I came in at ten when I worked first shift at Maxxie's and I left at four. The place opened at eleven for lunch and dinner. It was a small business, so when I worked my shift I not only cut up toppings I also did cooking and scooped their crummy ice cream.
I hated scooping ice cream because it was always frozen hard as a fucking rock and the ice cream came in cardboard five gallon tubs that I put in this big ice cream bin. To make cones, sodas, malts and sundaes you opened the bin and then took the ice cream scoop and dug into that rock hard ice cream. It really hurt your hand, made it positively ache, in spite of putting the scoop first in very hot water to sort of melt the ice cream. That never worked.
It was three on Monday afternoon, a usually slow time in the place. I was doing a batch of fries when Emilio Leone, Emilio Michael Leone, walked in. I almost tripped over the kitchen waste basket when I saw him. I'd heard he was back in town. That was hot news among the girls on the Hill because Emilio was the cutest, sharpest, coolest guy ever to grace the area, the coolest guy around here for years and years, actually. Hell, he wasn't just cute, sharp and cool, he was damned handsome.
Emilio wasn't tall, only about five eight or nine, maybe two inches taller than me. (It was good that he wasn't too tall because one day, on Dress-up Friday, when kids put on their best clothes, ~ girls wearing heels and guys in sportcoats, I was in the gym where the school's audio-video club during lunch hour played records and kids could dance, Emilio came in. I was wearing my blue felt poodle skirt and my red high heelside. Emilio saw me; his eyes lit up and before I could even catch my breath, he wisked me into his arms. My cheek was against his, his warm, smooth hard cheek that was fragrant with, I think, shaving cream. My hand was curled in his, between us, against his chest. I'll never, ever forget the sensation of that short dance, my arm over his broad shoulder, at the back of his neck, my fingers touching the ends of his hair. The song we danced to was Mel Carter's "Hold Me, Kiss Me, Thrill Me". I was so overcome I couldn't speak, and then the dance was over. Emilio smiled, and left. SIGH! I looked after him with big eyes; I was panting a bit, ---sigh, sigh,SIGH!) Well... Emilio had such great hair too, very thick. I sometimes thought it was sort of the color of the caramel topping of a sundae, and just a little too long to be civilized. It always hung over his collar and dropped onto his forehead, curled a little around his ears. His eyes were soft and a little sad, deep set in an angular face, a crystaline medium blue and fringed with long brown lashes; one eyelid drooped a little. His complexion was fresh looking, always looking like he'd just shaved it, and there were some very, very fine scars around his eyes and on high cheekbones. The slight imperfections gave him a sweet tough guy look.. And, his skin like velvet and satin... In school, in the hall, when I was hurrying to class, he grabbed me around the waist, swung me around so my feet were completely off the ground. He laughed; it sounded like a shout of pure joy. Then, he pulled me into him, and kissed me. I felt his strength all down his warm, hard, muscular, lean body, and, ummm, his unmistakable boner. I threw my arms around his silky neck, shoved my fingers into his soft thick hair, so smooth and cool on top and so warm and sensual near his scalp. And, oh, I wanted some place to be alone with him, fast-fast, like the janitor's icky broom closet, even, yeah, now-now-now... FUCKING NOW!
Mike's little sister Tina, almost as beautiful as Emilio, was one of my closest friends years ago, in my same grade in school. That made Emilio a sophisticated senior and me a dopey sophimore when he kissed me. He kissed me so hard and deep that I never forgot his warm sweet, eager mouth; not only was it fabulous, but it was also my first French kiss. Emilio matured early. Did you ever see a teenage guy with no pimples, I mean, really none? That was Mike. And, he carried himself like a man too. He was watched with awe, not only by the girls, but also by the women teachers, There was a really ripe scandal about him screwing redheaded stacked Miss Beech, Estelle Beech, the French teacher, who was only twenty two, that he even moved in with her for a while, but nothing could be proved by the school board. And, then she left before the next year's term started.
The Leones came to Cleveland from New York City,
from Bensonhurst, Brooklyn,
and Emilio never lost all of his sexy slurring Brooklyn accent, that downtown "New Yawk" accent, in his slow deep voice; I loved to hear him talk. Then, a few years ago he went back to Brooklyn. Now, he was in town again. It was rumored he had to leave New York, fast, it was thought, maybe some kind of crime. I heard he'd been in Cleveland for a couple months.
He came to the counter, grinned at me, flashing even, perfect white teeth. God, I love it when guys have a lot of fucking beautiful teeth! I was sure I wasn't looking too good, face flushed from the heat of the grill and fryer baskets.
"Hi, Maria, how ya doin'?" he said, leaning on the counter. Those broad shoulders! But, he had a six inch scar on his forearm that looked like it was made with a knife. It was talked about that Emilio was good with a stiletto, a "shiv". He was wearing a red t shirt with "Horvath's Grill" across the chest in yellow and a motorcycle jacket of buttery-looking leather; of course, with the sleeves pushed up. At the stretched out neck of the old t shirt I could see a little of the silver chain of the mother-of-pearl cross and Saint Anthony medal he always wore in high school. He had on jeans faded to light blue and motorcycle boots. I knew Emilio rode a Harley, a beautiful full dress hog with a white fleece seat.
"Fine," I said. I would have said fine, just fine, if I was dying.
The grin was still there, but too Mike had a way of smiling with just one corner of his mouth. "All grown up, I ain't seen ya in a while. I like the change." He was looking playfully at my chest, 34 Cs, high and perky, not bad. I have brown eyes, a lot of brown hair to my shoulders, decent size boobs, a small waist, round hips. His warm, smiling eyes slowly traveled to my face. "Damn, prettier 'n ever."
"Thanks," I said, still feeling a little flushed, but trying to be cool about it. "You look good too." Yeah, sure, slobber-slobber-slobber. I so wanted to touch him. One of his hands was resting on the counter, a big hand with long fingers. I could touch him by just moving my hand a few inches. "Uh, do you still do boxing?," I asked. Mmmm, I did remember his curving biceps. "Yeah, at Rio's gym," he said. "Do they still have that, ummm, all fighter's night?"
"Sure, 'Fight Night,' that's when new talent gets seen. Fridays, startin' at eight thirty. Ya should come see me fight, sometime."
I smiled, staring into his eyes. "I'd like that." "It's only a buck ta get in. And, ya can stay till close," he was saying.
"Okay."
Emilio nodded, glanced at the menu and the ad signs above my head, on the wall, fried chicken, hot dogs, regular hamburgers fish sandwiches, bacon, lettuce and tomato,
grilled cheese, onion rings, French fries, cole slaw. But, we mostly just served the specialty, --- those huge Biggie burgers. Believe it, or not, people seldom ordered the other sandwiches. "I'll have a Biggie." That was an imitation of Manner's famous Big Boy double meat patty-sloppy-with-special-sauce-and-everything burger. It was well known that the average person could hardy get their mouth around a properly made Big Boy, and that it was a meal-on-a-double-decker-bun.
"An', hold the sauce," he said, "no raw onion, but grilled onions, peppers an' mushrooms, an' a medium fries, a chocolate malt an' a Coke. Oh, an' I want the burgers medium rare."
"Yeah, I know. I always run into that salmonella thing when I order medium rare burgers, but I hate when the juice gets cooked outa good meat."
I grinned. "You're such a carnivore."
He laughed. "Sure!"
He went to the jukebox, put a dime in. Of course, we had the little selectors for the jukebox at the counter and also at each booth,
but I liked to go to the jukebox and watch the machine pick out your 45 record. Maybe, Emilio did too. In a moment, Connie Frances was singing "Who's Sorry Now?". I just loved Connie Frances.
She was a so, so cool Jersey girl, born in Newark. I went with friends to the Jersey Shore, once. We had a ball on the boardwalk, with the games, the snacks and ice creams and, sure, the beach.
I brought the food to Emilio's booth when I was done cooking it. "Are you still living with your folks?," I asked.
"Naw, naw, none a that. I got my own pad." Naturally, he wouldn't say where he lived. I knew Emilio had an older brother Phil, an older sister Diane, his younger sister Tina and two younger brothers. The average sized Italian-American or Irish-American family or Spanish-American on the Hill had six or seven kids. Our family was considered small with only four. Emilio was a girl magnet and you couldn't find anybody to say anything uncool about him, only that he didn't stick around very long, never had a really steady girlfriend. Although, for a while he went out with Ginny Loparo; and Ginny bragged and bragged about him. But, then Ginny got attached to Brad Filmore, captain of the football team, and married him right after they graduated. And, then they moved to Detroit. Yeah, but obviously, Emilio could have any woman he wanted. He probably had chances for way more action than he could handle. So, Emilio wasn't one of the popular kids, those button down shirt "Ivy Leaguers," but, he wasn't a Rack either, which was what we called a potential a J.D., a juvenile delinquent.
For one thing, Emilio never dressed the part of a J.D. They wore mostly black, black pants always with very thin belts, often pink shirts, and with shiny black pointy shoes for dress, to look extremely sharp like Elvis did. Of course, they had perfect, slicked-up Elvis greaser pompadours too, which they were constantly combing.
Rack girls wore a lot of black and pink too, and carried black leather bucket purses, usually with a hair brush and rat tail comb or Aqua Net hair spray sticking out of them. They wore tiny gold crosses in their ears, when few girls had pierced ears, which were thought to be extra trashy, yet very cool. We had a guidance counselor at school, Miss Ross, who was especially a stickler for the girls to look like ladies. She imposed a dress code on us kids. No jeans, not for anybody, girls had to wear skirts and blouses or dresses, sweaters were discouraged because they would often be worn tight, no jewelry, and no clips or Bobbie pins in the hair Rack girls were always getting detentions for trying to wear those little gold cross earrings. And, Rack boys were regularly paddled by tough vice principal Mister Holland with a wooden paddle that had big holes bored in it. The yells could be heard all down the halls. But, girls who misbehaved were just given multiple detentions.
He finished his food fast, gazed over, winked at me, and left Rhoda, who was working with me, watched too as he walked through the glass doors. She sighed, rolled her big green eyes. Rhoda must have really been something when she was younger. She was still good looking in a bar girl way, with fluffy cotton-like yellow blond hair and shiny red lips, but she had about fifty extra pounds from the births of her kids and she said she couldn't make it go away, no matter what she did.
"Holy fucking shit, that man has a world championship ass and he's walking electricity! He should be throwing sparks off his boots! Damn, I can almost hear the fucking thunder!" Rhoda was married to Big Georgie "The Gorilla" Zello, a six foot, four bruiser, and had a twelve year old son Tommy, and her girls, the twins Lila and Lola, but that never stopped her from looking. "No gang name on the back of his jacket."
I was wiping the counter, dreamily. "Nope, Emilio's always been a lone wolf."
Rhoda raised her eyebrows. "That's rare. A lot of teenage guys form gangs because having their brothers around them makes them feel more confident, and gangs can be pretty powerful. Maybe he's one of them."
I sniffed. "Dunno."
"He sorta looks it. I sure know the look. We call them wise guys in New York."
"I heard. Here we just call them 'tough guys'."
Rhoda screwed up her face at me, like I was an imbecile. "Cleveland ain't on par with New York, for activity."
"You just say that because you're from New York."
"You know I'm from Queens. And, then, Georgie, from the Bronx, and me and the kids moved to Buffalo to live with my Aunt Ruth after my Uncle Morty died, Now, we're here."
"Right."
"A fucking great looking question mark, that Leone. He reminds me of Marlon Brando in 'The Wild One'."
Rhoda winked at me. "Really bad news can come in awful pretty packages.
"Oh, mmm..." I looked down at my toes. Rhoda laughed and laughed. "Get your jollies someplace else!," I said.
She smiled, kindly. "Awww, Honey, maybe I'm just jealous, sorta wishing I was still single and a beautiful young stud looked at me like that, like he was ravenous and I was a juicy ripe peach he wanted to suck down!"
Yeah, well, I just wanna take a bite outa him." We heard Emilio's Harley roar off.
"Then, don't be a chicken shit. Do it!," Rhoda said, howling with laughter. I made a playful swipe at her with my wet rag.
--- Copyright by Antoinette Beard/Sorelle Sucere 2021.
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