"Hey Ma." "Hello Son" " What's Up?" "Your father and I are in Washington for Cousin Reese's funeral." "Oh yeah, I forgot. Sorry they wouldn't let me out for that." Reese, who was quite a bit older and like my 10th Cousin had risen to a top government position and recently died of a gum infection. "Your Cousin was a brilliant man, you know that. They are having a huge ceremony down here for him." "Yeah, he was a real genius. But Ma, I still can't understand why he just couldn't have brushed his teeth?"
I remember, as a young boy Reese would excuse himself early from the holiday dinner table, returning to his room to study. "See that,” my father would say, "it's that kind of hard work and dedication to the books that you’re going to need if you ever hope to amount to anything." These words stuck with me on that long road through higher education. But my most vivid memory of Reese was the time when I'd finished stuffing myself and walked into his bedroom unannounced to find him hunched over a magazine with a bottle of lotion in one hand and all his hard work in the other.
"Will you fit into a 44 regular." "Why are you whispering Ma, where are you?" "In your cousin’s closet. He has all these expensive suits. It would be a sin to let them go to waste." "... Sure, I'm a 44 short but that’s close enough. How many can you stuff in your suitcase? Did you check the pockets yet? When are you guys coming home?" "Our plane comes in at 3:00 Sunday afternoon." "Good. I'll still be home on a weekend pass." "Great honey, how is everything else going." ”? Ok... but I’m a little bummed out, do you remember my friend Jimmy Petrocelli? He left Lewisburg for the halfway house the same day I was released." "Is he the one you said looks like Shrek? And his Cousin Tony just got picked up again for extortion?" (My mother is almost 72 and sharp as the frigging day is long). "Yup, that's him. He just told me they got him on a hot urine for coke. He's going back." "Oh my God, didn't he do the RDAP with you?" "Yeah and the Feds don't play with that, if you did the drug program it's zero tolerance. Imagine doing nine months, 500 hours on top of his ten year sentence and going back for a couple of lines." "That's terrible. Jimmy you... you don't get tempted like that do you?" "Come on Ma, are you kidding – no - not a chance." "Well what makes him go back to that stuff after all he's been through?" "You know Ma, because he is a Junkie. An honest to god, life long, junk bomb. People don't understand how hard it is to beat." "Well I'm going to pray for him." "No Ma, your not! Just keep praying for me." "You know I already do that." "Yes but Ma there are only so many hour in a day and when your praying for Petrocelli, I’m not covered. Listen, the lord gave you one son, and it is not Jimmy Petrocelli! So Ma, please, concentrate on praying for me, your flesh and blood, your first born only son and undeniably favorite child and let Mrs. Petrocelli worry about her junk-bomb!"
Postscript: My mother is not only a Saint; she's a sneak. I have no doubt she prayed for JP behind my back because as of this writing he is miraculously still in the halfway house.
UPDATE: On Tuesday of this week Jimmy’s brother died of cancer. He requested to go to the wake. His request was denied. Last night, three days before Christmas, Federal Marshals ascended on the 1/2 way house in Boston to bring him back to prison. "Ok Ma, go ahead, Jimmy needs your prayers now more than I do."
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