Right Speech, Jersey Style

Last week I met a woman from Colorado who was going to marry a guy from north Jersey. She was scared.

“Those people are mean!” she said.

Now she grew up in Colorado where folks are right friendly but will shoot you dead for stepping on their property. I asked her to explain.

“Well, when I was back there in the grocery store I offered the lady ahead of me in line my shopper’s reward card,” she explained, “And she snarled at me!”

“Mother of God,” I said, “What are you doing talking to people in the grocery store?”

I’m serious. You freaking shop for food in a grocery store. People in Colorado use it as an opportunity to “visit” about the kids or the crops or whatever. This is like a guy who reads on the john. It’s not a library, it’s a bathroom. And it’s just disgusting to read on the toilet. Do what needs doing, flush and go. Reading on the throne is as bad as blabbing in the vegetable aisle.

“What else?” I asked my scared friend.

“They honk as soon as the light turns green.”

“How long after the light turned green did you step on the gas?” I was taking her deposition, old school.

“About a nanosecond,” she said defensively.

“Well what do you expect hon? Green means go.”

She looked sort of defeated and for the sake of the marriage I decided to offer her some advice. East coast folks are good people. Out here everyone smiles and gives you sort of a “Happy Jesus Day”! one-finger wave as they drive by but don’t ask for a favor or a shoulder to cry on. Back in Philly, you want the shirt off my back? You just gotta ask, asshole.

“Listen, sister,” I was feeling generous, “Here’s a secret. In Jersey you can say anything you want. Think of that – anything you want – as long as you end with a shrug of your shoulders and an innocent “Hey, I’m just sayin’”.

She stared at me through her tears.

“I’m not kidding. Your new mother-in-law? Try this. ‘Hey Ma you’re puttin’ on a few. (Pause, shrug) I’m just sayin’”

All the friendliness in Colorado gets on my last nerve. In the hospital if I see a patient with a Yankees hat on I’ll tell him “No health care for you, buddy,” and since Yankees fans love to be hated they always give it right back. I took care of an Italian guy from north Jersey visiting Steamboat. He said,

“These people look at me and smile,” he sounded like Marlon Brandon, “And I think they want my wallet.”

That’s why I taught my kids two important safety rules: (1) never make eye contact with anyone, and; (2) never eat anything that grows directly out of the ground. Eye contact can provoke gunshots and you can just wait for food to hit your grocer’s freezer before eating it, okay? People out here pick ferns and mushrooms and shit right out of the ground and fry them up like it was nothing! By all rights they should all be dead.

Bob and I had a big pre-marital argument over chickens. We were living in the middle of East Butt Nowhere and he announced that he wanted to “raise chickens.” I told him that was a deal breaker.

“Why do you think they call them ‘fowl’?” I said, “They are disgusting. And I guess you want to be all Cro-Magnon and chase them around and chop their heads off and whatnot.”

“Well, yeah,” he responded, “That’s part of it.”

“It’s me or the chickens, boyfriend,” I was laying down the law.

He paused, thinking it over. I am not kidding. And there are times I wish he’d picked the chickens.

We also had a big argument one night over the Second Amendment. We’d been together more than a year and it was time for him to come back east and meet my Philly peeps. He didn’t want to.

“Why can’t they come here?” he whined

“What are you, the fucking pope?” I asked, “There’s like seven thousand of them. They should charter planes to come kiss your ring?”

“Alright I’ll go,” he conceded, “But I’m bringing my gun.”

“You can’t carry a gun in Philly or Jersey,” I was talking to him like he was in fifth grade. I leaned in close “It’s illegal, Cowboy.”

Whereupon I got the Second Amendment Lecture about the Constitution and Philly and criminals. I rolled my eyes.

“Bring your gun, bring your credit card,” I told him, “’Cause I’m not bailing your sorry ass outta jail.”

This direct Jersey Speak has really worked for me. When I was raising three teenage boys as a single mom in south Jersey (south and north are two different countries, really) I was scared and they were reckless. Boys are crazy. They love to play on the roof and throw footballs across traffic. They drink, they screw and break stuff. Raising teenage boys is like running a zoo. You open the door to the bedroom, throw in some raw meat, and retreat in fear. As men-in-training I knew they had the attention span of a gnat, so to get a point acroos I had to be fast and I had to be clear.

“You get one get-out-of-jail-free card,” I explained one night at dinner as they ate spaghetti like animals, “I’ll help you with the cops one time. After that, you’re Bubba’s bitch.”

Fabulous parenting in less than 10 seconds. They stared, open-mouthed, cogitating on a large man named Bubba having his way with them. I could have lectured them till the cows came home (whenever that is) but one image worked like magic. They each cashed in their Get Out Of Jail Free Card, and that was that.

When I finally did get Bob’s royal behind out to Philly my brothers arranged an intimate dinner for him with 17 of my closest relatives. This is one of my favorite stories. We went to Ralph’s in South Philly where they only accept cash and there are huge, long tables with gallons of Pisano wine. It’s so loud in there someone could drop dead and they’d find him in like three days. So me and the Cowboy walk into Ralph’s and of course Bob’s wearing blue jeans and a ten-gallon cowboy hat and my cousin Renee is squeezing his ass like she’s checking the tires on a new car.

“Oh Madonna!” she elbowed me, “Good job!”

When we all sat down poor Bob was like chum in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Huge plates of pasta were being passed over his head; fifteen people were talking at once. Cousins were yelling questions at him and then not waiting for an answer. Big tough cowboy was taking his Philly welcome with a deer in the headlights look when my brother Domenic, a good foot shorter than Bob poked him in the ribs and said, with a mouth full of meatballs,

“Yo Cowboy Bob,” he kept shoveling, “You hurt my sister I’ll fucking kill ya, alright? Pass the parm.”

Bob’s eyes widened. He wanted his trusty sidearm, but mere bullets can’t hurt the love of Italian siblings. My brother Tony, a surgeon, chimed in from the other side,

“And Yo Cowboy Bob,” he smiled, “I’ll take things out of you that you don’t even know you have.”

Tony shrugged.

“I’m just sayin’.”

By the time Bob came back for another visit he’d spent enough time with me to understand the culture of Right Speech Jersey style. Dom threw a party for us at Pappy’s Pig Roast in Marmora New Jersey. All three of my brothers were there, including darling Joe, and they spent an awful lot of time dancing in a lewd fashion “Brokeback mountain-style.” At my last family reunion Bob was raising his wine glass and yelling with the best of them, banging the table and singing the Eagles’ fight song.

If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em. I’m just sayin’.