DOUBLE TROUBLE (Part Two)

The morning of the football game began with a light drizzle, but by the time we met our friends in the lobby, the sky had opened up, and the angels spit down in torrents. It was a miserable weather day. I was convinced that my obituary would read, “Drowned at a football game.”

W.S. sat between Claris and Cheris holding a tarp to shield all of them from the rain. However, each time his team made a touchdown, he’d jump up and empty the collected water into their laps. As expected, they screamed in unison. He’d mumble a remorseful, “Sorry,” until it happened all over again. Fortunately, he didn’t drench them too often since his team lost, which really put a damper on the rest of the day.

After checking out of the hotel, we stopped for a consolation lunch at the ALL YOU CAN EAT CHUCKWAGON, where we tested their truth in advertising to the best of our stomachs’ abilities. Getting back into the car, I pushed Cheris into the middle backseat and clung to the armrest. “What time are Hank and Maxine expecting us?” I asked. “Don’t call him “Hank” said Cheris. It’s “Henry.” He’s a dentist. “Is it because Hank sounds too much like yank?” I asked, but no one dignified my question with an answer. “I told them we’d get to their house at about four o’clock,” George replied. “I’m glad they aren’t expecting us for dinner,” I said. “I’m stuffed.”

When we arrived, Maxine greeted us at the door with a big smile showing off beautifully gleaming teeth. “So glad you are finally here,” she said. “The chili has been cooking for hours and hours.” Entering the house, we saw a fully set table, and what looked like a baby’s bathtub filled with chili. “It’s Maxine’s secret recipe,” said Henry. “You must be starving.”

We all looked at George. He said to Maxine, “Didn’t I mention that we’d stop and get something to eat along the way?” “Well, I just knew you’d be hungry anyway,” said Maxine. “Thank you, but I can’t eat a thing.” I said. “I really can’t” But Henry pushed me into a chair and tied a napkin around my neck. “That’s so you won’t get spots,” he said.

I wasn’t planning on getting any spots, because there was no way I could eat even a spoonful of that chili. I didn’t even know these people, and I didn’t feel like being nice for even five more minutes. I was praying they would have a dog under the table, but no such luck. They had a goldfish. For a minute, I asked myself, “Do goldfish eat chili?” My stomach was starting to do CHUCKWAGON flip-flops. I knew I could not even fake eating a spoonful of that chili, and I did not want to hurt the feelings of this gracious hostess.

By now, it had turned into a beautiful afternoon. The window was open, so I carried my bowl to the window, leaned out and said, “What lovely rosebushes. Do you take care of them yourselves?” “No,” said Maxine. “We have a gardener.” That was good enough for me!

“Oh,” said Maxine, “Your bowl is empty. Do you want more?” “No,” I said, “I’ve had more than enough. Thank you very much.” After we said our goodbyes, I asked Claris. ”Did anyone find out about Maxine’s secret chili ingredient?” No one had, but all the way home I suspected that it was extra beans---lots and lots of extra beans.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

DOUBLE TROUBLE (Part One)

I have never been overly fond of high school or college reunions, especially when they weren’t my alma mater. However, when George called W.S., and told him that their college fraternity class was having a reunion, and that tickets for a football game were included, it was just too much for W.S. to resist. He had a few vacation days coming, and wanted me to see where he had misspent his youth.

“It’s only an eight-hour drive,” he pleaded. “And you like George and Cheris.” I had to admit that George was a fine fellow, and Cheris was okay in small doses. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her; I just wanted to avoid her shrill voice. Cheris had vocal chords with a range pitched so high, that I didn’t want to stand under a crystal chandelier when she got wound up. “But then,” I rationalized, “How bad can one weekend be?”

The next morning, George rang our bell, and told us that he was double parked, so we hurried to the car. “Hi, Cheris!” I said, as I climbed into the back seat. “Ha, Ha, Ha,” she trilled, “I’m not Cheris.” “What do you mean, you’re not Cheris?” I replied, “Of course, you are.” “No, she’s not,” a voice shrieked beside me. “That’s my identical twin, Claris. Scoot over!” Scoot I did, and now I was sitting in the middle of a stereo nightmare. On either side of me were two of the best arguments against egg splitting I have ever experienced. Doomed I was to be wedged between these identical twins, of identical voice pitch---for eight hours.

For some reason, the sisters thought they could shout to one another right through my head. I guess they figured there was nothing that would interrupt their conversation on the way through my ears. After two hours, I remembered that Cheris loved to play games, so I suggested Charades. Other than “smother your neighbor with a pillow,” it was the only quiet game I could come up with. “I’ve never heard of playing Charades in a car,” said Claris. “Well, now you have,” I replied, closing my eyes. “Guess what I am.” After a few moments of blessed silence, Claris poked me. “Are you a sleeping person?” “You got it!” I said. “Your turn. Isn’t this fun?”

Charades only lasted for 10 minutes, but then we played, “Twenty Questions.” I think that W.S. played along for a while, but by then my ears were ringing so badly that I couldn’t hear the questions, let alone come up with any answers. I shoved toilet tissue in my ears during the bathroom break, and from then on, games be damned, I sat with a stupid grin on my face for the rest of the journey.

We finally arrived at our destination and checked into the hotel. George asked if any of the other fellows and their wives had arrived. “What fellows?” asked the desk clerk. Each time George gave him a name, the clerk said, “Nobody by that name is registered here.” After the 20^th name, George turned to Cheris and said, “That’s strange. Do you think they checked in somewhere else?” “Did they RSVP the invitations?” she asked. “What invitations?” said W.S. “We didn’t get an invitation.” Looking at me, he asked, “Did we get an invitation?” I shook my head from side to side, as the toilet paper flew out of my ears. After a lively discussion, George came to the conclusion that the invitations, which Cheris had so lovingly designed, had never been mailed and were probably still in the out basket on his messy desk, which he was now doomed to clean up the minute they got home.

“Does this mean that no one else is coming?” I asked. “Looks that way,” said W.S. Giving him my, “I’m going to get you for this,” look, I said, “You mean we drove for eight hours to re-unite with the people we came with?” “But look how much fun we had on the way up,” said Claris. “I’ll call Henry and Maxine,” said George, sounding rather desperate.” They only live three hours from here. Maybe they will join us for the game.” It turned out that Henry and Maxine couldn’t join us, but invited us to stop at their house on our way back.

I was exhausted. My ears were ringing. My head hurt, and I just wanted to go to sleep. W.S. begged off meeting our comrades for breakfast, but we arranged to meet them in the lobby the next afternoon, so we could go to the football game together. It began to drizzle.

 Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---) 

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THANKS A BUNCH

Upon hearing about our robbery, W.S.’s entire family was so thankful we weren’t murdered in our beds, that they decided to exorcize all bad vibes by having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I would cook the turkey, and they would provide everything else.

Our kitchen was very small, so when the oven door was completely open, I was pinned against the wall. I had never used the oven nor roasted a turkey, but how hard could that be? I jammed a 25 pound bird into the oven, closed the oven door and proceeded to set card tables with my best wedding gift dishes and glassware. W.S. said, “It’s going to be cramped,” and I yelled, “Cozy! The word is cozy.”

My in-laws arrived first, and my mother-in-law pulled sweet potatoes and stuffing out of a suitcase. Their car hadn’t started, so they had to take a commuter train and taxi. She said, “We had the best smelling suitcase on the train.”

Soon, aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few people I had never seen before, began to arrive. The men mumbled their hellos, and headed for our diminutive television set, which usually provided more snow than God, but anything would do for football. And, to my horror, the women all descended upon my kitchen. It was wall-to-wall bosoms, and I could barely move. When I shouted, “Help! They all thought it meant, “help.”  Happily, W.S. herded them into the living-dining-bedroom areas and gave them orders to stay there until the turkey came out of the oven.

Braced against the wall, I opened the oven door, and was greeted by a blast of hot air. It was then, that I realized, that jamming a cold turkey into a small space was very different from trying to wrestle one out of an iron box that is hotter than blazes, and if I used potholders, there was no wiggle room. “Everything, okay in here?” asked W.S. Seeing tears streaming down my face, he said, “I guess not. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t get the fowl out of the oven,” I sniffled. Seeing my dilemma, he said, “Not to worry. I can handle this. Where do you have the big forks?” I handed him the big forks, and he said, “Stand back.” Whereupon my dear husband stabbed the bird, yelled, “Ouch! That’s hot!” And proceeded to toss it over his left shoulder and onto the floor.  At that, Aunt Blossom started to open the door, pushing the turkey into the corner.

“Don’t ruin the surprise,” shouted W.S. as he began a door pulling contest with hefty Aunt Blossom who shrieked, “I used to diaper you.” I don’t know what that had to do with anything, but think it was s cry for respect. She finally stopped pushing on the door, and we placed the turkey on a platter---dusty side down. W.S. and I ignored the, “”Delicious but unusual taste” comments, and felt that our dinner was an unqualified success. But now came cleanup time. Not being used to washing dishes in a sink, Aunt Blossom snapped six stems off my crystal glasses. Uncle Meyer knocked over a lamp, but no one fell out of a window, so I considered myself lucky. 

While the women were yakking in the kitchen and the men were shouting at the television set, the phone rang.  “Hello,” I said. The only reply was heavy breathing. “Hello,” I repeated.

“What are you wearing, Baby?” was the reply. I looked at my dirty apron and yelled, “You schmuck! I have a house full of glass-breaking relatives, had to pick a turkey off the floor, and my mother-in-law arrived with sweet potatoes in her suitcase. I’m not wearing a smile.” Before I slammed down the receiver, I bellowed, “Call back later!” I think I ruined his Thanksgiving, because I never heard from him again.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part Two)

“We’ve been robbed!” The first thing we noticed missing was our television set. The next thing was our wedding recording. They had stolen our entire vinyl record collection, and among the records was a recording of our wedding. “Well,” said W.S. trying to cheer me up, “I certainly hope that one of those crooks understands Hebrew or they’re going to miss the best parts.”

They obviously didn’t want our old furniture. Hell, I didn’t want our old furniture, but one of the criminals had taken a fancy to the clothes in W.S.’s closet, which was completely empty except for one jacket and one pair of trousers that didn’t match. My clothes hadn’t been touched, but the drawers had been ransacked. The police reckoned that they were probably kids and only took things they could use themselves. That made me feel a whole lot better, because I didn’t think my taste in clothes was all that bad.

Two tired looking policemen had arrived several hours after we called and reported the robbery.  I asked them, “Who do you suppose did this?” Looking around our little dingy apartment, one of them replied, “Haven’t got a clue, Lady.” “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?” I asked, as they were about to leave. “Don’t think so,” was the answer. “Nobody died here.”

“What do we do now?” said W.S. “Take inventory,” was the best advice the policeman could give. He also told us that for insurance purposes we had to report the crime at the police station, and that the closest station to our home was the Halsted Street precinct. So the next day, we drove there to report the dastardly deed. Neither one of us had ever been in a police station, let alone a station like this one. The building was foreboding, and the activity inside made the French Revolution look like a Sunday school picnic.

People were shouting and pushing and cursing and running and bleeding, and we couldn’t tell which ones were the cops and which were the criminals. I suggested, “Let’s look for a uniform---preferably not the skinhead over there dressed like a Nazi.” We finally found a detective who took pity on us, gave us the proper paperwork, and sent us on our way.

The next day we read in the newspaper that a ring of dishonest cops had been exposed. They had besmirched the good name of the entire hardworking police force when caught burglarizing apartments along the Outer Drive. Our buddies at the Halsted precinct were not involved, but from that day on, whenever W.S. wore his mismatched outfit, he proudly claimed that he was wearing his “police rejects.”

I began browsing apartment ads. As soon as this lease was up, I had decided, we were going to move---one more time.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part One)

There was a very large federal prison on the outskirts of my hometown, and my father felt it humane to occasionally visit with the three incarcerated Jewish inmates. Usually, he would drag a few reluctant men from his congregation along with him, but it was difficult to find volunteers, as most people want to stay out of prison rather than to go in.

Two of the inmates were brothers, who, when they were nineteen and twenty years old, decided to hold up a bank in a small town on the commuter railway line. Since they didn’t have a car, they got off the train, held up the bank, caught the next train back, and were picked up by the police at the other end. Proving that no matter what their mothers think---all Jewish children are not gifted. The other inmate, “Boom, Boom Julius,” was a reputed bagman for the mob.

Before we became engaged, W.S. thought it would be a nice gesture to ask my father for my hand in marriage. I was a bit concerned when he didn’t show up at the appointed time, but found out later that he had been home throwing up. The thought of marrying me obviously wasn’t as daunting as facing my father.

When he rang the bell, Dad answered the door, grabbed W.S., yanked him inside, and yelled, “Congratulations, Son! Do you want to go to prison?” That took some explaining, but W.S. did agree to accompany his future father-in-law. It was, as the boys inside would say, “an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

The three prisoners congratulated W.S. on our engagement and asked if they could come to the wedding. Dad said, “If you can get out, you can come.” I was later told that they had placed an announcement of our forthcoming nuptials in the prison newspaper; an honor not afforded most brides.

When Boom, Boom discovered that he and W.S. came from the same hometown, he asked, “Do you know Morty Ross?” W.S. came from a very small, industrial town in Indiana. Everyone knew everyone else. His uncle had gone to high school with Morty Ross, but how should W.S. answer this question?

This posed a dilemma. If W.S. answered, “Yes,” would Boom, Boom kiss him on both cheeks or on the lips? Boom, Boom was a scary guy. The tip of his nose touched his cheek. Someone must have put it there. And how did Boom, Boom get his nickname? Did he play the drums as a child---or was it something much worse? W.S. didn’t want to know, nor did he want to find out, so he said, “No, I never heard of Morty Ross.” Losing interest, Boom, Boom Julius shrugged, smiled and said, “Well, maybe the son-of-a-bitch is dead,” as he walked away.

I don’t know if the bank-robbing brothers ever got out of prison, but I heard years later that Boom, Boom had been released and returned to his home town. I never did find out what he did in his retirement. Thanks to my Dad, that was W.S.’s first brush with criminals. His second encounter was the botched break-in of the trunk of our car. But obviously not just good things come in threes. Soon we would experience one of the perks of big city living---an honest to God, Chicago burglary. Bad things don’t just happen to other people.

Returning home from a weekend in the country, we walked into our apartment. I switched on the light, and W.S. growled, “We’ve been robbed!” It was hard to tell at first, because my husband wasn’t the neatest kid on the block, but he recognized immediately that this mess wasn’t his.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.