The Scream
The thugs were enraged,
to think that somebody else thought, they were going to beat Italia in a silly
soccer match. Damn, P.T. Barnum was right, when he said a soccer is born every minute. As all of that was going on, they
were daring the Argentines to get out of the wagon. But it seemed to me they
were really scared, frightened, terrified, and stayed in the car. Some of them
reminded me of Edvard Munch’s “The Scream,” as they stared out of the windows.
Meanwhile the thugs smashed its windows, and smacked the driver in the face a few
times. One guy did managed to open a door, and run out, crying as he went. A
few thugs went after him, but because of fear, adrenalin, or perhaps he was an
Olympic runner, (he did look like one), he disappeared into the crowd, and got away.
Then I guess somebody called the cops, but by the time they got there, Italia
was long gone. All the cops found was a wagon with a bunch of upset Argentines,
crying, and screaming about what happened to them. They could see the broken
glass, the banners on the street, and the damaged to the car. But there was
little they could do. When they went inside the pizza shop, and asked them
about it, the manager just said,
“Hayiieee, they comma
hea alla time, buy pie, drink bea, an they go. I no ask no questions, ya
na.”
“Wadda ya gonna do?”
One cop asked the other.
“Itsa bidness I run,
I not hea make friends wit evybody.”
They knew the
mothers alright, but of course they weren’t talking. I even suspected that was a phony
Italian immigrant accent, and so did the cops, but of course no one could prove
anything. After that George and I decided we weren’t hungry, so we walked back to the car, and went home.
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