A SHOT IN THE DARK

When I was a teenager waiting for a date meant the prom. Now it’s the coronavirus vaccine.
For the first time in my life, people envy me for being over 75 years old.

CVS Pharmacy was supposed to come to my Senior Residence the first week in January to stick needles into old wrinkly arms, but once the Governor of Arizona was in charge of distribution, he had decided to distribute the responsibility to the county governments. Consequently, I tried to go to the closest hospital’s website to register myself for a shot.

That took several hours because the hospital website had crashed. Finally, when it was supposedly fixed, I called and was told that I was the eighth caller.  I hung up.  Four hours later, I called back and was still the “eighth caller.”

In the meantime, I was able to access the website on my own. It took another hour to register for an appointment. However, everyday and every time was already booked.

To cheer myself up, I went to collect my mail and had lots of fun throwing it all away. Went back on my computer and could not access the hospital website again. Had lunch and then realized that I had missed my fasting blood test for my forthcoming physical exam. Ate dessert and rescheduled.

I learned two things: Scotch is a excellent vaccine for aggravation, and tomorrow is usually another day. Finally, three weeks later I was informed that CVS had received the vaccine and would be at our Senior Residence to inject us all. Hooray!

The CVS shooters came to give me my first shot, but first I had to fill out their paperwork again. For the third time, I informed them that I am still not pregnant.

Done!  Now I am, not so patiently, waiting for the second shot the end of February. Then this masked wonder will go out and help the economy. It’s going to be a grand adventure finding my way around after being sequestered for a year. Parole papers forthcoming.

Esther Blumenfeld

THROW OUT THE TRASH

Finally, I can throw away my old bathing suit. The chlorine in the pool did a number on it last summer, but I have been waiting until January 20, 2021 to get rid of that suit since now I  don’t have to drown myself.

Things  are beginning to look up for everyone except our former President, who leaves office in deep doo doo. Speaking of doo doo, now we taxpayers will save $3000.00 a month on toilet fees for the Secret Service Personnel, who, since September, 1917 were not allowed to urinate in one of the six bathrooms in Ivanka and Jerad’s house. Those good folks were allowed to protect and defend but not to pee, so we the taxpayers paid $100,000.00 for them to use the basement bathroom in a neighbor’s house.

But back to our former President. What is he going to do with all of his free time, since no one seems to want him around? His neighbors at Mar-A-Lago have given him an eviction notice, and the Scots informed him that he isn’t welcome at his golf course in Scotland, because “golf is not an essential activity.”

Granted, some of his disciples have sent him their Social Security Socialism checks that might help pay for his transportation from court room to court room, because his $400-million in loans are due (among some other incidental problems). But, without his tweeting and twiddling what else can he do with his spare time?

Perhaps, now’s the opportunity for him to begin planning for a Trump Presidential Library. He can display two books—-his Upside Down Bible, and “The Art Of The Deal.”  Perhaps, he can find another co-author for a sequel called, “The Art of the Schlemiel.” To decorate the wall, he could hang the fake Time Magazine Cover that kind of featured  him as  “Man of the Year,” something that really never happened.  

Another room could be papered with his tweets and pictures of him shaking hands with his favorite world dictators. And, he could even display the  medical records he dictated to his doctor—“Healthiest Man To Ever Become President.” He could also feature a bottle of gloop that the doctor claimed he drank to grow hair. Of course, the Cognitive Test he “Aced” to prove his mental stamina should be included—“Person, Woman, Man, Camara, TV.”

The Truman Library in Independence, Missouri has papers and photos of the President’s involvement and decision making in the winning of World War II.  Trump’s Library could feature his decision making and photos of some of his followers trying to start the  U.S. Civil War II.

Bess and Harry Truman are buried on the grounds of the Truman Library. Perhaps, Donald can discuss that possibility with Melania.  However,  first, he should see if she is wearing her red $1500.00 shoes with taps on the toes.

Esther Blumenfeld

MOVING ON

After much consideration, W.S. decided to accept a civilian job working for the Navy. I didn’t care where we moved, as long as being downsized didn’t involve a firing squad. The job was located at the Naval Base in San Diego, California, one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. They were paying our moving expenses, so we purchased new furniture to go along with our new life, and recycled our college furniture back to the Salvation Army.

All of our friends were packing and looking forward to actual lives in the real world. Professor Seltzer donated his entire library to the university. He had read those books, and was on his way to Florida, where he planned to spend the rest of his days fishing off a boat named, “The Criterion.”

We hired the, “Get You There In One Piece Moving Company,” and the salesman assured us that their movers would treat our worldly belongings as lovingly as if they were moving their very own families. A week later, as soon as the truck was loaded, we began the 5-day drive across the U.S. in our
12-year-old Volkswagen Beetle.

W.S. assured me that the apartment he found for us was nicer than anything we had ever lived in before. “It’s airy and bright. The rooms are large, and it’s close to my office.” What he failed to tell me was that after looking at several apartments around town, the brakes on his rental car had failed. He would have gone over a cliff, but instead he had hit a dumpster at this particular apartment complex. It was then that he decided that, since he couldn’t go any further, this was the place we were going to call home.

After the first day of driving, eating catch-as-catch-can food, and experiencing gas station washrooms, I started whining, “Are we there yet?” W.S. told me that if I didn’t stop complaining, he’d turn around, go back to the university and enroll in law school.  I stopped!

We made pretty good time in our little Volkswagen, until we got to Texas. As soon as we crossed the border, we got stuck behind a rickety truck on a no-passing-zone stretch of highway. The driver was obviously in no hurry, because you can’t hit a fence post with a beer bottle while driving fast.

His cheering section, six, inbred, toothless progeny of first cousins, were sitting in the open bed of the truck, and they were facing us. For miles and miles, they stared at us, with the same familial expressionless expression. Unless W.S. wanted an encounter with the Texas Highway Patrol, he couldn’t pass that truck.
Fortunately, I could look at the sky, but he had to keep his eyes on the winding road and stay alert for beer-toss slow downs.

The driver finally drove off the highway onto a dirt road. The fellows in the back of the truck belched their “goodbyes,” and two days later we arrived in San Diego.
I was very happy that the brakes on W.S.’s rental car had failed at this particular apartment complex, because the grounds were beautiful and our apartment was bright and breezy. Since W.S. was now a Ph.D., I proudly taped, “Dr. W.S.” on our mailbox. Life was going to be conventional. W.S. had a nine-to-five job, which paid enough so I could finally concentrate on my writing. Now, all we had to do was to wait for the arrival of our furniture. Life was changing. “Normalcy” was the operative word.

There was a knock at the door. I opened it, and a young man said, “Is the doctor in? I have boils!”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2006

 EPILOGUE:   I was happy to share some stories with you from my unpublished book, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c.2006.  It has not been published but now partially read. If I learned anything from writing this book, it is a certainty that people who value their lives no longer ask me to bake a pie for the potluck. Now they realize that my expertise is limited to mixed nuts. Esther

LOWER THE MOAT (Part Two)

One day, when the scythe man arrived at the Princess Garden Apartments, our neighbor began screaming, “Stop him! Stop him! Don’t let him start chopping the grass, I’ve lost my toddler.” We knew that things had gotten out-of-hand when the grass was taller than a child, but we linked arms and discovered the tike asleep in the grassland not far from his front door.

No one wanted to mess with the landlord. No one had ever seen the landlord. It was rumored that he wasn’t a very nice man, and had business connections with some other---not very nice men---so no one ever complained about anything. We tenants just mailed our rent checks on time and skipped through our meadow on the way to campus.

I was curious about our landlord. “Have you ever met him?” I asked W.S.
“Nope,” he mumbled. “Surely, when you rented the apartment you must have seen him?” I said.  “Nope,” he answered. I said, “How can that be?” W.S. replied, “I just called him on the phone. He sent me the paperwork. I signed it and that was that. Never met him. Never saw him.” So, I figured, our landlord was going to remain a mystery man forever, and I would probably never talk with him. But, that was before I knew that even when something is not probable--- anything is possible, and the possible was about to happen.

One winter morning, I awoke, crawled over W.S., and stepped onto the floor with my bare feet. “Oh,” I exclaimed, “the floor is so nice and warm.” W.S. rolled over, sat up, stretched, got out of bed and proceeded toward the bathroom. “What do you mean warm?” he shouted. “The floor isn’t warm. It’s hot!” I followed him into the bathroom and he was right. Not only was the floor hot, it was getting hotter.

“I think you’d better call the landlord.” W.S. suggested. I said, “Why me?” He lovingly replied, “Because I have to get to class, and he probably won’t kill a woman.” So I called the landlord. The phone rang once. He picked up and said, “Yeah?” Taken aback, I replied, “Yeah.” “Who is this?” he growled.
I said, “This is the tenant in the end apartment. The floor is hot, and I think maybe you’d better come check it out before we burn our feet,” and I hung up.

When I returned from campus that evening, a crew of workmen was digging a huge trench around the place. “What’s going on?” I asked W.S. “Is the landlord digging a moat?” “No.” he answered. “It’s a broken water line. You saved him big bucks with your phone call.”

During dinner, the phone rang. I answered, “Hello.” “What can I do for you?” said the man on the other end of the line. I had no idea who was calling, so I said, “What do you want to do for me?” He replied, “I’ll have somebody cut your grass,” and then he hung up.

I think it was the landlord calling, because from that day on, ours was the only apartment with a manicured lawn. It looked a little off-balance compared with the rest of the place, but no one had the guts to complain.

Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

LOWER THE MOAT (Part One)

The dreaded day arrived when our clogging neighbor’s back healed, and she returned to her nightly overhead thumping. Our lease was up for renewal, and the landlord had decided to raise our rent beyond what we could afford. Although we dreaded the thought, we knew it was time to pack up and move again.

The apartment situation had gotten worse. The places we looked at were either too expensive or too dreadful to contemplate. Everyday after work, I packed a few boxes of our meager belongings, but had no idea where we were going to live. We had to give a one month vacate notice, and our situation was getting desperate.

One day, W.S. announced, “This is ridiculous. I am going to drive around and find us a place to live. If an old lady can live in a shoe, certainly I can find us someplace.” “I’m not living in footwear,” I shouted as he drove away. Three hours later, my hero returned and announced triumphantly, “I found us a place!”

So began our adventure at the Princess Garden Apartments on Kingdom Drive. The Princess Garden Apartments didn’t start out as apartments. The owner built the 20-unit strip as a motel, but when the neighbors in the residential neighborhood took him to court because of a zoning violation, he transformed the motel into apartments. Fortunately, W.S. arrived the day an end unit became available, and he grabbed it.

Kingdom Drive was a short street that dead-ended at the Princess Garden Apartments. Each apartment had a little walkway that led to the front door. W.S. warned me, “The rooms are kind of small, but it’s cozy,” as we stepped into the apartment. On the left was a living room big enough for two chairs and a coffee table; on the right was a kitchen that contained a very small bar sink, an even smaller stove, and a baby refrigerator. The bathroom had a toilet, a shower and a Lilliputian sink.

“Wait until you see the bedroom and study,” said, W.S. Actually, the bedroom was big enough for a double bed---assuming whomever slept next to the wall didn’t mind crawling over the person sleeping next to the entrance. And, technically, it wasn’t two rooms. It was one small room separated by a louvered wall, so when the light was on in the “study,” it gave the illusion of sleeping in a room with bars---kind of like being in a cozy prison cell. We squeezed a desk, a card table chair, a small television set and a battered Salvation Army sofa into that room.

“It’s stuffy in here,” I said. “Please open the window.” “Can’t, W.S. replied. “What do you mean, by ‘Can’t’” I asked. “They don’t open,” he replied. “But we can open the doors.” Turns out that our former motel-now-apartment had long-lasting, sturdy, inoperative Thermo pane windows, but it did have a front door and a back door. With all that said, it was, however, a cute little place and very quiet. Our neighbors were all graduate students whose main objective was to finish their course work, graduate, and escape.

The landlord never came around, not even to cut the grass, which grew as tall as a field of wheat. Occasionally, he’d send someone around to hack it down with a scythe. W.S. loved to sit amidst the stalks of grass, book in hand, waving at passing cars shouting, “Turista! Turista!”

One day when the scythe man arrived, our neighbor began screaming, “Stop him! Stop him! Don’t let him start chopping the grass. I’ve lost my toddler.”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 200