NORTH INDIA, THE COCKROACHES AND ALVIN

Alvin Garfinkle fought the problem---any problem---and if there weren’t one, he’d beat the bushes until he scared one up. Beginning each morning with lox and cream cheese on a Brillo pad, a glass of imported Hudson River water, and fists raised against the world, this feisty Brooklyn graduate student wasn’t about to let anyone, in a little Midwestern college town, put something over on him.

Alvin’s first problem was the telephone company, and he often fired letters off threatening to disconnect them from his apartment. Sadly, they just didn’t seem to care at all.  However, as much as he disliked the telephone company, he despised the student housing authority more, and for awhile, things got pretty personal when he told them what he was going to do to their plumbing with his handy-dandy plunger. Bureaucracy, however, has a way of waiting you out. In this case, all they had to do was to placate Alvin until graduation.

Since Alvin wasn’t a drinking man, W.S. and I knew the situation was serious the day we received his desperate call to come over to witness roaches, which he claimed were swaying across his kitchen counters following the vibrating sound of a North Indian Shehnai.

This woodwind instrument, capable of producing a sound similar to the human voice, with a pitch range of two octaves, played 24 hours a day, and drifted in through the vents from the apartment next door. Alvin swore that no one lived there (he’d never seen anyone) and that the housing authority was conspiring to drive him out. Admittedly, 24 hours of someone else’s music takes some getting used to, but neither W.S. nor I witnessed the dance of the roaches, because we refused to look.

Shehnai music in constancy didn’t seem to bother Alvin’s wife, Bunny at all. She was a librarian from South Dakota who would smile and nod a lot. They seemed extremely well matched. Some would say, “Bunny is attractively quiet.” That was because Bunny never talked---not even a little bit. However, being married to Alvin made her one heck of a good listener.

Finally, North India and the cockroaches won the battle, and the Garfinkles decided to move. It was a monumental decision, because now they became the movingest, unpackingest people in town as they began the great apartment odyssey. It wasn’t that they disliked all of their apartments, but their dancing roaches had become attached to them, and Alvin, in spite of all of his innovative ideas, for the first time in his life, couldn’t come up with a single way to get rid of them. The Garfinkles finally settled for an old stone house with a root cellar handy for storing boxes filled with household pests.

In the ensuing years, we never saw a single roach anywhere---probably because the Garfinkles had all of them.  After graduation, they moved to New Jersey. We figure they did it just to spite the bugs.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

AND WHOSE LITTLE BOY ARE YOU?

Joy Jordan could scattershot words faster than a sudden hail storm on a summer’s eve. And, like many bright people with brains in overdrive, she assumed everyone could keep up with her verbal barrage. Talking with this dynamo redhead was not an unpleasant experience, because she enjoyed a good laugh and could respond with a funny story. However, since there was no reverse shift in her oral gearbox, if you missed a sentence or two you’d be left on your own to fill in the blanks.

W.S. shared a graduate university seminar with Joy’s husband, Jerrold, a shy, likable fellow, yet neither of us had met Joy until we were invited to a party at their apartment. All we knew was that they had a two-year-old son and a dog.

When we arrived, the festivities were already at full decibel, and Joy opened the door cradling a sleepy, honey-haired toddler in her arms. Scooting across the floor, close at her heels was a creature that looked like a tiny, white, handle less floor mop. Joy breathlessly greeted us with, “Hi, I’m Joy, and these two characters with me are Buddy and Rex. Have a beer and some munchies.” Taking her at her word, I eased toward the buffet table leaving Joy chatting with W.S. who was gingerly trying to figure out which end of the dog was pointed at his left shoe.

Returning with my plateful of food, I overheard the tail end of the conversation. “Sometimes I don’t know what to do with Rex,” Joy complained. “He gets into everything. Today, while I was getting ready for the party, he climbed up on the sofa, spilled coffee all over Jerrold’s class notes, and then trotted into the kitchen and ate half of Buddy’s dinner.” Laughing, I interjected, “Well, if Buddy’s food tasted as good as what I have on my plate, I guess you can’t blame Rex for being tempted.”

“Buddy puts up with an awful lot,” Joy continued, “Sometimes he’s more patient with Rex than I am.” W.S. nudged the little dog and suggested, “Maybe you should tie Rex to the clothes line and let him run around outside, or put him into the bathroom when he gets on your nerves.” “I’ve thought of that,” Joy responded, “but the last time I left Rex alone in the bathroom he tried to dump Buddy down the toilet.”

At that, Rex, the toddler rubbed his eyes and demanded, “Down!” He slid out of her arms and chased Buddy, the mop, into the kitchen. Several months later we heard that Rex bit a playmate, and Buddy pooped on a neighbor’s doormat.

Or, maybe it was the other way around.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

Mutiny Has Its Perks

For me, simple pleasures are sometimes the best. I belong to an organization that supports our library system, and look forward to member book sales at their enormous “BOOK BARN.” I especially enjoy purchasing book tapes that are becoming obsolete, but are still available at the “BARN.”

Yesterday, I arrived for the opening at 8 a.m., and found a long line of Bibliophiles patiently awaiting the beginning of the sale that is manned by all volunteers.  When the doors opened, I rushed to the book tape shelves, but was disappointed to find a selection of rather slim pickings.

I spied a friend, who is a regular volunteer at the “BARN,” and asked her if there were more book tapes available. “Sure,” she replied. “They are right behind this door.” She opened the door, which was located next to the shelf, found a box filled with tapes and began to bring them to me. Suddenly, a loud voice boomed out, “You there! Stop talking and bring out more C.D. discs. That is your job!”

Looking up from the tape in my hand, I came face to face with a tall, stern-faced woman, who glared at my friend and me. She stood there with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. I said, “Wait a minute, my friend is bringing out some book tapes for me.”  The officious woman ignored me, and said to my, by now, cowed friend, “Go do what you are assigned to do!” At that, I said, “Well, can I go through the box myself and pick out some tapes? I will put the rest of them on the shelf.” “No,” she said.  “You are not allowed to do that!”

“Who made you the boss?” I said. She stuck out chest, pulled herself ramrod straight and said, “I am the Captain!”  Dumbfounded, I looked at the volunteer “Captain” and said, “Big Deal! Captain of what? Where’s your ship?”  

She turned on her heel and marched away. I got my book tapes and found the actual person in charge of the “BOOK BARN.” I suggested that she decommission her volunteer “Captain.”

I found out a long time ago that the “meek may inherit the earth,” but that the bold feel so much better before the will is read.

Esther Blumenfeld (Didn’t they eat Captain Cook?) 

WEATHERING FRIGHTS

It began as a bright and clear Friday, and we hoped the sun would start to melt the 10 inches of snow that had fallen during the night. But, as soon as I got to work, I discovered that all university offices were scheduled to close early because another storm was expected. One of the professors offered me a ride home. I was delighted because I had unsuccessfully tried to ring up W.S. I suspected that he had dashed to campus to retrieve some materials before department offices were locked. As a ferocious wind propelled me from the professor’s car toward my front door, I noticed that a narrow path had been shoveled from the street to our front door.

My husband had many fine qualities but cheeriness was not one of them, so when he greeted me with a hug and said, “Am I glad to see you!” I knew something was wrong. As he backed away, I first noticed his sheepish grin, and then I saw his lopsided, stark-white, frostbitten right ear. Swollen three times its normal size, it jutted out from an otherwise reasonably well-proportioned head. “If it falls off, we can always use it for a doorstop,” he joked. “Not funny!” I screamed, as I stared at his strange protuberance.

Alarmed at my reaction, W.S. ran to the mirror and quickly agreed something should be done to remedy the problem---anything, that is, short of going to the Student Health Center. “People never come out of there alive,” he shouted, “Have you ever met an engineering major who doesn’t act like a zombie?”

Ignoring his protests, I gave the Center a call. After calmly describing the swollen ear to the woman who answered the phone, she replied, “Well don’t rub snow on it.” “Why?” I asked, “would anyone in their right mind rub snow on a frozen ear?” “I don’t know,” the voice answered, “but I heard that the last person who tried it ended up with his ear in his hand.”

“Don’t touch your ear!” I yelled at W.S. Returning to the phone, I said, “Nurse, could you please put a doctor on the line?” “I’m no nurse,” she responded indignantly, “I’m switchboard, but I’ll see who is still here.”  Finally, a man answered who informed me that there are several conflicting medical theories on how to treat frostbite. “Can he move the extremity?” he asked.

“W.S., wiggle your ears,” I shouted. “It’s okay, he’s waving at me with his right ear,” I informed the doctor. “Well, my ride is finally here lady, so I suggest you put a warm rag on your husband’s ear and call me on Monday.” At that point I wasn’t sure if “switchboard” had connected me with a doctor or the maintenance department, so I decided to get another opinion and called the local hospital.

“Whatever you do, don’t put heat on his ear,” the nurse instructed. “He should soak his auditory apparatus in a basin of tepid water, but after that just tell him to stay out of the cold.” No way was I going to tell my husband to stick his head in a bucket of tepid water. As I hung up the phone, I noticed little sparkling blisters popping up on the auditory apparatus.

Our neighbor was a graduate student in pharmacology. In desperation, I ran next door and tearfully begged him to come look at my husband’s bulging, sparkling ear. It only took one glance for him to observe---“You must have kept that sucker upwind.” He suggested we treat the ear like a bad burn.

I gently dabbed burn ointment on the swollen ear and taped a loose fitting bandage over it. I didn’t know if this treatment would help his ear, but at least we wouldn’t have to look at it for a while.  Later, when I removed the bandage, we were both relieved to see that the ear had shrunken back to normal size, and had regained a healthy pink glow---except now it looked like a shrimp in a shell.

Neither of us slept much that night because every time W.S. moved his head on his pillow, it sounded as if he were rumpling a ball of cellophane, and he’d whisper, “Did you hear that?”  Happily, in a couple of days his anatomy returned to normal as he shed his crustaceous shell and the errant ear emerged unscathed.

Chagrined, he swore to always wear earmuffs in the winter. He also vowed to never again shovel snow, take out the garbage or wash the dishes. W.S. always did know how to make the most of a bad situation.

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c 2006

ENLIGHTENMENT

Common sense is a “basic ability to perceive, understand and judge things that are common to nearly all people and can be reasonably expected of nearly all people without the need for debate.”  Want to bet?

Years ago, when I applied for a job at the University Employment Office, I knew that jobs were at a premium. My husband, W.S. was a graduate student, and I desperately needed a job to supplement his meager salary as a graduate assistant.  My common sense told me that employment satisfaction meant, “Take what you can get and smile.” However, my good instincts betrayed me, when I flunked the office skills test, and the employment counselor didn’t flinch.

Instead, she suggested I was admirably suited for one of the higher paying jobs being offered, and she mentioned that the head of the Sociology Department was looking for an administrative assistant. Sociology is the science of social relations. How bad could that be?

Enthusiastically, I asked her to make the appointment. Whereupon she grabbed my arm, speed-dialed the phone and shouted into the receiver, “She’ll be right over.” As the door closed behind me, she mumbled, “If it doesn’t work out, there may be an opening on the cafeteria line,” but I knew this job was going to be mine. I needed the money!

When I arrived at work for the interview, the inner office door was closed. I sat at what I supposed was my desk, and found all the drawers empty except for a note which read, “If a tree falls on you in the forest, you know you’ve been standing in the same spot too long.” Then I heard a bellow from the inner office, “Come in here and bring your pad.”

Since I didn’t have a pad, I dumped my lunch into one of the drawers, quickly smoothed out the brown paper bag, grabbed a pen out of my purse, and dashed into the inner office, where I saw a red-faced troll whose baldhead rested directly on his shoulders. I stood there speechless as he slowly shifted a toothpick from one corner of his mouth to the other without using his hands.

“The first rule,” croaked the troll is that you don’t enter my office without knocking. Write that down!”  I wrote, “Knock” on my paper bag. He had lots of rules. “Make coffee before I arrive.” I wrote, “Perk before jerk.” “Only pile papers on the front of my desk.” I wrote, “Suffers from rear piles.” Then he told me that I was allowed only one 10-minute break and 20 minutes for lunch.  I wrote, “Fantasy Land.” At that, I had to rip the bag apart to write on the other side, since a baloney and cheese sandwich requires a rather small bag. I wrote, “Keep supplies in your desk.”

It only took one 10-minute break in the Break Lounge to get the scuttlebutt from the other secretaries in the building. I learned that my boss had skewered too many secretaries on the spit of anti-social relations, and, out of favor with the Employment Office, the Troll had been informed that I was his last chance. The word was out. No woman in her right mind would work for him!  Common sense told me that we were a perfect match!

So for a year, secure in the knowledge that he couldn’t fire me, I brewed his coffee, knocked on his door, took 20 minute breaks, an hour for lunch, and watched him cringe as day after day he submitted his research to my limited typing skills.

Esther Blumenfeld (“Common sense is seeing things as they are; and doing things as they ought to be.” Harriet Beecher Stowe)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006