Nothing turns on a teenaged Catholic girl more than a boy that sings like an angleic girl. After nailing the high C in Miserere mei, Deus I'd strut past the tear-stained faces of Father O'Reilly and Father Harrigan to the community room where I was treated like Mr. Justin B.
I was THE boy soprano at St. Matt's, you know, the one over by the expressway. In my neighborhood, I was responsible for more damp panties than Leif Garrett and Scott Baio combined.
See that hot blonde in the demure sweater vest and white tights? One night she hit on me so hard in the rectory I was sore for a week. Rectory? She nearly killed me. In the photo, I'm standing next to Donna "Lefty" Mantione, the girl in the plaid mini-skirt. We called her Lefty on account of her left knee was 6 inches higher than her right knee. Lefty hated me but her mom, Mrs. Mantione? She used to rub my weiner whenever I got my hair cut at her husbands shop.
Then Joseph Michael DePietro moved into the neighborhood. His family came east from Bensonhurst in a sky blue Cadillac stuffed full of dreams of a better life -- but it was my life that would be forever changed.
As you can see from the photo, Joseph Michael was a smug, confident, little mothereffer. His hair came euipped with a curl that screamed out "I don't want to be so adorable, I tried to stay up there with rest of the hair, I just can't help falling down onto Joseph Michael's forehead." Oh, Joseph Michael was better looking than me and younger than me and was always called Joseph Michael.
I was just Bob. I was just Bob and during Christmas break a couple of short stubby hairs had appeared under my arms. By Ash Wednesday, I was sporting a bush that would have put the fear of God into Moses himself. We were practicing for Good Friday mass when my voice broke for the first time.
"Sing in your head, Mr. Melonosky not your chest. Again from the top. Proceed," screamed a stressed out Sister Agnes. And again my voice cracked. She whipped out her ruler and to my surprise she used it to point to young Joseph Michael. "You get up there and try it Joseph Michael."
Theresa Sagitaria let out an audible gasp and a single tear rolled down her rosy cheek and got caught in the slight moustache that tickled so nicely when we necked in the coat closet of the Catechism Classroom.
I stepped down from the pimp spot and headed over to the lowly tenors who all scootched over leaving enough room for three former boy sopranos.
When Joseph Michael sang, actual angels stopped singing to listen. Then those angels ripped their wings off and headed straight for a bar. Which is where I would have headed if I had enough facial hair to pass for eighteen.
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