ROCK AND ROLL (Part One)

Our furniture arrived four days after the scheduled delivery time. After much bumping and scraping and dropping, we were left with our damaged goods, and the name of a local fellow who would come to our apartment to repair the cracks, scratches and dings.  

His name was Walker, a retired jockey from Chicago, who looked as if he’d been thrown one time too many. When he finished the touchup job, he invited us to a party at his home in the desert area of Escondido. We had only just arrived and were already invited to a California party. What fun!

W.S. drove and I played navigator, which got us there one hour late. The party was already in full swing. We could hear the music as we turned down the gravel path. Walker galloped toward us sweating, shirtless and astride a very large horse. “Aloha,” he bellowed, as he escorted us to his house that was ablaze with lights and jam-packed with partygoers. Spying the suckling pig on a spit, I realized that we had stumbled onto a luau in the middle of the desert. A bearded stranger tossed a garland of flowers over my head and led us to the bar. I later learned that he was “Izzy, the journalist.”

Dr. Katz, the veterinarian, handed each of us a tall glass of a sweet green concoction, and said, “Welcome to tequila from Tijuana.” W.S. downed his drink quickly and asking for a refill, said, “This is delicious. I can hardly taste the alcohol.” I took one sip, put down the glass, and said, “Go easy with this stuff, you could end up with the worm.” W.S. wandered off toward the buffet table and promised to bring me something to eat if I would save him a seat.

The band was set up near the swimming pool. Stuffing my ears with Kleenex, I sat on a sofa as far from the music as possible. Izzy brought me a soda and sat down next to me. I could see his lips moving, so I removed the Kleenex, “Sorry.” I said, “Could you please repeat that.” “You just moved to California, right?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. “You want to know my theory about people who move to California?” he said. Before I could say, “No,” he continued---“People come here to die. It’s the end of the road. They can go no further.”

Wishing that I had left the Kleenex in my ears, I replied, “People can always catch a plane to Hawaii.” Since W.S. hadn’t returned, I left morose Izzy slumped on the sofa and headed toward the buffet table. By now, the drinks were flowing and the noise level had gone up several decibels, so I stuffed my ears again.

Finding the food, I piled up my plate and headed toward the patio to watch the dancing. It was out of character for W.S. to miss a meal, so I wondered what had happened to him. It didn’t take long to find out! There on the dance floor, was my non-dancing husband doing “The Twist” with a curvaceous South American beauty, whose pony tail hung down past her southern hemisphere. Then I spied an extremely muscular man flexing his abs while shooting visual daggers at the gyrating couple. I didn’t know if he was upset because she was his girlfriend, or because he was a dance aficionado and W.S. was dancing like a pretzel.

When the band took a merciful break, Juanita and W.S. lurched over and she said, “I grabbed this handsome man because I just knew he’d rock my socks.” Removing the Kleenex from my ears, I looked at her bare legs and four-inch- high heels and said, “He’s a sock rocker all right.” She bid us, “Adios,” and joined the seething big guy.

“See that man over there?” I asked W.S. “Yes,” he replied. “You are lucky he didn’t kill you,” I said. “As a matter of fact, I’m lucky he didn’t kill you because I’d never find my way home.” And I added, “You might want to stop drinking that stuff, because you are turning greener than the punch.”

He claimed it was the dancing, but admitted that he was starting to feel a bit queasy, and we decided to go home. By now, Izzy had jumped into the swimming pool with his clothes on, and I hoped he wasn’t planning on drowning himself before we left. Dr. Katz was laying spread out on top of his car. He was sick as a dog----(To be continued.)

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

MOVING ON

After much consideration, W.S. decided to accept a civilian job working for the Navy. I didn’t care where we moved, as long as being downsized didn’t involve a firing squad. The job was located at the Naval Base in San Diego, California, one of the most beautiful cities in the United States. They were paying our moving expenses, so we purchased new furniture to go along with our new life, and recycled our college furniture back to the Salvation Army.

All of our friends were packing and looking forward to actual lives in the real world. Professor Seltzer donated his entire library to the university. He had read those books, and was on his way to Florida, where he planned to spend the rest of his days fishing off a boat named, “The Criterion.”

We hired the, “Get You There In One Piece Moving Company,” and the salesman assured us that their movers would treat our worldly belongings as lovingly as if they were moving their very own families. A week later, as soon as the truck was loaded, we began the 5-day drive across the U.S. in our 12-year-old Volkswagen Beetle.

W.S. assured me that the apartment he found for us was nicer than anything we had ever lived in before. “It’s airy and bright. The rooms are large, and it’s close to my office.” What he failed to tell me was that after looking at several apartments around town, the brakes on his rental car had failed. He would have gone over a cliff, but instead he had hit a dumpster at this particular apartment complex. It was then that he decided that, since he couldn’t go any further, this was the place we were going to call home.

After the first day of driving, eating catch-as-catch-can food, and experiencing gas station washrooms, I started whining, “Are we there yet?” W.S. told me that if I didn’t stop complaining, he’d turn around, go back to the university and enroll in law school.  I stopped!

We made pretty good time in our little Volkswagen, until we got to Texas. As soon as we crossed the border, we got stuck behind a rickety truck on a no-passing-zone stretch of highway. The driver was obviously in no hurry, because you can’t hit a fence post with a beer bottle while driving fast.

His cheering section, six, inbred, toothless progeny of first cousins, were sitting in the open bed of the truck, and they were facing us. For miles and miles, they stared at us, with the same familial expressionless expression. Unless W.S. wanted an encounter with the Texas Highway Patrol, he couldn’t pass that truck. Fortunately, I could look at the sky, but he had to keep his eyes on the winding road and stay alert for beer-toss slow downs.

The driver finally drove off the highway onto a dirt road. The fellows in the back of the truck belched their “goodbyes,” and two days later we arrived in San Diego. I was very happy that the brakes on W.S.’s rental car had failed at this particular apartment complex, because the grounds were beautiful and our apartment was bright and breezy. Since W.S. was now a Ph.D., I proudly taped, “Dr. W.S.” on our mailbox. Life was going to be conventional. W.S. had a nine-to-five job, which paid enough so I could finally concentrate on my writing. Now, all we had to do was to wait for the arrival of our furniture. Life was changing. “Normalcy” was the operative word.

There was a knock at the door. I opened it, and a young man said, “Is the doctor in? I have boils!”

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

THE CITY OF GOOD HERBS (Part Two)

As I crossed the street, I suddenly felt a vice-like grip on my right elbow. “Help me across the street, Girlie,” croaked an old woman. She wore a long black dress, woolen fingerless gloves and a man’s felt hat. She was coated with bird poop. It was the infamous, “Pigeon Lady.”

Everyone in San Francisco knew about her. Devoted to the pigeons in Union Square, she fed them breadcrumbs, and then stood as silent as a statue, as they perched and decorated her with their droppings.

First the weird egg guy, then the fallen man/woman, and now the “Pigeon Lady,” who smelled like a fowl potty.  Halfway across the street, we saw a policeman directing traffic. When I heard her yell, “Hey, Joe,” and loosen her grip on my arm, I shook her off and sprinted away.

After I returned to the hotel, W.S. informed me that we had been invited to a reception and private showing of the works of Salvador Dali.  I had just enough time to comb my hair and sponge off the right sleeve of my jacket, before we hurried out of the hotel to hail a taxi.

It was beginning to drizzle, and we felt very fortunate when a cab pulled up. W.S. shouted the address at the driver, who didn’t turn around to acknowledge our presence, but since he started driving, we assumed he knew we were there. His photo said that his name was, “Youssef,” and his scowl announced, “Don’t mess with me!”

After Youssef ran his second red light, W.S. noticed that his emergency light was blinking. “Your emergency blinker is on,” said W.S. Without a reply, Youssef’s head suddenly disappeared into his lap. “Where are you going? I screamed. “Looking for the switch,” Youssef replied. “Well, come back up here to do it,” I said.

By this time, Youssef was driving 50 miles and hour, up and down San Francisco’s hilly streets with his head in his lap. W.S. calmly said, “Youssef, why don’t you wait until you drop us off to find the problem?” “Okay,” said Youssef, lifting his head.

By now, other drivers noticed the blinking light, so every time a car passed us, a helpful driver would yell, “Your emergency light is on.” Whereupon, Youssef would shout something back about spitting camels or mother/son relationships. All we wanted to do was to get out of that cab. Finally, we arrived at our destination with a screeching halt. Youseff’s head disappeared toward his clutch, W.S. threw a $20 bill onto the front seat, and we stumbled out of the cab whooping, “Hello Dali!”

Passersby merely shrugged and assumed that we were a couple of loony locals just enjoying Yerba Buena.

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

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