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

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

STUDENT WIFERY

I was recently married, and “Wifery” had not been part of my college curriculum. So, as I tried to figure out my new role, “Student Wife” was indeed a fitting description. I lived in constant terror that I would commit the ultimate blunder to jeopardize W.S.’s entire professional future. So, when I received an invitation to my first faculty wives open house, I was relieved when Annie, another graduate student wife, invited me to accompany her.

The gathering was being held at the brand new home of a recently arrived faculty member, and neither Annie nor I had been foresighted enough to write down the address. Of course, this was before cell phones or GPS systems had become part of daily life. After driving around the subdivision for 30 minutes, I was elated when we spotted a house with several cars parked in front, and Annie exclaimed, “Here we are!”  Then she added, “We are 20 minutes late. The door’s open, lets just sneak in and mingle.”

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, I worked my way through the crowded room to the refreshment table. Pleasantly surprised, I discovered a variety of tea sandwiches, pate, smoked salmon, cheese, fruits and sweets. Filling my plate, and grabbing a glass of wine, I began to relax, and discreetly slid into an empty chair that had been placed into a little alcove next to the living room. Happily, I could sit here until Annie said it was time to go home. But, eating tea sandwiches doesn’t take too long, and after my plate was whisked away by a young woman in a starched white apron, I was left with nothing to do but drink another glass of wine and watch people eat and talk to each other.

Furtively glancing around the room, I made eye contact with a woman sitting on one of the sofas in the living room, and she beckoned me to join her. Desperately wishing that Annie had told me which of these women was our hostess, I smiled and reluctantly walked over and sat next to her, as she greeted me effusively; “It’s so nice to see you!” “It’s nice to see you too,” I responded. Then she asked me, “Have you known Katherine for a long time?” “No, I can’t say I have,” I responded.

Was Katherine our hostess? Perhaps I could find out by asking, “How long have you known Katherine?” “Too long,” she laughed, “She’s my sister.” At that moment a woman of massive girth plopped down next to me on the other side of the sofa. Now I was trapped. “Marie,” said my new friend, “have you met---? “Oh, yes,” I lied, “Marie and I had the pleasure earlier.” Marie, distracted by a waitress bearing another tray of little some things, put a rolled finger-towel in her mouth.

Taking advantage of her predicament, I quickly excused myself and hurried over to Annie, who hissed into my ear, “We’ve got to get out of here. This is the wrong party.” The pate had made her suspicious, and after some discreet questions, she discovered we were one block off course and were now crashing a bridal shower. We had to get out of there before they began opening gifts. The front door was ajar and our hostess was greeting newly arrived guests. Annie whispered, “Keep your head down,” as she shouted, “Thanks!” and dashed past the group at the front door. But before I could follow her, I felt a hand on my arm and found myself face-to-face with our hostess.

“Beautiful affair,” I mumbled. “Well, I am so glad you were able to come,” she smiled, but, “Who in the Hell are you?” hung in the air---heavy and unspoken. How could I explain to this proper lady that I had entered her home, eaten her food and drunk her wine (two glasses) and didn’t even bring a gift? In desperation, I blurted out, “I had a nice visit with Marie!”

Relieved at hearing a familiar name, she responded, “Doesn’t she look marvelous after her face lift?” I could honestly answer, “I hardly recognized her.”
My hostess let go of my arm, blushed and asked ever so nicely, “ I am mortified, but I have forgotten your last name. Luckily, at that moment, Annie tooted the car’s horn. So, I said, “Oh, there’s my ride. I must run.”

But halfway down the walk, I turned, waved and shouted. “Don’t worry about it, sometimes that happens to me, too.”

Esther Blumenfeld
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c  2006

BREAKING OUT (PART TWO)

W. S. found an ad in the newspaper, “Third floor, one-bedroom, walk-up—middle apartment available.” “Perfect!” he yelled. “We can afford the rent. Let’s grab it.” We contacted the landlord, who said he would meet us early the next morning. And, he informed us that another couple had scheduled to look at it tomorrow afternoon. That presented a problem. W.S. had a class with a scheduled exam, and I had to go to work.

We had to be out of our potential landing pad by the end of the month, cheap apartments were hard to find, and we knew we’d lose this one if we didn’t act fast. So, W.S. said into the phone, “We’ll take it. I’ll drop off the rent on my way to class tomorrow morning.”

The outside of the building looked presentable, but the third floor walk-up stairs seemed a bit steep. With promises of beer and fried chicken, W.S. rounded up two fellow students to help us move. “Couldn’t you have found two bigger guys?” I asked. Little Stu must have weighed 100 pounds, and gangly Marty had a bad habit of falling over his own feet. After helplessly watching our mattress tumble down the stairs twice, I decided not to watch what was going on.

We had splurged on a pretty nice flea market sofa. It didn’t smell of mold or cigars. And we had purchased an overhanging lamp that needed to be screwed into the ceiling. W.S. wasn’t handy. But, “This I can do!” he happily exclaimed, screwing in the lamp, that he had plugged into the outlet on the wall. We were finally home.

After sending Stu and Marty on their way, we fell into bed exhausted; anticipating our first good night’s rest in months. Our bed was firmly braced against the wall and no airplane would be shaking our floor.

A light rain pitter-pattered against the window as I drifted off. A few minutes later, I awoke to the unmistakable sound of overly heavy breathing. “You’re snoring,” I mumbled. Whereupon the snoring turned into rhythmic snorts. I rolled over and saw that W.S. was sitting up in bed, and now we were being entertained with a cacophony of sputtering, wheezing and an occasional whistle thrown in for variety.

“It’s not me.” W.S. groaned, “I was kind of hoping that it was you.” “Well, I’m awake,”  I said. “It must be the guy next door. Let me try a little knock.” So, I tapped on the wall, and was rewarded with blessed silence—just long enough to fall back to sleep before the symphony began again.

A few hours later, after our knuckles began to ache, we decided to move the bed to the other wall. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but the snoring became a distant rumble. The sprinkle outside had now developed into a major deluge with intermittent thunder and lightning. Just as I was falling asleep—one more time, W.S. poked me, “Did you leave the water running in the bathroom?” “No.” I growled, “ But if you are worried, get up and take a look.” Reluctantly, he got up and went into the bathroom. Returning to bed, he said. “It’s okay.” “Good,” I replied. “Can we go to sleep now?”

When I awakened the next morning the sun was shining. W.S. was fast asleep and no one was snoring from behind the wall. Life was good—except—except—I still heard the unmistakable  sound of running water. “How can that be?” I mused looking out of the window. “It’s not raining outside.” At that, I walked into the living room, and discovered that our hanging ceiling lamp had transformed itself, in the middle of the night, into a dangling fountain, and water was spraying in beautiful streams all over our new flea market sofa.

W.S., the unhandiest of handymen had screwed our new lamp directly into the middle of the three-apartment rain gutter. Grabbing a bucket, I yelled, “I think we just lost our deposit,” as my chagrined husband came into the room and offered me a towel.

The next night, there was no sound from the other side of the bedroom wall—no snoring, no wheezing, and no whistling. “He’s dead!” said W.S. “What do you mean, ‘He’s dead.’” I asked. “Someone must have smothered him,” W.S. replied. “I’m sure of it.”

“I think this place is trying to tell us something,” I mumbled. “Let’s move!” “Okay,” he replied, as we both drifted off to sleep not realizing that this was only a foreboding of things to come.

Esther Blumenfeld (Dead men tell no  tales.)
CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006