THE CITY OF GOOD HERBS (Part One)

San Francisco was originally named Yerba Buena (Good Herbs), which explains a lot. W.S. was invited to present his research at a meeting in that polyglot place, and naturally I tagged along. It was our last chance for a vacation before leaving the university.

Unless you’re an astronaut, there’s no other out-of-this-world place quite like San Francisco, with its “live and let live” attitude. Living in a city that’s permanently at risk for earthquakes, shakes things up a bit. Maybe that’s why San Francisco has attracted and bounced some of the weirdest apples off of family trees.

Most history buffs know of Joshua Norton, who claimed to be Emperor of the U.S. and Protector of Mexico, and that San Franciscans humored him by going along with the delusion, but there were other colorful characters whose eccentricities are still woven into the fabric of that city.

“Oofty Goofty” felt no pain and growled at people at bars. He charged five-cents a punch and ten-cents a kick, which probably contributed to his grumbling. James Lick, a beggar, bought some worthless sand dunes in 1847 that became Montgomery Street and made him a millionaire. But he never bathed or changed his suit, giving new meaning to “the filthy rich.” My favorite historical character was “Money King.” He was a loan shark, who once sent toenail clippings to a niece when asked for a token of remembrance.

This short history lesson serves as background for our upcoming adventure. We were happy to learn that our friend, Jeffrey from Denver was going to be in San Francisco on business, so we arranged to meet him for breakfast at a small café near our hotel. All tables were occupied when we arrived, but there were four stools at the counter. No sooner had the three of us sat down, when a man entered and took the remaining stool next to me.

We ordered our breakfast, and then the waitress turned to the stranger. “What can I get you?” she asked. “I’ll have eleven fried eggs, over easy. No toast. No potatoes. No nothing,” he replied. The three of us watched mesmerized as he piddled and puddled and finally swallowed those eggs. When he left, W.S. said to the waitress, “Wasn’t that a bit unusual?” Without missing a beat, she nonchalantly replied, “Yeah, he usually orders a dozen.”

Leaving the restaurant, we began to ascend the incline of an extremely hilly street. W.S. and Jeffrey took the lead, while, I, of the shorter legs, trailed behind them. Involved in conversation, they didn’t notice an exceedingly tall woman walking down the hill toward them. Suddenly, she began to teeter and wobble.

Before I could yell, “Timber!” she straightened up and fell face forward toward them. Simultaneously, they looked up. W.S. stepped to his right, Jeffrey stepped to his left, and the descending woman toppled face down between them. “I thought you were going to catch her,” Jeffrey and W.S. said to each other, as they both stood staring at the body on the sidewalk.

“Well, one of you should pick her up,” I said breathlessly, as I finally caught up to the scene. “She’s not moving,” said W.S. “Do you think she’s dead?” Jeffrey whispered. “For crying out loud!” I said, as I picked up her head. “She’s drunk as a skunk. As a matter of fact, I’m not sure she’s a she.” “A what?” said W.S. “A woman,” I replied. At that the tall person sat up and looked at us. “Are you okay?” I asked. “It was that third olive. I told the bartender that I only wanted two olives, but he really likes me.” “I’m sure he does,” I replied, “but I think that you broke the heel off of your sandal.”

By this time, Jeffrey and W.S. were long gone. Once they realized that they wouldn’t have to call out the marines or the fire department, they had lost interest, and told me that since I didn’t need them anymore, they’d meet me back at the hotel. I watched the fallen man/woman hobble off, and decided to do some window-shopping around Union Square before joining them.

As I crossed the street, I suddenly felt a vice-like grip on my right elbow. (To be continued---)

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

HELLO EARTH (Part Two)

W.S. couldn’t understand why inviting some of the most eminent men in their field, and their wives, to our apartment for a party presented a problem. “You don’t have to fuss,” he said. “They are all nice people.” “What do you mean I don’t have to fuss? Those nice people are going to write job recommendations for you. You go to the grocery store, while I find some extra seating. We can’t ask them to sit on the floor!”

I ran to the Salvation Army Store and bought a bench and three cushions, and prayed that none of the people coming weighed more than 80 pounds; because I didn’t know how much weight the bench could hold. I jammed it into the living room, and arranged the seating as best as possible. I figured that once everyone arrived, I could put a couple of folding chairs in front of the entrance. Since our windows were inoperative, we could open the other door if we needed oxygen.

After he returned from the store, W.S. took one look at me and decided to stay out of my way, which wasn’t difficult since only one person could stand in our kitchen at the same time. I prepared the food while W.S. set up the bar.  He had purchased wine, beer and a large bottle of cheap vodka. “Who drinks vodka?” I asked.  “I don’t know,” W.S. replied. “But, I figure we can put out orange juice and tomato juice and that will cover the teetotalers too.

Everyone arrived on time, except Professor Nutting and his wife. I tried my best to keep our guests on their feet until the Nuttings arrival by conducting tours of our apartment, because once everyone was seated, we couldn’t open the front door. I could only take two people on tour at a time, so there were lots of ups and downs until the Nuttings finally entered, shaking snow off of their coats. Mrs. Nutting was a stern looking woman, who wore granny glasses with braids tied across the top of her head.

“Would you like a glass of tomato juice?” asked W.S. “Hell, no, Sonny,” she replied. “It’s cold out there. Give me a martini.” “She wants a martini,” he whispered into my ear. “What do I do? We don’t have any vermouth.” “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll fix it.”  I poured a slug of vodka over ice, dropped in two green olives and handed it to Mrs. Nutting, “I hope you like your martini dry.” She downed it, asked for another, and told me that I made the best martini she had ever tasted.

The bench was holding, people were talking to each other, and the food was a hit. Even though it was cold outside, the little apartment was heating up, so I opened the back door. Snow was beginning to pile up against the screen. “It’s really snowing out there,” I said, but everyone ignored me.

Two hours later, they decided to leave. Snow had piled up against the front door, so they had to exit out the back. By now, the snow was pretty high against that door too. Mrs. Nutting gave it a little push, but nothing happened. “Here let me do that,” said Professor Nutting.

At that he shoved the screen. It fell out. Mrs. Nutting fell out, and Professor Nutting fell on top of her. W.S. stood frozen against the wall. Horrified, I asked, “Are you both all right?” Professor Nutting stood up, brushed himself off and said, ”We are obviously better off than your screen door.” Mrs. Nutting just sat in the snow laughing. The other professors and their wives gingerly stepped over her on their way out. “Don’t worry about me,” she said as he helped her up. “That’s the most fun I’ve had in years.”

W.S. and I watched them disappear into the night. As I closed the door, W.S. looked at me and said, “I hope she didn’t strain herself.”

I punched him in the arm.

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

HELLO EARTH (Part One)

When we returned to the University, W.S. and a few of his friends were facing the dreaded dissertation defense.

“It means,” W.S. explained to his mother on the telephone, “that professors ask me questions about my research, and if they like my answers, I graduate. Then Dr. Seltzer and I will leave campus hand in hand.  If they don’t approve my work, I guess I’ll just have to jump on the moving van and retire to Florida with him.”

Everyone was tense. Barry was studying, so Brenda was on her own. She decided to wash their kitchen ceiling, but got tired half way through, and washed the floor instead.

Some oily rags caught fire in a bucket at Rocky and Velma’s place, and the neighbors called the fire department. The newspaper article called it, “spontaneous combustion.” Velma blamed the fire on Professor Bodkin, because Rocky was so hot under the collar over all of the last minute changes the nitpicker had required.

Snarky hung a sausage on a hook, which discolored his kitchen door. And, horror of horrors, he got stuck with a flat tire---his date---not his car.

W.S. miraculously passed scientific German. I think the teacher gave him a hearty “Aufwiedersehen” with the stipulation that, scientific or not, he never come near the German language again. On the morning of the meeting with his committee of four professors, I fixed W.S. a hearty breakfast, and before he left the apartment, he managed to throw up the most important meal of the day.

At noon, he telephoned, “I passed!” Before getting too excited, I said, ”Does that mean you passed the exam or you passed out?” “I passed the exam,” he shouted. “As soon as I decide on a job, we’re out of here.” Then he added, “I was so excited that I invited them to our apartment for drinks tomorrow, and they’re all coming.” “Who do you mean by ‘all’?”’ I asked. “The four professors and their wive.

He was so excited that I didn’t mention that a blizzard was predicted for the weekend, and the weekend began tomorrow. When I hung up the phone, I called Velma. She and Rocky had passed their exams and were already packing. “Hello,” she growled into the telephone.

 “W.S. passed his exam, which is the good news,” I said. “But he invited his committee and their wives to our apartment for drinks tomorrow night. Will you two please come? I need the moral support.”  “Sure,” she said, “But Professor Bodkin gave Rocky an ulcer. The doctor put him on a bland diet.”

“I’ll fix him a tasteless tray of snacks, and, if you want to sit down, bring your own chairs.” (To be continued---)

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

UP, UP AND AWAY (Part Two)

“Buckle up, we’re cleared for takeoff,” said the pilot, as the plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away. Small propeller planes don’t fly very high, so we had a beautiful view of Narragansett Bay for about five minutes before the clouds rolled in. The wind whipped up and the roller coaster ride began.

“Don’t worry. I do this everyday,” the pilot shouted. “There are some barf bags in the seat back.” “Whee!” I yelled. “This is fun.” “Are you crazy?” W.S. yelled into my ear. He was clutching the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles were almost as white as his face.

“Up draft. Down draft,” the pilot kept repeating (as if we couldn’t tell the difference). I think it was the “Ooopsa Daisy,” that finally got to W.S. as he grabbed for one of the white bags, but he only managed a couple of little belches before we bounced down the runway and landed.

“That was fun! I said. “I need a drink,” said W.S. “See you folks on the way back,” said the pilot. Walking through Newport, W.S. noticed a man standing by a limousine obviously waiting for his passengers. In less than five minutes, W.S. arranged for a ride back to Providence. “The driver is a nice guy,” said W.S. “He even threw in a tour of the mansions of Newport on the way back to Providence.

It turned out that, Clive, the driver, was a professional chauffeur. Hired by a wealthy family, he had moved to Newport some 40 years ago, and during that time had ferried many of the rich and famous wherever they wanted to go. He had sat silently in the front seat of his limousine soaking in all of the chatter and gossip going on in the backseat. Now, retired, Clive conducted tours for rubbernecking visitors to Newport, and as we drove past each mansion, he filled us in:

“She had an affair with the pastry chef and her husband disappeared. Rumor has it that they murdered him, but without a body, they got away with it.” “What happened?” I asked. “Did she marry the chef?” “No,” Clive replied. “He returned to France, and she’s still in the house. She’s become a recluse and no one sees her except when she comes out to feed the birds.”

He continued:  “That house belongs to that famous embezzler who’s now in prison. He was a bad tipper.” “That other house over there is haunted.” “How do you know it’s haunted?” asked W.S. “ They have a book at the bar and guests record sightings of ghosts. People claim they have seen little ones and big ones.” “I’ll bet the more they drink, the bigger they get,” said W.S.

We enjoyed the tour and the drive through charming little villages on the way back to Providence, but suspected that Clive embellished many of his tales of intrigue for our benefit.

When we arrived at the airport, we noticed two porters pointing at us and laughing. Still chuckling, one of them asked us if we needed help with our luggage. “No,” said W.S. “Someone is picking us up. But what’s so funny?”

“Well,” said the porter, “every time someone flies to Newport, we always take bets if they will be flying back. You just earned me ten bucks!”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003

UP, UP AND AWAY (Part One)

Graduation was looming, Professor Seltzer was packing, and although W.S. had not yet scheduled the oral defense of his dissertation, the job offers were already coming his way. A large U.S. company flew us to their headquarters in Puerto Rico, but shortly after we arrived, political extremists set off a little bomb in the lobby. “Yankee go home!” was the message, and we did---as quickly as possible.

The second potential job was with a government overseas, but before they sent a plane for us, the monarch was overthrown and religious fundamentalists took the rein of power. “I suppose this means the job has been filled,” said W.S. “I guess it has,” I replied. “Why don’t you find gainful employment where a job opening doesn’t mean---‘we shot your predecessor.”’

The next offer came from a large hospital in Providence, Rhode Island. W.S. suggested that since Newport was just over the bay, we take a couple of extra days to explore America’s charming yachting capital before his interview. When we arrived at the Providence airport, W.S. asked a flight attendant, “Where do we catch the plane to Newport?” She said, “There’s a desk around the corner. You can’t miss it.”

We rolled our suitcases around the corner, and saw a small desk with a sign taped to the front that said, “Newport.” There was no one there to greet us other than a big, black horsefly, who marched back and forth across the top of the desk, climbed over a telephone, and then started his patrol all over again. After waiting five minutes, I picked up the phone and a voice said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. “We’re waiting for our flight to Newport.” “I’ll be right over,” said the voice. We waited for 20 more minutes. Finally a door swung open, and a pilot wearing jeans, a leather jacket, goggles and a hat with earflaps, entered. Slamming a pad of paper on top of the desk, he came around, looked at us, and then picked up our suitcases one at a time. He then placed them back on the floor and wrote something on his pad of paper. Then he looked at W.S. and asked, “How much do you weigh?”

W.S. proudly said, “I’m six feet tall and weigh 175 pounds.” Then the pilot looked at me. This was one of those life-altering moments. I did not want my obituary to read, “The plane went down because chubby lied about her weight,” so I mumbled, “With or without clothes?” The pilot replied, “That depends on how you choose to fly, but most people board my plane fully clothed.”

“Can I write it on your pad?” I asked. He handed me the paper, and I wrote down a number, which I am sure was 10 pounds over my actual weight, because I was wearing extremely heavy earrings. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go!” He opened the door and we followed him across the runway to a small four-seat propeller plane.

“How do you get into this thing?” W.S. asked. “You step onto the wing. Follow me,” said the pilot as he hopped up and hoisted me up behind him. The pilot sat in the cockpit, while W.S. and I crammed into the two seats in the back. “Buckle up. We’re cleared for takeoff,” he said. The plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away--- (To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003