Talking 8647 - The Easy Way or the Hard Way

post 129

This article was submitted to the New York Times last week, but was not selected for their publication. We’ll try again with a different new article.

*****

Do me a favor. We’re going to talk about the number 8647. Okay? And we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the hard way.

Now, most of us probably understand that the phrase “the easy way or the hard way” is a threat. But “8647?” Certain people are calling that a threat. Really? The first time I saw the number was on a reciept: $86.47 to fill my gas tank. Or maybe it’s the number of Iranian civilians killed in Trump War II III IV ??? so far. Or the 8,647^th MAGA conspiracy? But, as far as I can tell, it not “Mafia-talk.”

GROWING UP THE HARD WAY

I spent the majority of my high school years living in the south end of Bloomfield, New Jersey, only a few blocks from Newark. The neighborhood was almost exclusively Italian and Irish. And I’m ethnically Italian and Irish, myself. So, I know a little bit abut Mafia-talk.

My Italian Uncle Nunzio, who was a “don” of some sort, lived a few miles down Bloomfield Avenue, in Newark. He loomed large in our extended family, but we kids weren’t allowed to know much about him. We didn’t curse or use the Lord’s name in vain. And we never ever asked what Uncle Nunzio did for a living.

Still, I gleaned a few details here and there. Uncle Nunzio was a barber, but he had no barber shop. He cut people’s hair in “the parlor,” a section of one of his four houses where no one was allowed – not me, my cousins, or even his wife, my Aunt Helen. Uncle Nunzio only had four customers - little Italian men who visited on Sundays. And somehow, my uncle was flush with cash. It made me consider becoming a barber someday myself.

JAIL TIME

I also knew that Uncle Nunzio spent twelve years in prison for murder. That’s how he got his money. The story goes that he didn’t do the crime, but took the rap for someone else who did. And, to show appreciation, the honorable folks he was protecting set him up for an easy rest of his life. I couldn’t say if any of this is true.

But I distinctly remember an incident in the movie theater while seeing “The Godfather” with my mom and Aunt Flo. Aunt Flo was married to Uncle Mickie, who was also in the mob, but played a different role. Uncle Mickie owned a tavern in Scranton, Pennsylvania, where mob figures met and did business. As far as I know, he never pulled off a crime, other than being legally married to a different woman and having four sons by her while also being the father of Aunt Flo’s four sons. His four legal sons were named Mickie, Danny, Bobby and Tony, and his illegitimate sons were named Michael, Danny, Bobby and Tony.

BAD WORDS

Now, I was just a young, not-too-smart kid when we saw The Godfather. So, it took years to understand what had happened. You see, one scene in the movie depicted men kissing Don Corleone’s hand. I excitedly shouted, “Hey, they’re kissing his hand like those men who kiss Uncle Nunzio’s hand!”

Aunt Flo grabbed my arm and twisted it, while pointing a finger about an inch from my nose and warning me, “Watch your language.” And I cried plaintively, “What!?!” My mom turned to me and said if I ever mentioned that again, she would backhand me all the way to the corner of Broad and Market. {Broad and Market was the busiest corner in Newark, and where my mom threatened to take me and spank me in front of the whole city when I did something especially bad. What I said must have been really bad, though at the time, I couldn’t say why.}

MAFIA-TALK

The Italian kids I hung out with in South Bloomfield during my high school years knew Mafia-talk. Some knew because their families used it. Others, like me, who were not directly “connected,” used Mafia-talk to wax tough. The connected kids didn’t like that. We called them “Cons.”

CONS

To most people, a “Con” is a convicted criminal, and that was part of the spin. But for us, “Con” was short for “a connected kid.”

Sometimes, we’d walk past one of their souped-up cars, and a backseat window would roll down. A Con would point to one of us and say, “You! C’mere!” We always did what we were told. The Con would look the kid up and down, poke him in the chest, flick cigarette ashes onto his sneakers, and say, “I’m watching you.” Then he’d look up at the rest of us and say, “That goes for the whole of yous.” He wouldn’t let us go until we all said, “Yes, sir.”

When one of us non-cons was pulling rank on a regular kid, we used Mafia-talk. “Hey, Twerp, gimme twenty-five cents.” “I don’t have twenty-five cents.” “Empty your pockets.” “No!” “Hey, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.” “Oh, wait a minute. I do have twenty-five cents after all. Here. You can have it.”

FAVORS

Connected kids? Well, first of all, they never needed to hit you up for a quarter. Second, you did what they told you before they ever had to use threatening language. They usually asked politely. “Do me a favor. Dirty Dominic has something for me. Go pick it up and bring it here,” Dirty Dominic wore ripped, stained clothes and had greasy hair, so that was a fitting name for him.

Sometimes, when you answered the Con, you tried to preserve yourself a little dignity by saying something like “Sure thing,” instead of “Yes, sir.” But most of the time, the Con would correct you. “You mean, Yes, Sir! Right?” And you would say, “Yes, Sir!” And if the Con was in a good mood, he might say, “You’re a good kid. I like you.” Even if he were three years younger than you. It meant he wasn’t going to beat you up. At least for a few days.

Some of these Cons who bossed us around were half our size. They were weak, not very bright, and deep down inside were wusses. But if you didn’t follow their orders, they knew how to bring pain down on you. Does that sound familiar?

8647

Everybody in the neighborhood knew that “the easy way or the hard way” was a threat that usually involved bodily harm. But “8647” is a whole ‘nuther story. What is it? Math talk? None of the kids I hung with would even know such a number existed. It just so happens to be a prime number if that means anything. But I never heard anybody use it as a threat. A 4-digit number? C’mon!

Now, the numerology kids – you know, the nerdy ones who ate natural food and read tarot cards, or played with the dark arts - maybe they used the number. Maybe it means something when you translate it into letters. In numerology, 8 translates to H or Q. And 6 – well, that translates into F,O or X. You know, like FOX, the news station. In numerology, FOX translates to 666.

4 translates into D, M or V. And 7 translates into G or P. I’m at a loss to guess what 8647 could mean in this system: Perhaps “Hopeless Fools who Miss the Point?”

TALKING TRASH

Now, we know 86 was Maxwell Smart’s agent number. And in the restaurant business, it means to discontinue an order. For instance, when I worked at the Cooper Dining Hall at Rutgers University, when someone yelled “86 the fries!” it meant we’re out of French Fries. Or, if someone ordered a steak and then cancelled the order, the chef might yell, “86 the steak.” The steak usually ended up in the garbage.

So 8647 could mean the 47^th president belongs in the garbage. But we already know that. So, maybe it’s a modern version of the 1960 chant, “JFK. He’s our man. Nixon’s in the garbage can.” Maybe it’s code for a joke. There could be a joke book somewhere with 10,000 jokes and somebody might be alluding to the 8,647^th joke. But I don’t hear people laughing about 8647.

Instead, I hear MAGAs claim 8647 is an assassination threat. Really? If you really want to get rid of 47, I would think “2547” would a better mantra, because that would allude to the 25^th Amendment, and the legal ability of the president’s cabinet to remove him from office. But the thought that 47’s cabinet would ever invoke the 25^th – now, that’s a joke.

More likely, “8647” refers to a silly picture taken by a guy who refused to do a favor for a Con. The poor guy didn’t say “Yes, Sir!” when ordered to deliver Dirty Dominic’s gift to the mob boss. And now, some back-seat minions are poking him in the chest and flicking ashes on his shoes. Except this time, the hand that pokes also holds a federal indictment.

Keep the Flame Alive!