A few weeks ago I told a story about camping after WWII, which meant spreading a tarp in a farmer's field, and how often the farmer or his wife would deliver the gift of a pie or baked bread. No negativity, no removal, no threats. Hospitality. HOSPITALITY. When the country indeed was a nicer place.
A different kind of story. When I was shipped overseas in the Army, I spent a week with an aunt in Philadelphia. She had a boyfriend, R. I didn't know two things then but learned later: R was married and my aunt was his mistress; R was a neighborhood mob boss.
I found out on this visit that he indeed was a neighborhood "bigshot." He told me that he had alerted the local businesses that "R's nephew" was visiting and that if I wore my Army uniform, a matter of ID, I wouldn't have to spend a penny in the neighborhood. Sounded a little strange -- but it was true. My aunt worked and after she left the apt, I ventured into the neighborhood to find some breakfast, wearing my uniform. I hadn't walked far when a cabbie swerved to the curb and the cabbie asked if I was R's nephew. He gave me a free ride to a restaurant, where I had a free breakfast. And, in fact, everything in the neighborhood was on the house during my visit! It was absolutely astonishing to me. Only later, learning he was the local mob boss, did anything make sense.
It figured. R looked a hell of a lot like George Raft.
My aunt, my dad's sister, the mistress of a local mob boss!
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