Donnie Parascandolo

‘I was with Suzy when it happened,’ Donnie Parascandolo says, stepping away from the kitchen counter, his beer getting warm in his hand. ‘I’m telling you. I don’t know what it is about this broad. She loves the fights. She loves grilled cheeses. She loves Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She’s around when weird things happen.’

‘No shit she loves Rudolph,’ Sottile says from the couch, thumping his chest. ‘I love Rudolph.’

‘You love Rudolph?’ Pags says, moving over to the fridge for another Bud.

‘Look at him,’ Donnie says. ‘Of course he loves Rudolph. He probably jerks off to Rudolph. You jerk off to Rudolph, Sottile?’

‘I tried once,’ Sottile says without hesitation. ‘Didn’t do nothing for me.’

They all laugh.

They’re in Donnie’s living room. It’s a big house for a guy by himself. He had a family once, a wife and a kid. Donna was his wife. Donnie and Donna. Perfect. They had a wall plaque with their names on it, a match made in guinea heaven. And Gabe was their kid. Donna came up with the name Gabe. Always sounded to Donnie like the name of a first baseman who batted .232, hit about six homers, drove in forty-something runs, but kept his job because he was good with a glove. Gabe was a troubled kid. Moody. His second year of high school, a little over a year before, he offed himself. Nothing too bad happened that Donnie knew of to prompt it. It was in Gabe’s blood, the depression or whatever. Hanged himself in the cellar from a water pipe. Donna found him. They lasted about two months after the funeral and then got a divorce.

Donna still lives in the neighborhood, over on Eighty-Fourth Street. She said she didn’t want anything from him, money-wise. She just wanted to try to start over. She took her records – she loved her records – and a few boxes of Gabe’s stuff and moved into a small apartment she rented from some lady who used to play pinochle with her mother. He let it go. What else could he do? Other than the stuff Donna claimed – some of Gabe’s books, baseball cards, toys from when he was a little kid, and even some of his clothes – Gabe’s room is just as he left it. Donnie keeps the door shut and never goes in there.

He’s been on-again off-again with Suzy for about six months now. Nothing serious. No way he’ll ever let her move in. At forty-four and with a dead kid in his rearview, he doesn’t mind the feeling of being free. He likes being a cop okay. He likes drinking with Sottile and Pags. He likes eating Chinese food and pizza and buttered rolls every meal. Truth is, he likes not having to worry about a kid anymore. Having a kid meant stress. School, doctors, a million expenses. Never mind the fact that you’ve got the pain of another existence on your hands. He learned that the hard way with Gabe.

Sottile and Pags don’t have kids, thank Christ. They never fell down that hole. Well, Sottile did briefly. Back before Donnie knew him. His baby was born dead. The wife died not long after. Donnie doesn’t know what her name was. Sottile didn’t feel like he had anything in common with Donnie, being that his kid never lived. Pags was allergic to getting too close to women. That makes it easier for Donnie to be around these guys. They were married with kids, he’d have to choke on his emotions over Gabe. He doesn’t talk about that stuff, but it’s there in his memory. Gabe as a baby in his arms, sleeping on his chest, playing around on the living room floor, dressed like an elf for Christmas. Can’t just wipe it all away.

Now he’s got his routine with Sottile and Pags. There’s the job, number one. There’s going to Blue Sticks Bar