#7 Hey, I Gotta You "PC" . . . Right Heah!

(Originally appeared in Gauntlet magazine, 1992.)

by Don Vito Corleone (as told to Thomas F. Monteleone)

“So . . . “ he says to me over a gilt-edged cup of steaming cappuccino, “you’re a writer . . . and a Siciliano?”‘

I nod, manufacturing a small smile.

“Good. That’s-a good. We don’t have too many of our boys grow up to be writers, you know. There was Mario, of course . . . And Frankie— Frankie Cop­pola. And now . . . (he pauses to sigh dramatically with a little shrug) . . . and now, we gotta you.”

“You got me,” I say firmly, but with rispetto.

“Yeah, well , you got any idea why I ask you to come here today . . . ?” He leans back in his chair, bathed in the shadows of a long afternoon.

It is my turn to shrug (thankfully, I know all the right moves). “You always told me—someday you might ask even me for a favor.”

“That’s a-right, Tomasso. As you know, it does not matter to me how a man makes his living—even if he’s gotta write in-a Inglese to make-a the money.”

I smile, nod, but say nothing. It is obvious he plans to continue.

“You see, I was reading in Time magazine that everybody’s gotta be more ‘Politically Correct’ these days, and this article, it takes care of everybody!l Everybody but us!”

“‘Us’. . . ?”I ask tentatively.

He nods slowly, more with his eyes than his entire head. “Us,” he says in that familiar, drawn-out,  half-whisper.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Gabeesh . . . what can I do to help?”

“I want you to write a—whaddya call it?—an ‘article’? An essay? For this rag here.”

He gestures diffidently at a thick publication with a garish cover depicting a multi-armed monster emerging from a living room television set.

“You mean Gauntlet?”

“Whatever it’s called . . . it does not matter to me. What is important is that you deliver my message to la pecora —to the sheep.”

“I think I can do that. No problem.”

“Good. That’s-a good.” He steeples his hands as he leans forward on his polished desk. Leaning close to a desk intercom, he keys it, whispers into it: “Send ‘im in.”

A door open in the shadows of the far end of the office and a forty-ish guy enters. He’s dressed conservatively, a spare tire where his waist used to be—just a sport radial at this point, but if he doesn’t watch the linguini, he’s going to have himself an all-weather job. His face is round and he’s doing a good job of looking like a candidate for Rogaine. “This is Johnny ‘the Scribe’ DiCiancia,” says Don Vito, as the man takes a seat to the left of the desk. “He’s been helping me with this ‘PC’ thing.”

“Nice to meet you, Johnny,” I say, shaking hands.

Johnny is shy, I can tell by looking at him. He smiles thinly as he pulls out some papers from a folder he’s carrying. “Okay, here’s what we have in mind,” he says, with a deferential look towards the Don.

I pull out my notebook computer, ready to type in any key phrases.

“First-off, Don Vito,” says Johnny. “We gotta get rid of these references to anything ‘mob-related’.”

“O . . .kay . . .”

“From now on,” says Johnny, “it’s a be ‘large, frenzied, crowd-related . . . You got that?”

“Got it.” I’m not crazy about it, but I definitely got it.

“And the ethnic slurs,” says the Don. “No more guinea-goombah stuff, okay? No more wops, dagos, greaseballs, or spaghetti-benders.”

“I covered all that, boss,” says Johnny. “If they wanna call us anything from now on—other than ‘Sons of Italy’ or ‘Italian Stallions’—I came up with ‘pasta sculptors’.”

Inwardly I wince, but I look across the desktop which looms as large as strike force carrier. Don Vito’s eyebrows are arched as he considers this sobriquet.

“Not bad,” he says after a moment. “Sounds kind of artistic—like Michelan­gelo, eh?”

“No question about it!” I say.

“Okay, what’s next?” He looks at Johnny the Scribe, gestures for him to con­tinue.

“Why don’t you let me just run down the list, boss . . .?”

Don Vito nods. “I’ll stop you if some­thing grabs me the wrong way.”

“All right,” says Johnny. “Instead of  ‘muscling in,’ it’s now increasing a market share; a “bookie”: short term investment broker; “prostitution”: analog dating service; “pimps”: affirmative action officers; “Protec­tion”: neighborhood improvement contribu­tions; and “bribes”, will now be called political action donations.”

Johnny the Scribe looks pleased with himself. He looks over at his boss, who is chewing on a piece of marzapan candy previously in the shape of a strawberry.

“That is good, but we’re not done yet. What about when we need to whack some chooch? The only hits I want to hear about are the ones at Yankee Stadium.”

 “Okay,” says Johnny. “How about a waste management decision?”

“I can live with that,” says Don Vito.

“And “hit-men” could be personnel ter­mination actuators. “Victims”: the lethally challenged.”

“Sounds like a great idea to me.” Don Vito smiles, then finishes off his capucchino with a flourish and a raised pinky finger. “Whaddya think, Tommy?”

“Hey, this stuff is great!” I say with mustered enthusiasm (okay, so I’m a chicken . . . ). “A whole new era in media relations.”

“All right,” the Don says to me. “You write this up, pretty-like, you know, so the people, they will like reading it. And make sure you let all these media-assholes under­stand—they’ve got a new vocabulary now. And they better use it.”

“Or else they’ll be exploring alternate marine habitats,” says Johnny.

“Huh?” Don Vito and I say simul­taneously.

“Sleeping with the fishes,” says ‘the Scribe’ with a sly grin.

“I like that,” says the Man.

I add it to the list on the screen of my notebook, start going through the mo­tions of finishing up. “Well, looks like I’m about ready to get to work,” I say.

Don Vito looks at me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Haven’t you guys forgotten something?”

I feel the sweat bursting out of me. Have we pissed him off? Are we really supposed to kiss his ring?

“Ah . . . what’s that?” I manage to say weakly.

“The most important thing—and you two mamalukes don’t know?”

“Sorry, boss,” says Johnny. It’s a middle-age thing—you know how it is. Sometimes I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast . . . .”

This last remark seems to strike a sympathetic chord in Don Vito. He nods gently, with genuine feeling.

“The most important thing—we need a new name for the or­ganization,” he says. “This ‘mafia’ thing . . . it’s gotta go.”

I look at Johnny the Scribe and he has this helpless look on his face. It’s a desperate look that says: “I’m fucked, compaesano. I forgot all about this one . . . I got nothin’.”

I suddenly feel this . . . this absence in my gut. It radiates outward like the blown-off ring of gases from a supernova, threatening to absorb me into its nothing­ness. A New name! He wants a new name and we got a Big Zero here . . . . !

“So whaddya have for me?” asks the Man.

I’m staring at him, caressed by the shadows, when it suddenly comes to me.

I smile and gesture with my hands like I’m describing the size of a caught fish. “The new name is . . .” I say, “The Mothers And Fathers Italian Association.”

Don Vito stands up, walks around the desk and hugs me in his usual style. “That’s-a nice,” he says. “ . . . has a nice family ring to it.”