THE INVENT-A-JOB JOB (Part One)

Finding a decent job in a small college town is almost as challenging as finding an affordable apartment, but since all of the good positions on campus were already taken, I was determined to find the least noxious employment available off campus. After searching in vain for several weeks, I knew that if we wanted to eat more than canned soup, I would have to devise a new strategy. It came to me in the middle of the night.

“That’s it!” I said, sitting up in bed. “What’s it?” W.S. mumbled into his pillow. “I am going to invent a job,” I replied. “Tell me about it in the morning,” he said. My husband had studied late into the night for an upcoming test in statistics, so by the time he got out of bed, I had already made an appointment, and was on my way to meet with the principal of the local high school.

Mr. Freund was an unassuming, rather rumpled little man who peered at me over his eyeglasses as he said, “I’m really sorry, but we have no position for you at our school.” “Do you have an attendance counselor?” I asked.

 “A what?” he replied. “An attendance counselor,” I said. “You know, the person who checks your attendance every morning to be sure that students are sitting at their desks when the bell rings.” “Unless, I added, “they have a pretty darn good excuse for not being here.” “No,” he replied. “We don’t have one of those.” “And,” I said, warming up to my impromptu idea, “the attendance counselor also keeps track of the students who are tardy---the late ones.” “I know what tardy is,” he replied. “Isn’t it true,” I added, “ that the more students you have in school, the more money you get from the county?” I took a wild guess that attendance records were tied to the money allotted to the school---the more kids attending, the more money available.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but that sounds right to me. We’ve never had an attendance counselor before, but if I can find the money for a salary, would you consider starting on a part-time basis?” So that’s how I became the first attendance counselor at the local high school. The regular counselor was buried somewhere under college applications, and I don’t think I ever saw him come up for air during the two years I worked at the job.

Mr. Freund found me a little alcove/office. It was located in front of a door marked, School Nurse, so any student wanting access to the nurse had to first step around my desk. Unfortunately, there was only one school nurse, and she was assigned to serve four other schools at the same time. Therefore, whenever a health emergency arose, I was not only the closest person to her office, but I was the only person available.

At first, I just advised the coughing and sneezing young people who knocked on her door to take a tissue and call back in the morning. However, when a football player vomited into my wastebasket, and a pale young woman fainted onto my desk, I knew it was time to invest in a book on first aid and pray that no one would sue. I set jammed fingers on Popsicle sticks and called parents to get permission to dispense aspirin. I knew that high fevers meant, “Go Home!”  I also knew that rashes indicted, “Don’t scratch! Go Home!” And definitely, no matter what---“Don’t touch me!” (To be continued---)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c 2006 

ONE MORE TIME

Two years can make a big difference with a population in flux, and that’s exactly what we found when we returned to campus. Most of the faculty was still all there, in a manner of speaking, and except for a few new buildings, the campus itself hadn’t changed, but the graduate students we had known were gone. Many of them had sent themselves through school on veteran’s allotments and had lived from hand to mouth.

This new group of scholars was young, rich and cocky. They were smart, not smarter, but smart, and had immediately matriculated to graduate school after graduating from various universities. A few students had been awarded scholarships and assistantships, but many were subsidized by the folks back home, and had few financial concerns. Also, this time, dynamic women had entered the mix and competition was keen.

Good jobs at the University were almost unobtainable, and I swore that this time I would find a job in this little college town rather than get stuck working for another Futzel. But first we had to find a place to live. Again, we were on a limited budget, since most of our savings had to go toward school. W.S. was awarded a graduate assistantship, which helped, but he could have earned more money raking leaves. Other than rent increases, the apartment situation hadn’t changed in the two years of our absence. However, we lucked out when one of the graduate students told W.S. that his place was available since he was getting married.

The apartment was on the ground floor of an old wooden house, and we were told that a single lady named, Mabel was moving in upstairs. The landlord put a fresh coat of cheap, glossy, dark gray paint on all of the walls, so it was kind of like living on a battleship without the booming canons---that is until Mabel finally arrived.

Our first encounter with Mabel was when we heard her dragging her grocery cart up the 20 stairs to her apartment. Early on, W.S. had opened our door and said, “You look pretty saddled down. You need some help?” And Mabel responded, “Certainly Not!” He closed the door, turned to me and asked, “What’s her problem?” “She probably thinks you called her a horse,” I replied.

It was then that the upstairs furniture began to slide across our ceiling. “She’s probably getting settled in,” I shouted as I straightened the pictures on the walls. However, two weeks later, as soon as she got home, Mabel began moving her furniture again. “What do you suppose she’s doing up there?” W.S. asked. “I haven’t the foggiest,” I replied. “I guess she can’t make up her mind.”

Then the stomping began. Every night, first we heard the sliding furniture, and then the stomping. “What the hell!” was W.S.’s nightly response. After two weeks of scraping, sliding and stomping, W.S. said, “I can’t take this anymore. Please, work your magic—Take Her A Pie!” I decided to follow his suggestion, more out of curiosity than neighborliness. So the next evening, when she came home, I took her a chocolate pie. When I knocked on her door, Mabel opened the door a crack and asked, “Who is it?”

“It’s your neighbor from downstairs, I’ve brought you a pie.” ‘What kind?” she asked. “Chocolate,” I answered. “I’m allergic to chocolate,” she replied, but she opened the door. “Sorry,” I lied. “I certainly don’t want to make you sick.” “That’s okay, I’ll take it to work tomorrow,” she said. “Those people will eat anything.”

When I entered the apartment, I saw that all of the living room furniture had been pushed to one side of the room, and on the wall, on the other side, hung three floor-to-ceiling mirrors. I spent just enough time with Mabel to get the scoop before returning downstairs. “So what’s the story?” asked W.S.

“She clogs,” I replied. “Does that have something to do with her pores or her kitchen sink?” he asked. “She takes clogging lessons,” I said, “You know, that stomp dancing. That’s why she moves the furniture to one side of the room every night.” “Why can’t she just leave it that way?” he groaned. “Because,” I said, “She doesn’t find it esthetic.” I told her that it was very disturbing. “And?” he asked. “And, she said that moving the furniture doesn’t bother her at all and we will just have to get used to it.”  

Shortly after my visit, we were no longer bothered by the overhead cacophony of sound. Turns out that Mabel threw out her back. It must have been the furniture. Surely, my pie wasn’t that heavy!

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

A MOVING EXPERIENCE (Part Two)

We didn’t miss the noise from downstairs---the shouting and falling bric-a-brac. No, we didn’t miss it one bit! Now the two brothers were our landlords. We got along with them just fine. The problem was that they couldn’t get along with each other. Consequently, the older brother, Angel lived downstairs, and Erik moved into the basement. It was a bit awkward, because every time I’d go downstairs to do the laundry, I’d have to yell, “Are you decent?” But, I got used to it, and most of the time he was.

I never saw Angel, because he had a night job and slept during the day. However, I felt sorry for Erik, the basement dweller, and would periodically take him leftovers, so he wouldn’t starve to death before my clothes dried. He was so appreciative, that one morning he left an unidentifiable blob in front of our door. His note said, “It’s a pecan pie, and I baked it myself.” I was glad he told me what it was so I wouldn’t have to guess. His creation was floating in grease. This was one movable feast that would never touch my lips. I wouldn’t even feed it to W.S., and he would eat almost anything.

W.S. took one look at it and said, “How do you suppose he did that?” ”I don’t know,” I said, “but I have never seen anything quite like it.” We watched with fascination as Erik’s labor of love began to coagulate. “How are we going to get rid of this thing?” I asked. We didn’t have a garbage disposal, and we shared the garbage can with Angel and Erik.

“I know,” said W.S. He found an old box and some gift wrap and advised “We simply wrap it up, and throw it away.” When it got dark, I snuck outside, and buried the pie under some pizza boxes. I prayed that the pie wouldn’t leak and corrode the can before the garbage men arrived in the morning.

We spent a blissful six months in that apartment. We had adjusted to the peculiarities of our landlords, and we had finally found a place we could stay for a few years.

One night we drove into the city and went to The Black Orchid. It was a famous club and it was closing. “Nothing is forever,” I sighed wistfully. “You’re right,” said W.S. “I have something to discuss with you. How upset would you be if I didn’t renew my contract the end of the year, and we’d return to cow dung country so I could get my PhD?”

“How did this come about?” I asked. “Professor Taser was invited to speak at a meeting that I attended, and I ran into him today in the Men’s Room. He suggested that if I were going to get my degree, I’d better “shit or get off the pot.” “Did he know who you were?” I asked. “I think so,” said W.S., “I stood on the right side of the urinal.”

“What do you think?” said W.S. “Do you mind moving again and going back to working at a menial job for a few years?” “I married you for better or worse,” I replied. “I just have one question---Which part is this?”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

A MOVING EXPERIENCE (Part One)

W.S. had gotten a raise, our lease was up, and we were free to escape from our crummy city apartment with the dirty windows. We found a duplex in Evanston, packed up our police rejects and moved.

An old man, who walked with a cane, and his two unmarried sons owned the house. The cantankerous father shouted at the boys, while taking swipes at them with his stick. They knew how to duck, but he did manage to periodically knock over a lamp, and more often scatter knickknacks all over the floor. Good naturedly, they took it in stride, saying, “Don’t pay any attention to him. Pa is just being Pa.” The trio lived downstairs and we moved in upstairs.

Pleased to have us as tenants, the young men agreed to paint the walls to our specifications, and to replace an overhanging light fixture in the kitchen. The paint job was finished before we moved in, but the light fixture hadn’t yet been replaced, since they were kind enough to let us pick it out. We settled on a large glass globe, which would shed plenty of light on the kitchen table.

I was so happy with our arrangement that I baked an apple pie and took it downstairs as a thank you for our landlords, who assured us that one of them would be upstairs soon to hang the kitchen light. I was hoping it wouldn’t be the old man. “Where were you?” asked W.S. when I returned from my noble mission. “I took them a pie,” I answered proudly. “That’s not so good,” he said. The last person who ate one of your pies got shot.” This is when I realized that selective hearing is a necessary attribute for preserving a relatively happy marriage, so I ignored him.

The next morning, Erik, the younger, knocked on the door carrying a ladder and told us that he was there to hang our light fixture. He slid the table to the side of the room, climbed the ladder, and W.S. handed him the glass globe, which Erik began to affix to the ceiling wires. Then there was another knock on the door.

“Oh, I forgot about Tony,” said Erik. “Who’s Tony?” I asked. “He’s my friend, and he’s here to pick up his music,” he said as he began to climb down the ladder. “What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” said W.S. as we watched the globe swinging perilously from side to side. “Just get up there and hold it,” said Erik. “I’ll be right back.”

W.S. didn’t like ladders and never claimed to be handy. However one time he did replace a burned out light bulb. That was the time Chicago had a total blackout. He took full credit for it, and never tried to fix anything again. But now, he was standing on a ladder, holding an extremely large glass globe waiting for Erik to return. We waited for ten minutes, which seems like a very long time when holding a heavy glass globe. W.S. said, “Please run downstairs and find out what’s taking so long.”

I ran downstairs and knocked on the door. I could hear music playing, but no one answered. I knocked again. Still no answer. So I ran down to the basement to see if maybe they were down there. No luck. So, I ran back upstairs to tell W.S. that I couldn’t find Erik.

“Hell!” he said, “I’m not holding this thing one more minute,” and he let go. Then W.S. ducked as the extremely large glass globe trembled, slipped off the wire, hit the floor like a bomb, and exploded into a million pieces. Magically, Erik appeared and said, “What happened?” “It fell down,” said W.S. “Oh,” said Erik, I guess we’ll have to get another one.”  “I guess we will,” I said. “Where were you?”

“We started listening to the music, and I kind of forgot,” said Erik. “Let’s reschedule,” I said. “And, Erik, next time please tell Tony to stay home until we are finished.” He promised he would and left in a cheerful mood. Erik was always cheerful. W.S. contemplated buying a cane.

When we woke up the next morning, we saw paramedics carrying the old man out on a stretcher. “Is he breathing?” said W.S. “I don’t think so. There’s a blanket over his head,” I replied.  “See, I told you that your pies are fatal,” he smirked. “It wasn’t my pie that killed him. This time it was your bomb,” I retorted. We went to the funeral, which was a good thing, because other than his sons, no one else showed up except Tony. At first, I thought he was grieving when he kept bending his head low, but then I spied his radio. I had forgotten it was the last game of the World Series.

I gave him a dirty look, and he whispered, “I just wanted to hear the score.” “What’s the score?” said W.S. “Can’t the two of you wait until the old man gets sent to the dug out,” I hissed. I don’t know why the priest gave ME the dirty look.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

THE BACHELOR (Part Two)

We prayed that one of Jeffrey’s dates would turn out well, because we couldn’t take much more. Then one afternoon, Jeff called and said, “I’m in love. I’m really in love.” Finally, he had met the woman of his dreams. Diana owned an art gallery, and was not only beautiful, but also cultured and well educated. He had even introduced her to his mother, so we knew this was serious.

“So when do we get to meet her?” W.S. asked. “As soon as she gets back from Paris,” Jeff said. “But, in the meantime, Diana’s roommate, Cassandra is going to be in a play, and I promised I would go. I have tickets for Saturday night, and you both are going with me.” “Cassandra is an actress?” W.S. asked. “Yeah,” Jeff replied. “When she’s not waiting tables.”

As W.S. hung up the phone, I asked, ”What’s the name of the play?” “I forgot to ask,” he replied. Saturday night, we were ready at the appointed time, but Jeffrey was late, as usual. “What’s the name of the play?” I asked, as we got into his car. “BURNT TOAST,” he replied. “I think it’s one of those avant garde kind of plays. “Do we have to go?” W.S. mumbled, but no one answered. We were already 15 minutes late, but Jeff assured us that we’d be at the theatre soon.

After driving around for another 20 minutes, we cruised down an alley and found a garage tucked between two very old buildings. “This is it,” said Jeff. “Told you I’d get us here on time.” “Jeffrey,” I said. “We are 35 minutes late.” “Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll just sneak in and no one will notice.”

There was a door at the side and W.S. opened it as quietly as possible. The theatre was pitch black, and we could barely make out the folding chairs that were situated in front of the section of the floor that was supposed to be a stage. After our eyes adjusted, we could see that the only empty chairs were in the middle of the third row. There were only three rows of chairs set up, but they were long rows.

So the three of us ventured forth, whispering, “Excuse me.” Then kicking a folding chair. “Excuse me,” kicking another chair, and another chair and another chair. Meanwhile, on stage, an actor cried out, “You have turned my life into crumbs. Why don’t you just flush me down your disposal?” “We must have missed something,” I whispered to Jeffrey. “Shh,” he said. “Here comes Cassandra.

“My God!” said W.S. “She’s a bagel!” Sure enough, Cassandra was dressed like a bagel. “I can’t stand this,” I said. “She’s going to say, ’There’s a hole in my gut.’” I was wrong. With great fervor, Cassandra wept, “There’s a hole in my heart.” “Missed it by that much,” said W.S.

BURNT TOAST was obviously not on its way to Broadway. The one spotlight went out. Everyone clapped, and obviously the play was over. But the theatre remained pitch black.  As we got up to leave, we groped our way out, “Excuse me,” and kicked chairs. “Excuse me,” “Ouch!” As we almost made it to the end of the row, the spotlight came up again. The play was obviously going to resume, and W.S. kicked over a chair, which landed with a clatter and a thud---and we ran! We ran out of that garage all the way to the end of the alley and all the way to the car.

“Do you think anyone noticed?” I asked. “Nah!” said W.S. Jeff wasn’t so sure that Cassandra would forgive us, but he knew that Diana might, if he married her. So he did.

A year later, on their first anniversary, we were vacationing in California. W.S. took advantage of the three-hour time difference to call way past midnight and say, “Hi there, Jeff! Did I wake you up? Sorry about that. We just wanted to know what in the hell you two married folks are doing up at this hour?”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006