Sammy the Gills they called me ever since I was a little kid growing up on 78th Street in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn. One day some big kid from 79th Street stole my bike and I ran after him. I chased him right into the Social Club on the corner where the Wiseguys hung out and started punchin' him. But he grabs my collar and hauls me into the toilet and sticks my head in the bowl and tries to drown me. I was kicking the big kid for all I was worth and holding my breath at the same time. "That Sammy," I heard one of the Wiseguys say, "he can hold his breath pretty good. He must have gills." Their laughter echoed in the porcelain and all around inside my head. "Let him go," they told the big kid and the bartender threw me a towel to mop myself up. When I got the pisswater outta my eyes, I looked around and all the wiseguys were raising their glasses in a salute to me. "Sammy the Gills," one of them said. And they all clinked their glasses. "You won't hear of Sammy sleeping with the fishes," another said. "The boy has gills." I was proud. But I wondered what they meant about sleeping with the fishes.
