Find Big Fat Fanny Fast (2 page)

Being an only child also meant Tony B got all the allowance money he needed from his old man, who had no other children to suck him dry.

A dollar here, a dollar there, and maybe a twenty or two, stolen from a huge roll of bills, his father always left on his nightstand before he went to bed at night. Like clockwork, the roll of cash was there at beddy-bye time, right next to his keys, a book of matches and a pack of Chesterfields. This act of larceny was quite easy to do, since his parents slept in separate bedrooms, an arrangement made to ensure Tony B would continue to be their only child.

Tony B got the idea to steal his old man's stash in a curious way. One night, Tony B accidentally caught his mother clipping a few twenties from his father's roll, while the old man was snoring like a polar bear in heat. Rather than rat mom out to pop and be the cause of her getting a few teeth loosened, or maybe missing altogether, Tony B made it clear to her, in no uncertain terms, that he and he alone, each and every night, had the first shot at his father's cash. No questions asked. If mom wanted to risk a second cut, that was entirely up to her. But she was on her own as far as that was concerned. Tony B also promised his mother he'd keep his mouth shut about the whole damn situation, including her corrupting her young son by exhibiting the worse case of bad example.

Tony B figured if his father found out about the thievery, at most he'd get a crack in the face. While mom would wind up being carried into Beekman Downtown Emergency on a stretcher. Tony B understood at a very young age, not being an canary can sometimes be a very good thing.

Some kids are good at sports. Some kids are good at school. Tony B was good at neither. His parents skipped the public school route and enrolled Tony B into Transfiguration Catholic Grammar School, at 29 Mott Street, one block east of Mulberry. While in the third grade, Tony B realized he could garner some neat perks if he could con his teachers into letting him become an altar boy. The nuns and priests at Transfiguration didn't realize that letting Tony B become an altar boy was like giving Willie Sutton a teller job at the Bowery Savings Bank. But Tony B put on his best studious and Pius act, and eventually convinced the clerics that he would indeed be a good candidate for altar boy-hood, which made the saints' statues in Transfiguration Church next door to the school cringe in dismay.

So Tony B studied his Latin:
“Ad Deum qui lai te fe cot, uven tutem mayum.”

BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA, BLA...........

That was basically the extent of what you had to learn to become an altar boy.

Obviously, Tony B did not take up the added responsibilities of being an altar boy for strictly humanitarian, or divine reasons. Nobody in their right mind would want to get up at six in the morning and trudge through the dark, on cold and blistery days, just to serve the seven o'clock mass for a bunch of shapeless old ladies, with black draperies on their bodies and black clodhoppers on their feet.

No, the object of Tony B's madness was that he now had an endless supply of cheap, red wine, he could pilfer from the rectory, under the righteous noses of the good fathers, who were half asleep themselves at seven in the morning.

In fact, Tony B repeatedly volunteered to serve the early mass for exactly that reason. By the time the 7:45 and 8:30 masses took place, the priests were already wide awake and more likely to notice that a bottle, or two of wine was missing from the rectory wine cabinet.

This was especially true of Father Quincy, who Tony B thought was one step above a broken-down bum on the Bowery.

Countless times, while Tony B poured wine into Father Quincy's chalice during Mass, the priest would grab Tony B's hand and force it downward saying, “Now there boy, stop pouring the wine as if it were medicine.” Only after the Chalice had reached his desired level of wine did father Quincy release his vice-like grip on Tony B's hand.

So when it was Father Quincy who served the seven o'clock Mass, Tony B was in his own form of heaven. Tony B always arrived before everyone, with a duffel bag filled with his cassock and surplice, that he changed into as soon as he arrived, say at around 6:30 am. Then before the priest assigned to the seven o'clock Mass could stumble into the Sacristy, and while the Sacristan was busy lighting candles by the altar, Tony B went into full wine-copping mode.

Tony B, with the help of little Richie Ratface Rambone, had months before snatched the wine cabinet key and had a copy made. So all Tony B had to do, when the coast was clear, was open the lock on the wine cabinet, remove a quart bottle and stuff it into his duffel bag, before anyone was any the wiser.

One bottle would never be missed, but if Tony B had gotten greedy and stolen two or more bottles at the same time, someone might have caught on to his scheme. With one bottle missing, even if some dopey priest noticed, he would think it had been taken by another priest, for his late night escapades; whatever, wherever and with whomever they might be. Tony B knew all too well, the priests at Transfiguration Church, to one extent or another, were all alcoholics. So maybe by stealing a bottle of wine, he was actually doing them a favor.

Every so often, a certain priest, say Father Quincy for instance, would disappear for a few weeks and sometimes even months. The excuse the Archdiocese gave to the parishioners was that the priest was on a retreat, reinforcing his relationship with God. When in fact, he was in some dry-out tank, at one of the many Catholic Church-owned hospitals spread throughout the country.

Or maybe even worse.

The worse being, one of the altar boys had told his parents that a certain holy father had accidentally put his hands down the front of little boy's trousers. This had happened more than anyone connected with the Catholic Church would ever admit. Yet after a few months of retreat life, the offending priest would be given a transfer to another parish, most often in another city, sometimes in another state and maybe even in another country.

Now inquiring minds might ask, did Tony B steal the wine just to get drunk himself?

Don't be absurd.

Tony B hated wine. It tasted like someone had taken a leak in his mouth.

Yet, Tony B had no problem selling the wine to his upperclassmen, in grades six, seven and eight, for a buck, or two, or whatever price moved him at that particular moment. Thus his early morning wine excursions earned Tony B just enough extra cash to buy his favorite girlie magazines at a newsstand on Chatham Square, run by a Chinaman, who would sell anything to anybody, regardless of race, color, creed, or more importantly in Tony B's case – his age.

When he was ten years old, Tony B's parents moved to a spacious three bedroom apartment, in a six-story tenement on the corner of Mulberry and Worth Street, just down the block from the Department of Motor Vehicles.

Since Tony B had his own bedroom and was now having multiple-daily erections, the girlie magazines he bought with the cash garnered from the stolen sacristy wine, sure came in handy when Tony B felt compelled to take matters into his own hands.

When the urge came, Tony B would close his bedroom door, click on his War Civilian radio for background noise so his mother wouldn't wonder why he was so quiet, and begin his novice masturbation routine. At the age of ten, only a few dozen rapid strokes were necessary to bring himself to completion.

Then one day, the unimaginable happened.

Tony B's was banging away with his right hand and holding a copy of New York Nights in his left hand. Fibber McGee and Molly were arguing on the radio, when for no discernible reason, his mother opened the bedroom door and stumbled in.

Time seemed to stand still. Tony B stopped pumping his right hand and held his manhood tight, with one eye on his mother and the other on the bedroom window, which he was considering jumping out of in about ten seconds.

Mom, if anything, seemed more embarrassed than Tony B. She stood frozen, with her mouth open and nary a sound coming out of it.

Suddenly she said, “Well, all-righty.”

Then without another word, she did an about-face and exited the room, closing the door gently behind her.

Tony B froze for a second, then decided it was best he finished the job at hand. And that he did.

The next day when Tony B came home from school, he noticed a slide lock was installed on the inside of his bedroom door. Nobody needed to tell him when to use it.

Tony B quickly established himself as somewhat of a neighborhood practical joker. Usually the butt of his jokes was Richie “Ratface” Rambone, who was called “Ratface” because he resembled the cartoon character Mickey Mouse. Or maybe it was Minnie Mouse. Nobody was really sure.

Richie had a funny walk, like he had a broomstick up his butt. Tony B heard people say mean things, like maybe Richie Ratface was a queer. Tony B had no idea what the word queer meant. He thought it probably meant that someone walked like they had a broomstick up their butt.

One day while in sixth grade, Tony B came up with the brilliant idea of giving Richie Ratface a present he and the entire neighborhood would never forget.

It was the day after Halloween and the neighborhood kids had made a few bucks trick-or-treating the night before. Most people gave cash. A quarter here. A half a buck there. And some people even sprung for the green, which was just fine by Tony B, who as the son of a local mob boss, expected no less. But some old-fashioned creeps still gave the kids candy, which plainly sucked, because you couldn't buy a girlie magazine on Chatham Square and offer the Chinaman a Milky Way in return.

So Tony B decided to be a pal and give all the chocolate candy he received the night before to his friend Richie Ratface, who was a chocolate fiend himself. But mixed in with the Mars Bars, Milky Ways and Chunkies, Tony B slipped in a few dozen brown chocolates wrapped in aluminum foil.

“My mom made these special,” Tony B told Richie Ratface.

Of course, Tony B failed to include the tiny little fact, that the candy was actually Ex-Lax, used by men who would never be considered “regular guys.”

So right in front of half the neighborhood, Richie Ratface filled his yap with several pieces of the laxative. He chewed, swallowed, then headed on home.

It was Skinny Benny Vacarelli who told Tony B, that maybe this joke was not too funny, since more than one, or two Ex-lax could make a young boy very sick indeed. Maybe even sick enough to die.

They had watched Richie Ratface knock down at least six Ex-Lax and there were a couple dozen more in the bag Tony B had given him. And what if Richie Ratface's parents downed a few Ex-Lax themselves? Well, then the shit would hit the fan for sure.

So Tony B and Skinny Benny rushed to Richie Ratface's apartment at 75 Baxter Street, the corner of Bayard, right across from the newly built Tombs Prison, where Tony B might wind up in, if Richie Ratface kept eating those damn Ex-Lax.

75 Baxter was the only tenement in the neighborhood that had an elevator, big enough for maybe two people at a time. 75 Baxter also still had the bathrooms in the hallway, but that's another story for another time.

When Tony B and Skinny Benny finally got to 75 Baxter, they decided time was of the essence, so they ran up the stairs to Richie Ratface's 4
th
floor apartment. Tony B knocked frantically and Richie Ratface's mother answered the door.

Trying to keep his eyes off Mrs. Rambone's huge knockers, Tony B spilled the beans about his little prank.

“My God!” Mrs. Rambone screamed. “Richie, come here this instant!”

Richie came out of his bedroom, munching on another Ex-Lax. He had a puzzled look on his face when he spotted Skinny Vinny and Tony B.

“What's the matter guys?” Richie Ratface said, chocolate rimmed around his mouth.

Before they could answer, Mrs. Rambone ran to the sink, grabbed a pasta pot and filled it with warm soapy water. She poured a glass of the suds, then handed it to her son. “Drink this down in one gulp. Now!”

Richie Ratface looked at his mother like she had three eyes. “What are you crazy? I'm not drinking no hot soapy water!”

“Oh yes you are!” Mrs. Rambone screamed.

Then without saying another word, she grabbed her son by the back of the head, put the glass to his lips and made him swallow the entire contents down in one gulp. Then she refilled the glass and made him do it a second time.

Mrs. Rambone stood back and admired her handiwork. “Feel like you want to throw up?”

Richie Ratface's face was all scrunched up. “No, but that stuff tastes horrible.”

Time for plan B.

Mrs. Rambone rushed to the refrigerator and took out a cartoon of eggs. She broke ten eggs, one at a time, into a pasta bowl. She whisked the eggs, then added a warm can of beer and a almost a entire bottle of hot sauce.

She handed the bowl to her son. “Drink this down! Now! Quick! I need for you to vomit. Or you might die!”

By this time, Tony B and Skinny Benny would rather be anyplace else in the world than in Richie Ratface's apartment at 75 Baxter Street.

They watched as Richie Ratface knocked down the entire eggs, beer and hot sauce mixture.

This time Richie Ratface's whole body shook. He looked pleadingly at this mother, then heaved a projectile vomit right into his mother's face.

Not waiting to see any further results, Tony B and Skinny Benny sprinted out the apartment's front door, down the stairs and out of 75 Baxter. They dashed into Columbus Park, running like their lives depended on it, and exited Columbus Park near Park Street. They sped into Tony B's building and their legs didn't stop moving until they were safely in Tony B's apartment.