Wife Beating 101

Sat May 03 2008

Allow us to introduce You-Phoria’s newest contributor, The Drunkest Man In Illinois, delighting young and old (um, children under 13 not admitted without parents) with past and present tales of life in Chicagoland. Brace yourself… Timeline of events: John Eckhardt and Mike Ippolito leave the Saturday Little League games in which both their sons were players. John Eckhardt was actually an assistant coach for his son’s team. That fact did not act as a deterrent as he left to go drinking in the middle of the second inning. This had to be about 11 a.m. By 11:15, the two of them were bellied up at White’s Tavern on Grand Avenue just off Cumberland in Elmwood Park. White’s Tavern was a coke palace and the type of place that’s full of drunks by 7:30 in the morning. I recall once hearing a story about some drunk that got banned only to return an hour later with a gas powered weedwacker which he used to rake various customers and employees. The Village shut it down a number of years ago after there were something like nine separate and unrelated shooting and stabbing incidents within a 72-hour time frame. It made Richard’s look like the dining hall at the Four Seasons. I should interject here and give a little backround information: John Eckhardt was a ne’er-do-well and well-known scumbag. He worked as a salesman at the Pool And Spa Emporium on North avenue and 75th Street. He had three kids and two divorces under his belt. During the annual “Taste of Elmwood Park” festival he would set up a slip-and-slide and charge kids $1 to have a turn. He and whatever chain-smoking bar whore he was banging/drinking with at the time would have the slip-and-slide set up while they sat in lawn chairs sucking cheap beer out of a can. “Hey Mister, can I take a turn on the slip-and-slide?”
“Got a dollar, kid?”
“Beat it.”
Mike Ippolito was a real estate salesman and a bit more polished that his partner, Mr. Eckhardt. His wife Vanessa was a milf in the highest regard and often ran the bake sales at St. Vincent’s grammar school, where I and most of my friends attended. Mr. Ippolito had a bit of a blow and alcohol problem, which is probably the only reason he even associated with the likes of John Eckhardt. It wasn’t an everyday thing with him but he would periodically disappear for a few days on one of his excursions. Nevertheless, he was a decent and respected man in the community.

Okay, back to the story: as has been told, they left White’s Tavern after several hours and ended up at Armand’s, a popular restaurant and bar a few blocks east down Grand Avenue. They continued boozing and snorting for several more hours and may or may not have split a pizza. They left Armand’s around 8 p.m. and the story gets hazy from there. Nobody really knows where they went next. My guess is that they headed to a stretch of Manheim road in Stone Park that was strewn with strip clubs, dive bars, adult bookstores and an OTB or two. But that’s just speculation. What isn’t speculation is that Mike Ippolito didn’t pull into the driveway and park his Cadillac until 7:30 in the a.m. on Tuesday. He entered the house deep in the throes of a blackout and as red-eyed as the Devil himself. He found his wife in the kitchen and demanded she make him some eggs. She protested loudly. “EGGS!” he demanded. She protested even louder and screamed at him. And that was enough. A brief yet brutal beating ensued. He also trashed the kitchen. He left her on the floor of the kitchen bloodied and crying amidst several broken dishes and smashed eggs, which he dragged her over and mashed in her face and hair.

In Mr. Ippolito’s defense (not that such a thing is defensible), his house and Roland Waterloo’s house were the only two on their block with driveways, and the houses themselves looked very similar. Imagine the shock on Mr. Waterloo’s face when he descended the stairs dripping wet and clad only in a towel after hearing the commotion and finding his wife battered (no pun intended) and crying on the kitchen floor. He was probably more shocked when he entered the TV room and found Mike Ippolito on the couch with his feet up on the coffee table and muttering, “How in the hell does one work this thing?” as he pointed the remote at the television.

Roland Waterloo owned his own small paving company and had two sons; Harley (13) and Camaro (11). All three were top-drawer pricks. Roland Waterloo didn’t call the police. Roland Waterloo didn’t punch Mike Ippolito in the face, didn’t kick him in the balls, didn’t smash his head off the wall. Roland Waterloo put Mike Ippolito into a fireman’s carry and brought him upstairs. He dragged him up on the roof and promptly launched him two storeys down. Hank Keck, who was mowing his lawn across the street, said it was “The damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.” Roland Waterloo instructed his sons to get the white buckets from the garage. The three of them disrobed Mr. Ippolito and tarred him from head to toe. Then, when that primary business was complete, they went to check on the well-being of Gabby Waterloo and call the police. Five days later, Mr. Ippolito got out of the ICU. Ten days later he showed up at his arraignment in a wheelchair and full body cast, his hair and face still displaying a hint of tar. John Eckhardt’s team won the Little league Championship that year.

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