Isocolon

Isocolon (i-so-co’-lon): A series of similarly structured elements having the same length. A kind of parallelism.

My ears. My feet. My dick. I was trying to figure out how to prioritize my body parts. I had double-crossed Alfonso LaGuardia. I ran numbers for Mr. LaGuardia before the state of New York put us out of business with scratch-off lotto tickets with stupid names like “Gold Pot” and “Pirate’s Buckles,” We used the last three numbers of the number of stocks sold every day on the NYSE for the winning number. The number published for us in the evening edition of the “Daily News.”

Back then, I was desperate for money. My daughter needed tuition to go to Rutgers in the fall and I needed a new Cadillac to replace the rusted hulk that mine had become. The tires were bald, the seats were torn and it smoked like a fog machine. I had a reputation to keep up as a “salesperson” for Mr. LaGuardia. Running numbers was an art.

It was bookkeeping intensive. Keeping track of the slips was a huge part of my job—making sure people didn’t try to rip me off and I had included everybody that made a bet. I had 100 “bookers” working for me who sold bets on street corners all over New York. I collected their daily takes out of a sleazy hotel that was populated by whores and drug dealers. I was on the third floor. Sometimes, I’d have a line of bookers snaking down into the street. I packed a .45 in case anybody tried to rob me (which was at least once per month). I had a suitcase that I carried all my stuff in—including the money. I would deliver the money to Mr. LaGuardia at 10 Pm every day. Sal would count it out and give me my cut.

I was going to fake a robbery and keep all the money for myself. My own son, “Scimunito,” ratted me out. He was a total idiot who didn’t look at the big picture. He thought he would ingratiate himself to “The Boss” if he turned me in.

Mr. LaGuardia called me into his office: “Your own son has betrayed you. I must teach him a lesson. After I amputate your ear, I will deep fry it and feed it to him, telling him it is Calamari. Then, I will reveal the truth, that it is your ear. This will teach him a lesson he won’t forget. Every time he sees you with one ear, he will remember, and it will torment him.”

Mr. LaGuardia listened to my explanation for what I had done. He took my ear, but he let me keep the money. He understood my plight. He was a sensitive man.

Now, I sell condos in Miami. I had a prosthetic ear attached. I make a good living but I am still estranged from my son who manages a bowling alley in Weehawken.

Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu).

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