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DESERT-STYLE  |
Guido expected Motown,
not the freakin' Mojave!
of TheColumnists.com
He’s not exactly a happy camper. In fact, he’s so mad somebody would be sleeping with the fishes for sure if he could ever locate a body of water bigger than a bourbon chaser.
As the latest member of Nevada’s desert
branch of the Federal Witness Protection Program, Guido Provolone,
(aka ‘the Don of the Dunes’) thinks he got a raw deal.
After federal agents persuaded him to rat out his fellow wise
guys Bambino
Panettone (aka Baby Cakes) and Joseph ‘Joey the Greaseball’
Mazola, Guido left New York for the deep cover anonymity of a
new life in the Mojave Desert. Something he never would’ve
agreed to, he told me, if it hadn’t been for a small mishap
in communications.
“I got a slight hearing problem,” Guido said. “Hey,
you whack as many guys as I did, your eardrums would be blown
out too. The Feds said Mojave, I thought they said Motown. I
figured--hey, Detroit, the Purple Gang--how bad could it be?
With my credentials and experience, I’d be a cinch workin’
for dose guys, y’know? So imagine my surprise when I stepped
off the plane. Instead of smokestacks and auto assembly plants,
all I saw was cactus plants and lizards. Like the pilot took
a wrong turn somewhere and ended up in freakin’ Dry Gulch!”
Although wise guys are usually strict observers of ‘Omerta,’
(the Sicilian code of silence) Guido agreed to talk to me, probably
because of my own deep cover disguise. Posing as Mona Mia, intrepid
reporter for the new trade periodical, “Thugs R Us,”
I offered Guido a thousand clams for his exclusive interview.
Since he assumed the payment was contingent on his trip to Cape
Cod to collect them, he readily agreed.
We met for lunch at Guido’s current place of employment:
the Nature Center of the Red Rock Federal Conservancy. Now working
as a desert nature guide for the crowds of tourists who visit
each year, Guido was nattily attired in cargo shorts and an official
guide tag proclaiming, “My name is Biff. We brake for snakes.”
“I gotta tell ya, Mona, dis bein’ a wise guy just ain’t
what it used to be. In the old days, as long as we could crack
heads and bust knee caps, we had job security. Now, because of
dat TV bum, Tony Soprano, everybody’s goin’ Hollywood.
Guys that used to be enforcers and capos are yappin’
about agents and drama coaches and writing screenplays. Can you
imagine? Big Al must be spinnin’ in his grave! These days,
you risk pissin’ off a Don if you ain’t wearin’
designer sweat suits.
“It’s all about status now. Even the young guys just
makin’ their bones gotta have the Hollywood hairdo, the
designer suits made of unborn silk worms ...all this vanity crap
that ain’t got squat to do wit’ breakin’ heads.
I axe you, what’s the world coming to?”
With a gusty sigh, Guido pointed to his lunch--a plastic container
of tofu cacciatore.
“Look at dis garbage I gotta eat. Back home it was steaks
and pasta and cannoli up da wazoo. Out here, dey don’t
know Bolognese sauce from Burger King. And authentic ricotta
cheese? Fuggetaboutit!
“Back in the day, if you pissed off a Don so bad that you
needed to hide in Witness Protection, the Feds guaranteed you
a nice house, a new life, some money to start over. It wasn’t
until after I made the deal that I found out the real story.
"The Federal budget ain’t what it used to be, they
told me. Money don’t grow on trees and I gotta get a job.
Not the kind I’m qualified for. An actual straight job--one
of those nine-to-fivers like most mopes have. But when I realized
they sent me to Vegas, I figured they cut me a break. I could
contact some old buddies in da casinos, get my own little scam
started and be a high roller in no time. But noooooooo.....!
“What the hell happened to dis town? Not only are da old
wise guys gone, but they tore down all the casinos dat used to
be our ol’ stompin’ grounds. These people around here
now think ‘muscle’ means dose pretty boys in Spandex
pumpin’ iron in the hotel gyms. The only thing this new
crowd knows about ‘juice’ is what they serve in Oxygen
bars. Used to be when we gave people the hose, it was to whack
‘em. Now people pay for the privilege of suckin’ up
air! I never seen anything like this!
“And you wanna know what da worst part is? Dey told me dey
was givin’ me a job, I figure, okay, put me in a suit, an
ankle holster for my piece, and lemme walk the floor in one of
the casinos. I seen all the De Niro flicks--I know what to do.
But y’think they do that? Not a chance! Instead, they change
my name to freakin’ Biff, give me this stupid Bwana suit
and a pith helmet, and tell me I gotta give tours to da tourist
chumps, talkin’ about the damn flora and fauna. I got their
flora and fauna right here, y’know what I’m sayin’?”
Before he could continue his list of gripes, Guido’s wrist
watch alarm shrilled.
“Hey, yo, dat means I gotta go.” Like a shambling bear,
Guido hauled himself to his feet and extended his hand. “It’s
been great talkin’ to ya, Mona, but I’m back on da
clock now. Gotta go give the tour to another group of tourists
or my boss cops an attitude. If that happens, he gives me a crap
assignment instead of dis one. No kiddin’. He gives me a
shovel and sends me out into the desert to pick up after the
wild burros. Like I said, things just ain’t what dey used
to be!”
I watched as Guido rounded up his next tour group, a chatty crowd
of Germans, Swedes and Japanese. Herding them toward the reptile
sanctuary, Guido hoisted a hefty specimen and began his lecture.
“Now dis here is da desert tortoise. Far as I can tell,
it looks like a plain ol’ turtle to me except it’s
a lot bigger and dustier, but dat’s from all dis damn sand!
This sucker’s probably older that all of us put together,
and he’s one heavy mother.
I’ve hauled bodies dat didn’t weigh as much as dis
guy.......”
Distracted by the tourists chattering at
the back of the group, Guido’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“Hey, youse! What da hell you laughin’ at back dere?
Do I amuse you? Huh? You think I’m funny, like a clown?
You wanna see how funny I can be?”
Suddenly the desert tortoise was airborne, lobbed with enough
precision to knock the offending tourist unconscious. Before
resuming his lecture, Guido shot me a sly smile.
“Out here, desert life is da same as anywhere else. You
take your pleasure where you find it.”
In theory, Desert Witness Protection probably sounded like a
great idea to the FBI. But somehow, I doubt Guido plans to go
along with the program.
©2005 by Gina Gallo. The illustration is from IMSI's Master
Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506,
USA. This
column first posted July 29, 2005.
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