2. The Traveling Wilburys - End Of The Line
Life was good. I mean, as good as it could be in this city, but after a month of helping out in Uncle Peppe's pizzeria in Old Gotham, which imaginatively was named Uncle Peppe's, and living in a decent apartment right above it with the man himself things had started to become a sort of routine, which helped me immensely with coming to terms with my situation. For better or worse I just went with it and tried to make the best of this headache.
During the first two weeks, Peppe drove me to my new primary school with his old black Chevy Caprice, which I thought was the coolest thing ever. I had to give it to the old man, he looked like a total boss driving around in that boxy machine, someone you really didn't want to cross.
To be honest, I was fairly glad I was his charge because no matter what the guy did, he usually ended up looking quite intimidating.
It took me about a week to get it, but him driving me to the school was just as much about showing me the way as showing everybody else, that I belonged to him and you better not fuck with me.
Anyway, after two weeks I felt some teachers getting antsy and I decided to use the rusty, banged up BMX I found near the dumpsters at my school. I just changed the tires and deemed it good enough.
Probably not the best idea for a little kid, but I wanted to retain some independence and it was only a 15-minute ride.
School, the less said the better, I was the quiet weirdo, who aced his tests and tended to stick around the school library. I was always mindful of being friendly, respectful, and polite with teachers and kids alike, least I ended up labeled future school shooter or something.
Apart from being mandatory school also had the benefit of having a small handful of history books in its tiny library.
Boy, let me tell you, I had a lot to catch up to. The more I read, the more I found these weird little deviations, new cities, new countries, apparently historical individuals and events I have never heard of, that all honestly didn't seem to matter in the grand scheme of things, but it was vexing not knowing what part of my own knowledge was obsolete and what not.
Working in the pizzeria was actually quite enjoyable in the sense that it was easy enough and usually kept my head and hands occupied.
After school, if it wasn't already done by the waiter, Mateo, I usually prepared the tables from the previous evening for midday customers who tended to spend their lunch break here. I checked and refilled the toilets with the necessary toiletries and occasionally swept the floor when Mateo was out on the streets dispensing new menus or leaflets announcing special offers from the current menu to get rid of perishables. Day after day new and different little jobs were slowly added when I didn't complain.
It was all a bit uncoordinated at first until Peppe had motioned for me to join him at the bar, where he always quietly sat, either a Ramazotti or a glass of wine nearby, and today's newspaper in front of him to keep an eye on the business and out for would-be troublemakers.
Since I apparently was actually willing to work, he calmly explained to me the job of a busser or busboy and listed up the respective tasks I had to fulfill. Obviously, I accepted since I currently had nothing better to do and some actual job experience in a new environment wouldn't hurt either. Of course, I wasn't going to be a full-blown employee he had clarified, I would work only a couple of hours and when I gave him an early notification I could skip altogether, funnily enough, a cleaned wine bottle was going to serve as my piggy bank.
The times I wasn't working or guests from a rather obvious clientele appeared I was kicked out to get some fresh air and make some friends in the neighborhood. When I was initially hesitant to get outside Peppe just told me some street names, that acted as my boundaries and not to worry about anything else.
Then, as I actually was about to head out for the first time he somewhat sheepishly added and I quote "to stay away from the Chinks in the east" and handed me an absolutely massive knife, which I numbly accepted and that now always heavily rested in a pocket of my pants.
That's how I spent my first six months in Gotham City.
It was a quiet and dreary Thursday. Outside a light snow drizzle kept the regulars away, which was fine either way given that we had a special reservation locked in for this very afternoon.
To kill some time Mateo and I decided to go head-to-head at the dartboard, which was our usual spot when the place started to die down. Even though he seemed to harbor the tiniest hints of delusions of grandeur given that he was the son of an 'associate' of Uncle Peppe's and regularly daydreamed about a particular lifestyle Mateo was an alright guy with dark slicked-back hair that looked like he had just auditioned for Grease,
It was a comfortable silence, only broken by the rhythmic quiet thunks of the darts hitting the board and the occasional clink from the glass of wine Peppe was currently nursing at the bar while watching a horse race on the muted tv hanging above the bar.
Suddenly Mateo noticed two very familiar limousines park at the curb right outside the ristorante.
He meaningfully nodded his head towards the windows, making sure that I noticed as well, and wordlessly handed me his darts. He calmly made his way behind the bar, already preparing the glasses and fresh bottles of wine.
Meanwhile, I calmly placed all the darts back in the box under the board, stuffed my button-down into my pants, and made my way towards the door. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peppe down the rest of his glass, which Mateo dutifully took away, and put on his jacket, looking ready for business.
Taking position, I quietly held the door open for what could only be described as a band of stereotypical mobsters.
The first guy stepped in like he owned the place and ruffled my hair.
„Sei un bravo ragazzo, Billy." (You are good boy, Billy)
That was Tomasso Panessa, I wasn't well versed in the organized crime that so painstakingly obvious surrounded me, but certain names and faces you were expected to recognize and react accordingly. All the more if it was family.
The last to enter was also family, a heavy-set man by the name of Claudio Panessa, and the brother of Uncle Peppe, who by the way was actually my cousin once removed.
He smiled down at me and with a wink discreetly placed a ten-dollar bill in the breast pocket of my shirt.
"Divertirmi un po'." (Have some fun.)
Oh, right, apparently I could speak Italian. Seems like all I had to do was lose 20 years and a comfortable life to get this incredible gift.
C'est la vie, just to sprinkle some French into the mix.
Thankfully the men didn't dump their coats on me, and I was able to quietly grab my puffer jacket and slip out.
I had a place that I wanted to check out.
Heading east, the snow on the roadside starting to pile up into a grey ugly mess, I finally saw the entrance to Gate Street and its iconic Paifong in the distance. My grip involuntarily tightening on the knife in my jacket.
Stories told by Peppe and my own common sense in regards to this city made me somewhat wary of being this close to the Triads. Thankfully, I had to turn left now and some five minutes later I finally stood in front of my destination.
It was an unassuming shop, one that I only found by leafing through the Yellow Pages. The front had a large single window and the entrance door right next to it. What interested me however was the cloth spanned behind the window blocking the view inside.
'Desmond's Dojo - Judo and Self-Defense'
I was an absolute softy, my previous fighting credentials amounted to a yellow belt in keyboard kung-fu and the occasional tackle in football, the beautiful game naturally.
My uncle, my former uncle that is, did Judo in his youth however, and showed me once as a kid a few vhs videos of some of his competitions. This and the effortless way he tossed me around while play fighting left a lasting impression, that only got reinforced by the random youtube video here and there over time.
Long story short, given its availability in my neighborhood and the fact that I knew that it meant serious business when trained properly I was seriously tempted to join this little dojo.
Feeling the snow start to drench my trainers I decided to bite the bullet and went inside.
Upon opening the door, a little bell on its top announced my entry and obviously alerted the person working in a back room.
"I'll be there in a second." A male voice shouted from the back and I heard the closing of a washing machine.
I took the time to take a look around, which took me only a couple of seconds given, that there wasn't much look at in the first place. A counter right near the entrance, a bench near the window, and a space for training the size of our living room.
About to inspect some photos placed at the wall near the counter I saw a black guy in sweatpants and a white T-shirt step through the door at the back of the training floor.
"What's up, little man?" He asked casually and leaned on the counter.
"Yeah, hi, I was interested in learning Judo and wanted to see what it was going to cost me." I said straight to the point.
The guy, probably this Desmond Lamar, looked curious for a second, but eventually just shrugged.
"Well, I can give you a rundown of the costs and so on." He offered, apparently not sure if he should bother with a little kid.
"That would be nice." I answered, intent to make the most of this little trip.
"Alright, a basic gi for kids, that's what you have to wear, will set you back around 30 bucks. For a little fee of two dollars a week, I can clean it and store it here for you." He said and paused, looking if I was actually paying attention. He didn't have to worry though, as I had already grabbed a little notepad and a pencil and was busy taking notes.
Slightly taken back he went on, now a bit livelier.
"Your age group has two sessions of 90 minutes a week. For kids it's 40 dollars a month." He finished.
I jotted down the last notes and made a few quick calculations. Even without the generous reserve assets that I had managed to accumulate over the last few months, that now rested in a savings account instead of a piggy bank, I could roughly match the costs with my earnings from the restaurant.
But two sessions a week was a bit… meager. I had too much time to spare and I was living in a world where something like the Justice Society of America existed. Certain physical or bodily limits weren't exactly set in stone anymore.
An idea forming, I finally looked up from my notepads.
"The money for the outfit and the sessions won't be a problem." I said, implying that I was ready to join and willing to cough up the cash. But…
"You said you stored and cleaned the outfits of your members." I said and motioned towards the door, where he obviously was currently doing the laundry.
"And I guess the floor and the mats don't clean themselves either." I continued and saw him narrow his eyes, not quite understanding where I was going with this little monologue.
"See," I went on before he could interrupt, "I already work in my uncle's pizzeria, so I'm no stranger to jobs, and I have more than enough time…" He finally held up his hand, and I decided it was better to let the man speak in his own shop.
"Kiddo, get to the point." He simply said a tad annoyed.
"Alright, I want to help you out in exchange for an hour of private training Monday to Friday." I said and watched him closely for a reaction.
"Hmm." It wasn't an outright dismissal, and I had a feeling he was weighing up the time of doing everything himself and training me an hour every day.
"Tell you what, fill out the form, get the money for the gi and the first month, and we will see how you are doing." He decided eventually, shelving his decision regarding the extra hours for later.
It was a bit surreal seeing him widen his eyes and stand noticeably straighter when he apparently read the last name I was going with since moving in with my 'Uncle'.