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Fiction & Nonfiction
Hamilton Stone Review #37  Fall 2017
Miguel A. Ortiz, Editor

 

 

 

Eliza Segiet (translated by Artur Komoter)
The Pharmacy of Trust

How am I supposed to live? People drive cars. They go on vacation. Everything they have is new, including their wardrobes! Running around the stores like they not have had enough. Shopping all day long… How can they afford all of this? Oh? I haven't worked? Of course I have! What now? Nothing! What do I have? An old apartment, in an old house, everything old! Me as well! An old, lazy woman who was only around to help others out. And who will pay me for all of this? Who will return the favor? Who will help me? Who wants to remember about me now? Unfit even for her own children. They are ashamed of me! The rich! I'd give my life for them, but they do not want that. Old! I'm like a worn-out fridge — no longer needed! Although, it is good that I don't eat much; should almost be enough for the medicine. Anyway, the lady at the pharmacy always lets me buy on tick. I can dump my sorrows on her. She's better than her own children.

I wonder if they will make it to my funeral? Or maybe the gentlemen, “the cemetery porters”, will carry me, without family, lonely in life, and the same after death? Yesterday morning, I watched through the window as four pathetically dressed guys awkwardly carried a coffin with some lousy flowers thrown on top of it. I wonder if there… at the cemetery, they will put on their jackets? Or maybe it was just a “pretend coffin”? A prize in some contest of a theater? And if so, why were the flowers lying on, or rather sliding off, the top of the coffin? There prevailed some new practices; I heard that the theater promoted a play in such a way. And a coffin was the award in the contest! This is very controversial. But the tickets, because of that, sold like the proverbial ‘hot cakes’. I do not care. I don't have money for theater tickets. Perhaps this contest is for people like me! The only chance to get the last posthumous “casket”?

And my children? Maybe they can bury me? Although, if you think about it, they could not make it to my funeral. After all, they may be on some Maldives or Seychelles. I will not phone them, I will not beg; let them be ashamed of me. They replace furniture every two years, including me. No, they have not replaced me, but I'm like a useless object, a scorched pot or an old washing machine. It is no longer needed. You can get rid of it! And I, being stupid, thought that my elderly years will be wonderful. They could at least take me once to the seaside. I've never seen the beach, I was not up in the mountains. Only home, work, home, work and vacation by the river with my aunt. I would have holidays if I did not have to cook for her. For sure! But it is good that we were able to go, the kids were at least given a chance to catch some fresh air. How much fun they had, football they played — that was up to them. So many other kids, you couldn't count them all! And mine were so happy. They had a whole year's worth of fun! They liked going there. When we returned, He was waiting for us, full of longing. That is to say, what I think of it now. How fast did you take him away? My God. How could you leave me alone, without help? Doomed to loneliness. I will not go to church. Never! I do not want my neighbors saying that I am a “mohair beret”! Oh no! Never! Let them see me well-groomed, happy. Let them think I'm the happiest out of them all. Good thing that they do not come to my place and see the poor state I have to live in. It would be something they would enjoy! Everything old! But clean! This is most important! I'm not a slob!

I could at least turn on that old piece of junk, let it drown out my... I don't know, I'm afraid of such words, but that's the truth — my loneliness. I have already thought about it today, how I reminded myself of Him. Such is the fate, when one is left on their own.

Now I have so much time for books. I could never read so much. And now, like a great professor, I read, and read... She was smart as a young woman, I wise at an old age. Now I know so much about the world! I know what it was, and what it will be! I read Nostradamus, a load of baloney. Once I even read a few books of Plato. Today, I am not as stupid as I used to be, but the children still think I'm half-wit or a mong. Something that my rich son-in-law used to call me. What an intellectual; miraculously finished high school, and behaves as if he was the smartest in the world.

Now I'm not afraid of company. None! I can take care of myself! I think... It is not as if anyone invites me anywhere. I am destined to myself. Why should I complain? I am well! I have no responsibilities... hold on!... Let's try again!… Oh God! Oh my! What is the announcer saying? I have to turn up the volume! One – got it, seven — got it, so is thirteen! Oh! Oh! Twen..., I always select twenty-five! For the last 30 years! Only one more number... oh my God! That one as well! I'm dizzy! Somehow, my head is spinning. Oh God. Go…

What happened? Why am I on the floor? How long was I down? I remember! I know what happened - I won the lottery! It's wonderful! What will I do with such money? I will change everything in the house! No! I will change the house! Buy everything new! At last I will start to live! Woman! Do you hear yourself? Calm down! Get off your high horse! How will you begin to live? When? Now? It's too late for beginnings. What can you start? All that is mostly needed by me is not for sale!

Are you saying I should find a man? Sure, I can find one! But do I want a guy who will be with me for the money? Who will pretend to love for the money? The guy that I will not love? Why do I need that? I'm free. Now I know it. Love cannot be bought! It can be read between pages of the books. I have a lot of them! I can think of how many I can buy now! Only yesterday I was poor, and today I am no longer that person! I'm a millionaire! Pity that an old one.

In my head arise different gardens, a world full of love! But never in my mind was born the idea that I can have money! Such money! I have, that is, tomorrow I will have, because then I will go to the lottery office!

What do I have now? A lot of money, but I'm also aware that love has to be felt. I also know that I do not want a guy! Although I feel the need for love and warmth, I know that there is no one I can trust. What do I do with all this money? For the rest of my life I will buy nothing on the tick! I will pay back all debts to the pharmacy. I will not tell anyone that I'm rich! I will go to the sea, listen to the waves singing, I will collect amber... and read poetry. My beloved library is rich in books. I'm sure that poetry is good in times of poverty and wealth!

What's next? I could give one half to the kids. Rich people, I know, but they are my children in the end...

 

 

 

 

Garrison Botts
ZoZo Broadway

Broadway! Who would have imagined it? I thought it would take years, decades, to attain such an illustrious address. But here I was, a kid from Ohio, living on the most celebrated street in the greatest city in the country. Was this good luck—or what? 

 In 1975 I cobbled together forty dollars, got a ride from Cleveland to New York City and was dropped off at the building in which two of my college roommates had already secured an apartment. The address was 2020 Broadway, but the way it was inscribed on the building made it look like ZoZo. So we began referring to it as ZoZo Broadway, a name that begged for lights and a marquee.

ZoZo, however, was not a shining star in the Manhattan real estate cosmos. It was just another building in the city barely maintained by an unholy alliance of unscrupulous landlords, or as some liked to call them—scumbags. It was not the best of times for New York City. “White flight” was in progress as fearful white folk scurried for the safety and homogeneity of the suburbs, the city’s coffers were nearly empty with bankruptcy as a frightening possibility, and crime rates were alarmingly high. Times Square was chock full of porno shops, the subway trains were covered with graffiti, prostitutes worked the city streets blatantly flashing their breasts to passersby, and just about anyone under 40 was getting high and having sex as if tomorrow might never come.   

Monologist Spaulding Gray had come to call the city “Calcutta on the Hudson,” but we were undaunted. We were young, aspiring, hopeful, and it was a heck of a lot better than Cleveland. We were certain the future was bright, that we would be the lucky ones who would in a few years find ourselves gazing out at the New York City skyline from our penthouses on Central Park South, sipping fashionable cocktails and remembering our young and desperate days with fondness and sentimental nostalgia. I know we were poor but we were so much happier then, weren’t we? 

ZoZo became my headquarters as I set out to build my promising new life in the big city. Tony awards were on my horizon, no question; it might take a few years, but it was inevitable that my time would come. I got a job immediately—as a waiter in a cocktail lounge at Penn Station. I had never waited on tables before, but I possessed the naïve youthful confidence I could handle it and anything else that came along on my way to the big time.

When I arrived at the cocktail lounge on my first day wearing the required white tuxedo jacket and black tie, I felt like the toast of Manhattan. There was a jukebox in the bar and the first song that played as I began my first job in New York was “That’s Life” by Frank Sinatra. Gazing into one of the mirrors in the lounge, I thought—here I am, it’s all beginning, the sophisticated adult life I spent my childhood imagining. Frank was singing, I was dressed to the nines, and it all seemed nowhere but up from here on out. Of course there would be down times along the way, but I knew, as Frank himself crooned, whenever I found myself flat on my face, I would “just pick myself up and get back in the race.”

“Hey, get a move on!” the bartender barked, bringing my self-contemplation to an abrupt end. I dashed off to wait upon the harried, irritable commuter crowd rushing into the bar. Frazzled from their day’s work, they were anxious to catch the next train home or pissed off that they just missed the 5:01. Lost in a tunnel of thought and anxiety and only interested in procuring the balm of alcohol, the commuters didn’t seem to notice that I was a fresh talent that they would someday think they recognized when I appeared on the “Tonight Show.” I was just an anonymous young man taking too long to fetch their dry manhattans. After two hours, the glamour was gone. After two weeks, I quit. 

All wasn’t lost. I simply went on to serve lunch at a burger place, and to what seemed like good fortune at the time, I had also gotten an acting job. I was to play most of the goyish roles in the 1976 Jewish Bicentennial Musical, “L’Chaim George.” The show traveled around to Jewish schools in the tri-state area to enlighten students about the role Jews played in American history. The play began with the discovery of America and of Christopher Columbus’ possible Jewish heritage, went through an inventory of famous American Jews, and then ended with no one other than George Washington himself wearing a yarmulke and attending a Seder. The cast sang “L’Chaim George” as they raised a glass to him in the final moments, saluting his support of the Jewish people and cementing their undeniable place in the formation of a young America. It was a mess of a show. It did pay, however, and along with my tips from my waiter job, I was able to get by and stay high.

Although I have always hated to think of myself as common in any way, my life at ZoZo was all too typical of a young, starving artist striving for self-realization and hard cash. New York City was cheaper then, and one could actually live in Manhattan as a waiter/actor/caterer/babysitter/housekeeper. But you still got what you paid for. My roommates and I lived above a Greek diner, similar to the one made famous on “The Seinfeld Show.” These diners were everyone’s go-to place for coffee and their usual fare of Greek salads, hamburgers, cream of turkey soup, and my personal favorite—rice pudding with raisins and whipped cream on top.

It was certainly convenient to have a diner in the building, but living directly overhead meant that our apartment smelled like rancid sizzling grease and was besieged by cockroaches, forcing us to set off roach bombs every other week. One day my roommate and I came home after setting off yet another bomb to find the kitchen riddled with roach carcasses. My roommate, an actor, assuming the voice of a cockroach survivor, declared, “She’s dead, you killed her; you killed our Queen, now you must lead us.” Young and invincible, we were able to find humor in such repellant situations, ones that would now send us around the proverbial bend. Everything that happened to us, funny or difficult, was just more material to be used in the ongoing play of what we considered to be our fascinating, noteworthy lives.

Like so many other buildings in the city, as reported frequently in the news, the furnace at ZoZo was always on the fritz. Living in an apartment with no heat in the winter was like being trapped in a continuous loop of a French existential film, sans color, sans warmth, sans levity. The world outside my window looked just like the world inside my window, grey and cold, and without any hint of comfort. We toughed it out, though, along with our fellow building residents. That’s what New Yorkers are supposedly known for, but I think it’s because there’s no other option. Ya gotta be tough, or you may as well take the next bus home.

How our neighbor, Margaret, and Toby, her cocker spaniel, survived such hardship is a testament to their city chops. She had multiple sclerosis, which left her with the ability to walk only with the help of a cane, and even so, with considerable difficulty. Still, she was out everyday walking her canine companion, an incorrigible miscreant who exasperated his owner to no end. He refused to take direction or respond to his name.  Every day as they went out for their walks, Toby would rush ahead, pull on his leash and upset Margaret’s balance. “Toby! Toby!” Margaret would scold, his name echoing through the halls and up and down the stairs. To this day whenever I think of ZoZo, Margaret’s quivering shrill voice resounds in my head, like a ghost calling from the beyond. I hope she and Toby mellowed over the years and were able to settle into a less contentious relationship, ideally somewhere other than our poor excuse for an apartment building.

Gypsy fortunetellers lived directly next door to us. We would see their fliers in the neighborhood, beckoning readers to call for an appointment to learn how their futures might play out or have negative blockages removed from their psyches so they could meet the person of their dreams. They always seemed perky and happy no matter the state of our building’s affairs. Perhaps they had read their own futures and knew one day soon they would be moving out and up in the world.  Every now and then, one of their family members would knock at our door and ask to borrow something. Whatever they borrowed we had to eventually go and ask for it back. Once they borrowed our vacuum cleaner for a month before we asked for its return. Why, I now wonder, did it take us an entire month to notice we needed the vacuum?

One of my roommates and I filed a complaint with the city about our lack of heat and maintenance services. After receiving a court hearing date, we appeared alongside the attorney representing our no-show landlord. My roommate and I mused that perhaps we should appear as theatrical lawyers with top hats and canes, yelling out “I object!” whenever a dull moment arose. As it turned out, my roommate ended up losing his cool and shouted at the landlord’s attorney in his best stage voice “Lies!  Lies!  Everything you say is a lie!” The judge promptly reprimanded my roommate for his outburst but saved his strongest rebuke for our landlord’s attorney, slamming him and his client for not providing essential services. They were ordered to issue a rent rebate and restore services to full capacity as soon as possible. Finally, a little justice. But, unfortunately and unsurprisingly, our victory was short-lived. It took about a month for the boiler to begin spitting and sputtering again and for the trash room to be so crammed with garbage we could barely open the door. Oy. How’s a person supposed to live in such a fakakta city?

My roommates and I were often in and out of town during our time at ZoZo, going wherever an acting job might take us. We did regional theater, children’s theater and, heaven forbid, dinner theater, where we had to suffer audience members jiggling their iced drinks and dropping silverware on the floor. To add insult to injury, after the show, we were forced to stand in the “glad-ya-liked-it” line to shake hands with the noisy philistines. All to get a foot in the stage door and build our fabulous careers.

At the same time, we also worked on expanding our repertoire in the love and sex department. I wasn’t fully out of the closet back then, so was uneasy in general about sex and relationships. Meanwhile, the city was well on its way to a glittery explosion in gay liberation. More homos than I had ever seen in one place would cruise up and down Christopher Street on the weekends and dance the night away in its myriad bars and clubs. There were also plenty of other places around the city to hook up and get off—the brambles in Central Park, the West Village piers, the baths, and of course, the YMCA. Yet, gay life was still not fully out in the open. Many people, like myself, were still semi-closeted, open to close friends and other gays but not to co-workers and family members. We were half-in, half-out, a rather uncomfortable place to be.

Fortunately, I had a large flock of fun friends to meet most of my socializing needs. Almost everyone I knew from my years in college had moved to New York City to pursue their artistic ambitions, and most of us lived within a few blocks of each other on the upper west side. A popular residence at the time was the Beacon Hotel, recently converted into a rental building. The rooms were small and spare with roaches galore and a tiny kitchenette with only a hotplate to cook on. In addition to housing newly arrived wannabes, the Beacon had a sizeable population of seniors, most leaning toward the far end of their golden years. A friend told of walking into the Beacon one night and being stopped by a drag queen leaving the building. She leaned into my friend to warn him, “Oh honey, you don’t want to go in there. It’s a mortuary!”

A few of my college friends went off to California to try their luck, but New York was where a person went with serious theater ambitions, especially musical theater. It seemed most everyone in my world loved to sing and wherever we were, at home, at parties or just wandering down the streets of Manhattan, one of us was warbling a tune. Every occasion called for a song and as we all knew so many Broadway tunes we never fell short on finding the right one to fit the right situation. Obsessive love interest? “Losing My Mind” from “Follies.” Need to calm down? “Everything’s All Right” from “Jesus Christ Superstar” and very popular at the time for all of us desperate for an acting job “I Hope I Get It” from “A Chorus Line.” The combination of few work opportunities with a fierce need to perform could only have inspired that song’s lyrics: “I really need this job, please God I need this job, I've got to get this job.”

When we were in town and jobless, we all met once a week on the corner of West 90th and Broadway at “Club 90,” officially known as the Unemployment Office. We would line up in the morning, sign the forms, then go out for coffee and discuss show business and all the other news from out there somewhere in the world beyond Broadway and the upper west side. The freelance life had its joys, such as hanging out at a diner while everyone else was working, but it also had its struggles, particularly for those of us without a trust fund or any marketable skills that didn’t call for either a humorous or dramatic monologue. To survive, we picked up odd jobs like working at Macy’s, moving furniture, and office “temp” jobs, which were always available to anyone who could answer a phone and type a letter without using too much White-Out. We ate cheaply, used milk crates as drawers and shelves, rarely took cabs, and second-acted Broadway shows. But hey, we were in New York! Opportunity awaited us on any street corner, at any audition or at any glitzy party, even if we were only there as your friendly cater waiter.

Life in the grey, grimy, gritty New York City of the 1970s was without a doubt challenging and often depressing, but it was also nothing less than enthralling. I would walk the avenues and streets for hours with friends marveling at the grand architecture, the distinct colorful neighborhoods, and the energy of human ambition and aspiration rising up from the streets like steam. A day in the city equaled a week in any other American city. You could come across a larger-than-life celebrity getting out of a cab, see a play or museum exhibit that completely altered your esthetic sensibilities, overhear crazies in deep conversations with themselves, or witness heated arguments between shoppers at a grocery store vying for the last ham on sale. With heightened drama at every turn, it was the perfect place for a theater artist to live.

My friends and I were metamorphosing into official New Yorkers, the Midwest and our childhoods fading into oblivion somewhere west of the Hudson River. Once we stopped paying attention to the Walk/Don’t Walk signs, asked about apartment availability upon learning someone was divorced or dead, and found ambling tourists an agonizing torture, we knew we were finally and totally in the city’s warm but rattling grips. 

Within a few years, my roommates and I were ready to leave ZoZo to seek an apartment with more amenities and more space. We found a huge apartment farther uptown with our own bedrooms and telephones complete with reel-to-reel answering machines, in case that important call from the coast came in while we were out. Our struggles for fame, fortune and artistic fulfillment continued on, but at least now with more square footage, and never did we neglect our allegiance to partying and playing. After all, a person doesn’t want to become prematurely bitter.

A few more friends migrated to Los Angeles for a sunnier, cheaper life and a shot at working in film and television. Others left the business altogether, having had enough of constant hustling and ego-deflating rejection. The rest of us carried on and took our place among everyone else who came to know themselves as New Yorkers, residents of the capital of the world and outright lunacy.

I lived in the city for almost forty years before moving on to kinder, gentler pastures north of the city. However, from time to time, I find myself back in the old nabe and walking by good old ZoZo. I gaze up at our apartment window and conjure images of my roommates and myself as youngsters beginning our adventure in the big time in the big city. I recall my first day at my first job, looking in the mirror in the cocktail lounge and envisioning my undeniably brilliant future.

I hope I didn’t turn out to be a disappointment to that aspiring young man. I didn’t realize all of his dreams. The penthouse on the park, the star on Broadway, somehow they passed me by. I fell down time and again throughout the years, but following Frank’s example, I picked myself up again and again. I made a lot of friends, deepened my appreciation of art, got married and had a lot of laughs along the way.  

ZoZo, you did me good.

 

 

 

 

 

Jonathan B. Ferrini
Trio's

 

You've got to give a little, take a little,
And let your poor heart break a little.
That's the story of, that's the glory of love

 

It’s Friday night and approaching midnight. Dex our pianist is in fine form. His tip jar is full. I comp him premium single malt Scotch whiskey throughout the night which soothes his throat. The bar is beginning to empty except for my old regular Janxy who is sound asleep on the barstool. I’ll wake him soon and call him a cab. He’s been a regular of Marv’s Bar since my father ran this place.

 

Friday night is our busiest night of the week because we offer a prime rib dinner for $15.99 including baked potato, mixed steamed vegetables, and a house salad. The prime rib is slow cooked and we serve a healthy portion. It’s a break even item for us but keeps the customers drinking.

 

In addition to our regulars, I’m seeing new, younger faces that are attracted to what they call “dive bars”. Although we appear to be a relic of the fifties replete with dim lighting, leather booths, and framed photos of dead celebrities who once frequented the bar, we run a “tight ship” with new equipment and accounting systems.  Our two cocktail waitresses, Suzie and Lucy are in their fifties but still look sexy in their short skirts, tight blouses, black nylons and stiletto heels. I marvel at how they find the energy to keep up their frantic pace. I remember them babysitting me in between serving drinks.

 

I glance at the framed photo of my father, Marvin Goodwin, hanging behind the bar and reminding me, “The customer is always right, Mel”. He never wanted me running the bar but was always proud to bring me in to assist him with this or that or simply to sit in a booth after school sipping a “Shirley Temple”. He was proud of my becoming a Certified Public Accountant. I accepted a partnership track position with a “Big Eight” accounting firm but was never too busy to review dad’s books and complete his taxes. My parents were happy to have me live at home while I saved money to buy a house. I converted Dad’s paper ledger and cash register to state of the art accounting software and “point of sale” systems which enabled him to track his income and expenses more accurately. My parents are both deceased but I continue to live in and care for their modest home including their pride and joy, a kidney shaped pool.

 

When he was discharged from the Army after WWII, dad opened a hot dog stand on this very corner. He soon replaced the stand with a food truck. The San Fernando Valley, “Valley”, was in the midst of a building boom and he fed the tradesmen and contractors building the track homes purchased by returning GI’s. The food truck was a big success and dad bought the corner and built the bar in 1955. He ran it until his death at age 90 over ten years ago. The bar and large parking lot is located on Ventura Boulevard at one of the busiest four way intersections in the Valley and we’ve been offered millions of dollars to sell over the years. I made a promise to my father on his deathbed I would never sell. Dad was the heart and soul of Marv’s Bar and there was nobody to take over management of the bar when he died.  Dad was the reason Marv’s thrived and selling Marv’s was unfathomable. Although I became a successful corporate tax advisor, I resigned my CPA position and took over the bar.

 

The San Fernando Valley is on the north side of the Hollywood Hills. On the south side lie Hollywood and Beverly Hills. It’s often said the Valley is on the “wrong side” of the hills. The Valley is flat, hot in the summer, cold in the winter by Southern California standards, and is lined with long horizontal and vertical boulevards of apartment buildings, shopping centers, car dealerships, and plenty of previously affordable single family homes. It’s not glamorous.

 

Growing up in the sixties included weekend drives crossing the valley in our family wagon and stopping to eat at kitsch restaurants with car hop service. Sadly, the Valley has become congested and expensive just like most of Los Angeles but remains home to a large population of both white and blue collar residents.

 

Dex begins playing an old favorite and sings:

 

Strangers in the night
Exchanging glances
Wondering in the night…Something in your eyes
Was so inviting
Something in your smile
Was so exciting…

 

The door to the bar opened and in walks a striking beauty. She is tall, svelte, blond, and wearing a cashmere tan coat. She must be a starlet or a wealthy woman from Beverly Hills. The entire joint watched her slowly enter. She scanned the dimly lit bar and I expected her to walk out. She takes a seat at the bar. Suzie approaches and asks, “May I check your coat, Madame?” The woman politely declines and Suzie tactfully departs. I can’t help but notice her expensive jewelry and her perfume is subtle and elegant. She can’t be older than forty. Welcome to Marv’s Bar, what may I get you? In a hushed voice, she orders, “A dirty martini with Stolichnaya vodka and an extra olive.” She places a one hundred dollar bill on the counter in front of her. I notice a slight Russian sounding accent. I mix the martini just the way my father taught me years ago and carefully pour it into a sparkling clean martini glass I place on a thick red cocktail napkin inscribed with gold lettering “Marv’s Bar”.  She takes a sip and says, “Beautifully made”. I’m Mel Goodwin, the owner. I’m pleased to meet you. She extends her delicate hand and introduces herself, “Hello Mel, I’m Franceska.” I haven’t seen you here before. What brings you in this evening, Franceska? “I’m a writer researching “old school bars” for a novel and was told Marv’s was a historic monument.” I can tell you the history of Marv’s if you’re interested, Franceska. “I’m eager to hear all about it, Mel.” It was approaching 1:00 am and the bar was virtually empty so I had time to chat up Franceska. First, I phoned a cab for Janxy. Suzie or Lucy would see him to the taxi. I mixed Franceska a second martini and placed it in front of her. Before taking a sip of the martini, Franceska raises the martini glass and says, “L’Chaim.” She takes an elegant sip leaving faint traces of lipstick on the glass. Franceska impressed me with her beauty and Hebrew salutation, “To life”.

“Melvin, I could see your sign for miles. How did you get such a tall sign?” It's one of the tallest revolving signs in the Valley. Sign permits were more lenient in the fifties and if I took it down, the City of Los Angeles would never allow such a tall sign again. Dad’s idea for the rotating illuminated sign inscribed “Marv’s Bar” was fashioned after the Mars candy bar wrapper. We haven’t remodeled the bar since it was built. It’s one of the few original piano bars from the fifties. The drink menu remains the same but I’ve added new drinks which have become popular over the decades.  Most of our customers are regulars who have been coming for years. Many are retirees, some are widowed, and others are just seeking refuge from loneliness or despair. We’re starting to get more “hipsters”.

 

Dex, the piano player, has been with us for thirty years. He’s a Juilliard trained classical pianist and was a principal pianist with the LA Philharmonic. Dex loves booze as much as the piano and was fired for showing up drunk to a concert. Our customers love the fifties and sixties ballads he performs from memory and for a tip or a drink, he’ll thrill them with his mastery of Chopin.

 

Can you believe the two cocktail waitresses are in the fifties? Aren’t they beautiful? Their named Suzie and Lucy and been with us for twenty five years each. They're single hard working moms who put their kids through college working here. My father treated all of his employees like family and paid them well.

 

With Janxy safely on his way home in the cab, the bar was empty except for Lucy and Suzie who were cleaning up, myself, Franceska, and my old friends from high school who were regulars every Friday night and closed the bar with me. They always sat in the large secluded booth in the corner of the bar with a placard marked “Reserved”. It makes them feel like big shots and I’m happy to oblige. Franceska asked, “It’s almost closing time, may I buy you a drink, Melvin?” I never drink on the job but I was enchanted by the attention of this beautiful woman and I poured myself a shot of Crown Royal. I felt the buzz immediately and relaxed.  Franceska asked, “What about the three guys sitting in the reserved booth in the corner? Are they VIP’s?” I went to high school with them. They come every Friday for the prime rib and close the bar with me. After I lock up, we’ll talk, play cards, and recount old times.  Franceska asked, “Please tell me about each of them.” I poured myself another shot of Crown Royal.

I’ve known each of those guys since grade school. We grew up on the same cul de sac. Each of them came from broken homes. I grew up in a traditional loving family. My mom considered each of those guys “her son’s from another mother”. I wasn't the most popular kid in school and was picked on for being nerdish and Jewish but my friends were always there to scare the bullies away. The tall guy is Randall “Scandal” Rothman. Randall was over six feet tall even in grade school and the handsome guy with movie star good looks in the Armani suit is Jonny Spanno. Jonny always had a “don’t give a damn” crazy look in his eye nobody would challenge.

 

Although my family was Jewish, my mother enjoyed preparing holiday meals and inviting each of those guys over for Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, and Passover. She remembered each of their birthdays and always baked a birthday cake and planned a party for them. My father never closed the bar on holidays; Rosh Hashanah or Yom Kippur because he felt a responsibility to his customers saying, “Who do they have to spend the holiday with? It’s a Mitzvah for me to provide somewhere for them to go!”

Randall was a standout high school football player. His mom died from cancer when he was in Junior High and was raised as a single child by a workaholic father who was a middle level manager at an automobile plant. Randall kept himself busy learning to play cards and handicapping race horses. He loved to gamble. He continues to place bets with a bookie that frequents the bar. He’s 6’4” tall and weighs over 250 pounds. He was a scholar athlete and won an appointment to West Point to play football. Because he was a star football player, he was exempt from the hazing of first year cadets called “plebes”. He injured his knee in practice and was forced to quit the football team never playing a single game. He was cast into the ranks of the ordinary plebes and no longer afforded the luxuries the football players enjoyed so he resigned from West Point. Randall said he resigned because of his knee injury but I always suspected he was forced to resign because of gambling. Randall graduated from Cal State Northridge with a degree in social science. He became a court reporter. He took an interest in the law and completed law school attending evening classes. Randall accepted cases wherever he could find them including Public Defender work, immigration law, and personal injury cases. During the housing crises, Randall was approached by a group of scammers looking to start a loan modification business and needed an attorney licensed to practice law. Their scheme was to contact homeowners facing foreclosure, take an upfront fee, and promise to secure a loan modification and save the home from foreclosure. The deal they made Randall was to be a passive partner who would be paid one third of the gross revenue for simply lending his law license to the business which would give it credibility. The business thrived for several years but was a sham never completing a single loan modification or preventing a foreclosure. It was closed by the State Attorney General. Randall was disbarred hence the nickname, Randall “Scandal”. He was reading the obituary section of the newspaper one day and saw a wealthy family friend had died. He attended the service and noticed the vulnerability of the grieving family. He hatched an idea that funeral services were opportunities to serve the grieving families with a lawsuit for unpaid wages due bogus housekeepers, caregivers, or gardeners Randall recruited from his many illegal immigration contacts. He knew that it would be difficult for these families to recount who had worked for them, wouldn’t have employment contracts, and didn’t want to suffer the humiliation of fighting a solemn immigrant worker in court. Randall would wait for the conclusion of the funeral service, seek out the surviving spouse, serve the summons, and often settled quickly since the suits were filed in Small Claims Court permitting suits up to $10,000 with quick hearing dates. Some families hired attorneys to fight Randall but would negotiate a settlement on the courthouse steps to avoid the time, hassle, and humiliation of litigation. I think Randall’s physical size also intimidated family members and their attorneys. It was easy money for Randall.

 

Franceska asked, “Please make me another martini Melvin”. I had difficulty mixing the drink because of the whiskey I drank but placed it neatly in front of her. Franceska said, “Please don’t allow me to drink alone, Melvin”. I poured myself a third shot of Crown Royal and lost my train of thought. Franceska asked, “What about the other two gentlemen, Melvin?”

 

The portly balding guy is Bennie “Don’t blink because it will be gone” Blinkman. Bennie and I attended Cal State Northridge together and he has a photographic memory. With that gift, he could have become anything in life but Bennie grew up in an abusive family. His father punched a clock as a welder at one of the aerospace plants formerly in the Valley and his mother was a stay at home mom who never wanted a child. Bennie grew up witnessing spousal abuse and personal taunts from both parents including “he wasn't wanted and would never amount to anything”.  His parent’s psychological abuse destroyed his self esteem and ambition. He barely graduated from high school and took ten years to graduate from Northridge with a degree in film production. Bennie was an audiophile and we could always count on his sage advice regarding stereo equipment. Bennie found work with several motion picture post production houses but couldn’t tolerate the long hours, working for a boss and quit. He was hired as the sound man on porn films. Bennie loved these gigs because he had a voyeuristic streak and enjoyed flirting with the porn actresses. He was caught peeping into dressing rooms, stealing lingerie, fondling himself, and selling unauthorized nude photos online. Word spread throughout the porn industry and he was “blackballed” never finding work in porn again. He now works the swing shift at the parcel distribution center putting his photographic memory to good use as he sorts packages by zip codes. He’s developed quite a hustle. He is able to recognize the packages coming from high end retailers and drug companies being delivered to expensive neighborhoods he recognizes from the zip codes. Bennie tracks the packages and is able to determine the delivery day and time. He has an authentic parcel delivery uniform he dawns which doesn’t draw attention from the neighbors and wears a disguise. He waits in hiding for the delivery to be made. As the delivery truck leaves, Bennie replaces the parcels with empty boxes and leaves. Bennie sells the items on the internet and the drugs to dealers. Bennie never abandoned his interest in sound work and missed his voyeuristic opportunities on the porn sets. One evening, he heard a couple engaged in loud sex in the apartment building next door. He stood underneath their window and recorded the moans and groans with his cell phone. It really turned him on to hear the sex. He was able to determine the couple’s sexual schedule and return night after night recording the sex. Bennie decided to “up his game” and began using directional microphones and sound editing equipment which improved the sound quality. Bennie found like minded persons in chat rooms who share their recordings and on occasion, he sells a recording to post production houses requiring sound effects.

“Tell me about the handsome one, Jonny.” The good looking guy in the Armani suit and Prada loafers is Jonny Spanno. Jonny was the guy in high school who got all the girls because of his thick mane of greasy styled hair, angular jaw, dimple, and “Mafioso” confidence. Jonny’s mom was beautiful and wanted for the finer things in life. She abandoned her husband and only son for a surgeon she later married after divorcing Jonny’s dad. Jonny was invited to join his mom and the surgeon but he couldn’t forgive his mom for betraying his father and never spoke to her again. 

 

Jonny’s father owned a real estate office in the Valley which became very successful. Jonny got his real estate license, general contractor’s license, and went to work for his father. As the business grew, Jonny’s father began buying rental properties, making hard money loans, and Jonny established a thriving property management business. When Jonny’s parents died, he was left the thriving business and dozens of rental properties owned free and clear. During the “easy money” period of 2005 to 2007, Jonny decided to borrow against the debt free property portfolio and go on a purchasing spree buying more property. Jonny believed there was no end in sight to the escalating housing prices, and leveraged each purchase to the hilt. When the bottom fell out of the real estate market in 2008, Jonny’s tenants couldn’t pay the rent, real estate sales were flat so there were no commissions to be made, and Jonny couldn’t service the debt. One by one each of the properties was foreclosed upon. By 2012, Jonny lost everything and closed the Spanno Realty Office. Jonny struggled for years until one hot afternoon in the middle of summer when the wall air conditioner in his studio apartment died.  He realized that people needed relief from the heat but many couldn’t afford the cost of central air-conditioning. He came up with the idea of “Quik Koool” offering no down payment, no payments for 90 days, central air-conditioning installation and financing. Jonny created a list of elderly homeowners with free and clear homes he knew would be on fixed incomes and suffering in the summertime heat. Jonny set up a telephone boiler room business with dozens of scammer’s cold calling elderly homeowners and offering “next day, immediate relief” from the heat. Jonny hired a handsome, retirement age, unemployed actor to visit the elderly homeowners and coerce them to sign the installation and financing agreement. Within twenty four hours of receipt of the contract, Jonny had a crew of “sham factory installers” descend upon the home, open the roof which they covered with a flimsy tarp, cut air ducts throughout the house, open the main electrical panel, disconnect the switches, and leave the panel dangerously exposed. Impatient homeowners demanding completion of the work were given a multitude of clever excuses always with the promise that their job was in “queue” for completion. Within ninety one days, the homeowner received the first installment bill of the financing agreement. If Jonny didn’t receive the payment, he placed a “Mechanic's Lien” on the property frightening the elderly homeowner. Although Jonny was contacted by angry homeowners or their attorneys, Jonny knew his way around the law to stall justice. As the cold winter nights and rains began, the homeowner gladly paid Jonny a “liquidated damages” fee of several thousand dollars to cancel the contract and send his sham “factory trained installers” to patch the holes and return the electrical panel to its original condition. Some homeowners were so old they died before the matter was resolved and Jonny’s Mechanic Lien was paid in full by escrow when the property was sold by the estate. Jonny referred to these as “paid and laid to rest deals.”

 

“It’s so nice you’ve all remained friends these many years. Aren’t any of you married, Melvin?” I guess that’s what we all share in common, Franceska. We’re unlucky in love. Randall was always self conscious about his height and missed out on the nurturing of a loving mother which made interaction with girls clumsy for him. Poor Bennie was made to feel unattractive and sexually inadequate by his mom but managed to find a date to Prom night who later ditched him. He remains devastated by that night to this day. Jonny doesn’t have a problem meeting women but he has a wicked “love them and leave them” attitude. I believe he enjoys inflicting heartache on women because of his mom’s betrayal. It’s “payback” for Jonny.  Franceska asked, “And why hasn’t a successful business man like you found a wife, Melvin?” I was a nerdy overweight kid and even the nerdy Jewish girls found me unattractive. I guess you can say I’m married to this business. “Be patient, Melvin. Each of you will find your dream woman”. “From your mouth to God’s ear”, Franceska. So, what about you? Why all the questions? “I’m writing a novel and gathering research. I appreciate your time. Are those three guys here every Friday?” Yes, they are. May I introduce you? “That’s not necessary, Melvin. Thank you for your hospitality. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

 

Franceska was beautiful and had class. I fell victim to her charms and told her too much about my friends and I betrayed their trust. What the hell I concluded taking a fourth and final shot of whiskey. It’s just bar talk. She left a second $100 bill for a $60 tab along with a business card reading:

 

Lexi’s Dance Studio

Broadway & Pico

Downtown Los Angeles

 

Lucy and Suzie finished for the night and it was my custom to walk them to their cars. I waved to my friends indicating I’d be right back to join them. As we left the bar and entered the parking lot, Franceska sped out onto Ventura Boulevard in a Black Mercedes S63 AMG with a customized license plate reading, “CHESKAS”. Lucy spoke up saying, “There’s something about that woman I don’t trust” and Suzie remarked, “You told her a lot of information about your close friends tonight, Melvin. Be careful what you tell strangers”. They were right. I bid the girls goodnight, entered the bar locking the door behind me, turned off the outside signs, and joined my friends at the booth.

 

Bennie was in the middle of describing his latest audio “score”. “I was turned on to an address in Pacoima and staked it out this week. About midnight, they went at it. What a show! She was howling and I recorded lots of spanking. She calls him daddy and he slaps her harder. The slaps sound so forceful, I wonder if I should call the cops!” The guys laughed. Jonny spoke up and asked me, “So, who was the babe at the bar with you, Mel?” She said she was a writer working on a book about the Valley and was doing research. Randall asked me, “Mel, you seem buzzed which isn’t like you.” Yeah, she bought me a few drinks and I got carried away. Jonny said, “Well, did you get her number schmuck?”  Yeah, I did and produced the card which was eagerly passed around. Randall held it to his nose and remarked, “Classy fragrance”.  Jonny continued, “What do you suppose Lexi’s is all about?” Bennie replied, “That zip code is 90015 and it’s full of “Taxi Dance joints where you pay to dance with hot babes and maybe cop a feel or more for the right price.” The fragrance on the card really impressed Randall saying, “Guys, we have to check this place out.” Bennie replied, “Let me do some research on my chat rooms and I’ll let you guys know the scoop”. Everyone seemed in agreement so I asked how is business? Bennie spoke first, “I stole a delivery of Oxy and fenced it for $500 and a Chanel handbag I sold online for $250. Not a bad week”. Jonny spoke next, “I added another five callers to the boiler room and the weather forecast for the remainder of the summer spells HOT. Let’s hope for a rainy cold winter and business will be great!” How about you Randall? “It’s been a slow week for wealthy funerals but I’ve added another Mexican gardener and a very convincing Mexican grandmother caregiver to the cast. They’re right out of “The Grapes of Wrath” and the settlements will be quick”. I suggested we play some Blackjack and reached behind the planter retrieving our deck of cards. I dealt each of my buddies a hand. We played into the wee hours of the morning but each of us was thinking about “Lexi’s Dance Studio”.

 

Early Saturday night I received a call from Bennie requesting that I reserve the booth for midnight. He said Randall and Jonny would also join him. The guys filed into the bar right on time. Suzie and Lucy were surprised to see them in on a Saturday night and were happy to take their drink orders. My friends enjoyed flirting with the gals and were big tippers. I walked Suzie and Lucy to their cars around one thirty and was able to join my friends in the booth. Benny was excited exclaiming, “I found out on the chat room that Lexi’s is a Taxi Dance joint with beautiful Russian women who offer sexual favors for the right price. The chat room rated it five stars. Let’s check it out!” Jonny was first to say, “I’m in!”  Randall said, “Count me in, too!” Bennie went on to say, “The chat room said Monday and Tuesday’s were slow so the stable of women is large. Let’s do it Monday night guys!” Everybody agreed except me and told the guys, I’m stuck here tending bar. Why don’t you check it out and let me know what you find out?

 

Jonny drove a 1980 Cadillac Coup Deville which comfortably seated three guys including Randall who required leg room. They drove around the corner of Pico and Broadway several times and couldn’t find Lexi’s. They pulled into a large parking lot on the corner and were approached by a menacing parking valet with a heavy Russian accent. Jonny asked, “We’re looking for Lexi’s. Can you tell us where it is?” The valet pointed to a staircase running up the side of an old building to the second floor and said, “Ten dollars to park!” Jonny paid him and parked the car. They ascended the metal staircase which crawled up the side and around to the back of the old building with a rear doorway dimly lit, and marked with a small sign reading, “Lexi’s”. They opened the door which slammed behind them. They found themselves in a foyer facing another door marked “Ring doorbell for service”. A video camera was attached to the ceiling. Randall said, “I don’t like this guys, let’s take off!” Bennie chimed in, “It’s just security to keep the riff raff out. Ring the doorbell!” Randall pushed the doorbell which buzzed opening the door, and they entered a dimly lit dance hall with loud pulsating Techno Rock music, laser lights, and the smell of booze and cheap perfume.  It was an old dance hall from the USO days of World War II and was lined with sofas, tables, and beautiful young women in scantily clad dresses serving drinks and dancing with their guests. Bennie pointed to the busy dance floor remarking, “Check out the guy with his hands all over the girl. We’ve died and went to heaven!” The patrons were an assortment of old men, Middle Eastern immigrants, and nerds willing to pay for the attention of a beautiful woman. Jonny remarked, “Let’s get some of this action”. A waitress approached the table and asked in a Russian accent, “Welcome to Lexi’s. We offer mixed drinks, beers, and bottle service.” Jonny was eager to impress the beautiful waitress and ordered, “A bottle of Dom for the table, beautiful. What is your name?” The waitress replied, “Olga. Would you like to compliment the Dom with caviar?” Randall tapped Jonny’s leg not wanting to splurge but Jonny said, “Of course. We’ll have Beluga”. The waitress whispered, “Beluga is banned in the US because it’s on the “Endangered Species” list but we carry it anyways for our special guests. Your order will be right up”. Randall was still uncomfortable and glanced about the dance hall looking for an “escape exit”. Jonny said, “Relax Randall. Take a few hits of the Dom and you’ll feel fine.” Randall noticed a dimly lit window with curtains in a mezzanine office above the dance floor. The drapes parted and he caught a glimpse of a woman’s silhouette staring right at him before the drapes quickly closed. The waitress returned with the Dom and caviar but she was followed by three twenty-something beautiful blonds in tight dresses revealing athletic physiques which seemed out of place in a Taxi dance joint.  They approached the couch in military formation. One of the girls carried the Dom draped in a white cloth, the second girl carried a tin of Beluga Caviar on a gold Wedgwood china serving plate, and third beauty gracefully carried a Reed and Barton silver tray with six gleaming champagne glasses.

 

The waitress leading the procession said, “Please follow me, gentlemen, to our VIP booth”. Jonny remarked, “She likes me, we’re VIP’s tonight!” Bennie was observant and whispered, “Six glasses guys. We’re in for an interesting evening.”  The booth was in a dark, private corner of the dance hall with a table card reading, “Reserved” and the table was covered with a starched, white linen tablecloth including a dim lamp. Each of the guys slid into the booth and the waitress began setting the champagne glasses and caviar. The waitress remarked, “Please allow me to introduce you to your hostesses for the evening. As each girl was introduced, she curtsied. Your hostesses are Veronika, Valentina, and Viktoriya. Would you care for them to join you?”  Bennie and Jonny said in unison, “By all means”. The guys slid out of the booth and were paired with one of the hostesses. The six slid behind the booth. The waitress poured champagne into each of the six glasses and said, “Please enjoy your evening. Ring the buzzer near the lamp should you require service.” The hostesses each took a slice of small toast, carefully spread the caviar, and fed their client. They coupled arms with my buddies while each sipped champagne. It was a tight fit in the booth and it felt good to be wedged in tightly with the beauties. The fragrance of their expensive French perfume combined with the pulsating music, laser lights, and champagne intoxication eliminated any unpleasant silence or awkward conversation.

 

The hostess’s accents were Russian and although each struggled with English, they had a refinement you wouldn’t expect from a Taxi dancer. They were sophisticated as if they experienced the elegant side of life in Russia. Jonny was already on his third glass of champagne and pushed the buzzer exclaiming, “Time for another bottle and time to dance!” Jonny was paired with Valentina. They slid out of the booth onto the dance floor. Bennie spoke up, “What about the fee for the dance?”  Viktoriya was his hostess and replied, “No fee for VIP customers”. Bennie and Randall were led by the hand onto the dance floor. Each of the guys danced but were clumsy amateurs. Each of the hostesses took command of their dance partner and guided them through each step to the beat of the music. It didn’t take long for the guys to keep time to the beat but the girls were trained dancers. Their dance moves highlighted their athletically toned legs, thighs, and glut muscles developed through years of ballet training. Each had a perfect breast augmentation. The girls enjoyed breaking off from their partner momentarily and completing a pirouette. The hostesses guided my buddies through the Waltz, Tango, Rumba and Swing dancing. As Randall was dancing with Veronika, he glanced up at the mezzanine office and spied the silhouette of the mysterious woman staring down upon them. The rock band, “The Police” recording played,                          

 

Every single day

Every word you say

Every game you play

Every night you stay

I'll be watching you

 

The six drank, danced, and became friends. Randall was curious and asked, “What brought you to the US?” Veronika replied, “We were students at a dance academy back home which trained dancers for the Bolshoi Ballet” It suddenly made sense to Randall. The expert dancing ability and athletic physiques were those of trained ballet dancers. Jonny and Bennie were intent on exploring the curves of their hostess. Randall wanted to know again asking, “What brought you to the US?”  Valentina replied, “The school very competitive. We didn’t make selection and very bad for us.” Randall asked, “Why was it so bad?”  Viktoriya replied, “We were taken from our homes to attend the dance school. When we kicked out, Russian mafia wants to make us sex slaves”. This caught Bennie’s attention and he asked, “How did you get out of Russia and make it to the States?” Viktoriya answered, “Franceska was our instructor. She older and wiser and like our sister. She dating Russian government official and got us student Visas to US.”. Jonny was beginning to sober up and was curious asking, “Is this your only job?” Valentina answered, “No. We work for Franceska who owns “Caring Co-eds House Cleaning and Care Givers”. We help old people in their homes. Franceska also has 900 number phone sex line and we talk to lonely men for money”. Randall got right to the point, “Where is Franceska?” Veronika raised her head nodding towards the mezzanine office.

 

You might think that the hostesses were just being nice to my friends to make big tips at the end of the evening but a genuine bond was created. Each of my friends knew misfortune and hard times. They could relate to each of the hostesses plights and admired their ambition and ability to make a fresh start for themselves but the conversation was largely one sided as if each of the hostesses already knew much about their client already. Randall found Veronika to be very nurturing, attentive, and mothering which he had lost when his mom died. Valentina intentionally ignored Jonny’s smooth “moves” which had worked for him so many times in the past. She played “hard to get” while slowly wheeling him in like a fish on a line. She held his hand tightly throughout the night conveying to Jonny that he found a woman who wouldn’t betray him like his mother. Viktoriya provided Bennie just what he craved. She wasn’t wearing a bra or panties and gave him “sneak peeks” throughout the evening. Most of all, she built up his self esteem remarking how intelligent and engaging he was. She held him close to her giving Bennie the impression she would never “ditch” him.

 

It was pushing two in the morning and no bars serve alcohol in California after two. My buddies were tired but had the night of their life. Each of the hostesses laid their heads on the shoulders of my buddies who held them close. The waitress from earlier in the evening approached the table and tactfully said, “We’re closing for the evening, Gentleman”. Jonny reached for his wallet and asked, “What’s the tab?” The waitress replied, “Your tab was comped by management, Sir. We hope to see you again”. The six had bonded and nobody wanted to leave. There was an awkward silence broken by Bennie when he asked Viktoriya, “When can I see you again?” Viktoriya answered, “We meet for dinner at “Cheska's Tea Room” in Fairfax district on Friday at Nine” Bennie quickly replied, “You have a date!” Before Randall and Jonny could ask for a second date, Veronika suggested, “Let’s make it a triple date!” Valentina added, “We introduce you to good Russian food and drink. You like it”. Randall and Jonny beamed with joy. Viktoriya proudly remarked, “Bennie will show you how smart he is. Each of us girls write our phone number on napkin and give to Bennie. Each of the girls complied and handed Bennie the napkin with their name and phone number on it. Within seconds, Bennie tore up the napkins and repeated each of the girls phone numbers correctly back to the girls who applauded. Victoriya hugged Bennie, kissed him on the lips, and said, “I have smartest man!” Bennie never felt so loved and appreciated in his life. Goodnight kisses were exchanged. As my friends left the dance hall to descend the stairs to the parking lot, the lights of the dance hall were extinguished. Randall turned to see the dimly lit mezzanine office light now shining brightly.

 

I was surprised to see my buddies on a Wednesday night. They came in around midnight beaming like kids on Christmas morning. It was a slow night and I had an opportunity to join them at their booth while Suzie and Lucy minded the bar.  Bennie spoke first, “You should have come, Mel. Viktoriya is fantastic. I think I’m in love” Jonny and Randall sat with brimming smiles. So, Lexi’s was a real find? Jonny spoke, “Mel, it’s not a find, it’s heaven. Even skeptical Randall scored”. Randall smiled and shook his head in agreement. Bennie remarked, “Maybe we can fix you up?” I was happy for my friends but the specter of blind dates with taxi dancers wasn’t my cup of tea. Randall said, “Listen Mel we won’t see you Friday night. We have a triple date.” I could tell from my friend’s expressions that meeting the girls was like prom night on “steroids”.

 

For the first Friday  in over ten years, my buddies weren’t sitting in their booth waiting for me to close and join them. I was happy for my buddies but missed them. I wondered if our friendship would ever be the same with women now in my friend’s lives. It was about 1:45 am and I made one final walk through the bar making certain everything was in order for Sunday. I walked toward the light switch to turn off the lights and in walks the classy woman from the previous week. What was her name? She was wearing a full length white mink stole. “Am I too late to get a drink, Mel?” I thought about telling her “yes” but glanced over at the photo of my dad who would never turn down a sale. Sure, I replied. You’re the woman, who was in the other night, aren’t you? “Melvin, I’m hurt. You’ve forgotten my name haven’t you?” I’m sorry. I meet a lot of people and have never been good with names. “I’m Franceska”. Oh, yes, the writer. May I make you a Dirty martini? “Not tonight. I’ll have a glass of Chardonnay, Mel”. Franceska’s demeanor turned serious as if something was on her mind. “Mel, I apologize for misleading you the other night. I’m not a writer”. I was tired and the last thing I needed was a sob story albeit from a beautiful woman. “I drove by your bar last week with worry on my mind and needed a drink. You seemed like an honest man, a good Jewish man with virtue. I need accounting and tax advice, Mel.” I was immediately taken back to my youth when all the pretty girls would hit me up for help on their homework but wouldn’t return my calls when I phoned for a date. Listen Franceska, this town is full of expert accounting and tax professionals you can consult. Franceska began crying. “Melvin, I don’t need just any accountant, I need a man whom I can trust who understands sophisticated accounting and tax matters.” Listen Franceska, leave me your email address and I’ll send you a name or two in the morning but I have to close.  Franceska rose from the barstool, gulped down her Chardonnay, and removed her full length mink stole which fell to the floor revealing a beautiful, athletic, well proportioned nude body. “Is this what it will take for you to help me?” Tears were streaming down her face and her eye liner was running down her cheeks. The sight of this sophisticated beautiful woman standing nude in my bar pleading for help was pitiful. I glanced at dad’s photo and knew he would help her if in my shoes. I immediately ran around the bar, picked up the mink, and draped it around her and walked her to my buddy’s private booth. I’ll make a pot of coffee and you can tell me what’s on your mind. When I returned with the coffee, Franceska told me she was a dance instructor and fled Russian with three students she considers sisters. Life was difficult but the four stuck together working as maids, caregivers, waitresses, and when money was tight, “escorts”. Over the course of a decade, Franceska opened “Lexi’s Dance Studio”, “Cheska’s Tea Room”, a thriving 900 phone sex number, and “Caring Co-eds House Cleaning and Care Givers”.

 

I was impressed but Franceska wasn’t the first “rags to riches” story I heard. Franceska, if you need bookkeeping or tax assistance, let me find you somebody. Franceska held my hand and looked me straight in the eyes and said, “Melvin, these are cash businesses and I haven’t reported all of the income for years. I have cash stuffed into safe deposit boxes all over Los Angeles.” Listen Franceska, it sounds like you need a tax lawyer and the less I know the better. “Melvin, I come to you because you have friends who have the same business street smarts as me.” What do you mean, Franceska? “Your best friends are scammers and you told me their hustles.” Yeah but I don’t get involved in their business, Franceska. “If they were in trouble would you help them, Melvin?” My answer was “yes”. “You missed them tonight didn’t you?” Yeah, it was the first time in a decade they missed a Friday night with me. “They were dining with my three girlfriends at my restaurant, Cheska's. They’re all in love with each other, Melvin!” How can that be I wondered? I’ve known these guys all their lives and we’ve all been unlucky in love so how can they suddenly be in love with beautiful Russian women? Listen Franceska, I know it’s easy for beautiful women to make lonely men fall prey to them and if you’re friends cause them any heartache, and I’ll make you regret it! “Melvin, darling, please believe me. I’ve known my girlfriends since they were pre-teens at dance academy. They are young, sweet, and unsophisticated girls who grew up in large families with too many mouths to feed in Russian countryside.  They would be college cheerleaders in the US but they were born in the wrong country. At dance academy, they had nobody to take care of them except me. We love and trust each other like a family.  They’ve never known any decent men. When I talk to them and look into their eyes, I see real love for your friends. They look up to your friends as lovers, role models, and father figures. I’m afraid I may lose them to marriage and you will lose your friends!”

 

Franceska, none of us have been lucky in love. Even handsome Jonny can’t hold onto a girlfriend. This whole thing doesn’t make logical sense to me. “Melvin, my girlfriends fell in love with your friends because they don’t have to hide who they are and what they do for a living. They’re hustlers, scammers, and thieves like just like Randall, Bennie, and Jonny. Can you understand now?” It was actually beginning to make sense to me. So, what do you need from me, Franceska?  “We have worked hard for what we have and I don’t want love or the IRS to blow it. Your friends and my girlfriends can have love and financial security. There are similarities to each of our business models which you made clear to me the first night I met you. Randall runs a funeral scam, Jonny runs an air-conditioning rip-off, and Bennie steals expensive delivery parcels but they’re not big thinkers like you and I, Melvin. Your friends are small time thieves but if they combine forces with me, we can create an empire! I’m from Moscow. I was a Bolshoi dancer. I learned business from the very best by dating Soviet party big shots who become billionaire oligarchs. When I was too old to be Bolshoi dancer, I became instructor at dance academy. My girlfriends were my students.” How does it involve me, Franceska? “My “Caring Co-eds Housecleaning and Caregivers” provides my girls the opportunity to steal personal effects and pain killers from client’s homes which Bennie can sell. My elderly clients are wealthy and I can tip Randall off to their social circle funerals, and my Medicare clients are fair game for Jonny’s air conditioning scam. I own a 900 number phone sex service of 100 women taking calls 24/7 throughout the world. Jonny can help me perfect this business and also train them to call air-conditioning prospects nationwide for him. Bennie can promote my 900 number on his chat lines. You and I both sell booze for a living. I’ll bet your take is about five hundred thousand a year at Marv’s but my booze and food sales at Lexi’s and Cheska’s are over a million!” Franceska was right. There were similarities and although I was financially comfortable running a bar, I knew in my gut my friends would end up old and broke. I remembered my mother caring for each of them like sons and if I could create a nest egg for them, it would be a Mitzvah and make my parents proud. I was lost in thought and staring at the framed photograph of my father and pondered the many tax shelters, creative accounting, and offshore banking services I provided my corporate clients. If I could do it for them, why couldn’t I do it for Franceska and help her friends and mine shelter and invest their income? My train of thought was interrupted by Franceska saying, “Melvin, did you hear me? I was asking if you can put your corporate accounting skills to work for all of us and create a legitimate operation which will satisfy the IRS and provide a financial future for everybody.” My mind was racing with thoughts of holding companies, subsidiaries, off shore accounts but mostly a sense of caring for my brothers “from another mother”. All right Franceska, call a meeting for the eight of us in a private  location and I’ll put together a plan. Franceska wasted no time saying, “Breakfast at Cheska’s Tea Room eight am tomorrow.” She gracefully slid out from the booth, dipped a napkin into a glass of water, wiped the mascara from her face, hugged me and held me close to her. I felt her beating heart racing with excitement.  The last time a woman held me in her loving arms was my mother. She whispered into my ear, “I knew the night I met you fate brought us together. It took courage to give up a lucrative accounting partnership and take over a bar. You share the same loyalty to your friends as I do to my girlfriends. We’ll accomplish great things, together darling.” Franceska placed her lips to mine and gave me a soft, sensuous kiss and introduction to what may lay ahead for me. “L’Chaim, Melvin”. I looked over at the photo of my dad and asked myself if he would have seized the opportunity presented to me and remembered him saying, “Melvin, without taking risks, you’ll never find reward in life.” After all, dad built a hot dog stand into a thriving bar. I owe it to him and myself to give this a shot.

 

 

 

 

 

Mike Koenig
The Raped Joke

Ted Sanders always said, no stand up is funny his first night on stage. That was certainly true for me when I walked into Harrison’s on Third Avenue for amateur night. I was the third to go on and was thrilled that the first two performers had failed to even get polite laughs. I was always funny at parties and was sure I could get a good reaction from any audience. But something happened when I hit that stage–if you can call a three-foot-square platform one step above the floor with no background curtain and no spotlight a stage. But the faces, all ten of them, were looking right at me. It was different than telling a story to friends at a party. There was a separation. There were expectations.

“I know it’s not popular to say these days, but I am pro-life.” The words weren’t coming as smoothly as they did when I talked to myself in the mirror, but I forced myself to smile as I spoke. “Of course I think there should be an exception for rape. It’s not a moral issue. I just want the women I rape to get an abortion afterwards.”

Silence.

I actually think I would have preferred getting booed than hearing nothing at all. If people had booed, at least I’d have known they were listening; with the quiet faces I didn’t know what was happening. I skipped ahead to how masturbation ruined my sex life. The basic premise being that because I used headphones when I watched porn I couldn’t fuck a girl unless I put my hands over my ears. In the middle of the joke I remembered saying, “roommate,” because I suddenly felt it was important people know why I used headphones. One guy on the right of the bar gave me a weird look, but everyone else was just sort of turned to their own table. It was pretty clear they were whispering to their friends, not listening to me.

One by one my precisely penned jokes turned to gibberish. The punch lines weren’t landing and the premises were getting so jumbled that even I didn’t know what I was talking about. The only true laugh I got was when I tried to switch the microphone from my right hand to the left and ended up dropping it on the floor. It rolled off the platform and under the empty table in front of the stage. I just stood by the mic stand with a confused look on my face. Had I ever been funny? At that moment I would have loved to trade places with the microphone, to hide under the table instead of standing alone on stage with my mouth open as if I were about to suck a cock and my eyes wide and panicked like I was receiving one from the other end.

It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before one of the customers handed the microphone back to me. But it took ten hours for those thirty seconds to pass. Enough time for every bored face to be permanently etched into my mind.

“You want to hear a few more jokes?” I asked.

No response.

“All right,” I said, “I’m Kenny Phillips. Thanks for coming. Tip your bartenders.”

I put the microphone into the stand and walked past the MC, past the bathrooms, right to the back door that led to the alley. I kicked the dumpster a couple times then sank to the ground. Comedian, who was I kidding?

I sat on the ground for a few minutes, taking deep breaths to keep myself from crying, when the door opened. The light from the doorway gave Ted a wicked silhouette and momentarily made me forget about the terrible set.

“Somewhere over the rainbow, way up high...” As he sang the Wizard of Oz theme, Ted did a makeshift ballet dance toward me. He was terribly off-key and had the dancing grace of a sea monkey but the two together got me to smile. “... Birds fly over the rainbow, why, oh why can’t I.”

He finished his shortened version of the song right as he got to me. And with a sly smile, he held out a shot.

“That has to be one of the ballsiest things I’ve ever seen.”

“You liked my set?”

“Fuck no, you were absolutely shitty. But it took some major cojones to open with that rape joke.”

I looked down. What had I been thinking?

“You got some brains, kid, I can tell by your premises. You also have heart, getting on that stage definitely takes heart. And if you drink this, you might just get the courage to go back again. That’s all anyone needs: brains, heart, and courage.”

I looked up at Ted.  He was wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and a checkered black hat that matched his vest. The vest and hat looked trendy, if also twenty years outdated.

“Take the shot,” Ted encouraged.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to drink out here.”

“You’re sitting on about a hundred used syringes. What do you think the bar’s gonna do to you that the AIDS you’re sitting on won’t?”

I took the shot. It burned like hell.

“What is that?”

“Gin. Rail gin.”

“It’s shit.”

“Yup, the cheapest shit they sell. But I’ll tell you what, it gets you there just the same.”

I was using the saliva from my mouth to try to wash out the taste when Ted pulled me to my feet.

“So let me ask you, kid, was tonight like a bucket list thing or do you want to be a stand-up?”

“I thought I wanted to be one,” I said. “But I thought I’d be better than that.”

“No one’s better than that. Not at first. If you really want to do this just come back next week and try it again. And again. And again after that. Don’t quit before doing it five times.”

“I’ll be good after five times?”

“Fuck no, you’ll be just as shitty as you were tonight. But if you do it five times you’ll stop caring about being shitty. If you don’t care than it’s about you. Never quit because of them.” Ted pointed to the bar as he said them, and had this weird tone in his voice as if the bar, the crowd, them, was an enemy

“Do you think there’s a chance I’ll get better?”

“Better? Yes. HBO-special-I-can-write-my-own-ticket good? No way. Don’t do this to make money. That’s fucking insane. Do it cause you like it. Do it cause there’s a chance that stage will make you feel better than young pussy on a summer morning. Do it because it’s better than jerking off while staring at your computer. Most of all, do it for you.”

“Five times,” I said.

“After that you’ll have rhinoceros skin.”

~

 So I came back the next week and the week after and every week for six months. I wasn’t very good but Ted was right. I stopped caring, or I stopped caring about bombing. Every few weeks I’d be able to string a few jokes together, get the words right and have the audience laughing. Not the whole audience and never all at once but enough of them to feel progress, enough to feel like I was part of things

Ted came to see me most weeks. I was pretty happy that he didn’t give the pep talk to everybody. It made me think he really saw something in that first terrible set. I don’t know what it was he saw or how he saw it, but it was nice to know someone else wanted me to do well.

Ted also scored me tickets for the shows he did at the big rooms, Yuks which held 300 people and The Comedy Mat which held 400. Ted mostly did feature work— 15 minute sets between the emcee and the headliner. He was good, always got a response from the audience, but there was something missing from his stage presence that kept him from being great. I couldn’t quite say what was missing, but the middle act felt like his rightful home.

I was a regular at amateur nights all around Baltimore and was getting to the point where the club owners kind of knew who I was or at least knew I was friends with Ted. And Ted loved comedy, loved the small bars that could only fit fifty people, loved interacting with the crowd, loved it when a joke worked, loved it when a joke failed and he had to recover from the failure. He just loved the whole comedy scene. According to Ted, “More truth is spoken on that stage, than in two hundred years of White House press conferences.” He made stand-up comedy seem philosophically important; made it a true art.

I started carrying a pad and pen around with me, taking notes about how people acted, how they talked, the things they’d do when they didn’t think people were looking. I worked on segments, refined my wording, and practiced how to talk. It got easier getting on stage and one night I actually had a girl slip me her number before leaving the club. God, that was amazing. Someone wanted to fuck me just because she heard me tell some jokes. I mean, she didn’t answer the phone when I called, or return my message, but on that first night when she was brave with alcohol and smitten from two good jokes she definitely wanted me. I was getting better. Not good, but better.

Then it happened. Glenn Foster, who owned Yuks, the best small club in the city, asked me to do a set on a Saturday night. That was the pro night, the night that actually had a full crowd of strangers and not just friends of the amateur comics who came by to show moral support. He wanted me to do a set.

“Ten minutes,” Glenn said to me when I entered the backstage of the club. “Not nine, not eleven, but ten.”

“Okay,” I said more nervous than I’d been since that first amateur night.

“One more thing,” Glenn said scratching his heavy, uneven beard. “William Roberts is in town tonight.”

“William Roberts. From the Roberts Project?”

“You know another one?”

“He’s, like, a big star. Everyone watches that show.”

“Well, he’s in town and he sometimes comes in to do stand-up.”

“William Roberts is coming here?”

“I don’t know. But if he does come and if he wants to perform I’ll flick this purple light.” Glenn flicked a light switch that was off to the side of the main stage. It was dull enough that the crowd couldn’t really see it. “The purple light means get the fuck off. We don’t make stars wait to perform.”

“Okay.”

“So how long you going to perform?”

“Ten minutes.”

“And what’s the purple light mean?”

“Get the fuck off.”

“All right, kid, you’re gonna have the twelve-forty slot.”

Glenn walked behind the bar, the small bar that was backstage and just for the comics, and poured himself a drink. As he did I felt my phone vibrate. It was a text message from Ted. I’d called him for some advice when I first got the gig. His reply was simple: Don’t drop the mic. It actually made me feel a little better.

Then it was twelve-forty and I went out on stage, my first time on a real stage, high enough to see the tops of heads and with enough space to actually pace a little without looking stupid. I smiled as I picked up the mic. “I want to apologize to the women in the audience tonight. I’ve decided to retire from anal sex.” There were a few laughs at the premise of my routine, and it allowed my heartbeat to slow down. “See, I had a bad experience with anal sex a few weeks ago…” As I continued my joke I could see William Roberts standing against the pillar in the back of the room. I immediately looked at the purple light: was I supposed to stop? It was off, so I kept talking, aware that William Roberts was actually watching me. He had his jacket collar folded up and his stance was kind of slouched as if he was trying to hide. But you couldn’t miss that signature greasy ponytail. “So now I have shit on my dick. My roommate looks at me and says ‘how much shit was it.’ And I realize that the guy I’ve been living with has a shit quota. In his mind there is an acceptable amount of shit you can have on your dick. So I ask him. How much shit is okay with you?” And god did I nail that line, just the right amount of indignation for the crowd to start clapping. Even Roberts was smiling at the joke, or not the joke but the delivery of the joke. And I felt the energy Ted always talked about when he won over a room.

I called Ted as soon as I got off stage.

“It was FUCKING AWESOME. The whole anal sex thing worked.”

“You hit a homerun your first time in the show?”

“Fuck yeah I did.”

Then there was a tap on my shoulder. William Roberts was standing behind me.

“I got to go,” I said to the phone. “William Roberts is standing at the bar.”

“Roberts?” Ted said. “Don’t let that piece...” but I hung up before Ted finished his thought.

“You were really good out there,” Roberts said, patting my shoulder.

“You think I was good? You’re like a genius. I love your show. I still watch your Chicago stand up special from ‘96.”

Roberts smiled and waved at Gus for two drinks.

“We didn’t have the internet in my day,” he said. “We actually jerked off with magazines. It wasn’t until my seventh woman that I realized they actually made noise during sex. Wasn’t til I got married that I realized the noises were all fake.”

I smiled. “I guess I’m lucky to have the internet.”

“Or not. If you weren’t so used to headphones maybe you could have sex without covering your ears.”

“I guess we fuck shit up no matter what.”

Roberts grabbed the beers from Gus and handed one to me. It actually felt like we were colleagues. Almost colleagues. I was too nervous, too star struck, to really think of myself as his equal.

“I really liked that line you had about having shit on your dick.”

“Is there an acceptable amount of shit you can have on your dick?”

“Yeah, that’s a good concept. I’m gonna take it.”

I laughed and took a sip from my beer.

“Seriously, don’t use that joke anymore, okay.”

Roberts put his beer down and looked me in the eyes with this weird anger. I actually thought he was going to punch me, the stare was that intense. But it ended with the great big smile, the one he always had on the TV show that allowed his wife to forgive him.

As he got up, he put out his hand and I shook it. As he walked out the door, I noticed he had handed me a crumpled, wet hundred-dollar bill.

~

“He’s been doing it for years,” Ted said the following week when we met for lunch. “The guy’s a hack, his whole Chicago routine was lifted. Most people won’t even perform if he’s in the room. That must be why you got the call.”

Ted was eating a club sandwich that was falling apart. Each time he lifted one of the little triangle sections a piece of turkey or tomato slid out.

“So I only got called because he was in town?”

“Probably. I mean Glenn knows Dale and Cheryl and Earl won’t go on if he’s around.”

“I thought I was making progress.”

“Hey,” Ted said putting down his sandwich, “William Roberts is a piece-of-shit hack, but he knows talent. If he took your joke, it was a fucking good joke.”

“And he can just do that?”

“What are you gonna do sue him?”

“Why’d he pay me?”

“I don’t know,” Ted said, “there’s no real copyright law with jokes. It’s an honor thing. Maybe he feels like if he gave you money he owns the joke. Those actor comics are the fucking worst. They got no soul.”

“And I just took the money, like a fucking whore.”

“There’s nothing you can do about that. No one’s taking your word over his, and even if they did, nobody cares who wrote a joke.”

“I just wish I had said something, you know. I wish I had thrown the money in his face instead of just taking it in the ass.”

“Forget it, kid. He knows what a piece of shit he is. You can’t change that. Get yourself a couple lap dances. That always makes me feel better. A hundred bucks should go far on a Tuesday.”

I didn’t get another call from Yuks or any other real club. I even started skipping the amateur nights. The laughter, when I actually got it, didn’t feel as good. I wanted to feel the magic Ted felt, the poetic lure of the stage. I wanted to feel like I had that one night at Yuks but I didn’t. I was just a gerbil on a wheel. As hard as I tried I just wasn’t getting to a different place.

One night I got a text from Ted: Don’t turn on HBO. I immediately turned it on. For some reason texts telling you not to do something and texts telling you to do something have the exact same result. The funny thing is I probably wouldn’t have turned on HBO without the text. I was quite content to spend the waning hours of the night surfing the web and jerking off.

But there he was, William Roberts. His hair perfectly greased in a slick ponytail, his eyes electric with excitement. He was on the couch next to Chris Rock, both comics just riffing back and forth in that natural-yet-rehearsed way comedians can talk. It was a little like a wrestling match, half-staged but half-improvised.

Then Roberts started talking about anal sex and how he wasn’t going to do it anymore because the last time he did he got some shit on his dick. The crowd roared with laughter and even I had to smile at the mannerisms he used to pantomime holding his dick. But it was also his eyes. They were able to switch from excitement to complete disgust in half a second and his shoulders had this way of shifting that could change the entire energy of the room.

Chris Rock walked into the setup. “Now how much shit we talking about?”

Without missing a beat Roberts said my joke: “Is there an amount of shit that’s okay for you?”

The audience went crazy and even Rock had to clap at the well-timed line. Roberts went on to describe the anal sex, adding layers to the premise I hadn’t dreamt of. He described in nuanced detail how the shit looked and how he had to wash himself in the kitchen sink, later throwing out the plates he hadn’t bothered to remove. Every once in awhile the camera would shift to the audience, who were both bothered and thoroughly entertained by the exquisite details of anal sex. I remember one black audience member in particular had this terrible that’s just wrong look on his face but he continued to laugh and beg for more with his eyes.

“Fuckin’ Hack,” Ted texted, somehow knowing I was watching the show.

I didn’t write him back. I wasn’t angry about the joke. It was just a kernel of an idea and Roberts had made it into a full routine. I was more in awe of how he built upon the joke, how far he could take it, how he squeezed every ounce of funny from the idea. By the end of the show, I was laughing as hard as anyone in the crowd. Proud to be a part of the show, even if Ted and I were the only people who would ever know.

As the credits came up I turned off the TV and opened my laptop. I had been great for a moment, for a single joke. But I wanted to be more than that. I was raped by William Roberts, I typed. I leaned back in my chair and reread the premise. Now, make it funny, make it funny to the bone.

 

 

 

 

 

Moriah Hampton
Prime View

He had expected more from the place.  It was supposed to be the “finest” of the resort’s properties, offering the “best,” most spectacular view of the mountains.  Some celebrities had even stayed in his rental overnight like the actor Tom Selleck.  On top of that, several reviewers had raved about the property on travellers.com, giving the “northeastern treasure” a four-star rating.  Yet standing before the outer wall encased in glass, he looked at the green-swathed mountains soaring towards the sky and sighed.  They seemed close enough to touch, and he started to trace their peaks and valleys, pausing at a point where two mountains overlapped.  Still he felt nothing. Pressing his forehead against the glass, he recalled a few of the photos from the website and readily admitted that the mountains, with their folds of sage and hunter green, were even more beautiful, breathtaking in fact, when in person.  And still nothing.  A moment passed before he said in a deadened voice “Amazing” and turned his back on the view. 

He began to survey the rest of the rental, a fully equipped, modern cottage poised at the edge of a cliff.  “What could $1000 a night buy these days?” he wondered. He hardly glanced at the stainless steel appliances before noting the custom-built cabinets and crown molding.  Through the kitchen ran granite counters over to the bar where he stood.  He slid his palm along the dark speckled surface and turned towards the living-dining area.  Open-concept, he thought, a typical solution for maximizing space.  He walked past the mahogany dining table over to the sitting area with a felt couch and red-patch swivel chairs.  Standard furnishings.  He didn’t bother with the master bedroom suite.  A raised bed, most likely, with a vaulted ceiling and heated tiles on the bathroom floor.  All nice, very nice, but hardly remarkable.

He found the bottle of scotch in his overnight bag left by the front door.  At the bar, he poured himself another round, reasoning that since he had the first hours ago, he’d make up for lost time.  Around 5:30 that afternoon, Andy had dropped by his office for that promised update.  “Booked and ready to go?” Andy asked soon after entering.  Then they decided to kick start the weekend with a drink.  Sipping the scotch has was now holding, the men sat in a pair of executive chairs at a safe distance from one another.  “If anyone in the firm deserves a vacation, Phil, it’s you,” Andy pronounced.  A moment passed before he agreed.  “Everyone at the board meeting Thursday thought so,” Andy continued.  “After landing something as big as the Simmons’ contract, you ought to celebrate.  I mean really celebrate.   I have in your shoes.  Hell, we all have.”  He had no wish to buck convention, so replied matter-of-factly “I’m overdue.”  Leaning closer until both men felt slightly uncomfortable, Andy whispered, “Look Phil, about my recommendations.  They got you the deal, right? Isn’t that what matters?”  Andy, he knew, would be satisfied with only one answer.  So he gave it, even raising his glass to prove he was a good sport.

Originally, he felt triumphant as word spread around the office about his weekend plans.  He felt sure a few of the guys lost their bearings when they heard, “No Phil’s not going to the Cape,” as generally expected.  “He’s going to the Catskills.”  Only vaguely did he recall searching days for the perfect destination.  He ruled out one resort after another as a connoisseur does the menu options at an all-night diner.  As rental prices climbed, he reasoned that sometimes you pay for quality and sometimes you overpay.  He, certainly, knew the difference.  At the end of the third day, he came across the website for Wind Pines.  As he reviewed the pages, he grew convinced that the resort offered something really special.  There he could be amid nature, real-life nature, and leave behind the cultivated grounds and landscaped vistas so admired by his set.  And, he wouldn’t have to give up anything.  He could live in luxury and if he so choose enjoy fine dining and the latest entertainment at the resort too.  Immediately, he reserved the best they had available.

Yet inside the cottage, he reluctantly accepted that it was far from what he had hoped.  Sure he could rave about the place at the office next week, flashing a picture of its trendy décor and winning view.  He might even convince a few to switch from their usual vacation spots and stay there instead.  But he didn’t want simply to impress them.  Well okay, he did but not with a slightly better version of what the Cape already offered.  He was not just an Account Executive but a man who could think for himself too.  He knew how to decide on his own terms what was right and to stand by personal choices even when unpopular because that is how you win people over.  The cottage was supposed to be another example.

A moment later he stood looking at the couch, long enough for three to sit comfortably on or for one to lie with head resting across another’s lap.  He settled in the middle with the glass balanced on his knee.  The change of location didn’t quiet his mind.  The glass, a quarter full, seemed a poor substitute for a woman’s hand.  If he was further along in life, his wife would be by his side, her hand resting on his knee, like in so many pictures he had seen on desks around the office.  But he didn’t have one of those pictures, so he brought in a photo of him and his buddies on a golf trip to Hilton Head Island.  He probably would have placed the picture on his hutch anyway.  He knew, after reading a column on customer relations, how important it is to personalize your space.

His wrist watch read six o’clock.  He didn’t envy the long-winded conversations he was sure married couples had over where to go for dinner.  Rising from the couch, he smiled, imagining men everywhere weighing with their wives the restaurant options, some sacrificing, others striking a compromise.  For him, it was a done deal.  He would be dining at that place called Major’s near the center of town.  But before going, he wanted to change into more comfortable clothes.

Soon after, he strode to his black BMW, dressed in a green polo and khakis.  Inside, he appreciated all over again the fit of the driver’s seat, which seemed especially designed for him.  He inched along the resort roads, glad to speed up once he hit the main thoroughfare.  He glanced at the empty passenger seat, resuming his thoughts from earlier.  Then again, he had to give it to those married guys who always had a beautiful woman on their arm.  He sped up, letting the E46 hug the curve.  But as a single, good-looking man with a high salary, he would be the one more likely to have a new one by the end of the night. Every guy knew he enjoyed a level of freedom that married men everywhere wanted at least some of the time.  He went on to revel in his freedom, so that by the time he pulled into Major’s parking lot minutes later, he had resolved to forget about the second-rate cottage and to make the most of whatever the night had in store.

 

The hostess led him along the edge of the dining room up a couple of stairs to a table near the bar.  He followed the young woman, his hands in his pockets, a slight bounce in his step.  He looked as if he had spent all day on the golf course and had left reluctantly only to satisfy his hunger.  The local clientele, as he predicted, took notice.  A few turned to watch the newcomer pass; others fastened upon him the entire way.  It must be my zest for life, he thought, secretly basking in their attention.

“Your waitress will be with you shortly,” said the hostess once he was seated.  He looked her over again, smothering the desire to laugh.  She was a scrawny teenager playing dress up in her mother’s black dress.

The menu listed the standard fare at a steak and seafood restaurant.  He settled on his stand-by meal at such places and leaned back in his chair.

He began to survey the men, women, and children gathered together on this Friday night.  One couple epitomized the lot of them.  He wore a plaid shirt and looked as if he had just combed his hair.  She sat across from him in a stiff floral blouse probably identical to all the other ones in her closet.  They gazed at each other as if anticipating something wonderful was about to happen.  Perhaps they really liked the food they ordered, Phil thought, or the ever-changing crowd or the greetings exchanged around the restaurant.  Perhaps they thought someone would soon smile and wave at them.  Phil couldn’t tell for sure but what he did know is they never left the restaurant disappointed.   

           

            Towards the dining room, one of the waitresses hurried along the narrow passageway.  Already, she had gone back to the kitchen countless times, and each time she returned, Stan and Ned were still sitting at the bar.  This time was no different.  She saw them immediately as she glided through the swinging-side door and grew ready for whatever they would throw at her next. 

            “Hey Carmen, you got a new customer,” Stan announced.  “Do you want me to take his order?”

            He elbowed Ned, and the two men heehawed together, trying not to fall out of their seats. 

            “A pretty boy,” Ned said, spurring them further.

            Carmen paused a moment, thinking how much she liked the pair, but she’d be damned if she’d show it, then broke through their laughter with, “Sure, Stan, and how about helping me sweep the floor afterwards?”

            She left before they had a chance to respond on her way over to the single guy at table 18.  Phil started as she approached.  She reminded him of a rock-n-roll groupie in a former life known for having a really good time, even more so when she stopped at his table.  They looked squarely at one another, and Carmen watched Phil’s face enliven as he searched her face for signs of the same life.  She knew what he saw written, and she knew by now how to ignore such life-changing moments because she didn’t want to change a thing about her life.

            She greeted him and asked for his drink order, while he smiled slightly, suggestively, as if they both knew what she was really saying.

            “I’ll have a Heineken,” he said, and then more slowly, pointedly, “I already know what I want.”

            He took the liberty to look her up and down, fastening on her full breasts as if the only dessert in a display case. 

            “And what would you like?” she asked, giving him the vacant look she had long-since perfected.

            “Steak, medium-rare, baked potato, side salad with house dressing,” he said and held out the menu.

            She grasped it, feeling his grip tighten then release.  And for that instant, he smiled on the inside, liking that she had to wait without realizing this is what she would have to do.

            Behind the bar, she prepared a vodka tonic for one of the waitresses and set it aside.  Stan and Ned sat silent, chastened, pretending to be on their best behavior.  After, she filled the single guy’s order, grabbing a frosty mug and Heineken from the cooler.  She placed the items on a tray along with a drink napkin, all the while feeling him staring at her from across the room.  He seemed to notice everything about her, from the strand of beads around her neck to the tuft of pale blond hair that fell across her face.  She didn’t know what he had in mind but in similar situations had played along for the sake of the tip.  With Ned and Stan camped out at the bar, she couldn’t afford to tick him off and get stiffed.

            Phil couldn’t believe his luck as he sat staring at his waitress.  Her flared-open shirt and frayed hair exuded sex appeal she seemed unable to contain.  She was wild in her day, he thought.  I’d like to know if she still is. Having Carmen as a waitress, Phil realized, could be a game changer.  He just might, in the end, enjoy his vacation.  He deserved to after all.

 

            Carmen appeared, and Phil drew back, letting her serve his drink.

            “Ahh…I needed this,” he said as her arm came to rest by her side.

            “Hard day?” she asked.

            “More like hard month,” he replied, looking for kindness in her darkly lined blue eyes.  Finding it, he continued, “But that’s the past.”

            He paused, so his words could make an impression, then lowered his voice and said, “We’re here now.”

            She smiled good humoredly, and he wanted to taste her deep red lips.

            She went to tend to the other tables, recalling the last time a customer hit on her.  An out-of-towner who sat in her section three nights in a row, he promised her the moon if she’d go out with him.  And if that wasn’t for sale, a Caribbean cruise.  How did that one end, she tried to remember, filling the water glasses on table 13.  A moment passed, and it came back to her.  Tammy, the hostess who left for a better job, flirted with him to give her a break, and after he disappeared.

            The single guy’s order was up.  She carried it from the kitchen past Stan and Ned who were arguing about a build-it-yourself class at the local hardware store.  She placed his entrée before him and asked if he needed anything.

            “No.  Everything looks good,” he said, then winked at her. 

            A wave of hunger passed over him as he sensed the food.  He grasped a knife and fork and begin eating with gusto, finishing off his salad, steak and most of the baked potato until his thoughts returned to Carmen.  Playing with its remains, he started to doubt that she found him attractive after the first impression.  When she served his drink, he thought, she looked right through him.  He recalled another sign of her lack of interest but stopped short saying to himself, she liked you immediately.  Go with that.  He rebounded fast and became certain he could pull off the big win.  She’s been around, he thought.  You could get away with asking her over to the cottage. 

            Carmen noticed Phil had stopped eating from the bar.  She arrived with him sitting back in his chair.

            “Thank you again,” he said as she picked up the cast iron dish. 

            “Sure,” she replied.  “Can I get you anything else?”

            “I don’t think so,” he said, reminding himself that women like confident men.

            As she prepared to leave, he said, “I’d like to see you again.”

            “Oh,” she said, feigning surprise.

            “Yeah, why don’t you come to my cottage after work.  I’m staying at Wind Pines.”

            “Wind Pines,” she repeated with awe.  “Well,” she continued, seeming to think it over.  “Well” she said again.  “Ok. Yes.  I’ve always wanted to visit Wind Pines.”

            “Great,” he nearly shouted.

            As he told her the address, she let it slip out of mind.  Then they laughed over the fact that neither knew the other’s name.  Phil saw to that promptly, guiding them to make introductions, while Carmen followed along good naturedly. 

            She returned immediately with his check ready to put an end to the situation.

            She handed him the black folder, and he took it easily, saying “until later, Carmen,” to which she replied, “yes, later.”

            He took enough cash out of his wallet to leave her a generous tip while Carmen found shelter at the bar before she noticed Stan and Ned grinning at her with some secret knowledge. 

            “Not a word,” she warned, and they grew sheepish.

 

            He placed the bottle of Pinoit Grigio in the fridge to chill and started opening and closing cabinets looking for the wine glasses he had seen earlier.  He set two down on the counter and paused, his mind blank.  He had no idea what to do next to prepare for Carmen’s visit.  Stalled in the kitchen, he recalled how small the cottage felt when he entered a few minutes ago, small and confining as though once he entered he would be stuck for life.  Standing there now, it grew even smaller until he felt the sudden urge to pile up the furniture to free up some more space.  Instead, he walked to the bathroom and methodically brushed his teeth and applied some more deodorant, anticipating Carmen’s visit. 

            He expected Carmen around 10:00 pm, leaving him thirty minutes to wait.  He split his time between pacing back and forth across the dining area and checking the temperature of the wine in the refrigerator.  The longer he waited, the more he wanted her to get there.  Once they were together, he wanted to say in just a few words “this is my life” and “this is who I am” and for her to nod yes believing him.  Then they could drink and celebrate in whatever way they wished.  They could sprawl out on the couch or have sex in the shower, and when Phil began to doubt what his life was like or who he was, all he would have to do is look at Carmen who would nod yes, and Phil would be Phil again.

            He grew excited when he heard a car door slam.  He walked briskly to the front door, hearing heels clicking up the driveway.  Opening the door, he expected to meet her face-to-face.  She would be surprised, and he would apologize not caring that he looked over-eager.  He could correct the impression later if it even mattered.  But as the door swung open, Phil discovered the spot vacant where Carmen should be standing.  He checked his watch, which to his astonishment read 10:20 pm.  Where is she, he thought, climbing down the steps to the driveway.  He followed it out to the street, searching the night for headlights but found none.  He listened for the sound of a car in the distance but heard only the buzz of insects that seemed to grow silent once heard.  Standing at the end of the driveway, he realized fully that he had not heard Carmen’s car.  Carmen, he told himself, was not coming over.  She had stood him up, branding him a fool.

            He began to laugh, shaking slightly, then his laughter became louder and harder, convulsive laughter, until he bent at the waist, entirely overcome.  He stayed that way for some time.  Then suddenly he stopped laughing and stood up, a wide smile frozen on his face.  He trod the same path back to the cottage as if following orders.  Then once inside, he through off restraint and poured himself two glasses of wine. 

            On the couch he sat sipping the wine while the other glass remained on the table.  He got stood up by a waitress, he thought, shaking his head.  He got stood up by a waitress who probably makes less than 30k a year.  He got stood up by a waitress on the weekend he’s supposed to be celebrating.  He laughed silently.  It’s a great ending, he thought, a really great ending. I promise Mr. Simmons a discount on his next order of equipment to lure him into signing a contract.  He does so in full confidence.  I get a fat bonus with kudos all around at the office.  I reward myself with a long weekend at a cottage I hate.  I try to have some fun anyway but get stood up by a waitress.  He swallowed the last of his wine and put the glass on the table.

            It’s my turn, I guess.  Carmen saw to that.  A few months from now, it will be Mr. Simmons’ turn, then someone else’s turn, and on and on.  It’s the way of the world.  Take advantage or someone will take advantage of you.  Andy taught him this, and although he didn’t like to admit it, Andy was right. The results with Simmons proved it.  Tonight proved it. 

            He wanted to go out so got to his feet.  He remembered seeing a few bars on his way to the restaurant.  They were probably the only places open in this sleepy town.  He grabbed his keys off the countertop, thinking he would like to try his luck at one of those bars, but really he didn’t care where he ended up tonight.  He just wanted to take a drive somewhere.

 

 

 

 

Nick Bertelson
A Cockfight

Daisy Corderra watched her father draw a mouthful of water from a shallow basin—the same one the stray dogs often lapped from after a good rain. Slurping at the water, his cheeks distended, lending his face a melon-like shape. As a toddler, Daisy used to laugh at this display, and he, in turn, would act like a monkey, letting out a few throaty grunts as he chased her around. Now, though, he was all business. With his cheeks now full, he hoisted his prized fighting cock, Bolero, before him, holding it like a trophy. He doused the bird down in a fine mist, spewing the water from his lips.

If only he did that with the Tanduay, Daisy said to herself.

She now watched the bird ruffle its feathers. She had named the rooster Bolero, even though her father did not believe in the naming of such things. He claimed that it was not “Christian.” Though Daisy had never heard this from anyone but him, and moreover, she couldn’t recall that last time her father had gone to mass.

Daisy adored animals too much to not name them. She had learned more from them than from any human, even her teachers in Cebu City. She saw animals’ names in their behaviors. Bolero, for example, often picked fights with the other roosters around the baranguay, and the way he ducked and strutted when he fought reminded her of dancing with her mother.

“This one,” her mother would say, “is called the Bolero.”

Then she’d sweep Daisy all through the apartment, showing her where and how to step.

Daisy marveled at how the water droplets rose off the bird whenever he shook his feathers, how they glowed in the soft light emanating from the porch. It was so hot even after sundown that the water refused to fall to the ground. It appeared to rise into the night, mixing with the heat-ripples rising off the highway with its ceaseless traffic.

Daisy had learned to make friends with the daily traffic: the buses freighting sweaty locals, the air-conditioned taxies carrying the turistas to beach resorts, the motorcycles with giant pigs in the sidecars. There were few kids around who were her age, and the thirteen-year-olds who actually did live around the baranguay kept their distance from Daisy. She was from the city, after all, and her father was a drunken gambler. He wasn’t ill-tempered, but that did not mean he was easy to talk to, especially if he hadn’t had his first drink of the day. Sometimes after a hard jag, he’d open his mouth and only produce a string of incoherent syllables. It sometimes reminded Daisy of the times when she’d turn the tuning dial on her mother’s FM radio as fast as she could, flying through all of Cebu’s seemingly infinite stations.

New Years was only a week away, and the traffic had increased on the highway outside Daisy’s front door. People left Cebu for the holidays to visit their families in the mountains, returning to the houses and huts they grew up in, where their fathers and grandfathers still toiled over pathetic plots of white corn with nothing more than a water buffalo and a single-row plow made of petrified wood.

Though Daisy loved when the traffic picked up (it was really the only thing for her to watch now) she nevertheless missed Cebu. Or, rather, she missed her life in Cebu. She missed her favorite internet cafe, she missed being able to buy sweetened sticky rice on the street corner, she missed her friends, her favorite markets, her school—even the stifling pink uniforms she was forced to wear; she missed learning English, and working with computers and tablets. But most of all, she missed her mother. After her death, Daisy was sure she’d be sent to live with her grandfather in Danao City, her mother’s father. Daisy dreaded the thought of it. She could see him sitting on his porch, drinking liter bottles of Red Tiger beer, always on the brink of another coughing fit. Emphysema made his chest rattle wetly. When he coughed, his black tongue protruded from his mouth before the fit even began, as though the tongue itself was trying to escape. To Daisy, he looked like a baby bird waiting to be fed. And when the cough finally did scrape its way up his throat, it escaped with a phlegmy force that turned his face red and, from time to time, caused him to lose consciousness, the gooey spittle dripping down his chin as one of Daisy’s distant cousins gently slapped the old man awake.

Now, though, Daisy wondered if it would have been better there. It was at least close to the city limits, and she didn’t get left alone for hours on end.

She watched her father primp Bolero’s feathers, marveling over the bird.

“What time will you be home?” Daisy asked him.

Her father looked at her the way he sometimes looked at stray dogs who wandered up to the front door, looking for a scrap.

“Late,” he said in Cebuano. He stared for a moment at his daughter. Then turned back to the bird. His hardened expression melted, as if he regretted being so short with her. “We will be one of the last fights of the night,” he added. “I’ll be stuck there until the end.”

Daisy wasn’t sure whether this was true or if he was just saying it to have an excuse for staying out late. She supposed it didn’t really matter either way; her father would rather spend time at the cockfights than at home. So what if he had an excuse?

Daisy walked inside their hut and stared through the slats out at the highway. It felt like rain again. A typhoon recently made landfall in the northern islands and was casting rain bands across the Visayan Sea. Daisy feared the rain might thin out the traffic; then what would she do?

She knew she should make more friends, but the other teenagers who lived in the baranguay had never been to the city. Daisy didn’t fault them for this, but she couldn’t stand singing the same songs on the same karaoke machines the way they did each night over at Dahari’s Sari Sari. Still, she went there from time to time and bought a can of Coke Zero and tried not to seem standoffish, even though she felt a cloud hanging over her, one whose shadow warded off other children. Sitting alone, listening to someone sing another melancholy American song, she often wondered what friendship was like outside of the Philippines. Did something make friendship easier or deeper in other places? She’d never had close friends. They were always just beyond the normal cliques, though. At least in her mind they were. She knew that back in Cebu, she’d meet the right girls soon enough. After all, nearly 20,000 students attended her school Now, in a school of 300, she felt desolate, foreign even, as if she spoke a different language altogether. It all made her glad she got the time off for the holidays.

Her father’s friend puttered up on his motorcycle, beeping the thing’s tiny horn twice. Without a word, her father stood up from the wicker chair with Bolero tucked lovingly in his arms and he made for the street, not speaking a word to Daisy, who watched from within their hut. Daisy found herself alone, just her and the two pieces of furniture, their squat table with its tiny stools, and the two pots sitting atop the table, one for rice, one for meat. Her father seemed to have left something behind out on the porch, though what it was, Daisy couldn’t be sure. It was not something physical. It was a presence. She merely detected him there, despite his absence. She moved to her father’s bed—a blanketed, wicker bench resting underneath the front window. Most nights, he was too drunk to do anything but stumble onto the bench and pass out. Tonight would doubtlessly be no different.

Daisy waited for the rain now, which (she realized) was like waiting for water to boil before adding the rice. After two minutes of eternity, she got up and stood at the open door. She decided to walk down to the public toilet. She didn’t have to pee but she had nothing better to do. On the way, a tour bus passed by, despite the late hour, nearly 8:00 pm. A flat-faced Japanese man gaped down at her. Behind the bus, a small truck passed, this one filled with screeching pigs each spray-painted with a marking meant to tell the butcher how the pig was to be prepared. She delighted in the way the pigs’ ears flapped in the wind.

She moved through the baranguay—this complicated warren of squat huts with sheet-metal roofs, thatched siding, and canted bamboo shafts somehow holding them each together. Near an open area, there stood a hollow-block hut with three toilets for men and one for women. Each time Daisy frequented the public restroom, she read the sign zip-tied to the side of the building: “Product of UNESCO World Toilet Day 2015.” It was the best building around. The whole baranguay could be wiped out by a hurricane and the UNESCO toilet would still be standing.

A line of women stretched out of the door now—all the baranguay residents doing their business before the storm came. Daisy walked closer to the building and stared at the line for a moment, counting the women. It seemed a waste of time to wait in line, considering she didn’t have to go. So she walked back up the hill to her father’s hut and laid out her mat on the floor at the back near the window. She heard her father’s other roosters rooting through the dirt behind the hut, scraping and clucking just on the other side of the thatched wall. The sound made her picture the cockfights, where her father was now getting juiced on Emperador brandy and Tanduay rum.

She’d watched the fights once before, from the seat of her father’s scooter, back before he’d gambled it away. Kids her age were not allowed in the fights unless a parent brought them in and Daisy’s father refused to do that. The only reason she got to tag along at all was because she’d come down with the flu and no one else could watch her. She didn’t doubt that if she’d been born a boy, though, she’d be standing ringside with her father at every fight, screaming bets at the local bookies as they called out their odds.

Daisy recalled the only fight she watched. She’d mustered up the strength to stand atop the scooter’s seat and peer in over the fence. Two men stood in the ring, riling up their respective birds before placing them before one another. They knew the birds were good and angry when their neck feathers puffed out like tiny umbrellas, their eyes wide with instinctual rage. It was then that the men unsheathed the razor-sharp knives strapped to the backs of the birds’ talons. Daisy had seen them glinting in the sun, and she realized that if not for those metal talons, the birds wouldn’t have fought to the death.

The crowd fell church-silent when the men dropped their birds, only cheering when one got an advantage on the other. They watched with glistening brows, their fists clenched around crumpled pesos. Daisy learned more about the men than the birds in that moment. She saw the cockfights for what they were: a pastime for drunken old men. It was no job, as her father claimed it to be. There was no advancement in cockfighting, no promotions, no raises. Daisy had friends back in Cebu whose fathers worked construction; they were janitors, jeepney drivers, one was even a pharmacist. And what did her father do? He took bird after nameless bird to the cockfights where all the roosters died, both the winners and the losers, after only thirty seconds of fighting one another. On a good day, he might bring home two roosters for them to eat and perhaps a few spare pesos that he’d won betting. But most mornings he returned with nothing more than a hangover and the inability to even speak. 

*

Daisy saw her mother as she did most nights: she appeared in the distance amid the sound of gunfire. Pop, pop, pop! Three distant yet distinct shots. Then her mother sat before her at a table, where she removed the slugs from her body, two from her abdomen and one from her chest. Daisy had seen her mother do this hundreds of times, and each time the scene got more palatable, easier to watch. Her mother wordlessly—for she never spoke in the dream—eased the slugs from her wounds, one by one, like splinters, and she placed them in a tea strainer. It was then that Daisy noticed the kettle of water boiling on the stove behind her. Daisy heard the slugs rattling in the strainer, making a dull, unmelodic music.

Her mother then poured the hot water over the slugs, making the tea in the nicest china Daisy had ever seen. Before her on the table, there stood a porcelain cup with a gold-rimmed lip and a handle made to look like a flower. The tea, however, was blood, all molasses-thick and nearly black, like the blood of a rooster who sat dead in the sun too long.

Before Daisy could lift the cup to sip, her father leaned in and drew a mouthful of the blood, sucking it up loudly without lifting the cup. It was so hot, though, that he screamed and swept his hand towards Daisy’s mother backhanding her so hard that Daisy woke up.

She wanted to rise from her bed now, but something stopped her. She felt—no, she knew—that she was not alone in the hut. It was raining now; the sound of it on the roof would have been comforting under any other circumstances. But she knew something was amiss. Someone was there who should not be there. As she opened her eyes, she expected to see her father stumbling through the hut, drunk and shining with sweat, frustration sewn into his brow from another night of losing. Instead, she found a strange boy, bony and pale, his clothes pasted to his body with rainwater. Daisy could see his bent, spindly spine through the ragged shirt; the balls of his shoulder looked knobby and hard, like rolling-pin handles.

The boy stayed low, his back to Daisy.

“Tsip,” he whispered to himself. “Tsip, focking tsip.”

He sounded more like an animal than a person. And he acted like one too, a scared rodent who can do nothing but scamper and fret and wait. He peered out from the windows as he spoke with himself, never paying any mind to whom or what might be in the house—a brute like Daisy’s father, for example, or a territorial dog about to sink its teeth into his sinewy leg. He was too preoccupied with what may or may not be outside: the “tsip” as he called it.

Daisy recognized the word from news stories. She’d never been around anyone who used it for real. In fact, she prayed she never would be. It was a word that bad men used to refer to the police, especially the undercover drug-raiders who regularly patrolled Cebu’s slums.

Daisy curled her body up tight now, trying to keep quiet. She buried herself in the triangular shadow that always situated itself in the hut’s southeast corner come nightfall—the only place where the tall streetlights did not reach in. She watched the boy through squinted lids, as though he might spot the whites of her eyes back there in the shadowy hut. She made sure to never lose sight of him, to burn his shape into the part of her memory that would never forget him. As if she ever could. For now the boy began rifling through their paltry things. He seemed to be off his preoccupation now, or perhaps the shabu thrumming through his bloodstream didn’t let him stay transfixed on anything for too long. Either way, Daisy watched on helplessly as he assessed the propane stove tucked beneath her father’s bed. It was the only possession worth stealing in their home, which meant it was their most valuable possession. And as Daisy watched the boy quietly unscrew the tiny propane bottle from the side of the stove, she began to unfurl herself, blossoming from the shadow.

She would grab something—the cheap and broken radio on the windowsill nearest her, or one of the empty brandy bottles from under the faucet—and she’d sneak up behind him and break it over his head.

Daisy heard her grandfather’s words now, told to her in the hospital on the day of her mother’s death.

“She died in the war,” he said to her, “the war on drugs.”

For some time after, days or even weeks, Daisy had thought he meant the digmaan sa droga, the “war on drugs,” was a war that itself was on drugs, that this unimaginable mass of people high on shabu had waged war on the larger population, the sober population. They were coming for her, just as they’d come for her mother. But after her mother’s funeral, she’d started hearing the term more and more. She learned that President Duterte had waged the war himself. Every time she caught a glimpse of him on TV, he’d be leveling an accusatory finger at some unseen person—a reporter or fellow politician—and he’d lean in menacingly, stamping his feet, rocking back and forth like a riled up rooster. He’d once claimed he was going to slaughter addicts and pushers the way Hitler slaughtered the Jews. Daisy didn’t know how she should feel about that. After all, her mother was no user, but it hadn’t stopped the two vigilantes from gunning her down in a motor-taxi early one morning. They’d never been caught, those men with their guns; they’d pulled up on their own motorcycle and opened fire, aiming to kill the driver, who was rumored to have sold shabu to his patrons. But only one bullet hit him, piercing his hand.

Something in the reverie stopped Daisy. She hugged herself again, retreating into her own body, and at that moment, the boy looked to the back of the hut. Daisy closed her eyes. She considered screaming, but who would hear her? Ms. Bogarth next door slept with her good ear in a pillow so that the traffic didn’t wake her. There was always Sampson’s hut down the hill, too, next to the sugar cane farm, but Daisy doubted her scream would carry that far, especially with the rain. Plus, the last time she’d interacted with Sampson was when he chided her for stealing a sugar cane plant from his field to suck on the sweet stalk. So she synched her eyes tight, so tight that a pattern of glowing figures shaped and reshaped themselves before her, dancing like a fire’s embers rising in the heat. She heard a clinking in the hut, the boy producing a knife perhaps, or another weapon. He was coming closer now. This was what she first believed was the war on drugs: the boy was the war—he was an indefatigable platoon, a hundred huge tanks, and a heavy ship full of fighter jets—and he was advancing upon her, a tiny city with no defenses. What could he possibly want from her? She didn’t want to think of it.

When she opened her eyes, the boy was gone. Daisy noticed immediately that the hut felt even emptier than before, which was hard to believe. Still, fright paralyzed her. She curled up on her mat, holding her knees, until she knew the boy was not coming back. The morning traffic began to pick up, in lieu of the light rain still hanging in the air. The clouds refused to let day break. With more and more cars passing by, Daisy felt safe slinking to the front of the hut, where she found the stovetop missing, along with all the cookware. Her father’s shoehorn as well: the boy took it for seemingly no reason. Usually it sat next to the front door, going unused for days at a time. The sight of it no longer sitting there, though, devastated Daisy for some reason.

She hurried outside and made for Ms. Bogarth’s hut, jogging up the road in her pajamas. The rain had dissipated into a light yet thick mist.

Ms. Bogarth was a crotchety and decrepit widow whose twisted shape had always unnerved Daisy. The woman’s spine had been permanently twisted by scoliosis, mangling her into the shape of a stunted tree. In fact, if the boy decided to break into Ms. Bogarth’s hut while Daisy was there, she knew that the old lady wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect herself, or Daisy for that matter. And yet, Daisy knew nowhere else to go in the early morning.

Inside Ms. Bogarth’s hut, Daisy heard the old woman snoring. It was a weak, wet snore, but one that comforted her. It was from Ms. Bogarth that Daisy first learned of the old, Filipino adage utang na loob. It had to do with a person needing to feel debt to their community and the people living in it, for there were so many things, both big and small, that a community does for a person as they age. She told Daisy that she always needed to feel that debt no matter how old she was, because to lose it was a grave thing. Somehow, Daisy felt as though she already knew about that debt inside of her, that she hadn’t needed words to know the things that Ms. Bogarth told her at the time.

Daisy entered the old woman’s hut without a noise. She felt somewhat like a dog as she situated herself on the floor at the foot of Ms. Bogarth’s bed, but she didn’t mind sleeping on the cold concrete now, as long as she was with someone else. She planned to leave the hut when she heard her father returning, for she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. She’d go back home before Ms. Bogarth even stirred; that way the woman would never even know when or why Daisy had been there.

But just as Daisy had fallen into a light, dreamless snooze, she heard Ms. Bogarth shutter in the bed above her. Then a wretched, knotted foot appeared only inches from her face. It was Ms. Bogarth’s unfortunate foot—a foul, purple thing more akin to a dead animal in shape and smell.

Daisy slipped out from under the woman’s leg, her head brushing against the aged nightie. The appearance of Daisy startled Ms. Bogarth, so much so that she screeched horrendously and would not quit until Daisy was nearly atop her, pinning her weak arms down to the bed, reassuring her the whole time that it was only her, Daisy Corderra, her neighbor.

“You know me, Ms. Bogarth! You know me!”

Eventually, the woman came to, though it took a while for the whole thing to make sense. And when it finally did, when Daisy finally straightened everything out for her, she found herself in a motherly embrace. Ms. Bogarth held Daisy as though she were holding an inconsolable toddler. Daisy suffered through it, regretting all the while that she’d come here. She felt the consolations to be unnecessary, but out of respect, she did not fight off the embrace. She sat there and listened to the intermittent dripping of the wet world outside the hut. She was surprised by Ms. Bogarth’s strength. The old woman was stronger in love than in hate, for she had been unable to fight off Daisy only moments before. But now, Daisy didn’t feel she could escape even if she’d wanted to.

*

Ms. Bogarth’s presence in the bed that morning wrapped Daisy in a warm, deep sleep. She dreamt that she was grown, that her job as an adult was to chisel out the paw prints that the dogs left behind in Cebu’s sidewalks. For they were always walking through wet cement, leaving their wayward paths for everyone to see. It was like a story, Daisy realized, the story of the city told in a sort of code, and if she could only document it, then she’d have an answer to a large and important question.

She awoke, though, before she learned the answer, or the question for that matter. The sun was just beginning to crest the escarpment on the east side of the highway. Daisy batted her eyes and found herself in Ms. Bogarth’s bed alone. She got up quickly, straightening her ill-fitting clothes. She pressed her hands hard against her body to rid her shirt of wrinkles, to no avail. Eventually, she walked into the hut’s other small room; for unlike her father’s hut, Ms. Bogarth had the luxury of two rooms. She found the old woman fluffing a pot of rice on a stovetop.

“I will go now,” Daisy said. “Thank you and—.”

Ms. Bogarth held up a stern hand, silencing her.

“You take one of these plates and eat it,” she said. “And you take the other plate to your amahan. If he has any questions about where you’ve been, tell him to come and talk to me.”

“He will not have questions,” Daisy said.

Ms. Bogarth exhaled.

“He has lost it,” she said finally.

Daisy wasn’t sure what Ms. Bogarth was talking about. Perhaps she meant her father had lost his debt, or perhaps she was referring to something more. Daisy couldn’t say for sure because her father had lost so many things: his wife, his money, his sobriety, and he seemed dead set on losing Daisy as well.

Daisy watched Ms. Bogarth ready the food. She scooped a cupful of rice from the pot, then plopped the cup upside-down on the plate, forming a perfect mound. She then slid a fried egg off a skillet onto the rice. Finally, she skillfully rolled three longaniza sausages off the stovetop, corralling them next to the rice, never puncturing or breaking their thin skins. She handed the food to Daisy and fixed up another plate in the same fashion, except with this one, she draped a ragged, gossamer cloth over the food.

Daisy thanked her and made the trip back down the mountainside, balancing each of the plates as she walked the highway’s shoulder back home. The traffic poured past now, buzzing, harrumphing, coughing, honking. From a distance, she could see two roosters strung up from the porch of her hut, their red combs dangling from their heads like chewed gum. One of the roosters—the bloodier of the two—Daisy did not recognize. The other was Bolero, and his blood was dripping down to the porch planks. Daisy skirted past them and into her hut, where her father was snoring on his bench, his arm over his eyes, his shirt pulled up to his chest, revealing his swollen potbelly.

“Amahan,” Daisy said, stirring her father. “I brought some food from Ms. Bogarth. She made us breakfast.”

Her father merely mumbled, mid-snore.

“The stove is gone,” she said. “I am so sorry. A man came and—.”

His father held up his hand, silencing her the way Ms. Bogarth had. She wasn’t even sure if he understood her or not. Daisy set her father’s food on the floor near the bed, leaving the small sheet to protect it from the flies. She sat down cross-legged on the floor and began eating wolfishly with her hands, for the man had taken their silverware as well. She broke the egg apart, letting the yolk drip down into the rice. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten, yesterday no doubt, but what had it been? Something small and empty, some candy from the sari sari.

She looked out the window once more, at Bolero swaying in the wind. She could taste him in her mouth, the juices of lichon manok on her tongue. But how would they cook the birds now without a stove?

“I’m so sorry,” she said, though she didn’t feel as though she was speaking to her father.

But to her surprise, her father turned to her and an inexplicable smile crossed his face. They stared at one another; though her father’s face was sideways, they held each other’s gaze.

“Sigi sigi, Daisy,” her father said. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Do you know why?”

Daisy shook her head, confused.

“Because we won, Daisy,” he said.

Daisy turned once again to the two dead roosters strung up on the porch. Yes, they’d won, but they had no way of properly enjoying their prize, for they had no way of cooking the chickens.

But it did not seem to matter, not to Daisy’s father. He turned to the ceiling, the reverent smile still on his face, even after he closed his eyes.

“We won,” he said again, this time in a whisper.

 

 

 

 

 

Patricia Leonard
Hollow

Laying here in the middle of this bright sterile white room on this uncomfortable bed with only a curtain separating me from the surrounding people when I realize, I belong here.

As I heave pieces of my stomach into the blue plastic bag, my body flushes with warmth starting from my toes and I begin to sweat. Hot bile oozes from my throat prohibiting me from breathing. I am foaming at the mouth and all the nurse can do is watch as fluids escape my body like the soul when one dies.

I am in Westchester Medical in Valhalla, thirty minutes from home and it’s Friday. I am accompanied by a grossed out brother in law whose obligated to stay with me due to the fact I have no one else. The nurse is a skinny woman in her mid fifty’s— stoner like. I am half naked. She places white sticky pads around my left breast as if creating a masterpiece. She clips each pad to a wire and I start to convulse. The EKG is performed and I am returned to the half ass lotus position I was before to continue heaving at the edge of the bed.

There is no doubt about it. They’re going to keep me, as they do every time I walk into a hospital. After countless doctors, nurses’, residents and assistants, having me repeat the same symptoms as if they all couldn't just compare notes because apparently no one talks to each other; I am wheeled into the X-ray room where I take two to the chest. The room spinning around me like dreidels to a table. Back on my stretcher I let go of the vomit I’ve been holding.  As I am half laying, half sitting , half dead in the empty hallway between MRI and CATSCAN, the nurse says she has to take blood. She sticks me there times before she gets frustrated with me. She takes away the needles and leaves a mess of gauze, blood tubes and a hazard bag. I wonder what it would have been like at times during war. Were there times for waking away in frustration or have we come so far the we the lives and jobs for granted. The nurse comes back a little more stoned looking than she did before. I imagine her floating through fields of sunflowers in bellbottom pants drinking water with lemon and a joint in the other hand.  And suddenly I am back to reality as I realize she has stuck me one last time and drew blood.

My stomach is knotting as it does summersaults with every gag; I heave again. I try to empty every last drop of acid and mucus  The attending physician smugly asks me questions and all I want to do is punch him in his perfectly shaped jawline for not addressing my pain with morphine. My X-ray reveals a blockage or an abscess. I look at my brother and he looks back at me with his tired beady eyes and lets out a heavy sigh. I give him the go home look and he is barley out the door before I can say thanks. I hurl again, this time, longer, louder and less embarrassed.

I am admitted. In the worst way. It’s 2 am and I am thrown into my cage for the first time. My roommate is already cursing the noise and light. I have disturbed the lioness sleeping. I cower into my own corner and I find some comfort in the cold bed that is adjusting to my every curve as I lay. I’m staring at the black specks on the drop ceiling when two doctors approach me. I need to do a MRCP, which is basically like an MRI only, with contrast that makes you feel like you're urinating on yourself and better picture quality or so they say. Sounds like no big deal. Done and done. Only done with an anxiety attack as I was held in a machine that was loud and about the size of half a coffin. But the worst part was over. Or so I thought. 

Nasogastric intubation. Feeding tube that is inserted through your nose passed through your throat and down into your stomach. I comply not only because I’m out of my mind in pain but in reality, I really have no other choice. The tube is lubed in front of me and I’m in a state of panic. The doctor tries five times with a huge tube and I’m bawling like a baby. He cannot get access because Something is blocking it.  Just need ten-seconds to pierce through it.

Ha! Yeah right pierce through it, you must be out your heaven and god believing mind. There’s no way in hell. And sure enough, after the tantrum I throw, he stops. He calmly asked to try one last time with the smaller tube and if he cannot get it through he will give up. I don’t know why I let him try again. He pulls out the tube with a huff of disappointment and blood starts rushing from my nostril. I start crying like a baby who lost its pacifier and mother in the same spin.

I pout and refuse to cooperate until I have the head of physicians here to do it himself. And SHE shows up and reassures me this is normal, that she will be gentle and patient. She calms me down and walks me through the steps. I’m certain she’s done this before with how convincing she is. The tube is inserted up my left nostril and fed all the way up and back. It feels worst than drowning. She gets where the last guy got “stuck” and I go bonkers. This is  here the tube is supposed to move past the nasal cavity and down into the throat. I start vomiting uncontrollably and my body follows its own movement. I’m throwing up blood and mucus left and right, my nose is flooding and I can’t see out of my eyes. When I finally take enough deep breathes, she connects the tube with my throat and I’m being yelled at to “swallow, swallow, swallow, don't stop, keep swallowing”. It hurts to swallow but the procedure is complete. Sixty centimeters deeper inside me and I’m back to being an adult. I wipe my face as best as I can but I silently cry on the inside scarred and tormented.

I’m on my own now, although I’m not alone. The doctor comes to remove the metal part inside the plastic tube after the last x-ray comes back making sure it was positioned right. I have to re-live this ALL over again. I gag and choke and cough again as she removes the never ending wire from inside me like a magic trick. I am left with his hollow tubing inside me and I realize, I belong here.

 

 

 

 

 

Sara Cahill Marron
Queens, New York #1

I'm a real tall guy, ya know? so when I was in the stalls that night at Little Neck Inn, I see Father Tim come in and we nod appreciatively to one another. Now, keep in mind this is way before I had any ideas about what's going on at them little BBQ’s they was having next door, see? My brother never talked about it, not until after he had already gone to prison for the first time, deep into the drugs and women by then. But anyways, Father Tim makes eye contact with me while I'm in the stall, doing my thing, cutting up, ya know? And he looks at me, an’ says “let me get some of that?” And real quick, without thinking twice I says “oh yah, why yah Fatha’, of course! Here ya go, there ya go, great, that's good stuff.”

And then I come out of the bathroom all hysteric and go up to my buddy Barry, he was the bartender at the time ya know? And now he's my sponsa’ ya know? Go figure. Anyways I says to him: “Fatha’ Tim just did blow with me in the bathroom!” And he says “you shittin’ me, no way”, and I'm just like “yeeeah! Crazy!”

And yeahs anyways, if you go to the Google, you can google him, ya know? Tim Lambert, that's Fatha’ Tim Lambert of St. Anastasias parish in Little Neck. That was before the neighborhood started to figure out about these priests, ya know? Hell even now, some people in the neighborhood, they still don't believe it, ya know? And he was an equal opportunist that one, went for the boys and girls. Never forgot that, one of those things you don't forget, ya know? Back then an eight ball cost twenty dollas.

 

Mimicry

You can teach baby to smile by smiling first. Emoting with teeth works well--a clear cut signal from the brain to the body that things are wide and bright and open. They will smile in reciprocity. Breaking in their plump cheeks and exercising muscles not yet developed. The little orbs for eyes watch me, screens behind a master hard drive machine-learning everything in sight. The baby's eyes are predictive coding mechanisms, and they learn our bodies first. They learn how to use their own by watching all the other bodies around them. Breaking into a smile from a emotionless frown is like flexing the triceps for show. See how it feels to have the round cheek muscles scrunched slightly, a sharp intake of air cooling the gums in which new teeth grow; see how it feels to mimic. The skin around the eyes tightens and becomes the first wrinkle to mark all the smiles to come, a dash in the skin that will deepen as more and more mimicry is practiced. More and more is learned, more is repeated, lines deepen. You smiled at me, and from that I learned to smile, too.

Gay With Graduate Degrees

“Should we hold hands?”

I asked you, after our palms had gotten sweaty walking south on 16th street. We made-out like teenagers on the steps on the Scottish Rite Free Mason Temple, smelling the passerby’s weed smoke mixing with humid Washingtonian air. Thick and heavy, slow moving and historic, I felt very political, with you there, kissing me under Corinth columns.

“What do you think of marriage, I mean, in general?”

My answer was different ten years ago, and perhaps will evolve as the constitution evolves with us:

“I think the contract is useful, and the religious traditions don't necessarily include god.”

Who has loved you, I wondered. How many have tucked your hair behind your ear and cupped your face in their hands? Was that love rich and fermented, over time and suffering? Or was it practiced, like law and medicine; beleaguered by many, many demands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yermiyahu Ahron Taub
An Unexpected Guest

“Why don’t you stay over tonight?  We have a room upstairs,” the Rebe offered, “My rebetsin will make a bed up for you in no time.” The Rebe had a way of volunteering the Rebetsin’s services, often at the most inopportune times, such as when she had some urgent task at hand.  Didn’t they say that most husbands did that? But the Rebe had checked discreetly with his Rebetsin, and this time it was fine with her. The Meshulakh sensed, rather than knew, all of this from the frayed sense of peace, a kind of ceasefire, that vibrated throughout the room. He would never know more about than what he gleaned from the cues given during his brief visit. How could he?  This is what was allotted to him. This is how it was and always would be.  Despite his curiosity, the Meshulakh accepted these crumbs—these glimpses into the lives of others—without question and, on “good days,” without greed for more.

“No thank you, Rebe. I really appreciate your offer. I’ve already arranged to stay over at the synagogue, at Congregation Haverim Ahuvim,” the Meshulakh answered, “And thank you, Rebetsin, for this delicious meal,” he continued, bowing his upper body in the direction of the Rebetsin, even as he kept his eyes sufficiently diverted from her female personhood. And so it had been: roast chicken, cole slaw, and potato kugel. The Meshulakh hadn’t eaten this well in quite some time.

“In fact, I shouldn’t keep him—the gabai, Reb Gavriel—waiting. I know he’ll have so much to take care of at the synagogue,” he said, rising reluctantly from the bounty and the warm Torah discussion. Speaking in learning with someone like Reb Velvl at such a leisured pace was not an opportunity that came that often. A pleasure and an honor. The Meshulakh was certainly tempted. He was tired, and the house was surely comfortable if somewhat threadbare, but he had this prior arrangement. And he would certainly honor it.

He had been glad for the meal and the company of the Rebe, but the Meshulakh had to move on. A meshulakh always does. That is the nature of a meshulakh’s profession. His calling.  He must travel far and wide to collect crucial funding for his cause, however noble it may be, whatever it might be. However tempting the lodging and the replenishment, the road beckoned. If a meshulakh tarried, his schedule was thrown off course. Other stops along his way would be delayed; the integrity of the entire expedition could be thrown into question.

Yeshivat Torah Temimah beamed at him across the globe as a beacon, keeping him anchored, holding him close. This is why he was here, in this strange land, whose language he could somehow understand but whose words were reluctant to emerge from his lips.  No matter, on this circuit, the Meshulakh could get by with the Holy Tongue and with the Mother Tongue, mame-loshn. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah advocated flexibility in all things, and that was what the Meshulakh took with him on whatever path, in whatever way station he found himself. He heard the sounds of the students speaking in Torah, gesturing broadly, their brows furrowed in concentration, the din of the bet ha-midrash that wasn’t din at all but music raining from and returning to the Heavens. 

The Meshulakh always kept this Yeshivat Torah Temimah scene in mind when he was alone on the road or when he was speaking to potential donors. What he sought to convey to them was the music and the science of Torah being created and re-created anew in the minds of young and old, the impact of the Torah on a single life. The study of Torah transcended the disciplines that governed the secular world: science, math, history, the humanities, etc. The study of Torah was the ordering of the universe, the stabilization of the motion of the planetary systems. Nothing less. When he first began this work, the Rosh ha-Yeshivah could see the Meshulakh was a bit squeamish about asking for money.

“Remember, you are not a beggar. You are collecting for the most noble cause in the universe. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Go forth with pride as a representative of our yeshiva,” the Rosh ha-Yeshivah had encouraged him.

The Meshulakh nodded his head in agreement. Yes, yes, of course. But, in those early stages, when the funds weren’t as forthcoming as he (and the Rosh ha-Yeshivah) would have liked, tendrils of doubt crept into his mind. Would he have more luck collecting for a children’s hospital or a hospice or a sanatorium? He never allowed this doubt to show either on his expeditions in the Diaspora or in conversations with the Rosh ha-Yeshivah. 

But that was then, and this is now. His doubts, his tentativeness had long since vanished.  It hadn’t been easy, but the Meshulakh had made great progress. He spoke with directness about the mission of Yeshivat Torah Temimah—to make those ignorant of the glories of the Torah into upstanding Torah observant young men, and in numerous cases, outstanding Torah scholars. 

With individual donors, the Meshulakh aimed to speak with directness, careful to avoid sounding scripted or rehearsed. He wanted it understood that Yeshivat Torah Temimah was a rare enterprise that the donor could be a part of. He knew he wasn’t gifted with a golden tongue, as some of the other students were. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah didn’t select him for that reason. He didn’t put it quite that way. What was it the Rosh ha-Yeshivah had said, “Your dedication, drive, and sincerity will shine through. Be yourself, and only yourself. I have great confidence in you.”  The Meshulakh believed that it was, in fact, the Rosh ha-Yeshivah’s confidence that had transformed him from a doubtful, hesitant meshulakh to one who was confident and untiring.

Even if a donation weren’t forthcoming, the Meshulakh didn’t allow himself to become discouraged. He was happy to speak about Yeshivat Torah Temimah simply to spread the word.  He felt most alive, closest to God when he was doing so. This is what his purpose was. And who knew what seeds had been planted as he had been talking? Perhaps when their funds were more available, these individuals would remember the Meshulakh. No, they would remember Yeshivat Torah Temimah. And the yeshiva would shine for them as a beacon as it did for the Meshulakh himself.

In addition to sharing food and his Torah knowledge, the Rebe made a donation to the Meshulakh’s cause. It wasn’t a lot, but every penny helped if the Meshulakh wanted to reach his goal. The Meshulakh certainly did want to reach his goal. Anything less would be unacceptable.  And given the Rebe’s meager salary and a wife and four kids, the Meshulakh understood that it had surely not been insignificant on the Rebe’s part. 

In any other field, the representative of one institution, even one located somewhere as far away as the Holy Land, would most likely not collect funds from an employee of another institution of a similar kind. But the Meshulakh had no compunction about collecting for Yeshivat Torah Temimah from Reb Velvl Weissman, a rebe at this yeshiva in the town of P. here in the diaspora. Is that where the Meshulakh was? Sometimes, despite himself and his organizational skills and best planning, he did lose track of his exact location. Yes, yes, of course, he was in P. He and Reb Velvl wanted what was best for the students of today, for the nation of Israel itself. They were surely in the same camp, on the same team. They were in the struggle for Torah together.

“Todah rabah, Rebe ve-Rebetsin, al ha-hesed shelkhem,” the Meshulakh thanked the Weissmans for their generosity in the Holy Tongue, rising from his chair. Reb Velvl stood up with him and walked him to the front door. He shook the Meshulakh’s hand and wished him well, giving him directions again to Congregation Haverim Ahuvim. And with that, the Meshulakh was back on the road, to the next stop on the path leading back and forward to Yeshivat Torah Temimah so many miles away. He knew himself to be a small but crucial figure on the dusty highway of truth and sanctity, sticking to the path winding before him.

 

*          *          *

 

“Welcome to Congregation Haverim Ahuvim. Please come in. Yes, yes, we spoke on the phone.  I’m Gavriel Kestenberg, the gabai,” said a man, older but still visibly well built, at the synagogue door, extending his hand for a handshake. 

The Meshulakh shook the man’s hand but did not offer his name in return. He had previously explained on the phone that he was there to represent the yeshiva. The Meshulakh was not trying to erase his name or negate his self. He simply felt his own identity was not important. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah didn’t know that this was the Meshulakh’s practice; he hadn’t felt a need to tell him. Perhaps someday he would. 

This Mr. Kestenberg had paused briefly on the phone and then “agreed.” It had been a long distance phone call. What had he said exactly?  “As you wish”—yes, that was the phrase Mr. Kestenberg had used. And yes, that is what the Meshulekh “wished,” that is what he preferred. If Mr. Kestenberg had insisted that he needed to call him something, the Meshulakh would have told him to call him Ploni Almoni, John Doe. But Mr. Kestenberg hadn’t insisted.

“Here, let me take your bag.  How is your trip going so far?” Mr. Kestenberg asked. 

“Very well, thank you.  Barukh ha-Shem,” the Meshulakh answered.

“This is our sanctuary. Please feel free to spend any time you’d like down here. Let me show you to your room,” he continued. 

The Meshulakh followed Mr. Kestenberg out of the sanctuary into a small hallway and then up a flight of stairs. He wasn’t pleased that he allowed a much older man to carry his suitcase, but he didn’t want to insult the man by refusing. And the encounter happened so quickly; the Meshulakh didn’t have time to think things through. Besides, he wasn’t sure of the customs here.  Maybe he was supposed to have refused?! Maybe Mr. Kestenberg was insulted that the Meshulakh allowed him to carry his bag. Well, no matter. It was too late now.

There were several doors leading off a corridor. Mr. Kestenberg opened the second door.  Against two windows, there stood a neatly made bed with a gray and white checkered quilt and a side table with a plastic cup and an enamel bowl for morning washing. The room even had its own sink. A polished wooden table with prayer books and a Tanakh completed the room’s furnishings. 

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” Mr. Kestenberg said, setting down the Meshulakh’s suitcase on what was clearly a freshly polished tile floor.

“I’m sure I will be.  This is wonderful.  Thank you so much,” the Meshulakh responded.

“There is a washroom down the hall.  The door at the end,” he said, “Please let me know if you need anything.  This is my room,” he said, indicating the first door.

“I will.  Thank you again,” the Meshulakh said. He closed the door behind Mr. Kestenberg and looked down at his watch. It was later than he’d thought. He would learn a bit of The Traveler’s Guide before going to bed.

 

*          *          *

 

Despite repeated attempts, the Meshulakh could not sleep. He tossed and turned on this bed with its pleasant smelling sheets in this freshly cleaned room. This rarely happened to the Meshulakh. Regardless of the level of comfort of the room, he almost always fell asleep immediately upon getting into bed, sometimes even fully clothed. But tonight, sleep eluded him.

Someone had died here recently. Maybe not in the bedroom, but death had been marked, commemorated in some way. Of that the Meshulakh was certain. He sensed it; he could touch it.  He walked to the door and looked up and down the hallway. No one, nothing. He walked to the washroom and used the toilet, sure to leave it as clean as he found it. He could have walked down to the sanctuary, but he didn’t want to be in the holy space in his pajamas. That wouldn’t be right. Nor did he wish to change into his day clothes. But he felt a presence, someone who had passed but not left the premises.

The presence was female, yes? Yes, she most definitely was. The Meshulakh sat down at the polished table against the wall. He was awake now; he knew that. He rubbed his palms and touched his right temple to verify his state of wakefulness.  Yes, he was. This wasn’t a dream, and the Meshulakh had never been prone to visions. He wouldn’t rule them out. Our folklore speaks of shedim, rukhot, spirits of all kinds. But surely they wouldn’t appear to a meshulakh, alone in a strange land to gather funds for a worthy yeshiva for cast-aside boys.

But he was not alone. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah was always with him, as was God above, of course. And thus he was not neglected. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah had rescued him, singled him out for this task. Not because he was “special” or above the other boys and young men. In fact, he wasn’t. There were boys with far more advanced skills in learning, in making connections between texts. There were even boys who could recite entire parashiyot by heart. Alas the Meshulakh had never been such a boy or man. And yet the Rosh ha-Yeshivah had never expressed disappointment in him. In fact, quite the contrary—he was always encouraging. No, it was the task that was special, essential, and he was the one anointed for it. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah helped him, created a place in the world for him. So again he had to remind himself that he was neither alone nor neglected, wherever he might find himself to be.

And he was here, but suddenly the Meshulekh wasn’t sure where that was. Yes, of course, the town of P. Again, he had to remind himself. But where in P? And, besides Mr. Kestenberg next door, with whom? 

The Meshulakh felt a decidedly feminine presence in this guest room in Haverim Ahuvim even more strongly.  Old?  No, young.  He grew embarrassed. The Meshulakh had never been with a woman. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah regularly encouraged him to marry, informed him it was a commandment. But the Meshulekh inevitably demurred. He couldn’t subject a wife to his long absences; he was on the road too much. But the Meshulekh knew that wasn’t the exact truth.  Torah Temimah was, if not his bride, then his higher cause. Anything else would only distract him, however inadvertently. He had no need of a bride or a wife. And wasn’t Temimah a good feminine name? His Temimah had a “Torah” in front of it. What more could he ask for?

And there had been interest in him … as a groom. Even in a meshulakh without a penny in the world. The matchmakers had made inquiries about him—mostly about his family and personal history, since his pennilessness was well known. The Rosh ha-Yeshivah informed him of this interest. The Meshulakh hadn’t let his curiosity get the better of him. He never reciprocated this interest or asked the Rosh ha-Yeshivah any follow-up questions about who sought information about him. It really was best not to know. 

And there had been less—formal—interest, as well. Young ladies at the market or bus stop or walking down the street glanced his way in admiration. The Meshulakh saw them catch his eye, staring at him directly before looking away or down. The Meshulakh liked the way some of the girls tossed their hair and smiled. There had been one young lady with very blond hair whom the Meshulakh could have sworn followed him from the yeshiva to the nature park.  She must have learned his daily routine, which seldom varied: dorm room, bet ha-midrash, cafeteria, an afternoon walk, and then back to the bet ha-midrash. But the Meshulakh never encouraged or even acknowledge her interest or existence. Eventually she stopped. She must surely have grown weary of his indifference. Of course, the Meshulakh never inquired.

There was also interest from young men. The lips of one of his roommates had once found his own. The Meshulekh found his roommate’s lips—the pressure and precision of their application—very pleasurable, indeed. He found himself stirring, unable to conceal his response.  But then the voice of caution intervened. What if they were caught? He could lose everything.  The Meshulekh turned away.

Once when the Meshulakh was on a bus, a youth placed his hand on the Meshulekh’s thigh. The Meshulekh turned, but the youth was reading his newspaper. His hand slowly traveled up and down the Meshulekh’s thigh. The Meshulakh moaned involuntarily. A woman in front of them turned around. The youth next to the Meshulakh smiled at her. Fortunately, the youth, with his newspaper in front of him, disembarked from the bus only a few stops later. The Meshulekh was equally fortunate that he had time on the bus to “recover” from the sensation the youth had offered him, from the temptation of him.

Who could this young woman in Haverim Ahuvim be? The Meshulakh decided to stop trying to identify her. She would let him know. Instead, the Meshulakh opened the Tanakh to a random passage. He saw words, but could not comprehend. The woman’s hands were trailing over his neck. Her arms surrounded his torso in feathery embrace. 

The Meshulakh turned around and saw himself as a little boy. He was surrounded by other children. Yes, girls, too. They were playing a game that involved a ball and a circle. No surprise there; so many children’s games did. The name, let alone the rules and objectives, escaped him. The ball was dual-tone: red and blue. That he remembered. He saw a young woman slip into the entry hall and look directly at him, not like the young women on the street, but directly into his heart, his little boy soul. The little Meshulakh looked back at her, unable to remove his gaze that seemed locked with hers. An older woman in charge put her hands around the woman, gently nudging her towards the door. The woman began to cry, to weep uncontrollably. The older woman, now with the help of an assistant who had appeared quickly and suddenly (where had she come from?), was firmer now. Still weeping, the woman was escorted out of the building and out of the Meshulakh’s life … until now. He hadn’t thought to run to the window to wave to her. He stood frozen until the red and blue ball hit him in the head, and the children all laughed in unison as he fell to the floor.

The Meshulakh stood up to meet more fully the woman’s embrace here in the guest room of Congregation Haverim Ahuvim. Only she slipped away. The Meshulakh couldn’t see that, but he felt her presence depart the room. 

The Meshulakh walked out to the hallway. But instead of the vanished young woman, he felt the presence of the woman whose death had been recently commemorated her in these walls.  An older woman. An old woman, in fact. Yes, she was here. It was she who had brought this younger woman to the Meshulakh. Of that the Meshulakh was certain. He turned to the presence of the older woman and whispered his thanks.

 

*          *          *

 

“Yes, everything was wonderful,” the Meshulakh said to Mr. Kestenberg over breakfast of oatmeal and coffee in the latter’s one room apartment next door to the guest room. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate your hospitality.  And it was great to daven here and meet some of the congregants,” he said.

“It was my pleasure—our pleasure—of course,” Mr. Kestenberg said.

As he zipped up his suitcase, the Meshulakh reflected with gladness on this interlude of the journey—a meal and Torah discussion at the Weissbergs and this overnight stay at Haverim Ahuvim. Sure, he could have slept over at the Weissbergs and been in the bosom of a full family.  But that was not to have been. He would have disappointed or even misled Mr. Kestenberg who had gone to such lengths to prepare this special room. And the presences, the visions of the night just passed had happened here. Might they have happened elsewhere? Of course, the Meshulakh couldn’t know. Who could? The Holy One Blessed Be He had led him here, to be welcomed in this sacred space. 

Suitcase in tow, the Meshulakh made his way slowly down the stairs. He was ready to depart and honor this stage of his journey and move forth to the next. And then Mr. Kestenberg pressed an envelope into his hand, “For Yeshivat Torah Temimah,” he said. The Meshulakh wasn’t entirely surprised. One never knew when donors would come through. Sometimes, it was when he was already out of the door and on the street. Still, this stay had been particularly fruitful.  First, allowing him to stay for free in the congregation’s guest room (with the spirits) and now a donation. How wonderful! The Meshulakh bowed, shook his hand, and thanked him. He would check the amount at a later point. After all, he did need to meet his quota. But for now, he basked in the generosity that had been granted him and the yeshiva. 

Wherever he went, the Meshulakh was struck by the largesse that kept Yeshivat Torah Temimah flourishing. Music, yes, but this, this … this kindness to an unnamed meshulakh … this was a universal language. The narrow path he had chosen, no crafted with the guidance and vision of the Rosh ha-Yeshivah, had vistas aplenty. Sometimes, more than the Meshulakh knew what to do with or how to handle. 

A dog approached him, its tail wagging, as the Meshulakh left Haverim Ahuvim. In the Holy Land, there were always dogs roaming about the streets, nosing and pawing in trash cans, avoiding the kicks and stones of hostile children. Here, he hadn’t seen very many without an owner. Usually, the Meshulakh wouldn’t pet dogs as he felt they were somewhat unclean. But today was different. He reached out to touch the dog’s head. The dog whimpered in pleasure … and possibly hunger. He looked into the dog’s eyes and for a moment envisioned himself forging his path along the fundraising byways with this dog beside him. A friend to keep him company, to accompany him. What a team they would make! And then failing to envision the dog in strictly religious homes, he quickly relinquished this vision. It would never work. He would never be able to raise funds for Torah Temimah with a dog by his side. He would continue on his way alone. 

He did have to go now. The dog followed him for a little while before stopping. Perhaps he sensed a food source in the synagogue. The Meshulakh couldn’t advise the dog on a path—whether to stay or to go. But the Meshulakh knew his own path, and he would continue on it.  How fortunate am I to be an emissary for my yeshiva, how fortunate am I to be anchored in this world network of the faithful, the Meshulakh thought, stopping at the corner to tie his shoes.

The dog was not following him, and the Meshulakh knew not to turn around to gaze at or signal to it. The Meshulakh heard its whimper—this time in sorrow—long after he had turned the corner. He found himself straining to catch the clickety-clack of its step on the pavement behind him. When no such sounds could be heard, the Meshulakh allowed himself to turn around. Yes, the dog was now nowhere to be seen or heard.

The street stretched out before him. Soon the Meshulakh would consult his maps. His next stop was surely not far away.