HELLO EARTH (Part One)

When we returned to the University, W.S. and a few of his friends were facing the dreaded dissertation defense.

“It means,” W.S. explained to his mother on the telephone, “that professors ask me questions about my research, and if they like my answers, I graduate. Then Dr. Seltzer and I will leave campus hand in hand.  If they don’t approve my work, I guess I’ll just have to jump on the moving van and retire to Florida with him.”

Everyone was tense. Barry was studying, so Brenda was on her own. She decided to wash their kitchen ceiling, but got tired half way through, and washed the floor instead.

Some oily rags caught fire in a bucket at Rocky and Velma’s place, and the neighbors called the fire department. The newspaper article called it, “spontaneous combustion.” Velma blamed the fire on Professor Bodkin, because Rocky was so hot under the collar over all of the last minute changes the nitpicker had required.

Snarky hung a sausage on a hook, which discolored his kitchen door. And, horror of horrors, he got stuck with a flat tire---his date---not his car.

W.S. miraculously passed scientific German. I think the teacher gave him a hearty “Aufwiedersehen” with the stipulation that, scientific or not, he never come near the German language again. On the morning of the meeting with his committee of four professors, I fixed W.S. a hearty breakfast, and before he left the apartment, he managed to throw up the most important meal of the day.

At noon, he telephoned, “I passed!” Before getting too excited, I said, ”Does that mean you passed the exam or you passed out?” “I passed the exam,” he shouted. “As soon as I decide on a job, we’re out of here.” Then he added, “I was so excited that I invited them to our apartment for drinks tomorrow, and they’re all coming.” “Who do you mean by ‘all’?”’ I asked. “The four professors and their wive.

He was so excited that I didn’t mention that a blizzard was predicted for the weekend, and the weekend began tomorrow. When I hung up the phone, I called Velma. She and Rocky had passed their exams and were already packing. “Hello,” she growled into the telephone.

 “W.S. passed his exam, which is the good news,” I said. “But he invited his committee and their wives to our apartment for drinks tomorrow night. Will you two please come? I need the moral support.”  “Sure,” she said, “But Professor Bodkin gave Rocky an ulcer. The doctor put him on a bland diet.”

“I’ll fix him a tasteless tray of snacks, and, if you want to sit down, bring your own chairs.” (To be continued---)

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

UP, UP AND AWAY (Part Two)

“Buckle up, we’re cleared for takeoff,” said the pilot, as the plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away. Small propeller planes don’t fly very high, so we had a beautiful view of Narragansett Bay for about five minutes before the clouds rolled in. The wind whipped up and the roller coaster ride began.

“Don’t worry. I do this everyday,” the pilot shouted. “There are some barf bags in the seat back.” “Whee!” I yelled. “This is fun.” “Are you crazy?” W.S. yelled into my ear. He was clutching the arms of his seat so tightly that his knuckles were almost as white as his face.

“Up draft. Down draft,” the pilot kept repeating (as if we couldn’t tell the difference). I think it was the “Ooopsa Daisy,” that finally got to W.S. as he grabbed for one of the white bags, but he only managed a couple of little belches before we bounced down the runway and landed.

“That was fun! I said. “I need a drink,” said W.S. “See you folks on the way back,” said the pilot. Walking through Newport, W.S. noticed a man standing by a limousine obviously waiting for his passengers. In less than five minutes, W.S. arranged for a ride back to Providence. “The driver is a nice guy,” said W.S. “He even threw in a tour of the mansions of Newport on the way back to Providence.

It turned out that, Clive, the driver, was a professional chauffeur. Hired by a wealthy family, he had moved to Newport some 40 years ago, and during that time had ferried many of the rich and famous wherever they wanted to go. He had sat silently in the front seat of his limousine soaking in all of the chatter and gossip going on in the backseat. Now, retired, Clive conducted tours for rubbernecking visitors to Newport, and as we drove past each mansion, he filled us in:

“She had an affair with the pastry chef and her husband disappeared. Rumor has it that they murdered him, but without a body, they got away with it.” “What happened?” I asked. “Did she marry the chef?” “No,” Clive replied. “He returned to France, and she’s still in the house. She’s become a recluse and no one sees her except when she comes out to feed the birds.”

He continued:  “That house belongs to that famous embezzler who’s now in prison. He was a bad tipper.” “That other house over there is haunted.” “How do you know it’s haunted?” asked W.S. “ They have a book at the bar and guests record sightings of ghosts. People claim they have seen little ones and big ones.” “I’ll bet the more they drink, the bigger they get,” said W.S.

We enjoyed the tour and the drive through charming little villages on the way back to Providence, but suspected that Clive embellished many of his tales of intrigue for our benefit.

When we arrived at the airport, we noticed two porters pointing at us and laughing. Still chuckling, one of them asked us if we needed help with our luggage. “No,” said W.S. “Someone is picking us up. But what’s so funny?”

“Well,” said the porter, “every time someone flies to Newport, we always take bets if they will be flying back. You just earned me ten bucks!”

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003

UP, UP AND AWAY (Part One)

Graduation was looming, Professor Seltzer was packing, and although W.S. had not yet scheduled the oral defense of his dissertation, the job offers were already coming his way. A large U.S. company flew us to their headquarters in Puerto Rico, but shortly after we arrived, political extremists set off a little bomb in the lobby. “Yankee go home!” was the message, and we did---as quickly as possible.

The second potential job was with a government overseas, but before they sent a plane for us, the monarch was overthrown and religious fundamentalists took the rein of power. “I suppose this means the job has been filled,” said W.S. “I guess it has,” I replied. “Why don’t you find gainful employment where a job opening doesn’t mean---‘we shot your predecessor.”’

The next offer came from a large hospital in Providence, Rhode Island. W.S. suggested that since Newport was just over the bay, we take a couple of extra days to explore America’s charming yachting capital before his interview. When we arrived at the Providence airport, W.S. asked a flight attendant, “Where do we catch the plane to Newport?” She said, “There’s a desk around the corner. You can’t miss it.”

We rolled our suitcases around the corner, and saw a small desk with a sign taped to the front that said, “Newport.” There was no one there to greet us other than a big, black horsefly, who marched back and forth across the top of the desk, climbed over a telephone, and then started his patrol all over again. After waiting five minutes, I picked up the phone and a voice said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” I replied. “We’re waiting for our flight to Newport.” “I’ll be right over,” said the voice. We waited for 20 more minutes. Finally a door swung open, and a pilot wearing jeans, a leather jacket, goggles and a hat with earflaps, entered. Slamming a pad of paper on top of the desk, he came around, looked at us, and then picked up our suitcases one at a time. He then placed them back on the floor and wrote something on his pad of paper. Then he looked at W.S. and asked, “How much do you weigh?”

W.S. proudly said, “I’m six feet tall and weigh 175 pounds.” Then the pilot looked at me. This was one of those life-altering moments. I did not want my obituary to read, “The plane went down because chubby lied about her weight,” so I mumbled, “With or without clothes?” The pilot replied, “That depends on how you choose to fly, but most people board my plane fully clothed.”

“Can I write it on your pad?” I asked. He handed me the paper, and I wrote down a number, which I am sure was 10 pounds over my actual weight, because I was wearing extremely heavy earrings. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s go!” He opened the door and we followed him across the runway to a small four-seat propeller plane.

“How do you get into this thing?” W.S. asked. “You step onto the wing. Follow me,” said the pilot as he hopped up and hoisted me up behind him. The pilot sat in the cockpit, while W.S. and I crammed into the two seats in the back. “Buckle up. We’re cleared for takeoff,” he said. The plane lurched and we wobbled up, up and away--- (To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003

NOSTRADAMUS EAT YOUR HEART OUT (Part Two)

Roxie had forgotten to pick up the wedding cake. She was waiting at the courthouse for the wedding license, so she called me and said, “The bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” “Sure,” I said, wondering why she had picked me instead of one of her cowboy cousins. “I’ll grab a cab and get it.”

Thirty minutes later, the cab arrived. It had no back seat, so the driver helped me put the cake onto the floor. I sat straddling the three-tiered confection all the way back to the hotel. “How can you not have a backseat?” I complained. “I’m getting it fixed,” the driver replied. “Two guys coming home from a costume party last night tore it up. One was the head of a horse and the other was the rear, and somehow the horse’s ass got his tail caught in the seat, pulled the seat out when he left my cab, and a car hit it; so I have to get the seat fixed. Don’t get any cake on the floor!”

We arrived at the hotel just in time, because it was starting to snow. The driver and I put the cake on a luggage rack, and I wheeled it to the front desk. After explaining the situation to the desk clerk, he assured me that he would have someone deliver it to the kitchen.

When I got back to the room, W.S. was already dressed for the wedding and, if we wanted to get to the chapel on time, I only had fifteen minutes to get dressed. This is not much time for a person, who spent the last twenty minutes sitting on the dirty floor of a taxicab while hugging a wedding cake, but I managed to pull myself together, and we ran to our rented car. By now, the gentle snowfall had turned into a full-fledged blizzard.

As we pulled into the chapel parking lot, W.S. said, “It’s pretty dark out here. Why don’t they have any lights on?” Slipping and sliding our way toward the chapel, I said, “They don’t seem to have any lights on in the chapel either. Maybe they think it’s romantic.” “It’s Irving’s fourth wedding. Forget romantic, he should turn on some lights, “ said W.S.

As we entered the chapel, we saw that other than some candles burning at the end of each pew and a couple of candles at the front of the chapel, the place was completely dark.  “What’s going on?” I asked, feeling my way toward what I hoped were two empty seats. “The electricity went off about thirty minutes ago,” hissed a voice in the dark. ”They’d better get married before we all freeze to death.”

I couldn’t really see the bride or groom or hear the minister, because his microphone had died with the electricity. I know a couple got married that day, because I heard someone yell,” Congratulations! Let’s get out of here.” At that, the chapel doors were thrown open and everyone rushed out to the dark parking lot, which by now was covered with little hills of snow, and not a car in sight.

“Where’s my car?” asked a muscular fellow. “My son and I can dig it out if we can find it.” Turning to W.S. he said, “Do you know which one’s my car? I think I parked near you.” W.S. pointed to one of the little hills and said, “I think that’s your car, right there.” The big guy and his son ran back into the chapel, came out with a shovel and began to dig. They took turns shoveling and taking large gulps out of a flask that the son had pulled out of his back pocket.

“Are you sure that’s their car?” I asked W.S. “I’m sure it’s someone’s car,” he replied. Twenty minutes later, the younger fellow said, “Dad, I don’t think this is our car.” They stood back, emptied the flask, and examined their excavation. Sure enough, it wasn’t their car. It was ours. They seemed to take it quite well, because the muscular guy started digging out another car, while the younger guy went into the chapel to see if he could filch some sacramental wine.

As we drove away, I said to W.S. “How did you do that?” “I parked under the North Star,” he replied---and next to a lamp post.” The only plowed road was the one that led to the hotel, and everyone ended up there. The bridal couple couldn’t get to the airport for their honeymoon, so they slept in the lobby.

The marriage lasted three months.

Esther Blumenfeld, CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld, c. 2003

NOSTRADAMUS EAT YOUR HEART OUT (Part One)

For centuries, people have tried to predict the future. They ask you to pick a card, stick out your palm or give them your drained cup of tea. Sometimes they foretell with numbers, stars and even chicken entrails. There’s not much call for onychmancy these days, since reading the future from the reflections in a virgin’s oiled fingernails is often a thankless task. Most women these days hide their reflections under glued nails.

Scientists tell us that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior. Looking back, that makes the most sense to me. So, when W.S.’s cousin, Irving decided that a fourth wedding would be a good idea, my reaction was, “I’m not buying a new dress!”

Roxie’s family was from West Texas, but the wedding was to be held in a little town in Minnesota, spitting distance from the Canadian border. It was a lovely place, frozen in time---especially in winter--- so naturally the wedding was scheduled for December. We arrived a day before the wedding, since W.S.’s aunt, the three-time-mother-in-law, was throwing a catered prenuptial dinner at the only hotel in town in honor of yet another daughter-in-law. She had begged us to attend, claiming that W.S., her favorite nephew, was the only person who could keep her from having a mental meltdown.

There were fifteen invited out-of-town guests. Everything was progressing as planned. After a reasonable time for cocktails and chitchat about the predicted snowstorm, we sat down and the waiters began to serve the meal. A harpist was plucking, The Simple Joys of Maidenhood in the corner of the room. Everyone was feeling mellow when suddenly with lots of shouting, swearing and shrieking, a mob of thirty unruly Texans burst into the room hooting and hollering, “We’re here. Where’s the grub?”

The groom’s mother paled and asked, “Who are these people?” Whereupon Roxie waved a chicken leg and said, “Oh, these are the cousins from down yonder. Did I forget to tell you they were coming?” “Yes,” said Irving’s mother. “And, I am afraid they are going to have to eat elsewhere.” “No problem, Mam,” said one of the yahoos grabbing a basket of rolls and dumping it into his hat. “We’ll just sit in the other room and you can send us some leftovers.” Irving’s mother sent a platter of sandwiches with the stipulation that the cousins stay on the other side of the wall for the rest of the evening.

There was only one hotel in town, so that’s where everyone stayed. I’m not sure where the Texas folks bunked, but I think it was in their rented bus. The morning of the wedding, we received a frantic call from the groom. “I forgot the license,” he moaned. “It’s Sunday,” said W.S. “Isn’t the courthouse closed?” “Yes,” said Irving, “but Roxie’s first husband was a judge. He pulled some strings, and they are opening the place for us in an hour.” “That was nice of him,” said W.S. “What nice?” said Irving. “When she marries me, he doesn’t have to pay alimony anymore. Can you drive us there in case we need a witness?”

W.S. agreed to accompany the happy couple. I ordered lunch and planned to stay in the room, read a good mystery and hide out until the late afternoon wedding. No such luck. No sooner had I opened my book than the phone rang again. It was Roxie. “I forgot to pick up the cake. We are waiting for the guy to open the courthouse and the bakery closes at two o’clock. Can you go pick it up?” (To be continued----)

 Esther Blumenfeld,

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2003