St. Charles Underworld - EXPOSED!

The Mafia is in St. Charles.

They are strong, deeply connected and they are everywhere, unseen. I have done the research on them. I have met some of them.  I am not Elliott Ness. Repeat, I am not Elliot Ness.

At stores, restaurants, even Kid’s Play World on West Main Street: they cover every street corner. They are tough, unshakable and, most of all, indelible and undetectable. Until now.

This is the big reveal. Partial reveal. Okay, puny, soft reveal. I have to protect my kids. You are being outed, Mob. My wife, you see, is a member.

A club, a group for mothers in St. Charles—they have stretched into Geneva and Batavia—describes themselves on a website where ”groups are formed” as “a fun-loving, upbeat, and active playgroup for moms and young children living in St. Charles, Geneva, and Batavia.”

Like a sweet neighborhood familial deli where they serve thin, succulent prosciutto, in the front …

They are the Mama Mafia. There are about 50 of them, maybe 100, maybe 16,000 if you consider they may have national presence, even a Trans-Atlantic reach.

They are steeped in our community.

Curled up in bed, lights dim, I have seen my wife online with “them” late at night, (hmmm never on the phone) seeking their counsel, putting on events, even asking for a few Club Toughies to strong arm a pediatrician who will go unnamed.

They don’t fight. They don’t fire guns. They don’t enforce beat downs outside of Hotel Baker. Worse. The own the surging Dad Market. Suppress us.

Those biker frauds who roll down the strip in their very rebellious $40,000 Harley Davidson wearing top shelf leather chaps and a rough and tough headband that reads “Top Dawg”? They got nothing.’

And, folks, I ain’t small or passive or Wimpy Submissive Dad. I got a past.

I was commissioned to an event of theirs. Halloween. Last year. Conquistadora, wifo, wife of mine, had just given birth to our son, ChunChun. She asked me to take our first born, G Frenzy, 4, to a Halloween event. She didn’t ask for anything. She commanded with her eyes. Her eyes can make my soul bleed and surrender. Maybe she drank snake venom during initiation.

She scribbled a number and a street name on a piece of paper. Sent me on my way with G Frenzy and a SpongeBob juice box and organic cheese crackers. It was the Annual Halloween Party, they called it. I was sent to a remote part of unincorporated St. Charles. Lots of land, dirt, nothing around for miles. Sound familiar, Good Fellas Aficionados?

Moms were everywhere at this glorious home with a backyard the size of St. Charles East’s football field. There were a few Dads too, wearing fake smiles, shades of anxiety and pretending to be caught up in revelery. There were balloons. Trick or Treat games. Weird looking deserts (its, um, one I found in Martha Stewart Mag) And beer.

My son had dressed up as a floppy dog.

The Matriarch of the underground Mama Mafia, let’s call her Miranda, was there passing out bags of candy and directing traffic to the Scary Story Time, the Haunted Play Set, and s'mores over the fire pit. It was all written on an orange inked agenda. Timing matters.

You want execution? Days after my wife had given birth, the call went out. There were 20 dinners, each neatly packed in Tupperware on our front porch minutes after we arrived home with the baby. These women don’t play around. Damn good food.

I was obliged, sorry, asked to join the Family in their Annual Softball League coming up—everything is festive and annual and Family-centric with these women.

What am I going to do? Protest? Retreat to my Man Bunk? I was turned down by the Estate Committee to have a Man Room.

We are playing at a big field by the East Side Athletic Club, yes, you got it, at another remote location. Sound familiar Prizzi’s Honor lovers?

This might not be my last dinner. This could be my last at-bat. This could be it for me. Whack time? You think I am kidding. Maybe they decide to up their game and go Gotti. The pressure. What if I hit a slow roller to second base and cause an out that loses the game?

So this is probably my last post. I love you, G Frenzy and ChunChun. You are good boys who will grow to become strong men and hopefully be the next Duke Ellington. Conquistadora, you are my dream. But you got me sucked into this Mama Mafia. Tears on my grave. Bro, you can have my autographed Bo Diddly poster. Chocolate Thunder, my drum kit from when I was in punk band Sick Whippets is yours. Mom, Dad, sisters, thank you. Au revoir.

As to not quote a Tom Waits or Teddy Pendergrass lyric and commit to an utterly cheesy overkill ending- that has already been established - I will just leave you.

The slow roller to third base might kill me.