Mercury
written by: Nick Di Carlo
When I was a kid, if I could’ve been a god, I’d have been Mercury—the jack-of-all-trades among the Roman gods. You see, I knew Mercury. He was my uncle.
I, Tyro, was an anemic five-year-old. Orphaned and living with my grandma when Uncle Mercutio—the gods’ own messenger—descended from the mystical mountain realm and assumed human form to nurture and to guide me. He’d gone so far as to swap his winged sandals for the roar and rumble of a flathead V-8 engine wrapped within the glistening Fanfare Maroon and Black armor of a 1953 Mercury Monterey Coupe. Oh, how that engine’s thunderous growl tumbled my insides about and made my body shudder with joy when he twisted the ignition key to the right. As the patron god of travelers, Uncle Mercutio transported me with flair and flash.
Uncle Mercutio, patron of merchants and deal makers, could help anybody who needed some seemingly unattainable something. He would know a guy who knew a guy, or he’d induce some desired object to fortuitously fall off somebody’s truck. And as the god of good fortune, he knew which horse to pick at Saratoga, or which number might be lucky any given day. Folks said Uncle Mercutio was a trickster, always with something up his sleeve. He’d magically produce a glistening quarter from behind my ear, or a straight flush from what appeared to be a pair of deuces. Everything about Uncle Mercutio seemed magical, and he, as messenger of the gods, was teaching me what it meant to be a man.
He was a beautiful creature—built for speed and power. Here’s a faded snapshot of him—shirtless, svelte, clean shaven, perfectly coiffed, with a smile brighter than the sun—leaning against the ’53 Merc on a summer afternoon. Looks like a young Brando, doesn’t he.
Piloting that ‘53 Mercury, he transported me from my sheltered 5-year-old’s world of black and white cartoons and Golden Books to a mystical realm of grown-up men: sinners and blackguards, bookies, gamblers, and conmen, dwelling in clandestine underworlds secreted inside barbershops, coffee shops, basements, and backrooms. I’d stand on the Merc’s front seat, my left hand on Uncle Mercutio’s right shoulder while he drove. Sometimes I’d sit on his lap, and I would steer.
As we’d embark on our adventures, he’d bend at the waist and scoop me up, his right forearm encircling my legs just above the crook of my knees, holding me tight to his chest. I’d wrap my arms around his neck, rest my face upon his own, and exploring we’d go, traveling from sunlight to shady places, and descend into subterranean poker dens, green with fluorescent light, or cafes and corner stores, dully lit by jaundiced incandescent bulbs, where men communicated by gestures and nods, where greenbacks or betting slips appeared or vanished by sleight of hand or flash of fire.
My favorite place was Phil’s Barber Shop—where nattily dressed men with slicked-back hair lounged on chrome-legged chairs with green vinyl cushions, or leaned against walls, studying racing forms. Dark-eyed men whispering in corners or shouting red-faced with rage. It was an exotic, sometimes frightening, aromatic atmosphere filled with the intermingling scents of hair tonic, antiseptic, and cigar smoke. And amid the gruff shouts, vile curses, and raucous laughter, there was the persistent rhythm of Phil’s scissors click-click-clicking. Strewn atop small tables lay colorful booklets emblazoned with the words Saratoga, Aqueduct, or Belmont, and images of fierce-eyed horses ridden by stern-faced men in dazzling silk tunics.
On special days, Juventus, Mercutio’s golden-haired girlfriend, came with us to Central Park, to Stewart’s Ice Cream Parlor, or, at night, a drive-in movie where I would fall asleep, my head on her lap and her fingers stroking my hair. I loved Juventus. She taught me magic things, like tying my shoelaces with double knots.
Then—came the dark magic—Juventus vanished.
Saturnia appeared.
Saturnia, dark-haired, boney, eyes like coal, always made me stay home when she and Mercutio went anywhere. She never stroked my hair, never tied my shoes.
One autumn afternoon, as they were going out, Uncle Mercutio hoisted me up in the crook of his arm and carried me to the ’53 Merc.
Saturnia, standing alongside the car, said, “Really?”
With one hand, Mercutio opened the driver’s side door, pulled the coupe’s seat forward, and sat me down in the back.
Saturnia stepped stiff-legged to the passenger side, got in, and slammed the door.
Uncle Mercutio calmly slid behind the wheel and started the engine.
“Does he have to go everywhere with us?” she asked.
“He’s not bothering you.”
“But all the time?”
“He’s a kid. I’m responsible for him.”
“Well, I’m sick of it. Let him out or take me home.”
Uncle Mercutio’s right hand flashed forward, striking the metal dashboard. Dashboards in those days were steel, and the radio speaker was set under the center of the dashboard with a metal grille covering it. His fist crushed the grille.
“Dammit, Saturnia. I’ll dent your head like I dented that dash!”
He looked into the rearview mirror and saw me, shocked and trembling. He turned off the ignition, swung his door open. He reached in, lifted me out, and stood me on the curb. He said, “Go, Tyro. Back inside. You stay with Grandma.”
I turned away and started toward the house, dragging my feet. I stopped at the porch door, hoping the gods would strike Saturnia down. But when I looked back, it wasn’t Jupiter’s punitive thunder, but the Merc’s treacherous engine roar I heard. The rear tires spun, screamed, and spat gravel as my Mercury sped away.
My quicksilver god had gone to dust that swirled in the wind and left me breathless with the nascent realization that even gods falter from human frailty, folly, and false-heartedness. I knew then I would never be or be guided by a god.
Still, I had a journey ahead. But alone I’d never ventured farther than the corner store….
