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 her 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

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?

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

THE PRICE OF FIFTEEN MINUTES

When we moved to Chicago, I had to trust the television meteorologist when he said that the sun was shining, because the outsides of our apartment windows were covered with a coating of grime and smut. It was kind of like the rings on a tree, and I was convinced that a dendrochronologist could probably determine the age of my building by reading the layers of schmutz on my windows.

When I mentioned to the “super” (which I found hadn’t the remotest relationship to Superman) that our windows were extremely dirty, he scratched his stomach and said, ”So?” As in, “So what do you want me to do about it?”

I thought that perhaps a little bribe wouldn’t hurt, so I baked a pie and took it to him. He seemed very pleased with the pie, but I will never know if it would have done the trick, because the next day, I read in the newspaper that one of the other tenants went berserk and shot him---right outside the building.

That was when I realized that windows covered with dreck might actually be a blessing while living in Chicago, because what you don’t see, you don’t witness. No matter what it said in the newspaper, my husband, W.S. told everyone that my pie had killed our “super,” because, he claimed, that my cooking was far more lethal than any bullet. With no pending autopsy, I couldn’t prove my innocence, so I had to find a way to redeem my reputation.

My chance came with a notice in the Chicago Tribune. The editors were running a contest asking readers to submit recipes. The winning cook would be photographed, would receive $5.00, and the prize-winning recipe would be published.

“I can do this!” I shouted, and with reassuring cheers of “Shut-up!” echoing down the apartment hall, I hurried to the phone to call the family’s master chef, my mother-in-law, Fannie. After explaining the situation to her, I asked, ”May I use your recipe for Chinese Pepper Steak to vindicate myself in the eyes of your miserable son?”

“You most certainly may,” she replied. My dear mother-in-law always took my side because she liked me better than him. She was the reason I could never consider a divorce. I could never do that to her. “I will have to take credit for the recipe,” I told her. “That’s okay, honey,” she said. “You always make it better than I do anyway.”

I submitted my recipe and a few days later received a call from someone at the Chicago Tribune informing me that I had won the contest, and would I please come to their offices to have my picture taken tomorrow. I needed a haircut, my nails were a mess, and I had no idea what one wears for a photograph in the
Chicago Tribune. By the time W.S. came home from work, I had gotten a new hair-do, purchased a dress and given myself a manicure. When I told him that my appointment for the picture was at 4:30 the next day, He said, “I guess this calls for a celebration. We might as well stay downtown for dinner.”

The next day, I caught a bus, and since I was a bit early, I decided to walk a couple of blocks before arriving at the Tribune building. I stopped at a red light and a man smiled at me and said, “Would you like to show me around Chicago?”
As the light changed, I said, “No, I would not.”  Desperately hoping that if I looked like a hooker, I looked like an expensive one, I entered the imposing offices of the Chicago Tribune.

I found the photo studio and entered. “I’m the Chinese Pepper Steak person,” I said. The photographer yawned, told me to sit on a stool in front of a white curtain, snapped my picture and said, “That’s it. You can leave now.”
Just to make sure that my photo wouldn’t show up on the obituary page, I said, “You do know that this is the picture for the recipe contest?”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “Chinese Pepper Steak.” “You got it,” I said, starting to leave. Then I asked him, “You don’t think my dress makes me look like a hooker do you?” He looked at me and said, “Lady, it’s a head shot.” That was good enough for me.

An hour later, at the restaurant W.S. mumbled something complimentary about my dress and hair, so I felt much better. However, he said, “You know, I’m glad you won the contest and that your picture is going to be in the paper, but it wasn’t very cost effective. If you add up the dress, the hair-do and the dinner and then subtract the $5.00 prize, we end up $120 in the hole.” “But,” he added, “I won’t tell that story about you killing the super anymore. How’s that?”

After two more killings involving my pies, it was a promise he couldn’t keep.

Esther Blumenfeld (Someday, I will tell you the rest of the story.)
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006