The king is dead. Long live the king!
He really wasnât a king; he was the mayor. Well, in truth, he wasnât even the mayor. His name was Joe Montalbano and he was a royal pain in the ass.
Joe and his wife Pauline were one of the first couples to purchase a house on my street when they were built in 1960. They had a large piece of corner property â plenty of space for their precocious son Joe, Jr. to run around.
Joe was one of those guys who knew everyone and their business and they in turn knew him. A retired firefighter, there wasnât a store owner, restaurateur or town official who didnât know Joe. He belonged to the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club, the local beach club, the town pool, the Italian/American Society and the bocce team. He was a scout leader, coached Little League and marched in every parade. He also attended monthly town meetings and made his opinions known loud and clear. Joe had a lot of opinions.
Joe was the self-appointed inspector of our street. He would drive around in his maroon Bonneville doing 5 miles per hour checking every house for scofflaws. Now if Joe was doing this as some sort of community watch program to protect our little street, well that would have been fine. But that was not what motivated Joe. He was a busybody looking to make trouble wherever he could. Joe wasn’t happy unless he made his neighbors miserable.
If someone was doing a little home improvement, perhaps putting in a patio or cutting down a tree, that person better have a permit taped to the window and all the necessary papers in order. Joe would go out of his way to schmooze it up with the homeowners, make seemingly friendly small-talk and if everything wasnât kosher, heâd sniff it out and report it to the town supervisor. Nice, right?
So, letâs say the poor schmo didnât have a permit. Heâd have to tear down any new construction he did on his own, apply for a permit and pay a hefty fine. Then if any new construction was approved, heâd have to hire someone to do the job and end up paying out the nose for work he could have done himself! But wait. If the construction wasn’t approved, then everything would come to a screeching halt anyway. And God forbid the building examiner found some unauthorized work that had been done years before; it would all have to come down. Good bye to that ‘illegal‘ den the family has been enjoying the last ten years. Thanks, Joe!
Once â and only once â I parked my car in front of my house facing the wrong direction. I wasn’t going to stay long; just enough time to use the bathroom and gather my dry cleaning. I couldnât have been inside more than ten minutes when I noticed a police car out front. I ran outside but he cop was just pulling away and he had left me an unpleasant surprise â a ticket for âcar facing wrong way while parkedâ. Who even knew that was a law? Apparently it is and I broke it to the tune of $150! Thanks, Joe!
Letâs talk about garbage for a minute. Collection days on my street are Monday and Thursday; weâre supposed to put our trash out in the morning on those days. God help the person who put their garbage out the night before! Good old snitch Joe would call the sanitation department. You can bet your sweet ass that person would get a serious reprimand and have to drag their trash back into the house. And if it happened again, a lovely fine would be doled out instead of a warning. Thanks again, inspector!
Everyone likes a little party occasionally, am I right? The Fourth of July, Super Bowl, graduation; these are times to celebrate. Invite some friends over, fire up the grill, have a few drinks, play a little music, talk, laugh, maybe even do some karaoke â thatâs what people do at parties. Now, thereâs a cut-off time for noise in the neighborhood; everything needs to end by 11:00 PM. So let’s say youâre on the front porch saying farewell to the last of your guests and itâs 11:08. Guess who pulls up in front of your house â Officer Krupke with his little ticket book and a big shit-eating grin, thatâs who. âIs there a problem, officer?â you ask innocently. âDisturbing the peace by breaking the town noise ordinance” the cop replies as he taps his watch and hands you a summons. “You have a good night now.” You donât have to ask who ratted you out; he must have all official phone numbers on speed dial.
Thatâs what Joe did; he went out of his way to make his neighborâs lives miserable, all in the name of due diligence. Nice guy, that Joe.
So, years later when Joe finally kicked the bucket, everyone except the people who lived on our street went into mourning. The funeral was worthy of Vito Corleone! The fire department, the police department, the Knights of Columbus, the Kiwanis Club and the bocce team pulled out all the stops and paid for the biggest funeral with the longest limos, the most flowers and best catering the town could provide.
But our little street was cheerful as usual â not that we were necessarily happy that Joe was dead â oh, no no no! It was more a sense of relief knowing âInspector Montalbanoâ wasnât breathing down our necks ⊠or anywhere else, for that matter.
Well, that sense of sweet relief lasted about a week. Thatâs when we saw the familiar maroon Bonneville crawling down the street at 5 miles per hour. And who was behind the wheel? Why, it was Joe, Jr.
The king is dead. Long live the king!
NAR © 2021
The Elephant's Trunk 