Dave’s Pool Room, 40th Street

Pickles of the cool gray Italian silk suits and the paten leather shoes and the abundant and wavy black hair and the sociopath’s brain, Pickles who apprenticed the gigolo trade from his uncle, Jumper Phillips, Pickles who courted and won the heart of all of the women in his life and who never gave anything of his true self. Pickles of the quick wit and charming patois and the nightclub ways and the gambler’s life, Pickles was in Dave’s pool room holding court. He had disappeared from the neighborhood for several weeks – jail? Chicanery? Who knew? He showed up with a white Cadillac convertible and a lady almost twice his age from Boston whose family owned a shoe manufacturing plant. Pickles, who was later to run off with the company payroll and leave the lady stranded in West Philadelphia, Pickles was playing Louie the Lug in a heavy stakes game of straight pool – first one to pocket fifty balls pocketed a goodly wad of money.

The Lug, as usual, bedecked in his khaki grease stained garage mechanic overalls, who quietly could run a rack or two, and on a good day, three had just played an elegant safe, leaving Pickles with the cue ball against the back rail and a virtually undisturbed rack of balls. Lug said nothing; his huge triangular shaped head topped off with wiry copper hair the color of his overalls was, as usual, held straight and tall from his broad shoulders. No one would ever call The Lug handsome, but formidable would fit nicely. Lug said little, or should I say just enough. He knew how to goad and he did so with a Spartan like mastery.

Pickles strutted around the table looking over the rack for a “dead shot”. -Now, a dead shot is a ball, which if the rack is struck properly, will fall into a pocket. - If a good shooter was fortunate enough to find a “dead one” he would call the ball and pocket, smack open the rack, make the dead ball and have an open table from which to pick his shots. Finding a “dead one” virtually assured a win with players at this skill level. Pickles holding his cue like a baton and strutting like a drum major perused the table. He circumnavigated it once looking at the rack from the angle of each of the six pockets, paused, looked again and declared that the five ball was “dead” for the right corner pocket. Even to my inexperienced eye it was a dangerous gamble. The five was in the middle of the pack and the rack would have to be struck with considerable force for the ball to have enough leg to roll into the corner pocket. The second problem was that since the five was in the middle, the force of the blow would send balls careening off the rails and one might bounce back and knock the five off its course. The third problem was that the cue ball was fast against the back rail and it was doubtful that the shot would be powerful enough to send the five ball into the pocket.

Prudence declared that Pickles play a safe. He assumed his shooting position, declared that he was playing a safe, and said in a stage whisper, “The five is dead”. He slowly drew his cue stick back to tap the cue ball softly and play his safe and said again, “The five is dead”. Lug, who had been quiet all this time said in a barely audible basso, “Can’t go.” Pickles stopped his stroke, picked up his cue stick and did another tour around the table. “The five’s dead” he declared, but got back into shooting position and declared he was playing a “safe”. Again, a barely audible, “Can’t go” came from the Lug’s throat. Pickles was unable to resist the challenge. “Five ball in the corner pocket” he said and laid a powerful cue shot at the rack. Balls went careening everywhere and the five, as if on string began its tortuous way towards the corner pocket, moving so slowly that it was easy to read the black 5 in the white spot painted on the orange surface of the ball. The five inched its way towards the center of the pocket. Pickles had been correct, the five was dead. But the Lug was more correct. The five stopped less than an inch from the pocket lip. The shot had failed. It was Lug’s turn to shoot, and with the rack busted wide open, he ran the table, making every ball, never relinquishing his turn to Pickles. Lug walked off with some of the Boston money and Pickles, unflustered, left the poolroom and went back to the well for more easy money. Losing never bothered Pickles. It usually wasn’t his money anyway and he got his pleasure from the thrill of the gamble. But he didn’t like being shown up. Louie The Lug showed him the door while pocketing his cash.

Mom, Esther Perretta-Tuoni and the Perretta family

Maternal Aunts and Uncles: Figli di Felice Perretta e Filomena Martino

My maternal uncles:
Angelo (called Foochie), Foochie's name was always spelled as I have written it. However, I believe that
its derivation is from the Italian verb "fuggire", to flee. Apparently, as a youth he ran away from home
often, hence his nickname, which loosely translates to "the fugitive".

Harry (called Gypsy) perhaps because he was swarthy. He rather liked the nickname. One thing is for sure if he hadn’t liked the name no one would have called it to his face. All of my Perretta uncles were strong, brawny men, but Gypsy was the last one you’d want to tangle with.

Joseph (called Joe), Armand (called Toots), Albert (called Hank), and Carl rounded out the family. Carl is a popular family name. My Uncle Carl Perretta had a son, Carl Perretta. My Uncle Angelo Perretta, had a son, Carl Perretta who has a son, Carl Perretta. When I informed Grandma Perretta that my son was also to be named Carl, she beamed a smile at me and said “Alla da Carls, gooda boys.” Thanks for the blessing grandma. You were right. Incidentally, my son Carl Tuoni has a son, Carl Tuoni.

My maternal aunts: Amelia [Marinari] (called Millie), Rita [Izzo], PascuaRosa, which translates
to Easter Rose she was born on or around Easter, [La Sorsa], (Called Rose)

My mother, born Esther Perretta on August 7, 1906 (died June 4, 1970) was the oldest daughter of Felice
Perretta and Filomena Martino, who, along with Grandma Filomena's sister, Sadie, emigrated to the United
States from the town of Macchia D'Isernia in the Molise province of Southern Italy. Sadie married John
Martino, also a native of Macchia. The two families lived next to one another at 4024 and 4026 Cambridge
Street in Philadelphia. They shared a common back yard that they converted into vegetable gardens and a
grape arbor. The families shared gardening and vineyard chores. Uncle John and Grandpa Perretta shared
the wine making. Grandma Filomena raised chickens. They were typical of the first generation
Italian-Americans who occupied Poplar and Cambridge between 40th and 41st Streets prior to and during
World War II.

Put a head, arms and legs on a wine cask and you'd have a good picture of Grandpa Perretta and his sons. The daughters, except for Aunt Rose, were likewise robust. Aunt Rose, the youngest daughter, and the best looking of my maternal aunts, dieted so strenuously that she became consumptive and died while barely in her thirties. My mother died of cervical cancer, and Aunt Rita of complications from diabetes. Rita was into her sixties at the time and never took particularly good care of herself.

Grandpa Felice and Grandma Filomena ran an Italian American grocery store. They were enterprising, eventually purchasing a large two-story garage across the street from their store. The first floor of the garage, Felice converted into a storeroom with areas for making sausage and giavella water, a Mediterranean version of "grandma's lye soap."

Sausage making took place at the front of the garage. Giavella water was made in the rear where the ammonia like smell could disappear in the alleyway between Cambridge Street and Girard Ave.

The second floor of the garage, Grandpa Felice converted into a miniature alcohol free (usually that is) nightclub, replete with stage, dance floor and cloakroom. He rented the "Melody Club" as it came to be called to the young men of Cambridge and Poplar Streets. The Melody Club became a place to hang out, and hold dances, the neighborhood's young persons' social club. It also served as a safe and comfortable haven for any of the neighborhood young men who "ran away from home" for a day or two. I can remember Mario Spino, as tough as they came, being rousted out of the Melody Club one morning by Margaret, his barely five foot tall mother, who had a firm grip upon his ear. Mario got back home to do whatever it was he had to do, and Margaret knew exactly where to find him, and what to do when she did.

While the Melody Club was the neighborhood center for the teenagers, The Order of Italian Sons and Daughters of America, Cristoforo Colombo Lodge, Number 109, located on Poplar Street near the 40th Street corner, and next door to an orthodox Jewish synagogue, served as the social center for my parents' generation. The Lodge, as it was called, was a brick building constructed by the men of the neighborhood, and it was there that they gathered to socialize, play bocce in the yard behind the club, play cards in the large meeting room, and watch the Friday night TV fights.

Fight nights were raucous and pleasure laden. As a youngster, I would accompany my father to watch the TV battles, drink soda and eat the splendid pizza that was made on the premises. We would cheer loudly for Joey Giardello, Willie Pep, Jake La Motta, Rocky Graziano, and the man who would become the world's heavyweight champion, Rocky Marciano. Joyous cries of "Geeve it to heem", "en la bonza", and "sta finuto" would fill the lodge when one of our heroes was winning, and a grim silence would fall like a lead curtain when Chuck Davey or Sugar Ray Robinson, or Kid Gavilan or Sandy Saddler had the upper hand.

In the late 1950's, while I was attending college, my father assumed the position of weekend chef. His specialty was clams on the half shell. He seasoned them with a combination of parsley, garlic and oregano and then baked them. They were delicious. I assisted my father by sitting behind the bar and taking food orders, which I wrote on a sales slip and sent to the upstairs kitchen via a dumb waiter. The dumb waiter would subsequently deliver the orders and I would carry them to their final destination. I loved the work. Dad also made hoagies, meatball and gravy sandwiches, pizza and other Italian style treats.


Uncle Hank and Uncle Carl were exceptional athletes. Hank was being scouted by the Brooklyn Dodgers as a catcher, but was drafted and spent six years in the military, seeing action in North Africa, Sicily and Italy. Hank never spoke of the war. I think that he was bitter about losing his chance to play major league baseball.

Uncle Carl was a helluva football player. He was all state high school as offensive center and middle linebacker. He played a year at Villanova, but quit college and married and settled into family life. He was a kind and gentle giant. I had once gotten my self into a nasty war with some black kids. I have to admit it was racially inspired. Not altogether unjustifiably, a very large person appeared on Cambridge Street and confronted me. It so happened that my grandfather had retired and Uncle Carl took over the grocery business. A very fortunate circumstance for me since Carl was tending store at the time and the incident occurred in front of the Perretta Grocery Store. “How about you and me gettin’ on with a fair one”, this very large stranger said to me. He was about 6'1" and muscular, I tipped the scales at 129 lbs and my strength lay exclusively, and in this circumstance, futilely, in my verbal skills. He had no sooner uttered the incredulous words, “A fair one!” than Uncle Carl appeared from the store door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Uncle Carl was very gentle. He spoke softly and moved like a panther. He could hold and cover ground like a middle linebacker. He walked up to us and said, “What’s the trouble”? The very large person looked at Carl and said, “No problem”, and walked back from whence he came. Uncle admonished me for my foolishness and then went about his business.

Foochie and Gypsy were rogues. They had their soft sides, but few challenged them. One Gypsy story had him taking a swing at someone who had the good fortune to dodge the blow, which landed full force onto a telephone pole. Uncle Gypsy never blinked. He shook his fist, blew on it, and turned to his now fleeing antagonist. Gypsy gave chase for half of a block until the poor man sped out of sight. The blow would have broken several knuckles on an ordinary man's hand. Gypsy just shook it off. He once punched the daylights out of Frank Rizzo, the very same Frank Rizzo who was a tough cop and later went on to become mayor of Philadelphia, but that’s another story.

Foochie had a temper, and was a feared battler. He was hard on his wife, my Aunt Anna, and tough on his children, but he gave my mother great respect, and I always had a good time with him, being his older sister's son, stood me in good stead.

Joe and Armand were solid, hard working family men. Uncle Joe had two daughters named Elaine. His first wife, Aunt Alma, bore a daughter, Elaine. Alma died, and Joe remarried Lill, a divorced English war bride. Aunt Lill had had a daughter by her previous marriage also named Elaine. Uncle Joe adopted her.