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

JUST FOLLOW DIRECTIONS

“If everything else fails, read the instructions.”

El control automatico---

Le controle de contre-jour automatique---

Dank der automatischen gegenlichtkorrektur---

If this doesn’t work, you might try to decipher the little Chinese illustrations.

Nowadays, most instructions involve something very technical. “Those parts of the system that you can’t hit with a hammer (not advised) are called ‘hardware’; those program instructions that you can only curse at are called, ‘software.”’ Frank Tyger said, “Discoveries are often made by not following instructions; by going off the main road; by trying the untried.

My husband, W.S. enjoyed sports, but he absolutely abhorred parlor games. When we lived in Chicago, we were invited to a dinner party. W.S. was enjoying friendly banter with a fellow sports enthusiast, when the hostess announced, “We are going to play a game.”  Ignoring the groans, she proceeded to throw magazines on the floor. Then she pointed at W.S. and said, “You’re It!  Go outside, and I will call you back after I have given everyone instructions.” He left the apartment.

After giving us directions, the hostess threw open the door and shouted, “You can come back now.” Everyone looked expectantly at the door. “Where did he go?” the hostess asked me. I started to pick up the magazines and said, “Well, it can’t be far. He left a hostage.” She didn’t laugh, and said, “Drop those magazines.” She said, “Does anyone else want to be IT?” No one else was even making eye contact. Since game instructions were now wasted, she announced, “Dinner is served,” whereupon W.S. opened the door and moseyed back into the room.

“Where did you go?” asked our frustrated hostess. “Well,” he replied, “You instructed me to go outside, so I went down the block and had a beer.” The hostess gave me a pitying look that reminded me of when Garrison Keillor said, “Some people would not be smart enough to pour piss out of their boots, if the instructions were written on the sole.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Sometimes the lesson comes from the journey not the destination.)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

BREAKING IN

 I felt a certain urgency to leave our overly friendly hotel, so as soon as the car was repaired; we began searching for a place to live. We settled on a small, first floor apartment in an old stone building. It was within our budget and wasn’t quite as dark and shabby as the others we had seen. Plus, we had a view of the street rather than the side of another building.

The clanking radiator in our bedroom reminded us of our former snorer (who it turned out hadn’t died, but had gone fishing instead) so we felt right at home. We didn’t have much furniture, but the place was so small that we didn’t need more than a sofa, a couple of chairs, a bed, a dresser, and a kitchen table. It wasn’t much, but it was ours and we were happy.

We had a few days to get settled before W.S. began his job. Our apartment was on a bus line, so he wouldn’t have to drive into the city, and our old car would remain parked in the street with all of the other cars until we needed to drive where no busses dared to go.

It was Sunday night. It was snowing. We had gone to bed early, because tomorrow W.S. would spend his first day at work. Around midnight, I sat up in bed in a cold sweat. I poked him, and said, “You have to go and move the car.” “Okay,” he mumbled, and fell back to sleep.

Poking him harder, I said, “I mean, you have to move the car now.” Sitting up, he said, “What are you talking about?”  I said, “It’s almost midnight, and on Monday, Wednesday and Friday the car has to be parked on the other side of the street for the snow removal guys.” He looked at me with his most endearing smile. “No,” I exclaimed, ”I’m not going out there. I could get mugged or something, but you have to do this or the car will be towed.”

W.S. stopped smiling, put on his parka over his pajamas, slid into his boots, slapped on a silly looking hat that pulled down over his formerly frostbitten ear, and stomped out of the apartment. Peering out of the window, I noticed that the snow had turned to sleet.

Thirty minutes later, he returned. Sliding his icy feet under the covers, he told me through chattering teeth, “The other side of the street was two blocks away.” “And,” he added, “Someone cut the lock out of our trunk.” “What do you mean?” I asked. “Why, would anyone want the lock from the trunk of our car?”

“It’s called, burglary interruptus,” he replied. “Welcome to Chicago!”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

TIME OUT

After graduate school, it was time for my husband, W.S. to get a job, and he found one in “The Windy City”. So, we chugged toward Chicago in our beat-up Plymouth. It was a long drive and by the time we arrived, we were tired and bedraggled. W.S. hadn’t shaved in several days, and we both were looking forward to a shower, a meal and a bed.

Cruising down the Outer Drive, W.S. turned on the windshield wipers and said, “Too bad we had to get here on a rainy day.” By now, it was raining very hard, making it difficult to see out of the front window. Then, I looked to my right, and I looked to my left, and I said, “It’s not raining on those other cars.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

 “I mean, the sun is shining and it’s only raining on us.” Sure enough, those Chicagoans driving by hadn’t been welcoming my bearded husband with shouts of “Razor! Razor!” They were yelling, “Radiator! Radiator!” It was time to pull off the road, and find some water before our little, old car died of dehydration.

We pulled into the side lot of a very large hospital. W.S. said, “I’m sure I can find a bucket of water in here,” as he left the car, headed toward the automatic entrance doors and disappeared---And then, I waited, and I waited, and I waited.

Finally, after 45 minutes, W.S. sprinted out of the hospital with a rusty bucket in hand, dribbling a trail of water behind him. “What took you so long?” I asked. He said, “Have you ever run through a mental ward yelling for a bucket of water, and then tried to convince people you don’t belong there? Well I have, and I don’t recommend it.” I guessed that he had put up quite a fight, because they told him to leave the bucket outside the door.

By now, it was getting dark; we had no place to stay and an unpredictable car to get us there. I suggested we pull off the road, find a service station and stay anywhere there was a vacancy. It took awhile, but we did find a service station whose manager promised that the mechanic would be there in the morning, and he recommended an inexpensive hotel nearby.

Inexpensive was the operative word. The small wooden structure didn’t look much like a hotel, but the desk clerk showed us a room that was clean and had a bed and a bathroom. As long as there were no bedbugs, we were satisfied. The strong smell of disinfectant was unpleasant but reassuring.

We had purchased some sodas and unhealthy snacks at the service station, which had to suffice for supper, and W.S. went down the hall to get some ice. By now, he was an expert with buckets. After 20 minutes he returned. “Did you have trouble finding the ice machine?” I asked.

 “No, he said, “It was right at the end of the hall.” “So, what took you so long?”

“People kept stopping me,” he grumbled. “Three doors down, some woman opened her door and asked me if I had the time. Then another woman walking down the hall said, ‘Sugar, you got the time?’ Doesn’t anyone in Chicago wear a watch?”

For once, I kept my mouth shut.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Whether it’s the best of times or the worst of times, it’s the only time we’ve got.”) Art Buchwald

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c 2006

DINING WAY OUT

When W.S. informed me that we were invited to dine at the home of a former college friend from his undergraduate days, I was both excited and wary. Although I was thrilled to shelve my 1001 Ways to Cook Hamburger recipe book, I was suspicious of anyone who actually chose to live, as a regular person, in this college town.

Quinn and Tami were non-university civilians, and lived in a neighborhood where Goodwill makes pickups instead of deliveries. I was glad it was beginning to get dark as we chugged up their elegant winding driveway in our dilapidated, 200,000 mile Plymouth.

As our host opened the door, it was obvious that Quinn was delighted to see W.S., and it was inevitable that soon the two of them would be lost in reminiscences about those carefree college days when they threw up into each other’s shoes, and other raucous undergraduate activities.

I didn’t understand if his wife, Tami was putting the finishing touches on dinner or herself, but Quinn said she’d be right out, as he handed each of us a genuine crystal glass, containing two carefully measured shots of single malt scotch. I calculated that a bottle of that stuff could keep us in groceries for two weeks.

Tami entered just as the doorbell rang, and as our hosts went to greet their other guests, I sank back against the soft sofa cushions and began to relax. It was Saturday, and while W.S. had spent most of the day studying at the library, my day off had involved cleaning, grocery shopping, and an unhappy two hours at the crowded laundromat. I had allowed just enough time to shower and trim a torn cuticle on my left thumb, before putting on my brand new hand-me-down dress lovingly sent by my mother-in-law, Fannie. Sitting in this beautifully appointed living room, sipping expensive scotch, I was anticipating a delicious meal and some stimulating non-thesis conversation.

As our hosts arrived with two other couples in tow, W.S. was quickly dragged off to the “boys” side of the room, and I was left at the mercy of “girl talk,” which involved one Mr. Alexander, a gifted but rude brute who teased hair and waxed upper lips for a hefty price. Although, my limit is one drink, I seriously considered a second shot of scotch when the discussion turned to clogged pores.

Then, the hors d’oeuvres arrived. Either I was hallucinating, or our hostess had just put raw meat loaf on the coffee table. Since there was no barbecue grill in sight, I assumed it was supposed to look that way. I was starving, and our hostess had just driven a steak tartare through my heart. It was after eight o’clock. The dining room table looked so inviting with a beautiful floral centerpiece, fine china, sterling silver cutlery, and gleaming stemmed goblets. Over my growling stomach, I heard, “Would you like to tour the house?” “Yes,” I shouted, looking forward to any excuse to escape that bleeding hunk of meat.

Gliding from room to room in her designer gown from Paris, Tami led the group--- and me---in my dress by Fannie, through their magnificent home, proudly describing the pedigree of each stick of furniture. Finally, she announced, “Dinner is served.”  I eagerly offered to help. Following her into the kitchen, I saw one small salad, and one large kettle. An unusual, pungent aroma filled the air as she lifted the lid. I peeked into the pot and saw one large bay leaf floating in what looked like murky bath water.

The rest of the evening was a blur, because I did have that second shot of single malt scotch, but I distinctly remember seeing that brown leaf swirling in W.S’s bowl, and the hostess fishing it out in a huff, when he said, “I think something fell into my stew!”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006