James Gandolfini Had A Lot In His Bag

This piece was originally published in The Small Bow on Aug. 7. If you like it, consider subscribing.

He was always referring to himself as a “guy like me,” in a baffled sort of way, like how the fuck did a guy like me pull this whole thing off? And part of what James Gandolfini meant was the son of the bricklayer and the lunch lady, this King Konging ex-jock with a neck like a paint can, a guy from New Jersey, where they were not what you might call beautiful but were magnificent. They were loud and tough and hugging and kissing; they were mowing the lawn shirtless in sandals and black dress socks, like his father did. They were having operatic conversations with their mothers. They were a little rude and they were breaking shit just for the hell of it, like the night at college Gandolfini broke the automatic arm in the parking garage just by ramming his whole body into it, no reason; that’s showtime, baby.