The Mafia and Those Who Mess Up Their Chance for Happiness

Joey Columbo, the Mafia guy, had just been whacked near the statue on Columbus circle. There was a flurry of gunfire in the dense mob which had gathered to celebrate an “Italian” awareness day. The “shooter,” a black man, was instantly killed by some one unrecognizable in the crowd. Joey was rushed to nearby Roosevelt Hospital for treatment where “shrines” of endless votive candles were lit around the hospital. No one dared to protest. Near my Rectory (opposite the hospital) a “watch dog” group set up camp. The “soldiers” were haunched on boxes and foldable camp chairs in crushing New York heat. Some were bare to the waist. Others were slicing up cantaloupes with huge scary looking knives.

An anxious looking woman, obviously a member of the “family”, seeing me and my clerical collar dashed to me and tearfully said “Please pray for Joey, Faada.” With my fearful heart pounding away, I hurriedly assured her that I would approach the Almighty immediately and tried to run as fast as I could. But one of the soldiers, with a bared hairy chest and a Bowie like knife, said to me, “Have a piece of cantaloupe’ with a menacing wave of the knife. “No, no thanks,” I said as I started to move away. He raised his voice and shouted “HAVE A PIECE OF CANTALOUPE!” Suddenly I found my taste buds craving for cantaloupe. I gratefully accepted the grimy slice, wolfed it down and mumbled excessive thanks for a crummy piece of fruit.

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