The Geeks and the Goons

As promised, here is the tale of the weirdest New Year’s Eve I ever celebrated.
When the kids were small, we would drive to New York (Long Island) from suburban Chicago. The company Significant Other worked for was headquartered on the island, and many of his co-workers were good friends. Usually, our hosts would have the party, but one year one of the company vice-presidents gave the New Year’s Eve party. With her sister. Naturally she invited her many friends and associates from work, including us. Her sister was, shall we say, “Married to the mob.” There were those who stated that the sister had no idea what he husband actually did, but I never bought that. Anyway, the sister invited her husband’s friends and co-workers.

Now the company Significant Other worked for was scientific and technical, and the co-workers were a somewhat cerebral bunch, low key and well, nice. This party was a VERY long time ago, and held in the rec room in the basement. Part of the decorations were some black lights. These lights were not kind to black clothing. Either you looked like you had a terminal case of dandruff, or your dress became transparent. Fortunately, I just had the “really needs Selsun Blue” look.

At first the two groups didn’t mix, but then people introduced themselves, and mix we did. We met Frank and Sal and a guy who asked, “How are t’ings in Chicago?” which because a family saying. The “family” was sociable and of course they didn’t talk shop, although I’m sure S.O.’s co-workers did.

At one point in the evening I was dancing with one of the gents, and he was talking about a wonderful get-away-from-it-all place in upstate New York, which much later I realized was Appalachia. Big mobster hide out. My take at the end of the evening was that, hey, the Mafia is very much like you and I.

To a point, of course. Last night, watching Tony Soprano get into with his brother-in-law, I realized I had never in my entire life witnessed a family fight, as in people shoving and punching and swearing at each other. Never.

My grandpa was reputed to be a fierce fighter and spent time in Alcatraz for drunken brawling when it was an army prison. Think that broke him of it. Bad boys were sent there to cool off, strange as it may seem. He was a hell raiser when he drank which was not often.

Does this story have a moral? Maybe don’t drink too excess if you have a bad temper. When my group of crime writers visits the local prison, that’s the first thing we learn. Booze and drugs and poor impulse control are a really bad combination.

I know the readers of this blog always behave like ladies and gentlemen. You do, don’t you?

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