I’m dumb with it.
My Uncle Bob is a good guy. He’s a real man’s man born and bred in Easton, PA. He married my mom’s sister. He was a high school football coach for 30 years, and still teaches high school. He’s a half-Italian, half-Irish/Englishman with a thick Pennsylvania accent. Bob’s a great story teller. His stories about being raised in Easton are like opening a time capsule. He’s able to paint a clear picture of a type of community that doesn’t seem to exist anymore in this country.
Easton was a real blue collar city with a lot of grit. One of those places where you could walk everywhere, yet everyone drove. A town where “ethnically diverse” meant a whole lot of different kinds of white folks, and all the nationalities lived in defined neighborhoods. There were plenty of factory jobs to find employment, and there were plenty of bars to grab a drink at after work. Chances were if the cops had to drive you home they probably knew at least someone in your family. It was a small city where everyone left their doors unlocked. Bob was raised in a Lebonese neighborhood and, as a kid, if he got hungry while out playing, he might just walk into a neighbors house and make a mayonaise and onion sandwhich and no one would bat an eyelash.
Bob seems like he was a popular guy. He can talk for hours about the “characters” he grew up with. But my favorite character that Bob talks about has to be Eddy “Go Down” Canone.
Eddy Go Down was a WWII vet. He earned a bronze medal over there for rescuing some fellows during a big gunfire exchange. One day, after he got back from the war, he and some friends were standing on a street corner in Easton when a local boxing promoter approached them. The promoter told them he had a fighter that was getting prepared to fight for a world championship and they were going to have an exhibition in which he would fight as many local guys that would step in the ring with him. The deal was, you put on some gloves, stay in the ring with him as many rounds as you can and you earn $3 every round you made it through.
None of Eddy’s friends accepted the offer, but Eddy said “Sure, I’ll do it, can I get these guys some free tickets?” The day of the fight, it seemed like everyone in town was there to watch the exhibition. A lot of local guys accepted the offer, and most of them were getting knocked out in the 1st round. When it got to be Eddy’s turn, he got in the ring and started getting the shit beaten out of him but he didn’t fall. He stood there and took his beating and kept trying to dance and defend himself. By the 3rd round, his face was getting so swolen and bloody his friends start yelling “EDDY…GO DOWN, GOOOO DOOOOOWN!!! EDDY GO DOWN!!!” He still didn’t go down, he made it through the round, but he didn’t go back for a 4th round. He earned $9 for lasting three rounds. His doctor bill after the fight was $28, but this was the origination of a nickname that stuck so hard, when Eddy died they, listed his obituary as “Eddy Go Down (Canone).”
Bob tells a great story about Eddy getting a Chevy Corvaire and painting it bright orange with a paint roller. His house was about 150 feet from a bar he used to frequent, yet he would always drive his bright orange Corvaire to park right out front. One day he walked out of the bar and couldn’t find his car or his keys. He figured he must’ve lent the car to someone at the bar and spaced out about it, so he walked home. The next day he can’t find his car and still can’t remember what he did with it. A week goes by, still no car. A month goes by, still nothing. At this point he figures he just has to take the L and find a new car.
Eddy started asking local folks if they knew anyone that had a good deal on a beater he’d be able to afford. A few people mentioned that down at the Pep Boys sometimes folks would just leave their cars when they couldn’t afford to get them fixed and the owner would sell the cars for bottom of the barrel prices. Eddy realized what a great idea that was and went down to the Pep Boys. He asked if they had any cars laying around they wanted to get off for cheap. The owner said to him, “Well…sure we do Eddy, but when are you going to pick up your damn Corvaire that you wanted us to fix the headlight on a month ago?” He had gotten so drunk before he even got to the bar that he drove the car to get repaired and forgot all about it.
My favorite story about Eddy might be one that’s not quite as funny, but has a good lesson hidden in it. Eddy used to run numbers for some local bookies. Every day he’d end up in the same bar with a raggedy brown paper lunch bag. He would toss the thing down on the bar, grab some beers and start getting loaded. The bag would stay on the bar the whole night. He’d go to the bathroom, or go talk to folks across the bar, or pick songs on the jukebox, never thinking to take the bag with him, and never concerned that anyone would fuck with his bag. Why would they? It was just assumed that it must be the remnants of his lunch from earlier, even though no one ever noticed him opening the bag to eat out of it.
One day my future uncle, a much younger fellow than Eddy, goes over to him and says “Eddy, what is it about that raggedy old bag you bring in here every day? Is it your lunch or something?” Eddy says to him, “The bag? Oh, go ahead Bobby, take a look in there, it’s no big deal.” My Uncle Bob opens the bag and sees what must be at least $1,000 cash in the bag. It was all the money he was going around and collecting for bookies on the sly. Bob was flabbergasted, “You just leave all that sitting on the table? What’s wrong with you man? What if someone steals it?” Eddy just shrugged him off and said, “Meh…you know Bobby, I just don’t make a big deal about it. I’m dumb with it. If you’re dumb with it nobody’ll bother to think anything of it.”
Sometimes it’s just best to be dumb with it. Remember that shit next time you’re listening to someone brag about all the big shit they have been up to. If they were really getting anywhere, they’d be acting dumb about it.
