I could tell Uncle Nunzio was irritated with me. When he is upset, Uncle’s right leg shakes as if he’s keeping time to Bob Marley’s Jammin’.
"So what’s wrong with my favorite uncle," I wanted to know. "I am your only uncle," he responded a bit testily. It turns out that Uncle has been unable to show his face in Packer Park since my column "Protecting Packer Park" (June 30).
Uncle has always liked visiting his friend Vito in Packer Park. He likes to sit outside, swapping tales of the old days and enjoying the summer nights. I expressed my regrets and offered to write a column totally exonerating him from any involvement in that column. But Uncle claimed it is too late. "Everybody believes that I am the brains behind your columns," he sighed, his taint by association weighing heavily on his soul. "But surely Vito knows better," I said. (Vito, with whom Uncle has had countless philosophical debates concerning the future of soccer in America. Vito, whom Uncle beat in a walking "race" on a dare at the tender age of 83. Surely Vito, instigator of a thousand quarrels, all of which usually end up with the two of them sharing some soppresatta and a glass of homemade wine, can’t stay angry with him over something I wrote.)
"Vito doesn’t answer his doorbell anymore," Uncle informed me. "I know he’s home because I see his eye at the keyhole." And that’s not all. As if his banishment from Vito’s home was not enough, Uncle claims that because of some of my recent columns, he can’t attend church on Sundays without the pastor asking him afterward what’s gotten into his nephew.
"You’re pro-choice and for marriage between the gays," he said, "and Father Brioschi blames me. I can’t show my face anymore at the Holy Name meetings."
I was curious as to how Uncle responded to these attacks on my character. "I told them you were bitter," he said, "because you couldn’t marry a gay person." I was flabbergasted. Could my own uncle really be spreading ridiculous homosexual rumors about me (not that there’s anything wrong with it)?
"Uncle, you know I’m straight and, by the way, did you forget that I am married to a wonderful woman who has cooked a lot of meals for you?" (Maybe "a lot" is somewhat of an exaggeration.)
"I had to tell Father Brioschi something so he would stop bothering me with his complaints about your liberalism."
"Couldn’t you have said that I believe marriage is also a civil ceremony?" I said, "and no one is forcing Father Brioschi to recognize gay marriages?"
"I tried that on Vito," Uncle answered, "and that didn’t get him to answer the door."
Uncle also says he can’t even double park his old Ford in my neighborhood anymore without someone mocking him because of my columns. He says Lucia lurks behind a curtain at her window just waiting for him to double park so she can call him and me "hypocrites."
"When I was your age," Uncle said, "I was too busy working real jobs to be so liberal. "Bush this, Bush that, he’s a Medigan, what do you expect from him?" Uncle claims if I don’t watch out, I’ll wind up sharing a jail cell with New York Times reporter Judith Miller.
I reminded Uncle that unlike the Times reporter, I have no such scruples to protect a source. Under similar circumstances, I said, I would not only reveal my source to avoid jail time, I would tell the judge whether my source wore briefs or boxers.
"You have no principles," Uncle replied.
"Yes, I do," I said. "I believe deeply in the principle of self-preservation."
"Maybe you should go back to writing columns about what people really care about," he said.
"Like what?"
"How about how soppresatta is good for a man’s love life?"
"You want me to write a weekly column about the aphrodisiac effects of Italian lunchmeat?"
"Is it such a bad thing to please your Uncle?" Uncle’s leg stopped shaking for the moment. "Maybe if you listen to me, one day Vito will let you sit on his lawn too."
"I am overwhelmed by the prospects."
Be forewarned, dear reader. If next week’s column is about the romance of mortadella, it will be a shameless attempt to flee my own cramped front step and join Vito on his spacious lawn. I hope Vito has prepared his neighbors.
