooray for Captain Spaulding", which became increasingly identified as Marx's personal theme song. A recording of the song with Marx and the Ken Lane singers with an orchestra directed by Victor Young was released in 1952. Another recording made by Marx during this period was "The Funniest Song in the World", released on the Young People's Records label in 1949. It was a series of five original children's songs with a connecting narrative about a monkey and his fellow zoo creatures.

An apocryphal story relates Marx interviewing Charlotte Story, who had borne 20 children. When Marx asked why she had chosen to raise such a large family, Mrs. Story is said to have replied, "I love my husband"; to which Marx responded, "I love my cigar, but I take it out of my mouth once in a while." The remark was judged too risqué to be aired, according to the anecdote, and was edited out before broadcast. Charlotte Story and her husband Marion, indeed parents of 20 children, were real people who appeared on the program in 1950. Audio recordings of the interview exist, and a reference to cigars is made ("With each new kid, do you go around passing out cigars?"), but there is no evidence of the claimed remark. Marx and Fenneman both denied that the incident took place. "I get credit all the time for things I never said," Marx told Roger Ebert in 1972. "You know that line in You Bet Your Life? The guy says he has seventeen kids and I say, 'I smoke a cigar, but I take it out of my mouth occasionally'? I never said that." Marx's 1976 memoir recounts the episode as fact, but co-writer Hector Arce relied mostly on sources other than Marx himself—who was by then in his mid eighties, in ill health and mentally compromised—and was probably unaware that Marx had specifically denied making the observation. Another anecdote that may or may not be apocryphal recounts how Warner Brothers threatened to sue Groucho when they learned that the next Marx Brothers film was to be called "A Night in Casablanca", contending that that title was too similar to their own film Casablanca. Groucho is reported to have replied: "I'll sue you for using the word Brothers."

By the time You Bet Your Life debuted on TV on October 5, 1950, Marx had grown a real mustache (which he had already sported earlier in the films Copacabana and Love Happy).

During a tour of Germany in 1958, accompanied by then-wife Eden, daughter Melinda, Robert Dwan and Dwan's daughter Judith, he climbed a pile of rubble that marked the site of Adolf Hitler's bunker, the site of Hitler's death, and performed a two-minute Charleston. He later remarked to Richard J. Anobile in The Marx Brothers Scrapbook, "Not much satisfaction after he killed six million Jews!"

In 1960, Marx, a lifelong devotee of the comic operas of Gilbert and Sullivan, appeared as Ko-Ko, the Lord High Executioner, in a televised production of The Mikado on NBC's Bell Telephone Hour. A clip of this is in rotation on Classic Arts Showcase.

Another TV show, Tell It To Groucho, premiered January 11, 1962, on CBS, but only lasted five months. On October 1, 1962, Marx, after acting as occasional guest host of The Tonight Show during the six-month interval between Jack Paar and Johnny Carson, introduced Carson as the new host.

In 1964, Marx starred in the "Time for Elizabeth" episode of Bob Hope Presents the Chrysler Theatre, a truncated version of a play that he and Norman Krasna wrote in 1948.

In 1965, Marx starred in a weekly show for British TV titled Groucho, broadcast on ITV. The program was along similar lines to You Bet Your Life, with Keith Fordyce taking on the Fenneman role. However, it was poorly received and lasted only 11 weeks.

Marx appeared as a gangster named God in the movie Skidoo (1968), directed by Otto Preminger, and costarring Jackie Gleason and Carol Channing. It was released by the studio where the Marx Brothers began their film career, Paramount Pictures. The film received almost universally negative reviews. As a side note, writer Paul Krassner published a story in the February 1981 issue of High Times, relating how Marx prepared for the LSD-themed movie by taking a dose of the drug in Krassner's company, and had a moving, largely pleasant experience.

Marx developed friendships with rock star Alice Cooper—the two were photographed together for Rolling Stone magazine—and television host Dick Cavett, becoming a frequent guest on Cavett's late-night talk show, even appearing in a one-man, 90-minute interview. He befriended Elton John when the British singer was staying in California in 1972, insisting on calling him "John Elton." According to writer Philip Norman, when Marx jokingly pointed his index fingers as if holding a pair of six-shooters, Elton John put up his hands and said, "Don't shoot me, I'm only the piano player," thereby naming the album he had just completed. A film poster for the Marx Bros. movie Go West is visible on the album cover photograph as an homage to Marx. Elton John accompanied Marx to a performance of Jesus Christ Superstar. As the lights went down, Marx called out, "Does it have a happy ending?" And during the Crucifixion scene, he declared, "This is sure to offend the Jews."

Marx's previous work regained popularity; new books of transcribed conversations were published by Richard J. Anobile and Charlotte Chandler. In a BBC interview in 1975, Marx called his greatest achievement having a book selected for cultural preservation in the Library of Congress. In a Cavett interview in 1971, Marx said being published in The New Yorker under his own name, Julius Henry Marx, meant more than all the plays he appeared in. As a man who never had formal schooling, to have his writings declared culturally important was a point of great satisfaction. As he passed his 81st birthday in 1971, however, Marx became increasingly frail, physically and mentally, as a result of a succession of minor strokes and other health issues.

In 1972, largely at the behest of his companion Erin Fleming, Marx staged a live one-man show at Carnegie Hall that was later released as a double album, An Evening with Groucho, on A&M Records. He also made an appearance in 1973 on a short-lived variety show hosted by Bill Cosby. Fleming's influence on Marx was controversial. Some close to Marx believed that she did much to revive his popularity, and the relationship with a younger woman boosted his ego and vitality. Others described her as a Svengali, exploiting an increasingly senile Marx in pursuit of her own stardom. Marx's children, particularly Arthur, felt strongly that Fleming was pushing their weak father beyond his physical and mental limits. Writer Mark Evanier concurred.

On the 1974 Academy Awards telecast, Marx's final major public appearance, Jack Lemmon presented him with an honorary Academy Award to a standing ovation. The award honored Harpo, Chico, and Zeppo as well: "in recognition of his brilliant creativity and for the unequalled achievements of the Marx Brothers in the art of motion picture comedy.” Noticeably frail, Marx took a bow for his deceased brothers. "I wish that Harpo and Chico could be here to share with me this great honor," he said, naming the two deceased brothers (Zeppo, still alive, was in the audience). He also praised the late Margaret Dumont as a great straight woman who never understood any of his jokes. Marx's final appearance was a brief sketch with George Burns in the Bob Hope television special Joys (a parody of the 1975 movie Jaws) in March 1976. His health continued to decline the following year; when his younger brother Gummo died at age 83 on April 21, 1977, Marx was never told for fear of eliciting still further deterioration of his health.

Marx maintained his irrepressible sense of humor to the very end, however. George Fenneman, his radio and TV announcer, good-natured foil, and lifelong friend, often related a story of one of his final visits to Marx's home: When the time came to end the visit, Fenneman lifted Marx from his wheelchair, put his arms around his torso, and began to "walk" the frail comedian backwards across the room towards his bed. As he did, he heard a weak voice in his ear: "Fenneman," whispered Marx, "you always were a lousy dancer." When a nurse approached him with a thermometer during his final hospitalization, explaining that she wanted to see if he had a temperature, he responded, "Don't be silly — everybody has a temperature." Actor Elliott Gould recalled a similar incident: "I recall the last time I saw Groucho, he was in the hospital, and he had tubes in his nose and what have you," he said. "And when he saw me, he was weak, but he was there; and he put his fingers on the tubes and played them like it was a clarinet. Groucho played the tubes for me, which brings me to tears."

Marx was hospitalized at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center with pneumonia on June 22, 1977, and died there nearly two months later at the age of 86 on August 19, four months after Gummo's death.

Marx was cremated and the ashes are interred in the Eden Memorial Park Cemetery in Los Angeles. He was survived by his three children and younger brother Zeppo, who outlived him by two years. His gravestone bears no epitaph, but in one of his last interviews he suggested one: "Excuse me, I can't stand up."

Litigation over his estate lasted into the 1980s. Eventually, Arthur Marx and his sisters were awarded the bulk of the estate, and Erin Fleming was ordered to repay $472,000.

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michelemoore · 4 years

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Takhuk

February 6, 2020

Michele Moore Veldhoen

TWO BISHOPS AND A RABBI MEET IN A PUB....

Rain was coming down in sheets, sluicing between the ancient stone buildings of old Rome. It was a warm May evening, about 6 p.m., we had just left our hotel in search of that evening’s meal, but the rain was soaking my sandals so we decided to wait it out and ducked into the nearest public house, an Irish pub.

I never thought I would spend time in an Irish pub or drink beer while visiting a land drenched in choice cheap wine but there I was, what could I do? When the server asked us what we would like, I looked over at the glasses of beer in front of the two men just one table away, pointed at the lighter of the two potions and said, “I’ll have a glass of that.”

The two men, both as sizable as the Throne of Saint Peter, caught my attention because they were clearly in deep conversation, bent over a small wooden table, head to head.

The server returned with our beer and at the same time, both men leaned back, stretching and adjusting their backs. “You made a good choice”, the blonde one said. The other had darker hair.

“Oh good,” I said. “This will be the first beer I’ve had in Rome.”

“You must be tourists,” he replied. “Where are you from?”

“Canada,” I said. “And you?”

“The States,” he replied.

“Have you been to Rome before?” I asked.

“Yes, many times.”

“Oh, what brings you here?”

“The Vatican. We’re members of the church.”

My first thought was, then what are you doing wearing jeans and hanging out in a bar, but what I actually said was, “Oh, how interesting, what do you do?”

“We’re both Bishops,” he said.

I laughed. I mean I really laughed. Out loud and with gusto. And then I took a drink of my beer, which was, by the way, really good beer.

“Let me show you,” the darker one said. He leaned over and splayed his hand out before me. On one of his beefy fingers glared a boxy gold ring set with a cherry tomato sized gem. “Here is my ring, you see?”

I was wearing a long silver chain and medallion that oddly looked something like a Star of David. I leaned over and dangled it back and forth in front of him and said, “Sure, you’re a Bishop and I’m a Rabbi.”

It turns out I said that to an actual Bishop of the Roman Catholic Church, in an Irish pub just a short walk over the Tiber River along the Ponte Sant’Angelo to the palace where the Pope lives.

The black haired Bishop withdrew his hand and chuckled while the blonde Bishop displayed a similarly massive, gem studded ring on his finger and said something about how all Bishops wear such rings. I smiled and took another sip of beer.

“Michele,” my husband exclaimed. I looked at him, saw his eyes popping, “I don’t think they’re kidding.”

I took a closer look at the blonde Bishop. He looked back at me with an expression that suggested I should take him a little more seriously. His eyes were saying something like, you really don’t know much about ecclesiastical symbols do you, nor are you very good at sorting truth from fiction, and for the record the way you dangled your medallion is an affront to our Jewish brethren.

So I said, “You really are Bishops?”

“Yes,” the blonde one sighed, “we are.”

“May I ask why you’re dressed in secular clothing?”

“To avoid detection, of course.”

“He means harassment,” the other said.

“I mean at times we prefer to be anonymous, I’m sure you can understand. Especially in times like these.”

(I remember these aspects of the conversation well because I was rather astounded to find myself chatting with a couple of Bishops in an Irish pub in Rome.)

It was 2003, less than two years since 9/11 and the world was in the throes of the U.S./Iraq war. All around old Rome were signs of the heightened security the world had been living with since that awful day. There seemed to be guards everywhere. The Great Synagogue of Rome was off limits, surrounded by steel fencing and armed sentries. The banks too, were like fortresses, patrolled by guards and dozens of men in black suits and dark glasses. On some streets I felt I was on the movie set for Men in Black.

Despite the beer I was drinking, I settled into a more serious demeanor, silently marveling not at my audacity, but at my luck in stumbling into such an unusual and fascinating situation.

The Bishops explained that they were in Rome for an ad limina visit, which broadly speaking is a mandated (individual Bishops are supposed to make this pilgrimage every five years) annual gathering of Bishops at the Vatican during which, among other things, world events such as wars are discussed and Bishops can talk and receive feedback about the matters and challenges they are dealing with in their dioceses.

This was also the era of Pope John Paul II. Typically, I do not pay a lot of attention to religious organizations or their leaders, but I was aware of Pope John Paul II simply because of his long tenure and wild popularity. Who wasn’t captivated by his world travels in his Popemobile? Who was not thankful for his constant message of peace and diplomacy?

The Pope’s message of peace, I learned, was adding fuel to the debate between the two beer swigging Bishops, because they were diametrically in opposition of one another. The black haired Bishop was from California and righteously opposed to the war. I don’t remember from which state the blonde Bishop sprang, but he believed the Americans’ aggression was justified and necessary.

And for some reason which perhaps someone more familiar with the ways of the Catholic clergy could explain, these two Bishops decided it would be useful to ask us our opinion. Since my husband was not a talker, I was left to answer their question:

“What do you think? Was the U.S. right to invade Iraq?”

Holy! I thought - was this my chance? Could I produce a brilliant comment so insightful, so wise, so persuasive, that these Vatican VIP’s would be transformed and then take my words back to the Pope who would also be transformed and who would then transport my words (in his Popemobile even!) far and wide and bring eternal peace to the world?

Unfortunately, nothing of the kind happened. I don’t remember the details, but I’m sure the words that issued from my mouth were about as wobbly and hard to fathom as an egg yolk. Instead, we wrestled over root causes and how countries should respond to modern and grave security threats. I realized early in the discussion that the Bishops were making a genuine effort to understand each other’s point of view. I was impressed with the depth of their feelings, with how much they cared about the role of their country in the world’s problems.

They seemed to be using us as a sounding board for their arguments, but I felt quite inadequate for the task. I don’t think I had a clear idea of my own as to what the Americans should have or should not have done after 9/11. I do remember being utterly shocked that a Bishop would be in favour of war. I had naively assumed that no such senior member of a church (in this day and age) would ever promote war as a solution.

Since then, I have learned a great deal more about the ways of the world. While the Bishops certainly gained my respect for the honest and earnest way in which they listened to each other and tried to come to terms with their country’s war, I am no longer dumbfounded when I hear people of any faith defending war, or behaving in a war like way, demonstrating intolerance, hatred, and violence. People of faith are just people, after all, who collectively represent the entire spectrum of humanity, and are, sadly, being led more and more by politicians who condone and demonstrate their own brand of violence using language that is inflammatory, offensive, and mindless. And in this world, more than ever, language definitely matters.

Someone needs to come up with an internet virus that would attach to all that horrid, joy destroying language and convert it to words of peace and goodwill. A few examples I would pitch: ‘Go down to the pub tonight and buy everyone a round’. And, ‘I’m sorry if I hurt you, peace, man, come on over and gimme a hug’. And, as the Bishops themselves might quote from their book, ‘Let all that you do be done in love’.

And maybe in the background the virus could run some nice soothing sounds and phrases like, ‘ooooommmm’, or ‘yummmm, these noodles are gooooddd’, or ‘let’s go for a walk in the woods and feed the birds’.

Wishing you an equally enlightening opportunity in a pub that serves really good beer - just watch out for those rings.

www.thetreeswallow.com

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gregwhite · 6 years

Text

IL MIO NOME

Growing up in North Jersey there were many things to be grateful for: plenty of green space, good parents, and the comfort of knowing that you were born in a community that would ensure your safety and try to the best of its ability to guide you towards the life you wanted. But at the time, what I felt most grateful for was the fact that I was born Italian. In my little cluster of towns you could pretty much throw a rock in any direction and be almost guaranteed that you’d hit an Italian deli, Italian restaurant, or someone named Anthony, Joe, or Johnny.

I got my hair cut at Carmen’s, a smokey place with faded wood paneling where Carmen--the owner and sole employee of Carmen’s--would smoke while cutting your hair, his cigarette dangling precariously close to your newly exposed ears. He and his brother Frank had come from Calabria as teenagers. Carmen cut hair, and Frank owned and operated the deli across the street. They were hardworking guys who I looked up to and admired. These guys were real Italians! From Italy! They might as well have been wizards. I worked under Frank’s employ for a single day, doing a terrible job at nearly everything he asked me to before sending me home with fifty bucks and some meatballs his mom had made in the deli’s small kitchen. Had he asked, I probably would have quit school and just worked in that deli forever, with his little old mother shouting commands at me and me, happily stirring a big pot of sauce with a wooden spoon snuck over on the voyage to Ellis Island.

I thought everything of Italian-Americans and I was proud of the culture I’d inherited. I thought our food was the best, our relatives the loudest and funniest, and the mangled Italian-American language--gabbagool instead of capicola, rigote instead of ricotta, and muzzarell standing in for mozzarella--the most intriguing assemblage of sounds imaginable.

Then there were the names. Multisyllabic and exotic, always ending with a vowel. Growing up, you were either Italian, Jewish, or Korean. The kids in my class had names that I admired and coveted: Buldo, Pensabene, Pugliatti, Puglia, Mignagni, D’Ericole. I coveted these outward signs of Italianness because my own surname was pitifully, well, white sounding.

Despite having Italian blood and a claim on a culture I so actively identified with, my name--Gregory John White--sounded nothing like how I imagined it felt to be “really” Italian. My father was born John Machiarella. That’s the kind of name I wanted. But as it turned out, his father wasn’t such a great guy, and so when he left my dad and his mom she went back to her maiden name Petriello. Also a good name. Eventually she married an Irishman named JJ White and when he adopted my young father, my dad inherited an Irish last name despite having the dark skin and Italian features that he would attempt to pass down to me.

As a kid, I so badly wished I had an Italian name that I would write Gregory Machiarella over and over again in my notebook in the cursive writing of a girl with a crush, imagining her future surname after she married her high school sweetheart. All my cousins and relatives had great last names. The aforementioned Petriello, Morello, Oliveri. And then me. White. What was that? It sounded like a brand of detergent.

Whenever I would try to gain a connection with my classmates by saying. “You know, I’m Italian too!” they’d look at me and go, “Greg White? No you’re not.” It’s hard enough growing up with few friends, a weird sensibility, acne, and glasses. Even harder when your own tribe won’t have you. And so I threw myself into learning what I could about where my family had come from, perfecting recipes that were “authentic” to the old country, but demonstrably not a part of my own history. I would only cook Northern Italian lasagna, the kind with fresh noodles, besciamella and ragu Bolognese despite the fact that virtually everyone in my extended family preferred it the way they grew up eating it in Queens and Brooklyn: red sauce, dried noodles, ricotta, some mozarella from the deli.

There were some benefits to having a short name like Greg White though--people seemed more inclined to say it almost like it were an exclamation. In high school, when I started to feel at home in my own skin, my new group of friends would shout down the hallway by way of greeting: “GREG WHITE! GREG WHITE!” Even now I have friends who will only call me by my full name.

Now when I look at my name on a script, despite feeling like the name looks as though it came as a default in Final Draft’s software (like the fake family in a picture frame), I feel a certain level of pride. It’s the name I was given, and it may not have been what I wanted growing up, but it’s now my calling card within the niche corner that I occupy within my chosen profession. I’m proud of it. I always felt underestimated growing up or, worse, that the people who thought little of me were right. A few lucky breaks in the form of the right friendships and a few mentors and my life went one way instead of another, less fulfilling direction.

I’m learning Italian now with the help of a proper tutor from Italy. I read Elena Ferrante’s novels with a keen eye towards understanding my own family, also from Naples. I read the news reports from Italy about right wing politics rising and a particularly ugly streak taking hold in the hearts of my imagined countrymen. And yet I still find magic in trading a few Italian phrases with my cousins over phone calls back home, and pleasure in upholding the ideals of the Italian-American experience: family, hard work, integrity, self-sufficiency.

When I look back at this general period in my life, it wasn’t the first time I had been made to feel like an outsider and it wasn’t the last time either, but it stands out as perhaps the beginning of a realization that you can’t count on external validation or on just being given things because you’ve got a nice name. You had to earn the things you wanted by first developing an inner life worth living. This mentality has served me well in my professional and personal life. I took my father’s (and more broadly, my family’s) blue collar attitude towards work as being something that you do without complaint, frivolity, or ostentation. You just do your job.

In an industry that prides itself on misbehavior and whimsy, I’ve tried to stand out in my approach to my working life by treating the creative and at-times mystical act of writing as if I were a mechanic putting an engine together. (Perhaps part of this approach comes from some feeling of inadequacy over the fact that my god father made his living working on big trucks for New York’s Department of Sanitation, wrenching big gears to do his bidding and I, for my part, type cartoons with hands that have never known hard, physical work. It’s probably also why I find myself so drawn to the gym.)

I realize now that your name is just something you’re given, but what you do with it is what counts. Now, at 34, when I walk into a room I’m happy to extend a hand and say in a firm, confident tone, “Hi, I’m Greg White.”

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