Caving to the Mob

This isn’t anything like caving to you and me. We’re civilians. We put on our hiking boots, headlamps and load a few gorp-packed satchels into the trunk. That’s it. We might be gone for a few hours, half a day, at most. The same cannot be said for wise guys. If they’re leaving their natural habitat at all, the whole thing has to be worth their while. 

When they head into the country, miles from the familiar interiors of pork stores and social clubs, they are seeking a respite. They need distractions, too. The hustle doesn’t ever end, per se, but it slows down to a much more manageable pace in bucolic surroundings. It’s hard enough admitting hobbies in front of fellow gangsters back on the street, where every misstep is judged and remembered. “Pass the stuffed peppers and let me tell you about my model train set again.” It’s not the sort of environment conducive to encouragement and positive reinforcement. Undermining is rife, backstabbing is everywhere.

Except of course in a cave. There’s something about that cold, crisp air that changes a person. Even someone who’s entire income stream revolves around football season. While many of these cavers have never paid taxes in their entire lives, that’s not a problem here down in the earth. These are made men, who took an oath – they simply don’t give a schist. Spelunking in an Adidas track suit and a swinging gold chain does wonders for one’s precarious mental health. What a setting. Stalagmites, stalactites and a cooler of thinly-sliced gabagool. 

Caves are silent. They of the old school – when omertà was still valued. If you can do a few hours in a suffocating rock crevice, what’s a few years in solitary? It was different way back when, before Apalachin and dangerous erosion put many of the mafia’s favorite caverns at risk. You had dozens of mobsters in pin striped suits and wing tips sashaying through mammoth cave systems. They didn’t know where they were going. Not like the guys today. 

There was always the practical appeal of caves. A place to go on the lam, laying low for a bit, while the situation back home calms down. With RICO, the Feds can destroy something that took many lifetimes to create. The same can be said for caves. Rocks percolate, dissolve and anyone with a little free time and a lot of dynamite can destroy what took millions of years to form. Some oil from your hands, some olive oil from your pantry – that’s it.

Many mafiosi think of themselves like caves. They're exogene – much, much deeper than they appear. You see only the wads of cash tied with a fraying rubber band. The flashy cars with idiotic vanity plates (Vroombah). But inside they’re lost little boys. Frightened of the dark, scared of troglobites. Caves are nature's answer to the witness protection program.