Crowded and hot; dust on sweat. Enzio Sartucci inches forward, knowing the fate of his family will be decided when he reaches the front of the line.
“Next!” the burly clerk shouts, and Enzio thinks tricheco — walrus. Enzio builds the courage to do what he knows he must. He takes his small coal pencil and fills in the NAME line on his worn immigration form: ENZIO GRANDEPENE.
“Next!”
Enzio steps forward with his small suitcase and hands the tricheco the form. “Grande pene?” the man asks, peering down at Enzio, squinting at the crotch of his old wool pants. “You sure about that?”
“Yes,” Enzio says, one of the few English words he learned on the boat. He avoids eye contact with the clerk, praying that his plan will work, that the name will be Americanized and he will forever be known as Enzio Bigpenis, a regal and stately surname that will unlock fortune and splendor. He imagines himself dining with beautiful women at Manhattan’s grandest restaurants; receiving large loans from big banks to start his railroad empire; breaking ground on Bigpenis Estates.
The tricheco shakes his head. He completes his form, stamps it, and hands it to Enzio.
NAME: ENZIO SMALLCOCK
“Next!” the man shouts.
“Aspettare, no,” Enzio says, but the crowd pushes him forward.
“You’ll thank me,” the clerk says, though Enzio does not understand him. “We don’t like false advertising in the States. Better to keep expectations low.”
*
Enzio Smallcock faced difficulty finding employment. Business owners saw his name and threw him out of their bakeries and butcher shops, appalled.
Dejected, he spent his last two pennies on a buxom prostitute, planning to hurl himself over the Brooklyn Bridge after one final moment of pleasure.
“What’s your name, sweetheart?” the woman asked, leading him into an alley soaked in horse piss.
“Enzio,” he mumbled. “Enzio Smallcock.”
“Oh, poor thing,” she said. She sat Enzio on a barrel of hooves and pulled down his old wool pants. His five-inch penis boinged out and her face lit up. “My my!”
“Che cosa?“
“This ain’t so bad,” she said, inspecting his penis from every direction. “I see about forty of these a day, and I’ll be honest, I’m impressed. In fact, I’d been dreading this transaction when you told me your name, fearful I’d have to handle some strange nub. But now that I see we’re in decent shape, I’ll give you this tug on the house.”
Enzio did not understand the specifics of her words, but her positivity needed no translation. She pulled his average penis until he ejaculated into a crate of bananas. He offered to pay her, but she pushed the pennies back into his pocket. She then pointed to his penis and gestured that it was a pretty good size. “Not Smallcock,” she said. “Perfectly okay cock.”
For the first time since setting foot on American soil, Enzio smiled. He leapt with joy and relief, and he decided not to hurl himself over the Brooklyn Bridge. He kissed the woman’s cheek, then danced out of the alley, slamming into the big chest of the tricheco from the immigration office. Enzio hugged the large man, who tipped his cap to Enzio. “You’re going to do big things, Smallcock.”
Enzio turned back to the prostitute. “Name?” he said. “Name?”
“Donna,” she said while tugging off the tricheco, sitting naked on a pig carcass. “Donna Hogshit.”
With his two pennies, Enzio purchased a crate of olives and pressed the oil into empty bottles he scavenged at the docks. His olive oil was not the purest or the best-tasting, but he sold it under a brand named for the woman who’d given him the confidence he needed: Hogshit Olive Oil. Customers purchased it when they could afford no other. They’d brace themselves for an offensive smell and sour taste, but when they uncorked their bottles and discovered average olive oil, they were thrilled, and they told their friends about this inexpensive product that surpassed their low expectations. Word spread, and Enzio became a modest success.
While Hogshit Olive Oil was never a best-selling brand, Enzio’s humble outlook ensured he was much happier than his competitors who made millions of dollars but always expected more.
At age eighty, he broke ground on Smallcock Slums, a nice four-bedroom house that far surpassed the low expectations of Donna Hogshit-Smallcock. She grinned as Enzio carried her into their home.
