The World As I Learned It by Nick Di Carlo

In my twelfth summer, the old man splits. Leaves Mom shattered. Leaves me a little looney, pazzo Uncle Santo says. So, he steps in. “Vengo con me,” he says and drives me to his Texaco station and puts me to work.

For the first few days, he walks me through the things I’ll be doing, watches me and when he’s sure I’ve got it down, he says, “Okay, kid. Don’t screw it up.”

For twenty bucks each week, I pump gas, change oil, sweep floors and answer the payphone on the wall when Chickenhead calls in the bets for the horse tracks and numbers game. This last thing is the part I better not screw up.

A hot muggy August Tuesday, week of the full moon, Santo’s on vacation. I’m in charge, I’m king of the friggin’ hill. The last thing Uncle Santo says before he takes off is, “Don’t let those dumbass neighborhood guys get in here to work on their cars.” So, don’t you know, Val Teta and a couple of his goons come in. Teta wears a pale pink polo shirt and skin-tight black slacks. He shows off the new tattoo of a panther’s head he got the night before at the carnival, and he tells me he’s gotta work on his T-Bird and needs to put it on the lift.

I’m sitting on the edge of the desk in the office, sipping a Coke when he tells me. “No way,” I say. “You do that, and when he comes back, Santo’s gonna kill you and then me.”

Val Teta’s about eighteen and taller than me, so he thinks he can push me around. But I’m more scared of Uncle Santo than of Val Teta, so I tell him to screw off. He slaps me, open hand, once, twice, and as he pulls back for a third swipe, I kick at him and my foot hits his chest, leaving an oily smudge on that pretty pink polo shirt. That’s when he clocks me with a right cross above my left eye. Since I’m already on the floor, I grab the Louisville Slugger Santo stashes under his desk, and I come up swinging. I catch Teta on his left shoulder, and he winces.

“You think that’s bad, wait till Santo gets home. You’re dead meat.”

Val Teta and his cronies leave. I get another icy Coke from the machine and press the bottle against my eye. That’s how my day starts. That’s when Chickenhead calls.

Chickenhead is a total lunatic. I mean, how else does a guy get a name like Chickenhead? I don’t know why anybody trusts him.

I answer the phone and Chickenhead spits out the bets. “Three horse, fifth race, Saratoga.” Then the numbers guys think will come up for the day. It’s like having a machine gun go off in my ear. Rattle, rattle, tat, tat.

I scribble onto a receipt pad while Chickenhead yells over and again, “Ya gettin’ that, kid? Ya got that?” 

I say, “Gahdammit, Chickenhead, I’ve got it.”

“Say it back. Say it back.”

I say it back. Get this funny feeling and turn around. A cop stands behind me. For how long? Scared shitless, I picture Uncle Santo in jail and him murdering me when he gets out.

“Did you park that Chevy convertible on the street?” the cop asks.

A customer left his ’63 SS for an oil change and wash. Every few minutes, I’d move the car from one spot to another, moonstruck from driving the coolest car on the road.

“Yeah,” I say. “Had to move it off the lift for the next oil change.”

“It’s too close to the hydrant. Better move it.” The cop leaves. 

Chickenhead’s still on the phone freaking out. “Who’s that? Who? You sure you got that, kid?”

“I got it. We done?”

Chickenhead hangs up.

I move the Impala SS, still scared shitless, waiting to get busted, waiting for Uncle Santo to murder me, waiting, sweating, waiting…

For the rest of the day, nothing happens. The next day, too. Customers come in. I pump their gas, check their oil, wash their windshields. In the next few days, I do a couple of oil changes. Val Teta doesn’t come back. The cop doesn’t come back. Saturday night, I close the station at five and pedal my Columbia home, wishing it was a metallic blue Impala SS convertible. By Sunday, I’m not thinking about Val Teta, not thinking about the cop. I’m wishing I had a girlfriend to drive around in my Impala convertible.

But Monday’s another day. I wake up, and I’m scared near to death. I gotta tell Uncle Santo what happened. I’ll skip the Val Teta part. Who gives a shit about Val Teta and his prissy pink polo shirt? 

I walk into the Texaco station. Uncle Santo sits behind the desk. The cop sits in another chair, sipping coffee. 

What the hell? My knees feel rubbery. “Hey,” I say. “How was the vacation?” I think my voice is shaky. Can’t imagine what I look like ‘cause the two men look at me and laugh like lunatics.

“How’d the kid hold up?” Uncle Santo asks the cop.

“He never heard me come in. Chickenhead was being Chickenhead. For a second, I thought the kid would shit his pants.”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

“Nope. He did fine.”

I shrug and open the cash register and take out a dime to buy a Coke. I sit on the edge of the desk and drink my Coke, just one of the guys. I think maybe I will tell Uncle Santo how I kicked Val Teta’s ass. 

​© 2025 Nick Di Carlo

About the author:

When short story/flash fiction writer Nick Di Carlo was asked why he chose to teach in New York State's maximum security penitentiaries, he replied, "I'm making up for all the times I never got caught in my former lives." In this life, the O.G. Di Carlo lives on the cusp of the California desert and encourages aspiring fiction writers over age fifty to tell their stories.