Machine Guns in the Kitchen
(Remembering my Dad on Father’s Day)
I’ve written plenty about my Dad over the years, so here’s just a short anecdote to honor him today — and to introduce him to some of my newer readers.
I must’ve been about thirteen or so. My family was living in a fourth-floor walk-up. School was closed for some Catholic holiday and I was hanging out in my room with my best friend Bobby — playing Puff basketball and talking about the girls in our class.
Bobby’s Dad was a made man who owned a mobbed-up restaurant in our old neighborhood. Every so often, me and Bobby would stroll into the joint for a free meal at the bar with our paisans. Plenty of ’em knew what my father did for a living, but no one seemed to care. For an hour or so, we were the big shots, treated like royalty and loving it. And, yeah, the food was excellent.
Anyway, back to Puff basketball. That afternoon, as we practiced our Dr. J dunks, my Dad came home unexpectedly from work. My Mom called me and Bobby into the kitchen.
When we got there, laid out on the floor were about a dozen machine guns on a heavy blanket. My Dad had just been out making a buy and, for some reason, he had to stop by the house before bringing the illegal weapons in to be registered as evidence. My mother had convinced him to give the boys a look first.
As Bobby and I stared at the mini-arsenal, I sort of smiled to myself. Being the son of a Special Agent for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms, this was not unusual. I mean, my Dad carried a .357 Magnum everywhere he went.
In his own way, Bobby understood, too. When your Dad has an “unusual” job, you learn to expect anything, and after a while, very little surprises you.
Not even machine guns in the kitchen.
Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
I love you and miss you…