Day 7. Write about someone who was a mentor to you.
Salvatore Giglio. May he rest in peace.
It was raining the night we met; The Count and I had just moved into our little apartment in TriBeCa, and we were looking for a neighborhood joint to call our own. And we found it - the Tavern, bright as a canker sore on 6th. There he was, behind the bar, with bloodshot, watery eyes and jowls like a bulldog. He was the spitting image of Brooklyn Italian, fat on sausage and Gatorade, voice like a gravel driveway. He bought us back a pitcher of Yuengling and a game of pool, and we never really left.
Months later, after he'd pulled his back stealing a keg of Stella the delivery guys had forgotten on the sidewalk, I was hired on as a bartender, to be Sal's shadow. He was a force of nature. It's a rare thing, to find a man like that - someone with the boldness to do or say whatever the fuck he wanted and the charm to not get stabbed for it. Never before or after have I met someone who could pull off the shit that came out of his mouth. He always had a line, whether he was putting a snotty little punk in his place ("Not for nothin', kid; I've gotten laid more outside than you have inside.") or talking down a demanding customer ("You want me to drink it for you, too?"). He was a liar and a cheat, and we all loved him for it. Because he was fucking funny. He was a raconteur of the highest order; any tale he told would have you in stitches for hours.
There isn't enough room on the internet to tell you the stories I have about him. The screaming matches we'd get into when we were both in the weeds. The week we watched Training Day nine friggin' times. The time he kicked a guy out for putting music in the jukebox because we were watching Six Feet Under, the time he had to put our cook in a headlock until the cops showed up because he was drunk and waving a knife around at our customers. Whether he meant to or not, he taught me how to be like him - how to keep someone laughing through their tears, how to steal hearts and money with a smile.
And most of all, he taught me that the truth was a slippery thing. That we, as storytellers, paint our histories to suit our purposes. That we use our words to show our audience the things we want them to see, that we use our silence to hide the things we want forgotten. That a good story can turn tragedy into hilarity, shame into pride.
It was raining the day we said goodbye. They say they found him alone in his house, naked and face-down on the floor, his body already turning blotchy with impending rot. The coroner was kind to call it a cardiac arrest. The wake was packed as friends, family, regulars old and new came to pay their respects and share their stories. Right or wrong, he had gouged himself deep into our bones.
I saw him as a giant, the thundering heart of our little community. A man whose kindness and wit drove me to be faster, funnier, better than I was. He saw himself as a failure, a lonely man with no love in his life, with a disease he couldn't deal with and an addiction he couldn't stop.
In the end, which of us was right? In the end, does it even really matter?
Salvatore Giglio. May he rest in peace.
It was raining the night we met; The Count and I had just moved into our little apartment in TriBeCa, and we were looking for a neighborhood joint to call our own. And we found it - the Tavern, bright as a canker sore on 6th. There he was, behind the bar, with bloodshot, watery eyes and jowls like a bulldog. He was the spitting image of Brooklyn Italian, fat on sausage and Gatorade, voice like a gravel driveway. He bought us back a pitcher of Yuengling and a game of pool, and we never really left.
Months later, after he'd pulled his back stealing a keg of Stella the delivery guys had forgotten on the sidewalk, I was hired on as a bartender, to be Sal's shadow. He was a force of nature. It's a rare thing, to find a man like that - someone with the boldness to do or say whatever the fuck he wanted and the charm to not get stabbed for it. Never before or after have I met someone who could pull off the shit that came out of his mouth. He always had a line, whether he was putting a snotty little punk in his place ("Not for nothin', kid; I've gotten laid more outside than you have inside.") or talking down a demanding customer ("You want me to drink it for you, too?"). He was a liar and a cheat, and we all loved him for it. Because he was fucking funny. He was a raconteur of the highest order; any tale he told would have you in stitches for hours.
There isn't enough room on the internet to tell you the stories I have about him. The screaming matches we'd get into when we were both in the weeds. The week we watched Training Day nine friggin' times. The time he kicked a guy out for putting music in the jukebox because we were watching Six Feet Under, the time he had to put our cook in a headlock until the cops showed up because he was drunk and waving a knife around at our customers. Whether he meant to or not, he taught me how to be like him - how to keep someone laughing through their tears, how to steal hearts and money with a smile.
And most of all, he taught me that the truth was a slippery thing. That we, as storytellers, paint our histories to suit our purposes. That we use our words to show our audience the things we want them to see, that we use our silence to hide the things we want forgotten. That a good story can turn tragedy into hilarity, shame into pride.
It was raining the day we said goodbye. They say they found him alone in his house, naked and face-down on the floor, his body already turning blotchy with impending rot. The coroner was kind to call it a cardiac arrest. The wake was packed as friends, family, regulars old and new came to pay their respects and share their stories. Right or wrong, he had gouged himself deep into our bones.
I saw him as a giant, the thundering heart of our little community. A man whose kindness and wit drove me to be faster, funnier, better than I was. He saw himself as a failure, a lonely man with no love in his life, with a disease he couldn't deal with and an addiction he couldn't stop.
In the end, which of us was right? In the end, does it even really matter?
Salvatore Giglio. May he rest in peace.
Good grief, R. Write the book already, OK? It can be my wedding present.
ReplyDeletethis is beautiful, just all the way through. great tribute.
ReplyDelete