Sons of Italy

His heavy Italian accent barked orders over the corded telephone that I clutched in my sweaty conforming hand. My instructions were to meet him curbside on the corner of Broad and Chestnut in downtown Philadelphia the following Saturday afternoon at 2pm sharp. He promised to be in position early to wait for my arrival. Between the two of us, he was the only one who stood a chance of recognizing the other. He would look for my car, a vehicle he forced me to describe in nauseating detail. He would look for me in the clothes I signed on to wear that day without a single fiber of deviation. Before the receiver went dead, he cajoled me into promising not to be late. He did not want me to make him foolishly wait when I waited eighteen years. A few minutes leeway should not be a source of contention for an Italian immigrant who advertised all the Old School flexibility of Gumby set in concrete.

The meeting day came with much apprehension on my part. Bright sunshine and the clear visibility of blue sky stretched for miles. Traveling down Broad street by car, I could not get anywhere near my destination. With the area cordoned off with barricades and rope, I had to park several city blocks away from our rendezvous point. Frenzied people crowded the sidewalk to celebrate something other than my blessed reunion. The pedestrian traffic distracted my walk for everybody seemed to be heading in my direction. A clown, balloonist, and a big guy walking on stilts stirred my sense of irony. The gathering throng prevented me from even seeing the designated corner. My mind searched for other people’s description of him. I anxiously paced the street corner named desire. Minutes passed as I alternated pawing at my watch and panning the crowd.

From out of nowhere, a stocky man who looked and smelled foreign bear hugged me like a long lost relative. After obligatory contact, I awkwardly squirmed from his long embrace. Tears rolled down his cheeks while I paradoxically introduced myself. It is unfathomable a task locating the father you never met in a parade amidst a canvass of humanity. Informative years, puberty, adulthood, and emancipation should never pass before you meet your biological father. In a faceless crowd anywhere, he could have been anybody or nobody at all. That is precisely the point. Even a child knows that.