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 

THE BACHELOR (Part One)

When the phone rang at midnight, I knew that the person on the other end of the line had to be our bachelor buddy, Jeffrey.  I called him Jeffrey when I was miffed with him. Otherwise, it was just plain Jeff.

“We’re sleeping,” W.S. yawned into the receiver. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” “Jeffrey?” I asked. “Jeffrey,” he replied. “He wanted to know what we were doing.” By now, I was wide-awake. “What in the hell did he think we were doing? And, IF, at this time of night we were doing anything, why did he think you’d tell him?” “Well,” W.S. replied. “He thought, if we weren’t doing anything, we’d come out and play with him.”

I adored Jeff. He was undoubtedly our best friend, and we both enjoyed his company. He was the quintessential eligible bachelor---prep school, Ivy League college, handsome, and a brilliant conversationalist, who dressed well, and knew how to dance. However, with all of these notable qualities, the man had no sense of time. In the middle of the night, he’d call and ask, “What time is it?” Or say, “I’m not calling too late am I?”

When I asked W.S. to explain this anomaly, he’ shrug and say, “He’s a bachelor. Bachelors are like that.” Jeff had one other fault. He was attracted to all of the wrong women. He’d often sigh, and say, “I want to settle down. I want the life you both have,” and then he’d call and say, “Let’s go out for dinner, I want you both to meet someone.”

Invariably, his “Someones” were always tall blondes or brunettes or redheads with nose jobs from various Chicago nose doctors. Jeff loved beautiful women, but I was hoping that eventually he would find one who could talk. That’s not fair. They could talk.  I just wished that he could find someone who could talk about something note-worthy. My objections to the lack of conversational skills held little water with W.S., because although he was no longer a bachelor, he enjoyed the view and ignored the prattle.

Jeff invited us to meet one of his dates at a Chinese restaurant. She had a recognizable nose from Dr. Max, and was conversant in beauty creams for the feet. As the waiter served our soup, she said, “You do know that many women ignore their feet and feet are the most important part of your body. You need to cream your feet every night!” I honestly replied, “I didn’t know that. Jeff did you know that?” But before Jeff could answer, she began a heart rendering exposition of the creaming of her toes from the big one down to the pinky, and when the pot stickers arrived, we were treated to the buffing of her heels. By the time the waiter brought the fortune cookies, we were well on to her knees. As we were leaving I whispered to Jeff, “I didn’t know you are a foot fetishist.” “I’m not,” he said. “But she really is beautiful isn’t she?”

As they got into a cab, I heard Jeff say, “Things might have been different if Napoleon’s men had taken better care of their feet.” “Desserts don’t have feet,” she giggled. We didn’t have to endure all of Jeff’s girlfriends, only the ones he thought might pass muster.

As far as I was concerned, Veronica was the worst. At first I thought she was being nice when she insisted that I sit facing the restaurant, and she sit facing the mirrored wall behind me. While W.S. and Jeff were engrossed in an in-depth discussion about football, I tried to make eye contact with Veronica. “So what do you do?” I asked. “I’m a runway model,” she replied, admiring herself in the mirror behind me.

“Do you see anybody in here who’s somebody?” she asked. Looking around, I replied, “Not really, but I see the waiter. Are you hungry?” “I’m famished,” she replied, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. We ordered dinner. W.S. and Jeff ordered steak. I ordered duck, and Veronica ordered a glass of water and a hunk of lettuce with no dressing. “I thought you were hungry?” I said. “I am,” she answered dismissively, “but I can always fill up on Kleenex.”

“I didn’t see that on the menu,” I replied. “No, Silly, I always bring that with me.” It was then that I found out that some models eat Kleenex to quell their hunger pangs and remain thin. I said, “If Kimberly-Clark ever catches on, I’ll bet they could make a really delicious Kleenex.” “That’s a great idea!” she said, as she jumped up squealing, “Ohhh, there’s Kenny,” and then she left. I looked at Jeff and said, “Jeffrey, do you know that she eats Kleenex?” “Yeah,” he mumbled. “She’s a cheap date.”

Felicia was W.S.’s least favorite of all of Jeffrey’s women. She was a hair flipper, and when he sat next to her at the symphony, she flipped once too often. He had been in mid-sentence when he ended up spitting her hair out of his mouth. Surely, one of these dates would turn out well and Jeff would find his soul mate. He had to, because we couldn’t take much more.

Then one afternoon, Jeff called and said, ”I’m in love! I’m really in love.”--- To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

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