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Bazooka
“I feel like I’ve been sucking on a tin can,” Alby said, puckering his lips and scrunching his face. The chemotherapy agents were changing his body chemistry. “It’s disgusting. Susie Q, have you got any gum?”
Stupid question. I was raised by a mother for whom gum was a dietary staple and she could reason out how gum actually met some nutritional requirements. I reached into my pocketbook, pulled out a stick of spearmint and gave it to him. “There. That should help a bit.”
“No Bazooka, huh? I could really go for a piece of that right now.”
“Sorry Dad, no Bazooka.”
“Your father and his Bazooka,” my mother said, remembering a life-changing moment so many years ago.
On November 12, 1945 Alby was Honorably Discharged from the army, spent nine days getting back to the United States, and then began to actively pursue a relationship with Mom. They’d met years earlier but Mom always kept herself at a comfortable distance and was not even slightly romantically interested. They corresponded through letters while he served in the army, but they’d never actually gone on a date.
During the 1940’s, Newark, New Jersey was home to many thousands of Jews who’d emigrated from Europe through Ellis Island. Included in what became a very tightly knit community were both my mother’s father’s parents. Within the city every ethnic group and culture was represented and each had its own part of town unique unto itself. These Jewish immigrants shared a common language – Yiddish - and a common goal – they would have well- educated, American children who would be upstanding citizens.
Alby’s parents, Samuel and Minnie Rich, shopped in Mom’s parents’ store. Hyman and Esther Cohen owned and operated a small grocery that sold fresh produce, fresh dairy, vats of home-cured pickles and scads of non-perishables. It also served as a meeting place for the Newark Jews to go and share stories about “the old country” and through this venue, new friendships were made, my two sets of grandparents included.
Upon meeting Alby years earlier, my grandmother Esther decided he was to be her son-in-law and told my mother as much. As was common practice then, children actually valued their parents’ opinions and even though they were complete opposites, Alby liked Mom and wanted to take her out on a date. He’d ask and she’d say no and this went on repeatedly until she finally relented just so he’d leave her alone and Esther would get off her back.
They’d arranged that he’d pick her up and take her to the “picture show” at the local theater near Prince Street. When he rang the bell that evening and Pearl opened it, there stood Alby with a big bubble of pink gum blocking his entire face. He sucked it in, bursting the bubble and quickly pulled it back into his mouth.
“What was THAT?” Pearl asked, wondering why in the world she ever agreed to go out with this unsophisticated, boorish man.
“Bazooka! It’s a brand new bubble gum – just came out. They’re selling it over in Brooklyn and everyone’s buying it. Your father ought to bring it into his grocery store. He won’t be able to keep it on the shelves! There are even comics inside!” Reaching into his trouser pocket he pulled out a piece wrapped in red, white and blue paper. “Here, want some?”
Pearl’s ever-present nod toward proper etiquette wouldn’t permit it. “Thank you, no, I don’t chew gum,” she replied and rolled her eyes thinking he didn’t see.
He had, but wasn’t even remotely discouraged by her off-putting behavior. Taking her arm they walked to his green Studebaker and he purposefully chomped on the gum all the while, the sound of it getting louder and louder until Pearl couldn’t take it anymore.
“Okay, okay, I’ll try it,” she said exasperatedly.
“I knew I could convince you,” Alby said as his playful smile softened her prim exterior.
She chewed, fully prepared to hate it and instead, found herself exclaiming, “This is fabulous!”
“I know! Great, isn’t it?”
By the end of the evening Alby saw a laughing, warm and engaging woman in Mom and knew beyond a doubt that she was going to be his wife. He just had to make sure she knew it.
“So you see Jenny, if not for that small square of bubble gum I might never have gotten Pearl to marry me!”
“Al, I’d have married you with or without the gum. You were irresistible.”
Alby’s eyes were closed but he held his hand out and Mom took it as the two of them decided to stay lost in that sweet memory of long ago.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Alby - Payback
Payback’s a Bitch
Jenny came into the room to check Alby’s access line. She wanted to be sure he wasn’t having any blockage due to the treatment’s length. After a few computer control adjustments and some repositioning she was satisfied that all was well.
“Do you ever take a break?” Mom asked. “You haven’t stopped running around since we got here this morning.”
“Not really. We’re always under-staffed and overworked. I guess it’s the same story in every profession.”
“Why don’t you just sit for a minute,” Mom suggested in her best Mommy Voice. “There’s no harm in taking a breath.”
No sooner had she sat down than Jenny’s Head Nurse happened by. “Jenny!” she called impatiently and with a chill in her voice. “The monitor in room five is beeping.”
“THAT’s why I don’t sit down!”?” Jenny asked, not expecting an answer but knowing that Alby might just have one anyway.
“Having a boss,” he said, “Is much like wearing a baby diaper. It’s always on your ass and usually full of shit. Let me explain it to you this way.”
Alby was drafted into General Patton’s Third Army and began his service as a censor in the Press Corps, Technician Third Grade, on November 23, 1943. He bunked with Ernest Hemingway and together they learned how to be fast and efficient at their jobs.
Many reporters came and went but there was one he never forgot. His name was William Burrows; he was a very tall and burly man, a talented writer, and his public persona was highly esteemed. He knew how to report the war with literary panache and integrated himself into the group.
William knew that the censors were very important in deciding what would be sent over the wire and by whom. Even though Alby wasn’t an officer, his superiors designated him as the one in charge of the press room and gave him complete authority within those walls.
William was very aggressive when it came to his work and toward that end, his attitude toward the soldiers was often arrogant and brusque as he barked out orders. One day in particular, William stepped over the invisible line between what Alby considered acceptable and abominable behavior.
Private Earl James was a young, black fellow from the southern United States and was in the press room working on some copy when William entered with his writing pad and attitude in hand.
“Boy!” William shouted. Earl didn’t answer so William yelled louder. “Boy! I’m talkin’ to you. Does being colored mean you’re deaf?”
Earl turned around and if it weren’t for the sound of the teletype machine, the silence would have been painful. All the soldiers present stood frozen.
“Are you speaking to me, Sir?” Earl asked, standing at attention.
“You bet I am. I’d like a bottle of scotch and you’re gonna find one for me.”
“Sir? I would have no idea how to acquire that, Sir.” Earl never lost his cool or spoke disrespectfully.
“Well, maybe you’d better go and figure it out, Boy. I’ll expect to see it in my tent after mess. Got it?”
“I’ve got it Sir, yes Sir.”
William threw what he’d written onto the table in front of Alby with the sole instruction of “Send this,” and when he left the room, he left behind his stink of arrogance and bigotry. Alby had no patience for it and felt personally insulted. He figured that if William could talk like that to a fine young guy like Earl, he would have no reservations about talking like that to anyone he thought was beneath him. Clearly, that included Alby and just about every other soldier in This-Man’s-Army.
“You know, we’ve got something that bastard wants and needs…” Alby said slyly.
“What is it? A new bottle of scotch?” Earl suggested.
“Better. We’ve got the sole access to the news wires. If his reports get to his newspaper on time, they get published. If they’re late, they don’t. I have a very funny feeling that today, his reports are going to be very, very late.”
Earl expressed concern. “This doesn’t help me find the bottle of scotch for him. And I’ll be the one he points a finger at. That could be very bad for me.”
“In this room I make the decisions so if anyone is getting blamed, it’s going to be me. And as for the scotch, he’s going to be so mad about missing a deadline that he won’t even think about it. Trust me,” Alby said to Earl.
The pile of edited reports dwindled and because William’s had been moved to the bottom of the pile, it was the only one left at day’s end. “Gee, we didn’t get to Mr. Smith’s article. Shame on us,” Alby said sarcastically. “Guess we might as well go to mess now. Nothing more we can do about it today. Too bad, huh?”
William was eating with the platoon’s commanding officer when Alby made his way over to their table. After a salute and a request to speak, Alby gave William the bad news. “Mr. Burrows, Sir, I’m sorry but there was an unusually heavy number of reports today and we were unable to censor and send yours to your paper.” Alby stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, trying to restrain his desire to punch William in The Left Labanza.
William stood up, outraged. “I’ve never missed a deadline in all my years of reporting. Damn you,” he yelled. Alby didn’t move and wished, for that minute, that he was as tall and broad as William was because he was scared shitless.
The commanding officer rose from his seat to diffuse the situation. “William, we get mighty swamped here, what with all the columns that come through daily. I’m sure your editors will understand.”
Recognition crossed William’s face. “Bullshit. This was purposeful. What’s the matter, Private? You don’t like the way I spoke to the nigger?” William turned toward Alby. Even though he came only up to William’s chest at full height, he refused to back down.
“No Sir, I don’t like it. But that’s beside the point. You are accusing me of conscious negligence and I take issue with that, Sir.”
The C.O. decided there was no room for diplomacy. “William, I am the commander of this unit and if one of my men says there was no time to complete the day’s work, I believe him and I suggest you do the same. I also suggest that you apologize to Private James.”
William was relentless. “I have nothing to apologize for. I asked the private to get me one bottle of scotch and now I’m being made to pay for that request.”
“William, you aren’t a soldier nor are you under my command so I can’t enforce an order. I can, however, strongly urge you to make your apologies and then move on to another press unit that might be better able to get your reports in on time. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”
The troops were all dumbstruck and a mixture of fear and pride was in the mess tent air. William still wore that haughty, holier-than-thou look on his face.
“I’m sorry for asking you to get me a bottle of scotch,” William turned to Earl but we all knew he wasn’t sorry at all and Earl was a real mensch.
“I accept your apology, Sir,” Earl replied and his gentlemanly manor further incensed William who ultimately stormed out. After gathering his things, William was driven off the base and taken to a nearby division leaving behind a collective sigh of relief. Shortly afterward Alby was called in to the C.O.’s office.
“Private, I don’t want to know if you intentionally pulled Mr. Burrows’s story and I don’t want any explanations from you. Sometimes there are uncanny coincidences and I’m sure that’s what happened today. Mr. Burrows was rude and inappropriate and his article coincidentally didn’t make it to the wire. That’s all my report will show.”
“Sir, yes Sir,” Alby saluted and when he realized he wasn’t going to face any disciplinary actions, he kept his salute a few seconds longer than necessary. He felt like a million bucks.
Alby figured then that just because a person feels like he has more authority it doesn’t necessarily mean that he does and that the assumed authority also doesn’t make a person better-behaved. As long as you do the right thing and live accordingly, the only authority that really matters will smile on you every step of the way. Alby always said the best thing he learned that day was that when you do right by someone worth a grain of salt, he’ll do right by you; because it was Earl who later saved Alby’s life.
Earl, Sergeant Patrick Murphy and Alby were returning to base after an evening at a bar in Northern France. They did that a lot, going to bars in their down time. The ETO was a hell of a way to see the world, huh? Anyway, they had to walk through the woods in the dark which was not at all unusual for American soldiers but this night was anything but usual. The three of them were halfway to base when they came upon a Nazi soldier who had been separated from his unit and was hiding behind a group of trees. In keeping with the Rules of Engagement, Sergeant Murphy drew his weapon and demanded that the Nazi soldier come forward with his arms in the air. Earl and Alby pointed their rifles and Alby hoped his first place ranking in marksmanship wouldn’t be necessary. “Sir, you are now a prisoner of the United States Army,” Sergeant Murphy said.
The Nazi began speaking in German and since Alby was fluent in Yiddish, was able to decipher what the soldier was saying. “He’s calling us American pigs and says he’s not going anywhere with us.”
“I don’t want to tell him we’re press corps soldiers or he’ll know we’re ready to shit our pants,” Sergeant Murphy whispered.
“I’ll tell him we are taking him prisoner and won’t hurt him if he cooperates. When we get him back to camp, we’ll let the Colonel deal with it.” Alby was never as afraid in his whole life as he was at that moment. He was face-to-face with a person, to use that term loosely and allowing for a broad definition, who believed he was superior simply because he was an Aryan and Alby was a Jew.
Who would have imagined that the Yiddish he’d spoken at home with his parents was now being used to communicate with an SS member? Alby spoke the words they’d been trained to say. “We are soldiers in the United States Army. We’re not going to hurt you, but the rules of engagement demand that we take you back to our base and turn you over to our commander. We are not interested in fighting with you and I give you my word that you will be brought in unharmed if you cooperate.”
Alby reached over to try and take him by the arm. “Don’t touch me with your filthy Jew hands. You are lower than the rats in the garbage and you deserve to die,” the SS agent spit out in guttural German and faster than a blink he pulled out his weapon and aimed it directly at Alby’s head. As he went to squeeze the trigger, a gun was fired and the Nazi fell dead from a bullet into his chest.
When Alby looked up, he saw that Earl had fired his rifle, the first and last time he’d ever used his gun throughout the war. Earl reached down and took the Nazi’s pocketknife that had been dangling from his pocket.
“Here,” he offered it to Alby. “For you.”
Alby put the knife in his pocket and then leaned over and puked at the base of a tree. Sweat was pouring down the back of his neck while Murphy and Earl agreed that what just occurred would never be reported and that the three of us would just head back to base like nothing happened.
But so much happened. Alby looked into his enemy’s soulless eyes and saw only misplaced but very real revulsion. In contrast, Alby looked at his friend Earl and saw only his love and respect. The extremes that surrounded Alby made him shiver, and he didn’t stop for many days afterward.
“We are taught that when we do a good deed, we are repaid for it tenfold even though we might not always know it. But Alby knew it that day. Earl James saved Alby’s life, claiming that he did it because Alby saved his honor. They each did what they believed was right at that moment in time and that’s all people can ever do if we hope to live fairly and honestly.
“So don’t sweat it that your boss out there doesn’t know how to behave honorably toward you. You’re helping me to get better and for that, you will be repaid tenfold. And you can take THAT to the bank.”
Jenny left the room with tears in her eyes and I wondered if I could find Private Earl James; maybe he’d be able to save my father’s life one more time.
Jenny came into the room to check Alby’s access line. She wanted to be sure he wasn’t having any blockage due to the treatment’s length. After a few computer control adjustments and some repositioning she was satisfied that all was well.
“Do you ever take a break?” Mom asked. “You haven’t stopped running around since we got here this morning.”
“Not really. We’re always under-staffed and overworked. I guess it’s the same story in every profession.”
“Why don’t you just sit for a minute,” Mom suggested in her best Mommy Voice. “There’s no harm in taking a breath.”
No sooner had she sat down than Jenny’s Head Nurse happened by. “Jenny!” she called impatiently and with a chill in her voice. “The monitor in room five is beeping.”
“THAT’s why I don’t sit down!”?” Jenny asked, not expecting an answer but knowing that Alby might just have one anyway.
“Having a boss,” he said, “Is much like wearing a baby diaper. It’s always on your ass and usually full of shit. Let me explain it to you this way.”
Alby was drafted into General Patton’s Third Army and began his service as a censor in the Press Corps, Technician Third Grade, on November 23, 1943. He bunked with Ernest Hemingway and together they learned how to be fast and efficient at their jobs.
Many reporters came and went but there was one he never forgot. His name was William Burrows; he was a very tall and burly man, a talented writer, and his public persona was highly esteemed. He knew how to report the war with literary panache and integrated himself into the group.
William knew that the censors were very important in deciding what would be sent over the wire and by whom. Even though Alby wasn’t an officer, his superiors designated him as the one in charge of the press room and gave him complete authority within those walls.
William was very aggressive when it came to his work and toward that end, his attitude toward the soldiers was often arrogant and brusque as he barked out orders. One day in particular, William stepped over the invisible line between what Alby considered acceptable and abominable behavior.
Private Earl James was a young, black fellow from the southern United States and was in the press room working on some copy when William entered with his writing pad and attitude in hand.
“Boy!” William shouted. Earl didn’t answer so William yelled louder. “Boy! I’m talkin’ to you. Does being colored mean you’re deaf?”
Earl turned around and if it weren’t for the sound of the teletype machine, the silence would have been painful. All the soldiers present stood frozen.
“Are you speaking to me, Sir?” Earl asked, standing at attention.
“You bet I am. I’d like a bottle of scotch and you’re gonna find one for me.”
“Sir? I would have no idea how to acquire that, Sir.” Earl never lost his cool or spoke disrespectfully.
“Well, maybe you’d better go and figure it out, Boy. I’ll expect to see it in my tent after mess. Got it?”
“I’ve got it Sir, yes Sir.”
William threw what he’d written onto the table in front of Alby with the sole instruction of “Send this,” and when he left the room, he left behind his stink of arrogance and bigotry. Alby had no patience for it and felt personally insulted. He figured that if William could talk like that to a fine young guy like Earl, he would have no reservations about talking like that to anyone he thought was beneath him. Clearly, that included Alby and just about every other soldier in This-Man’s-Army.
“You know, we’ve got something that bastard wants and needs…” Alby said slyly.
“What is it? A new bottle of scotch?” Earl suggested.
“Better. We’ve got the sole access to the news wires. If his reports get to his newspaper on time, they get published. If they’re late, they don’t. I have a very funny feeling that today, his reports are going to be very, very late.”
Earl expressed concern. “This doesn’t help me find the bottle of scotch for him. And I’ll be the one he points a finger at. That could be very bad for me.”
“In this room I make the decisions so if anyone is getting blamed, it’s going to be me. And as for the scotch, he’s going to be so mad about missing a deadline that he won’t even think about it. Trust me,” Alby said to Earl.
The pile of edited reports dwindled and because William’s had been moved to the bottom of the pile, it was the only one left at day’s end. “Gee, we didn’t get to Mr. Smith’s article. Shame on us,” Alby said sarcastically. “Guess we might as well go to mess now. Nothing more we can do about it today. Too bad, huh?”
William was eating with the platoon’s commanding officer when Alby made his way over to their table. After a salute and a request to speak, Alby gave William the bad news. “Mr. Burrows, Sir, I’m sorry but there was an unusually heavy number of reports today and we were unable to censor and send yours to your paper.” Alby stood at ease, hands clasped behind his back, trying to restrain his desire to punch William in The Left Labanza.
William stood up, outraged. “I’ve never missed a deadline in all my years of reporting. Damn you,” he yelled. Alby didn’t move and wished, for that minute, that he was as tall and broad as William was because he was scared shitless.
The commanding officer rose from his seat to diffuse the situation. “William, we get mighty swamped here, what with all the columns that come through daily. I’m sure your editors will understand.”
Recognition crossed William’s face. “Bullshit. This was purposeful. What’s the matter, Private? You don’t like the way I spoke to the nigger?” William turned toward Alby. Even though he came only up to William’s chest at full height, he refused to back down.
“No Sir, I don’t like it. But that’s beside the point. You are accusing me of conscious negligence and I take issue with that, Sir.”
The C.O. decided there was no room for diplomacy. “William, I am the commander of this unit and if one of my men says there was no time to complete the day’s work, I believe him and I suggest you do the same. I also suggest that you apologize to Private James.”
William was relentless. “I have nothing to apologize for. I asked the private to get me one bottle of scotch and now I’m being made to pay for that request.”
“William, you aren’t a soldier nor are you under my command so I can’t enforce an order. I can, however, strongly urge you to make your apologies and then move on to another press unit that might be better able to get your reports in on time. I think that’s fair, don’t you?”
The troops were all dumbstruck and a mixture of fear and pride was in the mess tent air. William still wore that haughty, holier-than-thou look on his face.
“I’m sorry for asking you to get me a bottle of scotch,” William turned to Earl but we all knew he wasn’t sorry at all and Earl was a real mensch.
“I accept your apology, Sir,” Earl replied and his gentlemanly manor further incensed William who ultimately stormed out. After gathering his things, William was driven off the base and taken to a nearby division leaving behind a collective sigh of relief. Shortly afterward Alby was called in to the C.O.’s office.
“Private, I don’t want to know if you intentionally pulled Mr. Burrows’s story and I don’t want any explanations from you. Sometimes there are uncanny coincidences and I’m sure that’s what happened today. Mr. Burrows was rude and inappropriate and his article coincidentally didn’t make it to the wire. That’s all my report will show.”
“Sir, yes Sir,” Alby saluted and when he realized he wasn’t going to face any disciplinary actions, he kept his salute a few seconds longer than necessary. He felt like a million bucks.
Alby figured then that just because a person feels like he has more authority it doesn’t necessarily mean that he does and that the assumed authority also doesn’t make a person better-behaved. As long as you do the right thing and live accordingly, the only authority that really matters will smile on you every step of the way. Alby always said the best thing he learned that day was that when you do right by someone worth a grain of salt, he’ll do right by you; because it was Earl who later saved Alby’s life.
Earl, Sergeant Patrick Murphy and Alby were returning to base after an evening at a bar in Northern France. They did that a lot, going to bars in their down time. The ETO was a hell of a way to see the world, huh? Anyway, they had to walk through the woods in the dark which was not at all unusual for American soldiers but this night was anything but usual. The three of them were halfway to base when they came upon a Nazi soldier who had been separated from his unit and was hiding behind a group of trees. In keeping with the Rules of Engagement, Sergeant Murphy drew his weapon and demanded that the Nazi soldier come forward with his arms in the air. Earl and Alby pointed their rifles and Alby hoped his first place ranking in marksmanship wouldn’t be necessary. “Sir, you are now a prisoner of the United States Army,” Sergeant Murphy said.
The Nazi began speaking in German and since Alby was fluent in Yiddish, was able to decipher what the soldier was saying. “He’s calling us American pigs and says he’s not going anywhere with us.”
“I don’t want to tell him we’re press corps soldiers or he’ll know we’re ready to shit our pants,” Sergeant Murphy whispered.
“I’ll tell him we are taking him prisoner and won’t hurt him if he cooperates. When we get him back to camp, we’ll let the Colonel deal with it.” Alby was never as afraid in his whole life as he was at that moment. He was face-to-face with a person, to use that term loosely and allowing for a broad definition, who believed he was superior simply because he was an Aryan and Alby was a Jew.
Who would have imagined that the Yiddish he’d spoken at home with his parents was now being used to communicate with an SS member? Alby spoke the words they’d been trained to say. “We are soldiers in the United States Army. We’re not going to hurt you, but the rules of engagement demand that we take you back to our base and turn you over to our commander. We are not interested in fighting with you and I give you my word that you will be brought in unharmed if you cooperate.”
Alby reached over to try and take him by the arm. “Don’t touch me with your filthy Jew hands. You are lower than the rats in the garbage and you deserve to die,” the SS agent spit out in guttural German and faster than a blink he pulled out his weapon and aimed it directly at Alby’s head. As he went to squeeze the trigger, a gun was fired and the Nazi fell dead from a bullet into his chest.
When Alby looked up, he saw that Earl had fired his rifle, the first and last time he’d ever used his gun throughout the war. Earl reached down and took the Nazi’s pocketknife that had been dangling from his pocket.
“Here,” he offered it to Alby. “For you.”
Alby put the knife in his pocket and then leaned over and puked at the base of a tree. Sweat was pouring down the back of his neck while Murphy and Earl agreed that what just occurred would never be reported and that the three of us would just head back to base like nothing happened.
But so much happened. Alby looked into his enemy’s soulless eyes and saw only misplaced but very real revulsion. In contrast, Alby looked at his friend Earl and saw only his love and respect. The extremes that surrounded Alby made him shiver, and he didn’t stop for many days afterward.
“We are taught that when we do a good deed, we are repaid for it tenfold even though we might not always know it. But Alby knew it that day. Earl James saved Alby’s life, claiming that he did it because Alby saved his honor. They each did what they believed was right at that moment in time and that’s all people can ever do if we hope to live fairly and honestly.
“So don’t sweat it that your boss out there doesn’t know how to behave honorably toward you. You’re helping me to get better and for that, you will be repaid tenfold. And you can take THAT to the bank.”
Jenny left the room with tears in her eyes and I wondered if I could find Private Earl James; maybe he’d be able to save my father’s life one more time.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Alby - Hanging On
Hanging On
The exceedingly slow process of infusion became less and less bearable as the long day progressed. Because of his age and a few other concerns, the infusion machine was programmed to deliver the chemicals in minute amounts. Dad started looking for excuses to get out of the chair just so he could move his body a little. Bathroom trips became more frequent, as did walks up and down the hall with the ever-present I.V. pole rolling along beside him.
He asked me to massage his neck which was getting stiff from immobility. Pressing my thumbs hard into his muscles, I kneaded and pushed as hard as I could in the hopes of bringing him some relief.
“It feels like it’s in spasm,” he said. “I don’t think this has ever happened to me before.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Dad,” I reminded him.
After Harvey came home from his I’m-gonna-find-myself-and-live-like-a-pauper-and-shit-in-the-woods trip to India and decided that he preferred the American way of life, he joined Alby’s accounting practice and began working in earnest. Alby couldn’t have been more delighted to have his son by his side. With Harvey’s long, curly hair tucked beneath a short-haired men’s wig, Alby brought Harvey with him on appointments so he could meet all the clients.
“Where’s my daily diary, Pearl?” Alby asked as he got ready to visit the business site of an important client. He misplaced things all the time. We lovingly called him the Absent-Minded Accountant. “And my briefcase. Where did I put it?” Pearl had everything at her fingertips, long accustomed to the routine.
Dad went to the front hall closet, grabbing his heavy black woolen coat and shrugging it on. He looked dashing with his white satin scarf as he and Harvey walked out the door with a wave. Harvey was driving and Alby sat in the passenger seat going over the day’s agenda. As he spoke he would periodically bend his neck from side to side, and complain that his neck was hurting. The drive continued but Alby’s growing discomfort with his neck was causing concern.
“What’s the problem, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so uncomfortable in my neck; it’s hurting more and more.”
“Did you sleep funny? Maybe you twisted it.”
“Can’t be. I was fine all morning. I feel like I’m being stabbed or something.” With every sharp jab, Alby would groan.
Harvey decided to pull over to the side of the road so he could get a close-up look. “Come out of the car, Dad. Let me see what’s going on.”
It took only seconds before Harvey was reduced to hysteria. Alby, of course, had no idea what was so funny.
“What? What are you laughing at?” Alby asked innocently.
“You know Dad,” Harvey said with all the seriousness he could, “When you put on your coat, it’s important to remember to take it off the hanger first.” Yup. The metal hanger was still inside the coat, its hook jabbing into the back of Alby’s neck every time he moved.
Never one to miss out on a great joke, even at his own expense, Alby calmly took off his coat, removed the hanger, put the coat back on and turned toward Harvey. “I guess we have an excuse for being late at the clients today. We’ll just have to tell them we got a little hung up.”
The exceedingly slow process of infusion became less and less bearable as the long day progressed. Because of his age and a few other concerns, the infusion machine was programmed to deliver the chemicals in minute amounts. Dad started looking for excuses to get out of the chair just so he could move his body a little. Bathroom trips became more frequent, as did walks up and down the hall with the ever-present I.V. pole rolling along beside him.
He asked me to massage his neck which was getting stiff from immobility. Pressing my thumbs hard into his muscles, I kneaded and pushed as hard as I could in the hopes of bringing him some relief.
“It feels like it’s in spasm,” he said. “I don’t think this has ever happened to me before.”
“You’ve got to be kidding, Dad,” I reminded him.
After Harvey came home from his I’m-gonna-find-myself-and-live-like-a-pauper-and-shit-in-the-woods trip to India and decided that he preferred the American way of life, he joined Alby’s accounting practice and began working in earnest. Alby couldn’t have been more delighted to have his son by his side. With Harvey’s long, curly hair tucked beneath a short-haired men’s wig, Alby brought Harvey with him on appointments so he could meet all the clients.
“Where’s my daily diary, Pearl?” Alby asked as he got ready to visit the business site of an important client. He misplaced things all the time. We lovingly called him the Absent-Minded Accountant. “And my briefcase. Where did I put it?” Pearl had everything at her fingertips, long accustomed to the routine.
Dad went to the front hall closet, grabbing his heavy black woolen coat and shrugging it on. He looked dashing with his white satin scarf as he and Harvey walked out the door with a wave. Harvey was driving and Alby sat in the passenger seat going over the day’s agenda. As he spoke he would periodically bend his neck from side to side, and complain that his neck was hurting. The drive continued but Alby’s growing discomfort with his neck was causing concern.
“What’s the problem, Dad?”
“I don’t know. I’m just so uncomfortable in my neck; it’s hurting more and more.”
“Did you sleep funny? Maybe you twisted it.”
“Can’t be. I was fine all morning. I feel like I’m being stabbed or something.” With every sharp jab, Alby would groan.
Harvey decided to pull over to the side of the road so he could get a close-up look. “Come out of the car, Dad. Let me see what’s going on.”
It took only seconds before Harvey was reduced to hysteria. Alby, of course, had no idea what was so funny.
“What? What are you laughing at?” Alby asked innocently.
“You know Dad,” Harvey said with all the seriousness he could, “When you put on your coat, it’s important to remember to take it off the hanger first.” Yup. The metal hanger was still inside the coat, its hook jabbing into the back of Alby’s neck every time he moved.
Never one to miss out on a great joke, even at his own expense, Alby calmly took off his coat, removed the hanger, put the coat back on and turned toward Harvey. “I guess we have an excuse for being late at the clients today. We’ll just have to tell them we got a little hung up.”
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
Alby - Brain Farts
Brain Farts
“I know I came in here for something,” Jenny muttered as she hurriedly pushed papers around on the countertop and opened cabinets in the room.
“Go backwards in your mind and it will help you to remember,” Mom offered. “That’s what I do.”
“I can’t stand when this happens. I can be in the middle of something and completely forget what I’m doing because my brain is so overtaxed all the time. Sometimes I wonder if it’s age…” Jenny spoke to no one in particular.
“And what should I say?” Alby laughed at the twenty-something Jenny. “After all, I’m a few years older than you are. Okay, okay, I’m more than a few years older,” he admitted when he saw Jenny’s contradictory smirk. “But forgetting the little things really isn’t important in the scheme of it all. Tell her, Susie Q.”
Alby had come home from work and his expression was solemn. He didn’t offer his usual greeting of “Hey there, Susie Q. How’s my girl?” Instead he walked in, sat down at the kitchen table and loosened his tie. His green eyes were cloudy.
“What’s wrong, Al?” Mom asked.
“I tried calling you today. I repeatedly picked up the phone but no matter how many times I stared at the dial, I couldn’t remember our telephone number. Blank. My mind was blank. Like I’d never known it.”
“I forget stuff all the time Dad,” I offered.
“You forgetting and me forgetting are two different things,” he said distractedly as he wiped perspiration from his temples.
I had long known that as a CPA he was detail-oriented and numbers, for him, were his native language. He could do complex mathematical equations in his head with astounding accuracy and using a calculator was not in his repertoire. He used an old-fashioned “adding machine” on which he would punch in page-long columns of numbers without even looking at the keyboard and pull the handle on the left to get a total. Long strips of paper would print out the top in red and black ink and that was the extent of his technological assistance. The “ching ching” sound of the adding machine was as familiar a sound as the scratching of his pencil.
He ate his dinner while we all made small talk but I knew he was barely listening. His body was at the table but his mind was somewhere else. Before he even had his tea and apple turnover, he pushed his chair away and went upstairs into his office.
Mom and I left him alone to gather his wits and by the time we were finished cleaning the kitchen, he reappeared with his famous cat-who-caught-the-canary grin. In his hands he held a ledger sheet filled with mathematical calculations and a yellow Number Two Ticonderoga pencil worn down to a nub.
Mom and I looked at him questioningly, not sure where this was leading but the relief in his face was evident.
“It took a little while, but I had a revelation. Susie Q, if there is only one thing you remember when you grow old, let it be this. Never ever worry if you can’t remember where you put your pencil. Worry only if you forget what to do with it!”
“Mr. Rich, you’re awesome,” Jenny smiled sweetly.
“Nah. I’m just an old geezer with a lot of stories.”
“You’re my favorite old geezer,” I said and hugged him. Jenny put a compassionate, knowing hand on my shoulder and the weight of it was unbearable.
“I know I came in here for something,” Jenny muttered as she hurriedly pushed papers around on the countertop and opened cabinets in the room.
“Go backwards in your mind and it will help you to remember,” Mom offered. “That’s what I do.”
“I can’t stand when this happens. I can be in the middle of something and completely forget what I’m doing because my brain is so overtaxed all the time. Sometimes I wonder if it’s age…” Jenny spoke to no one in particular.
“And what should I say?” Alby laughed at the twenty-something Jenny. “After all, I’m a few years older than you are. Okay, okay, I’m more than a few years older,” he admitted when he saw Jenny’s contradictory smirk. “But forgetting the little things really isn’t important in the scheme of it all. Tell her, Susie Q.”
Alby had come home from work and his expression was solemn. He didn’t offer his usual greeting of “Hey there, Susie Q. How’s my girl?” Instead he walked in, sat down at the kitchen table and loosened his tie. His green eyes were cloudy.
“What’s wrong, Al?” Mom asked.
“I tried calling you today. I repeatedly picked up the phone but no matter how many times I stared at the dial, I couldn’t remember our telephone number. Blank. My mind was blank. Like I’d never known it.”
“I forget stuff all the time Dad,” I offered.
“You forgetting and me forgetting are two different things,” he said distractedly as he wiped perspiration from his temples.
I had long known that as a CPA he was detail-oriented and numbers, for him, were his native language. He could do complex mathematical equations in his head with astounding accuracy and using a calculator was not in his repertoire. He used an old-fashioned “adding machine” on which he would punch in page-long columns of numbers without even looking at the keyboard and pull the handle on the left to get a total. Long strips of paper would print out the top in red and black ink and that was the extent of his technological assistance. The “ching ching” sound of the adding machine was as familiar a sound as the scratching of his pencil.
He ate his dinner while we all made small talk but I knew he was barely listening. His body was at the table but his mind was somewhere else. Before he even had his tea and apple turnover, he pushed his chair away and went upstairs into his office.
Mom and I left him alone to gather his wits and by the time we were finished cleaning the kitchen, he reappeared with his famous cat-who-caught-the-canary grin. In his hands he held a ledger sheet filled with mathematical calculations and a yellow Number Two Ticonderoga pencil worn down to a nub.
Mom and I looked at him questioningly, not sure where this was leading but the relief in his face was evident.
“It took a little while, but I had a revelation. Susie Q, if there is only one thing you remember when you grow old, let it be this. Never ever worry if you can’t remember where you put your pencil. Worry only if you forget what to do with it!”
“Mr. Rich, you’re awesome,” Jenny smiled sweetly.
“Nah. I’m just an old geezer with a lot of stories.”
“You’re my favorite old geezer,” I said and hugged him. Jenny put a compassionate, knowing hand on my shoulder and the weight of it was unbearable.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Alby - Be Zen
Be Zen
About three hours into the infusion, Alby began to fidget and his eyes were darting around the room, jumping from the television set to me and then back again.
“You okay Dad?”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel right.”
“Should I call Jenny?”
“No, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you just hold my hand for a little while?”
I took his hand in mine and I could feel him trembling. My rock, it seemed, had been reduced to pebbles. “Relax, Daddy. Breathe slowly. Breathe in…Breathe out…Breathe in…Breathe out…”
“You know who you’re starting to sound like, don’t you?”
It was the mid-1970’s, I was eighteen, and Harvey had decided he hadn’t quite “found” himself yet. My brother was an adolescent during the 1960’s and embraced the Hippie mentality, which included a fervent interest in eastern religion. He searched for something that would fit well with his perception of what life should be or an ideology to which he could relate. His search brought him to India where he grew a beard and long, curly hair, donned an orange Nehru shirt that came down to his knees and wore baggy orange pants that looked like pajama bottoms. Around his neck hung a string of brown beads with a picture of Bhagwan Rajneesh, his guru, dangling from the bottom. (You might remember this guru – he’s the one who was investigated many years later in Oregon for tax evasion as he drove away in his Rolls Royce. . .)
Pearl and Alby were distraught. Their good little Jewish boy from New Jersey was living on an Ashram in the Indian wilderness, unreachable by telephone for months on end, and the worry nearly drove them crazy.
Pearl was on edge, her conversations always clipped as though she was in a hurry. Alby, whose normal demeanor was one of calm, was himself distracted and uneasy.
Pearl heard about a man who led massive therapy groups to teach people how to find inner peace. It was a popular if not questionable craze, attracting people from all walks of life looking for coping skills. Pearl convinced Alby, along with their best friends Ethel and Gerry, to attend a seminar in the hopes of finding a constructive way to deal with Harvey’s distance.
Alby found the whole idea quite suspect but kept his thoughts to himself; he knew better than to provoke my mother when she was on her last nerve. So, like a dutiful husband, he coughed up the ridiculously-exorbitant-but-I’ll-do-it-anyway registration and seminar fees and resigned himself to keeping an open mind.
As they left the on the morning of their seminar date, they reminded me that they weren’t allowed to make telephone calls during the course of the day, and therefore wouldn’t be in touch with me until they got home much later. I wondered about that for just a bit, but in my teenaged egocentricity the thought was fleeting. Only much later that evening did I realize it would have behooved me to give it more than a second’s concern. After all, if my logic were sound I would have wondered what type of class would keep them incommunicado for so many long hours.
Pearl and Alby sat in a massive ballroom at a Holiday Inn, surrounded by hundreds of people looking for that ever-elusive inner peace. Some were devotees of the program, some were newcomers, and some were groupies who followed their leader wherever he went. The attendees were a potpourri of working professionals to people whose last shower was nothing more than a stroll through the rain. Alby looked around, his suspicions building rapidly.
With pomp and circumstance and a lot of zip-a-dee-doo-dah, the leader strode confidently onto the stage and was welcomed with resounding applause and a deafening roar of screams and shouts. Alby chuckled aloud and Mom elbowed him, the ever-present behavioral compass of our lives.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,” the man bellowed into his microphone and his captive audience replied in turn.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” they screamed.
NOW he had Alby’s undivided attention. What could possibly be the point of this?
“You’ll soon find out that words are only what you want them to be. They’re nothing more than a string of letters put together to make sounds and we, as people, assign those sounds meanings. It’s all what you make it. FUCK doesn’t have to be bad; it could mean something as benign as “Here, have an orange.” We have made it nasty but we can mold things into what we want or need them to be.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,” he continued. “Let’s all say it together! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”
Alby thought he’d fall off his chair with glee. This was going to be better than he ever imagined; a comedy show with an audience who didn’t know the joke was on them! He watched mom loosen up and actually chortled when he heard her scream “FUCK” on the top of her lungs. Gerry and Ethel were busy waving their hands in the air as though experiencing some divine intervention. Alby made himself comfortable as he sat back in his metal folding chair, waiting to see how the show’s next act would progress.
It didn’t take long to find out because Alby had to use the bathroom. Even in his younger years, his urges to urinate were sudden and emergent. When he had to go, he had to GO. He stood up and began to make his way across the row of seats, squeezing past “FUCK” screamers just to get toward the aisle.
“And you would be going WHERE?” the leader’s accusatory voice rang out above the “FUCK” din.
Alby stopped and turned to look up toward the stage.
“I’m talking to YOU,” the all-powerful Oz said, pointing a stern finger.
Alby was psyched now. “I’m going to the bathroom. That is, if it’s okay with you,” he answered sarcastically. The room fell silent. Not a “FUCK” in the bunch.
“It’s not okay with me, my friend. No one is allowed to leave this room. You take energy out and it interrupts the flow of your inner search.”
“That’s not the flow I’m concerned about right now,” Alby said as he continued to walk toward the rear doors.
“You can’t leave.”
What little dander Alby had was up. “Listen my friend, I took orders in school, orders in the Army, and sometimes I even take orders from my wife. I will not, however, take orders from you. So, as I see it, you can either back off now or you can watch me pee right here in front of everyone in the room. Your choice.” Alby stood tapping his foot, getting more and more pumped for a challenge. When he received none, he went to the bathroom to empty his bladder and was sure THAT was Nirvana!
When he reentered the ballroom ten minutes later Alby heard “Shit, fuck, piss” being chanted by a closed-eyed audience. “Have you found IT? Your inner self?” the leader shouted.
“Yes,” the majority called out in unison.
“Grab that self. Feel the weight of IT! Learn IT so you can always find IT.”
“Shit, fuck, piss!” Alby yelled out, but not for the same reasons as everyone else. For this I paid money? “Shit, fuck, piss,” he repeated as his own private reprimand.
When Pearl and Alby got home that evening, I asked them how the day had gone.
“Ask your father,” Mom answered angrily with more than a little annoyance.
Ooh, I knew this was going to be good. I was positively shaking in anticipation and didn’t miss Alby’s sideways smirk.
“Susie Q, did you know that if you really want to find out what you’re made of on the inside and you need to learn about your inner self, just have someone deprive you of taking a pee.”
I supposed that’s what it meant to be full of piss and vinegar.
By the end of the story Dad forgot that he’d been frightened only minutes before but it was so comfortable holding hands that we just didn’t let go.
About three hours into the infusion, Alby began to fidget and his eyes were darting around the room, jumping from the television set to me and then back again.
“You okay Dad?”
“I don’t know. I don’t feel right.”
“Should I call Jenny?”
“No, but if you wouldn’t mind, could you just hold my hand for a little while?”
I took his hand in mine and I could feel him trembling. My rock, it seemed, had been reduced to pebbles. “Relax, Daddy. Breathe slowly. Breathe in…Breathe out…Breathe in…Breathe out…”
“You know who you’re starting to sound like, don’t you?”
It was the mid-1970’s, I was eighteen, and Harvey had decided he hadn’t quite “found” himself yet. My brother was an adolescent during the 1960’s and embraced the Hippie mentality, which included a fervent interest in eastern religion. He searched for something that would fit well with his perception of what life should be or an ideology to which he could relate. His search brought him to India where he grew a beard and long, curly hair, donned an orange Nehru shirt that came down to his knees and wore baggy orange pants that looked like pajama bottoms. Around his neck hung a string of brown beads with a picture of Bhagwan Rajneesh, his guru, dangling from the bottom. (You might remember this guru – he’s the one who was investigated many years later in Oregon for tax evasion as he drove away in his Rolls Royce. . .)
Pearl and Alby were distraught. Their good little Jewish boy from New Jersey was living on an Ashram in the Indian wilderness, unreachable by telephone for months on end, and the worry nearly drove them crazy.
Pearl was on edge, her conversations always clipped as though she was in a hurry. Alby, whose normal demeanor was one of calm, was himself distracted and uneasy.
Pearl heard about a man who led massive therapy groups to teach people how to find inner peace. It was a popular if not questionable craze, attracting people from all walks of life looking for coping skills. Pearl convinced Alby, along with their best friends Ethel and Gerry, to attend a seminar in the hopes of finding a constructive way to deal with Harvey’s distance.
Alby found the whole idea quite suspect but kept his thoughts to himself; he knew better than to provoke my mother when she was on her last nerve. So, like a dutiful husband, he coughed up the ridiculously-exorbitant-but-I’ll-do-it-anyway registration and seminar fees and resigned himself to keeping an open mind.
As they left the on the morning of their seminar date, they reminded me that they weren’t allowed to make telephone calls during the course of the day, and therefore wouldn’t be in touch with me until they got home much later. I wondered about that for just a bit, but in my teenaged egocentricity the thought was fleeting. Only much later that evening did I realize it would have behooved me to give it more than a second’s concern. After all, if my logic were sound I would have wondered what type of class would keep them incommunicado for so many long hours.
Pearl and Alby sat in a massive ballroom at a Holiday Inn, surrounded by hundreds of people looking for that ever-elusive inner peace. Some were devotees of the program, some were newcomers, and some were groupies who followed their leader wherever he went. The attendees were a potpourri of working professionals to people whose last shower was nothing more than a stroll through the rain. Alby looked around, his suspicions building rapidly.
With pomp and circumstance and a lot of zip-a-dee-doo-dah, the leader strode confidently onto the stage and was welcomed with resounding applause and a deafening roar of screams and shouts. Alby chuckled aloud and Mom elbowed him, the ever-present behavioral compass of our lives.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,” the man bellowed into his microphone and his captive audience replied in turn.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!” they screamed.
NOW he had Alby’s undivided attention. What could possibly be the point of this?
“You’ll soon find out that words are only what you want them to be. They’re nothing more than a string of letters put together to make sounds and we, as people, assign those sounds meanings. It’s all what you make it. FUCK doesn’t have to be bad; it could mean something as benign as “Here, have an orange.” We have made it nasty but we can mold things into what we want or need them to be.
“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK,” he continued. “Let’s all say it together! FUCK, FUCK, FUCK.”
Alby thought he’d fall off his chair with glee. This was going to be better than he ever imagined; a comedy show with an audience who didn’t know the joke was on them! He watched mom loosen up and actually chortled when he heard her scream “FUCK” on the top of her lungs. Gerry and Ethel were busy waving their hands in the air as though experiencing some divine intervention. Alby made himself comfortable as he sat back in his metal folding chair, waiting to see how the show’s next act would progress.
It didn’t take long to find out because Alby had to use the bathroom. Even in his younger years, his urges to urinate were sudden and emergent. When he had to go, he had to GO. He stood up and began to make his way across the row of seats, squeezing past “FUCK” screamers just to get toward the aisle.
“And you would be going WHERE?” the leader’s accusatory voice rang out above the “FUCK” din.
Alby stopped and turned to look up toward the stage.
“I’m talking to YOU,” the all-powerful Oz said, pointing a stern finger.
Alby was psyched now. “I’m going to the bathroom. That is, if it’s okay with you,” he answered sarcastically. The room fell silent. Not a “FUCK” in the bunch.
“It’s not okay with me, my friend. No one is allowed to leave this room. You take energy out and it interrupts the flow of your inner search.”
“That’s not the flow I’m concerned about right now,” Alby said as he continued to walk toward the rear doors.
“You can’t leave.”
What little dander Alby had was up. “Listen my friend, I took orders in school, orders in the Army, and sometimes I even take orders from my wife. I will not, however, take orders from you. So, as I see it, you can either back off now or you can watch me pee right here in front of everyone in the room. Your choice.” Alby stood tapping his foot, getting more and more pumped for a challenge. When he received none, he went to the bathroom to empty his bladder and was sure THAT was Nirvana!
When he reentered the ballroom ten minutes later Alby heard “Shit, fuck, piss” being chanted by a closed-eyed audience. “Have you found IT? Your inner self?” the leader shouted.
“Yes,” the majority called out in unison.
“Grab that self. Feel the weight of IT! Learn IT so you can always find IT.”
“Shit, fuck, piss!” Alby yelled out, but not for the same reasons as everyone else. For this I paid money? “Shit, fuck, piss,” he repeated as his own private reprimand.
When Pearl and Alby got home that evening, I asked them how the day had gone.
“Ask your father,” Mom answered angrily with more than a little annoyance.
Ooh, I knew this was going to be good. I was positively shaking in anticipation and didn’t miss Alby’s sideways smirk.
“Susie Q, did you know that if you really want to find out what you’re made of on the inside and you need to learn about your inner self, just have someone deprive you of taking a pee.”
I supposed that’s what it meant to be full of piss and vinegar.
By the end of the story Dad forgot that he’d been frightened only minutes before but it was so comfortable holding hands that we just didn’t let go.
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