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Despite the fact that she wasn’t even twelve years old, Tree made a promise to herself. Sicilians in Chicago in the 1930s were known to be uncivilized, unclean, criminal, unteachable, and uncontrollable, the source of any and all problems in the city. The young couple lived in a series of tiny, run-down apartments on the West Side around the Chicago Stadium while Al worked for a sausage factory.
Driven to work even harder by the responsibility of a young family, Al increased his customer list to more than 100 and his truck fleet to five.
Most of the time the restaurant owners would would grasp his meaning immediately and place the first of many hefty orders, but for the few who didn’t get it, it was only a matter of days before their restaurants would suffer the ill fortune of a midnight fire. In the bedroom of that bungalow, Al stands with his hands on his hips, staring at Tree, smoking in bed and reading Valley of the Dolls. Join us for the next installment of Big Mike’s novel-in-progress, Black Comedy, Saturday. Whatever stage of childhood weirdness I was going through manifested itself best in my bedroom. At one point my friends and I each drew what we thought a smurf looked like and hung our creations on my wall so as to properly present them to our public. In high school, Justin Timberlake and Ashton Kutcher watched over me as I slept in the same bed my mother had slept in as a child.
In the four years I’ve been away at school, my room has been under the creative control of my mother — a woman my sister and I sometimes consider signing up for “What Not to Wear”. When my sister had an exchange student from Prague stay with my family last year, my mother sprang into action preparing my room for her arrival. Moving back for the summer and knowing I was about to spend three months in this room, I knew I needed to take the decorating into my own hands. Once I did all that, I realized my room still had that quirky feel I was trying to wash out. A lot of our newer readers may not realize this, but once a month Big Mike, the Barn Boss of this hapless bunch of hacks, convenes a Third City staff meeting to discuss great issues.
Barn Boss: And it better not include Monroe Anderson or any of your other hoodlum friends from Gary. Milo: Boss, before I get started, let me just take this moment to tell you how much I love that tie that you’re wearing. Milo: Boss, before we adjourn, I’d like to take the time to say how stunning you look in your suit – have you been working out?
Anyway, I spent about 45 minutes mowing the front and back lawns then went back into the house to work on my blog piece. In my opinion, Benny’s lack of cursing skills is due entirely to the fact that he was raised in Evanston, where, I believe, there is still a statute on the books prohibiting cursing within 50 feet of a church, school or North Shore matron.
She shares everything with her husband Al, except for those things she has no desire at all to share. Too many of Tree’s childhood friends and relatives had been seduced by the style, the elan, the cool of men with sharply pressed suits, pinkie rings, big cars, and shiny shoes. So, The Little Rockette darted home, her sweaty face beginning to chill as the sun disappeared behind the three- and four-story apartments to the west. Tree also knew what kind of welcome her mother would have given her as she opened the belled door to the grocery two hours late.
Tree understood that her mother would still be enraged but if the house was in good shape and the kids were settled down, and dinner was on the stove, maybe she wouldn’t be mad for too terribly long. Tree took care to remove her shoes as she carefully closed the first floor back door behind her. She opened the screen door leading into the kitchen, took a step in, and gently held it until it closed without that jarring whap. I’m driving in from Skokie, rocking out to Baba O’Riley on the classic-rock radio station, when the driver in the next lane starts honking his horn. And that won’t be easy cause to tell you the truth – this Blackhawks thing is really starting to irritate me. Funny thing is — there was a time many, many years ago when I loved the Hawks as much as I loved the Bears, Cubs, Sox and Bulls.
Then the Blackhawks – in a moment of monumental cheapness – let Bobby Hull go to another team rather than pay him the raise he deserved.
As time went on, I sort of forgot they existed until this year when everywhere I go it’s Blackhawks this and Blackhawks that and – oh, let me be honest: I’m jealous cause they’re getting way more attention than my beloved Bulls.

I mean, the other day, my sister – who’s never expressed interest in hockey – was telling me how much she loves the Blackhawks.
On the TV, they cut to an overhead shot of Clark and Addison – just outside Wrigley Field – where there are hundreds of celebrants as far as the eye can see. D-List Celebrity Impersonators: Do you want a famous personality to entertain at your next party but can’t afford Elvis or Streisand? The Third City gives a shoutout to Friends of the Parks, for chasing the Lucas Museum off of the lakefront. The Third City recently learned Donald Trump has a 77 percent disapproval rating among Latinos.
He’s charging suckers $45 to buy a t-shirt with his ugly mug on it to pay off losing presidential campaign debt. It is possible that you are hearing those sounds because pregnancy causes a hyperdynamic state in your blood circulation.
Al learned the business, saved his pennies, and eventually struck out on his own, opening up Big Al’s Sausage Co.
His trucks, adorned with a now-familiar slick logo, were making deliveries all over the city.
I’ve had my wall covered with magazine cut-outs, home-made paintings, and other interesting decorative choices. A color my mother decided to paint it years ago while I was gone for a week at sleep-away camp. I just started getting into a good rhythm of character assassination, slander, vile language and outright lies, when I was interrupted by a phone call from Benny Jay, another of the scabby, talentless halfwits who toil at The Third City.
He posted the blog piece the next day and it was called “Gulp – Congratulations, Blackhawks.” I was disappointed but not surprised. So he tries to initiate a conversation with Tree, a rarity indeed, the night after Joey tells him Chet has been expelled from Northwestern University.
For instance, her memories of that short but painful period of time during the War when she worked as a ticket dance girl at the Aragon Ballroom while Al was off fighting the Axis Powers.
Tree, the third of seven children and the oldest daughter, would have called it home, only she’d have gagged on the word. It was the kind of afternoon that many another kid would remember fondly well into adulthood, long shadows interspersed with shafts of early April sunlight bathing the neighborhood in gold. She played short center field where she could roam far and wide, hip-checking the shortstop, second baseman, or even the corner infielders out of the way of grounders and popups.
Tree hated the nickname, fearing her mother might hear it one day and think they were calling her a whore. Then she slowly tip-toed up the stairs, stopping for a breathless moment every time a stair creaked, which was every time she stepped on a stair.
She turned to see the remains of a World War in the kitchen, through the dining room, and all the way to the living room. Tiptoeing still, not for any good reason any more but because the apartment was so eerily silent, Tree reached the washroom and paused. She hadn’t heard anything but the air suddenly felt brisk and she knew she had to stop, like a rabbit sensing that a dog was nearby, to feel where the danger might be coming from. Luisa had wound up like the Cubs’ pitching ace Old Pete Alexander, her right arm extended out behind her so far that her shoulders were turned completely sideways. That first slap was of such force that surely Tree would have been sent flying but Luisa balanced the momentum by whacking her eldest daughter from the opposite side. The warm urine sheeted down her thighs after it had soaked her white cotton panties, an undergarment, Tree wanted to scream, that no boy had ever seen. She clicked the lock and methodically began to remove the articles of clothing she’d wet. Within minutes, thousands of Blackhawks fans took to the streets outside of Wrigley Field to celebrate. I used to take a yard stick up to my bedroom, shut the door and pretend I was Bobby Hull – the Golden Jet – shooting slap shots and scoring goals. Actually, let’s be honest, it’s pretty clear that Norm’s the only one who’s really celebrating. Luisa, having long since lost control over the boys, beat her soundly for every conceivable infraction, real or imagined.
Three months after they met, Tree and Al traveled by car to Indiana where they could marry.

He hoped to supply corner stores, neighborhood delis, hot dog stands, and sandwich joints with frankfurters, kielbasas, and thinly sliced roast beef.
Like Martin Luther King, Malcolm X, Thurgood Marshall, Muhammad Ali and Frederick Douglass. Don’t get me wrong, Benny loves a good dick joke and laughs his ass off at some of the creative ways I try to use foul language in my blogs.
Tree took off her jacket for the first time since the previous fall and played softball on Otis’s asphalt playground. Tree was that quick, that surehanded, and that determined to get her hands on every ball she could reach. The added torque gave the slap that much fuller force and when it made contact, Tree saw nothing but a bright white light as if a blockbuster bomb had exploded in the dining room.
Luisa continued this double-barreled assault for what seemed an eternity but was really only about ten or twelve more times.
Luisa’d crashed her knuckles against the bare lightbulb hanging from an overhead socket, shattering it, the glass shards sprinkling over mother and daughter. She rinsed her navy blue socks and white cotton panties in the sink, wrung them out, and laid them on top of the radiator. But now that it’s here, I’ve got to – gulp – do the right thing and be all magnanimous and everything to Blackhawks fans. Get your choice of Wolf Blitzer, Maury Povich or Rich Mahorn. Tito Jackson look-a-likes still available. As he drove around the neighborhood, he imagined pedestrians seeing his sign and imagining that Big Al’s was, well, a big operation.
Over the years, the Dudeks had moved from their first squalid apartments to successively more comfortable flats. Whoever the cocksucker was that coined the term “Protestant work ethic” should be working in the PR department of BP.
She grew up in the Dakotas and has a rustic’s easy familiarity with weapons and violence that I wish I would have known about before I married her. It’s just that he’s hesitant to use curse words himself, both in conversation and in his writing. We’ll find out a bit about Tree as Al tries to figure out how to, you know, talk to his wife. And I wake up to see the papers filled with page after page of stories about the Blackhawks. Whenever there was an outbreak of home burglaries, store holdups, or general vandalism, the cops rounded up Sicilians for no better reason than that they were Sicilians.
By the time Big Al’s had become the number three purveyor of suasages and beef in Chicago behind Vienna and Oscar Mayer, the Dudeks were ready to move into a bungalow in the Galewood neighborhood out near Oak Park. The slick bastard could probably convince the world that dumping millions of barrels of oil in the Gulf of Mexico was a fantastic public relations stunt. On the rare occasions when he does resort to profanity in his blogs, he usually quotes someone else spewing the filth. At at least two lamp shades were swinging back and forth, much like those in 1906 San Francisco must have swung. She became oddly calm, a puzzled look on her face as she came to understand that she was bleeding. As Tree remembered it, just about every weekend her mother had to take the streetcar down to the police lockup at LaSalle and Chicago to pick up her father or one of her brothers, Frankie and Louie. No kids were visible, a state Tree surmised to be due to their fear that it was Ma sneaking in the back way. She brought her knuckles up to her lips and covered the little gashes with her mouth, her blood and that of Tree mingling in her saliva.
By the time he’d amassed 20 customers and two trucks, he and Tree had a daughter, Anna. The desk cops always sneered at Tree — that is until she turned 12 and they started looking at her in another way that made her feel even creepier.

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