Goomba is Italian slang for friend, and I’m a good one, and stay one, no matter what you do.
“Oh, so they dug up heads in your backyard? Hmm, are you in jail? Can I bring you anything?”
“I just shot my husband.”
“Oh dear, I’m so sorry…did ya eat?”
It’s the Italian in me, all accepting.
I learned to be loyal when I was little, from my grandfather who’d say, “Don’t tell on Fluffy, say you don’t know who ate the goldfish.”
I was 3, and you couldn’t beat a confession out of me.
Omerta’, the Italian code of silence, was already embroidered on my bib.
We lived in a two family house and he and my evil grandmother and her wooden spoon, resided on the first floor.
Grampa made wine on his side of the cellar. Vino: 1 and 2, one being weak, but you’d have to hand over your car keys before you’d get near a jelly glass of Vino Number 2.
I’d sit on a stool and watch while he stirred and sang Scilian songs, and when it was ready, he’d always give me a little taste with the added reminder, don’t tell your mother.
One day I tooled back upstairs and there she was, gazing into her crystal meatball. “You were just with Grampa, weren’t you?”
“Did he give you wine? If you tell me the truth, you won’t get punished.”
Well, imagine Clemenza ratting on the Don. She could have hung me on meat hooks and there was no way I’d be squealing on Grampa.
Despite knowing I was already cooked, like the lasagna in the oven, I still said, “No.”
Well, me and my dolls were separated for a month after that, because unbeknownst to me, I had a little red mustache that told all.