Thoughts from Dr. Joe: A joyride and its consequences

Charlie Iccavone, who was from Misterbianco, Sicily, was my goombah. If you Google “goombah,” you’ll find an Americanized definition explaining the term is derogatory. Italians understand the term designates a close friendship. You had to earn the distinction of goombah. But it’s for life.

Charlie came from Sicily on the Andrea Doria, the ocean liner that sank in 1956 off the coast of Nantucket while en route to New York. She collided with the Stockholm, an icebreaker. The Stockholm cut her in half. Fortunately, 1,660 passengers were rescued. Charlie was one of them.

Vito Pasqualichio and I immediately befriended Charlie. We spoke Italian, so understandably Charlie gravitated toward us. We formed a pact, cut our thumbs, mixed our blood and became blood brothers. As we matured, I got into boxing, Boy Scouts and academics. Charlie and Vito became numbers runners for the local mafia and worked their way up the chain to eventually become soldiers in the crime family of the North Bronx.

I recall the first day of senior year, 1964. After school I was hanging at my dad’s deli on Pitman Avenue. Vito and Charlie drove by in a red 1964 GTO convertible. “Joey ragazzo! Entra (Joey Boy! Get in),” Charlie shouts. The top was down, the radio was blaring “G.T.O.” by Ronny and the Daytonas, and Amia Davia, the prettiest girl both east and west of the Hudson River, was sitting in the back seat.

I jumped in and Charlie laid some rubber up Pitman Avenue. He hung a right on White Plains Road and sped down the avenue underneath the “L” that carried the 2 train on the IRT.

I was at the top of my game: soon to be Eagle Scout, vying for a congressional appointment to Annapolis, and a Golden Gloves contender. And now this! Rocketing down the avenue with the top down, music blaring, and sitting next to the prettiest girl in the world.

We were all 17; no one had a driver’s license. Charlie said he had borrowed the car from his uncle. It didn’t dawn on me that Charlie didn’t have an uncle. Suddenly, the car swerved and we smashed into the iron girders holding up the “L.” It was a miracle that no one was hurt, not even a scratch.

The cops came and ran the plate. The car was stolen. Charlie and Vito had taken the car for a quick joyride around the neighborhood. We sat handcuffed on the curb in front of Corrigan’s Bar and waited for the owner of the car. Charlie said, “You’re not part of this; we’re getting you out.” I replied, “Siamo insieme in questo.” (We’re together in this.)

After a few minutes Johnny Rizzo, the owner of the GTO, appeared. He was in uniform and wore a green beret. One of the cops assured him that we would fry. We were Bronx boys; Jimmy Cagney in “Angels with Dirty Faces” was our idol, subsequently we faced down the authorities and didn’t blink an eye. We’d rather face a firing squad than show weakness or be disloyal to each other.

Johnny Rizzo told the police he would not press charges and asked if we’d be released to his custody. He took us to church to face the wrath of Father Flynn; then took us to school where we were suspended for a week. He then put us to work and we remodeled his brownstone on Hicks Street in Brooklyn Heights. He never mentioned a word about the car.

Johnny was a hero; in 1956 he rescued French soldiers from Laotian prisons. He was also our hero. He taught us more about life and character when we were his indentured servants building the brownstone.

Charlie, Vito, and I remained friends. We still are. That’s the nature of being a goombah. You sail together and you sink together and that’s worth writing about.

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JOE PUGLIA is a practicing counselor, a retired professor of education and a former officer in the Marines. Reach him at doctorjoe@ymail.com. Visit his website at doctorjoe.us.