Enzo "Coffee Cake" Impastato Tries Arts and Crafts in Jail

Content Advisory: Vulgar language; Bigotry. Not appropriate for readers under 18.

Enzo “Coffee Cake” Impastato Tries Arts and Crafts in Jail

Entry 1

I don’t know how to be addressing this. “Hey You?” “Hey Me?” “Dear Diary,” like I’m some teenager getting passed around by the football team?

Howsabout, “To the Unfairly Maligned.” You know, this city’s got it out for Italians. Always has. And now they’re trying to take away Columbus Day, as if the place wouldn’t be all wigwams and teepees without him. Did you know the potato comes from America? You and your seventeen siblings, O’Malley, would still have been eating grass and twigs if it wasn’t for Columbus, you Irish prosecutor prick.

Though I guess if you were one of those persons living in the wigwams, I could see why your people would beg off the celebrations, seeing as Columbus mostly brought you smallpox. But that’s the way of things. One side gets potatoes and tomatoes and parades, and the other side gets sick. Life ain’t fair, so who can blame a guy for skirting the rules a bit?

What’s that churning in my stomach? Could it be a rush of self-connection like that lady talked about? Yeah, I think I might just paint the inside of my toilet with this warm rush of feelings. You know who the State ought to be pursuing instead of an upstanding businessman such as myself? Whomsoever got the cafeteria contract – serving up unidentified inorganics and calling them food. That’s misappropriation of government funds. I’ll give you that lead as a gift, O’Malley, cause I’m a nice guy.

I said to Clara or Sarah or whomever (I’ve only been the once), “What I need a notebook for? So the police can seize it?” She said these are for private thoughts, but I know there’s no such thing when subpoenas start rolling. Only a matter of time til O’Malley’s thumbing through these pages. Only confessing I need to be doing is to a Father. Seems dippy, this broad, but I notice anything with legs draws a crowd in this joint.

This is a waste of paper. I’d use it to wipe my crease after hitting the can if I wasn’t so sure it’d give me a paper cut.

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Dear Sal,

I don’t trust these government operated phones not to be bugged, so communicate via paper correspondence for the time being. Just bear in mind that some guard might take it upon himself to nose his way into an unopened envelope, so write accordingly.

I heard Aurelio Abruzzo ate a bullet then went for a swim in the Hudson. Didn’t his mother ever tell him not to go in the water after eating? Buonanotte e sogni d’oro, you rat. And if any of you guards are reading this, I had nothing to do with it and no knowledge pertaining to it, though I’ll be sure to send the responsible party a box of cannoli should the opportunity ever avail itself.

Sal, while I’m on my state sponsored vacation for an at present undetermined length of time, I trust you can handle my business dealings. Talk to Benito about that potential carwash partnership with the Mexicans; their cleaning agents are more potent than ours stateside. And those Jersey twins might need some massaging – deep tissue, you know. I can’t be having people think I allow for unpaid bills.

Also, with my finances being currently on ice, I’m going to need you to assist my mother with her mortgage until I get sprung, which thanks to some good Samaritan, is looking to be sooner rather than later. Which reminds me – send Aurelio’s mother some flowers, why don’t you?

Be well. La famiglia è tutto.

Coffee Cake

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Dear Ma,

You using your letters as tissues? Thems wasted tears. Ben says the Fed’s case is disintegrating now that their star witness, Aurelio, can’t sing his lies in court. It’s especially embarrassing to them after denying me bail.

Speaking of my lawyer, you’ve got to stop inviting him to Easter dinner. It’s a nice gesture, Ma, but he’s Jewish. Besides, you wouldn’t want him there anyway; the man never stops complaining about his indigestion. I swear, he can’t even eat a cracker without clutching his gut. I told him Dr. Rossi would sort him right out, or maybe you can suggest he go see Marla’s first husband. What was his name?

My health is fine, but I got to prepare you, Ma – I’m liable to come out of this stint same shape as a streetlamp, so I’m counting on a spread. Pasta alla norma, arancine, buccellato… I better cut it there or you won’t be able to read my writing for all my drooling.

You remember Anthony Marino? Carla’s oldest? Little Tony with the lazy eye? I’m sticking with the cousins in here and being an alter boy, just like you raised me. I’m even going to this weekly group meeting thing led by this arty-type woman. It’s a lot of woo-woo, hippy headshrinker nonsense, but it was Ben’s idea that I demonstrate I’m a real go-along, get-along guy. How could such a well-mannered, compliant man possibly be involved in the unsavory dealings they’re accusing me of? This woman has us writing down our thoughts and feelings and the like. Real silly stuff, but go-along guy, right?

The minute the Feds come to terms with their empty holster, I’ll fill your house with a dozen roses for every day they keep me from you. Don’t be trying to visit me in here. It’s no place for a beautiful lady such as yourself. Just keep on with your letters and mention me in your prayers. I know you always do. Never was a more devoted mother to her son since Mary.

Remember, you need anything while I’m away, you go to Salvatore.

Give my love to cousin Giulia and the baby.

Your Ever-Loving Son,

Enzo

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Entry 2

I still don’t know how to be starting this. “To Whom it May Concern.” It concerns me, talking to myself like some bum on the street corner. Should I put postage on it, send it to myself through the system then act all surprised when it arrives? “Oh, geez, I wonder who wrote me?” Whole thing gets me self-conscious, like taking communion and accidently licking the Father’s fingers.

Today, Claire handed out crayons and told us to draw ourselves. I complied, made a circle and two eyes and a big smile. It was kindergarten level, but hey, she’s the one doling out crayons. She was walking around, checking in, and she looked at my drawing with her head stuck at an angle and said, “Is this how you see yourself?”

I went, “Yeah.”

She looked at me, then the picture, then again said, “This is how you see yourself?”

So I said, “Well on account of my eyes being in my head looking out, all I can see is you. Which, lucky for me, is a much nicer view.”

And she nodded and nodded and finally went, “Interesting,” and moseyed away. And I’m thinking, What’s that supposed to mean? So when she made her circuit again, I said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She just goes, “It means it’s interesting, Enzo.”

“What’s so interesting about it?”

“It’s also interesting how interested you are.” Now I think that was a joke, but she was giving me that woman stare all of them seem to learn at puberty and I’m thinking, No, what’s interesting is that you look like my grandfather right down to the mustache, and yet I want to say, “please, call me Coffee Cake” and invite you to dinner. Ugly women need only to put on a smear of lipstick and head to the penitentiary to find a man. Lord help me if I’m in here for years; I’ll be lusting after Ernest Borgnine.

The rest of class, if you want to call it that, Claire led a discussion about people’s childhoods and their mothers, and even the guards were getting in on it, but my mother’s a saint so I had nothing to add. I spent my time frowning at this crayon sketch. Even now it’s pissing me off and I don’t know why. I would have left it there, but Claire saw it on the table and asked me if I was going to take it.

“Why, so I can hang it on the fridge in my cell?”

“Your cell doesn’t have a fridge, Enzo.”

Which I know cause it was a joke, and I would have explained it to her, but she was giving that stare again, so I just took the picture. Now I’m stuck with it.

Ben’s pushing for a speedy trial to trip up the Feds as they scramble to fill that Aurelio sized hole. He thinks in short order they’ll be calling us in for a favorable discussion of where we all go from here.

Do I sign off? Wish myself a goodnight?

Whoever charged Claire a hundred grand for her crackpot degree, now there’s another to add to the list of real criminals.

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My Journal, Entry 3

Did you know Leonardo da Vinci was a homosexual? Says right here in the library book: “It is frequently proposed that da Vinci engaged in intimate relationships with fellow men, a theory that is becoming generally accepted.” I always thought being gay would be a trip. Not the being gay part, but imagine some guy comes up to you looking to start something, and he calls you a cocksucker to your face. If you’re gay, you get to go, “Yeah, I suck cocks. What of it?” Completely deflates the insult.

Claire asked us to write alternative lives Tuesday, a career we would have liked to have had or somewhere we’d want to live – what we’d be doing if we weren’t doing the things we do (allegedly, O’Malley). I didn’t have anything to write. I was always going to go into the family business. Claire asked if there was anything I was interested in. “Yeah, getting out of here.” She helped me request some books from the library on famous Italians and Rome and such. She’s a nice girl. I asked her if she gets paid to come in here, and she said, “Not with money.” I told her she ought to unionize.

Get this – da Vinci wrote his notes backwards. “Mirror type,” the book calls it. Maybe I should try that. That would confound that cocksucker O’Malley if he tried to use my journal in court (See? I know he’s got a wife, so “cocksucker” lands, but if he was gay – nothing). That’s what I’m calling this – a journal. I can’t be thinking of it as a “diary,” but da Vinci kept a journal and who am I to think I’m somehow above the smartest man to ever live.

Next, I’m reading The Prince by Machiavelli. It’s thin so I can finish it before I get out. Ben thinks the US Attorney’s office is going to push a plush plea deal soon for the tax evasion, probably time served and back taxes. All the other stuff, the big stuff, is like throwing undercooked spaghetti at the wall – it ain’t gonna stick.

There’s a picture of the Mona Lisa in this book. If that’s what women looked like in his time, I’m not surprised da Vinci was a homo. Too bad he never saw Sophia Loren.

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Dear Ma,

When I was a boy, did I have any interests? Not like girls, but like Rome or aerial dogfights or opera or dinosaurs or something?

Pass my felicitations on to Cousin Benito and Francie.

Your Son,

Enzo

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Ma,

I’m going to straighten out this misunderstanding with Salvatore. In fact, by the time you get this letter, he’ll have already shown up on your doorstep, hat in one hand and a check in the other. 

Enzo

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Salvatore,

You know why they call me Coffee Cake? You think it’s because I’m so soft and crumbly?

It’s because every Sunday after bridge club, I’m in your mother’s mouth.

Out there, in here, sunbathing on the fucking moon; no matter where I am, your place is always the same – underneath me, you cocksucker. Your only job is to carry out my orders to the last crossed ‘t’ and dotted fucking ‘i’.

You know what – send some more flowers to Aurelio’s mother and send a bouquet to your lovely wife while you’re at it. On me.

And get my mother’s mortgage paid.

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My Journal, Entry 4

Coffee Cake. That’s what they’ve been calling me for forty years. You know why? Because as a kid I liked coffee cake. That’s it. Forty fucking years, all because as a kid I ate some cake in front of some people. Who doesn’t like coffee cake?

It’s late and I can’t sleep even though my eyes are burning, and my head’s a mess, and I’m tired. Pisses me off.

I tried another self-portrait. There’s a rumor that the Mona Lisa was da Vinci drawing himself as a woman, and even though it’s not given much stock by academics, I think it’s pretty interesting. I flipped over my first crayon drawing and worked on the back, making a real effort of it this time, but it still looked like crap. I ended up scribbling solid black circles for the eyes. Oddly, those felt better. Maybe I’ll ask Claire what she thinks that means. She’ll probably just say, “What do you think it means?”

I think it means I’m no da Vinci.

Aurelio pinched a piece of cake from me once. Not coffee cake, but some cousin whatever-the-hell-removed’s birthday cake. We were little kids then, sausage legs swinging cause our feet didn’t reach the ground in those chairs. I looked away for one second and when I turned back, I was greeted with an empty plate and Aurelio’s cheeks bulging. I would have given it to him if he’d asked. Even without asking, I didn’t mind. I liked to pretend he was my kid brother, but I probably loved him so much because he wasn’t. My father came over and said, “You don’t let nobody take nothing from you, else they take everything.” I punched Aurelio in the stomach hard as I could. I remember the half-chewed cake made no noise when it hit the linoleum.

There was a lesson in that punch for him: You don’t fuck with the family.

He had blue icing on his eyebrow. I should have wiped it off.

I should have hit him harder. Maybe it would have stuck.

Been reading about how Roman statues were actually painted wild colors and we’re used to seeing them as plain white marble cause the paint’s all worn away.

Maybe I could have been a historian. I think I would have liked that.

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Dear Ma,

Everything with Salvatore is smoothed.

Ben’s ironing out the plea deal and I’ll be back to you within the month.

I was thinking of maybe pulling back from the business some, taking a couple classes at the community college or something. Salvatore’s itching for more responsibilities and, I don’t know, maybe an early retirement from some elements of our business might be good for me.

Pass along my condolences for Freddie’s nonna.

All my love,

Enzo

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To my only Son,

Your letter is a dagger through my heart. You wish to kill me so you can spit on my grave, and your father’s too. You want to abandon this family? La famiglia è tutto, Enzo. Early retirement from family?

Forgive him, Lord, for he knows not what he says.

What am I if not a mother? How can I be a mother with no son?

Donatella Impastato

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Dear Ma,

I was wrong to say that. I’ve been away too long. Set a place for me at the table.

Your Only Son,

Enzo

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Dear Claire,

I’m sorry to be missing your class this week, but the government wised up and dropped the charges. I’ll be a free man when you read this.

Thank you for helping me with those library books. Maybe I’ll keep reading on the outside, but life is short and books are long.

Get yourself a better gig, kid. Maybe working with at-risk youths. They’ve got their whole lives ahead of them. Or better yet, drop the volunteering and find a high paying job. Maybe take a vacation to Italy, tell my cousins hello.

Be well.

Your student,

Enzo Impastato