THE BACHELOR (Part One)

When the phone rang at midnight, I knew that the person on the other end of the line had to be our bachelor buddy, Jeffrey.  I called him Jeffrey when I was miffed with him. Otherwise, it was just plain Jeff.

“We’re sleeping,” W.S. yawned into the receiver. “I’ll get back to you tomorrow.” “Jeffrey?” I asked. “Jeffrey,” he replied. “He wanted to know what we were doing.” By now, I was wide-awake. “What in the hell did he think we were doing? And, IF, at this time of night we were doing anything, why did he think you’d tell him?” “Well,” W.S. replied. “He thought, if we weren’t doing anything, we’d come out and play with him.”

I adored Jeff. He was undoubtedly our best friend, and we both enjoyed his company. He was the quintessential eligible bachelor---prep school, Ivy League college, handsome, and a brilliant conversationalist, who dressed well, and knew how to dance. However, with all of these notable qualities, the man had no sense of time. In the middle of the night, he’d call and ask, “What time is it?” Or say, “I’m not calling too late am I?”

When I asked W.S. to explain this anomaly, he’ shrug and say, “He’s a bachelor. Bachelors are like that.” Jeff had one other fault. He was attracted to all of the wrong women. He’d often sigh, and say, “I want to settle down. I want the life you both have,” and then he’d call and say, “Let’s go out for dinner, I want you both to meet someone.”

Invariably, his “Someones” were always tall blondes or brunettes or redheads with nose jobs from various Chicago nose doctors. Jeff loved beautiful women, but I was hoping that eventually he would find one who could talk. That’s not fair. They could talk.  I just wished that he could find someone who could talk about something note-worthy. My objections to the lack of conversational skills held little water with W.S., because although he was no longer a bachelor, he enjoyed the view and ignored the prattle.

Jeff invited us to meet one of his dates at a Chinese restaurant. She had a recognizable nose from Dr. Max, and was conversant in beauty creams for the feet. As the waiter served our soup, she said, “You do know that many women ignore their feet and feet are the most important part of your body. You need to cream your feet every night!” I honestly replied, “I didn’t know that. Jeff did you know that?” But before Jeff could answer, she began a heart rendering exposition of the creaming of her toes from the big one down to the pinky, and when the pot stickers arrived, we were treated to the buffing of her heels. By the time the waiter brought the fortune cookies, we were well on to her knees. As we were leaving I whispered to Jeff, “I didn’t know you are a foot fetishist.” “I’m not,” he said. “But she really is beautiful isn’t she?”

As they got into a cab, I heard Jeff say, “Things might have been different if Napoleon’s men had taken better care of their feet.” “Desserts don’t have feet,” she giggled. We didn’t have to endure all of Jeff’s girlfriends, only the ones he thought might pass muster.

As far as I was concerned, Veronica was the worst. At first I thought she was being nice when she insisted that I sit facing the restaurant, and she sit facing the mirrored wall behind me. While W.S. and Jeff were engrossed in an in-depth discussion about football, I tried to make eye contact with Veronica. “So what do you do?” I asked. “I’m a runway model,” she replied, admiring herself in the mirror behind me.

“Do you see anybody in here who’s somebody?” she asked. Looking around, I replied, “Not really, but I see the waiter. Are you hungry?” “I’m famished,” she replied, looking over my shoulder into the mirror. We ordered dinner. W.S. and Jeff ordered steak. I ordered duck, and Veronica ordered a glass of water and a hunk of lettuce with no dressing. “I thought you were hungry?” I said. “I am,” she answered dismissively, “but I can always fill up on Kleenex.”

“I didn’t see that on the menu,” I replied. “No, Silly, I always bring that with me.” It was then that I found out that some models eat Kleenex to quell their hunger pangs and remain thin. I said, “If Kimberly-Clark ever catches on, I’ll bet they could make a really delicious Kleenex.” “That’s a great idea!” she said, as she jumped up squealing, “Ohhh, there’s Kenny,” and then she left. I looked at Jeff and said, “Jeffrey, do you know that she eats Kleenex?” “Yeah,” he mumbled. “She’s a cheap date.”

Felicia was W.S.’s least favorite of all of Jeffrey’s women. She was a hair flipper, and when he sat next to her at the symphony, she flipped once too often. He had been in mid-sentence when he ended up spitting her hair out of his mouth. Surely, one of these dates would turn out well and Jeff would find his soul mate. He had to, because we couldn’t take much more.

Then one afternoon, Jeff called and said, ”I’m in love! I’m really in love.”--- To be continued.)

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

DOUBLE TROUBLE (Part Two)

The morning of the football game began with a light drizzle, but by the time we met our friends in the lobby, the sky had opened up, and the angels spit down in torrents. It was a miserable weather day. I was convinced that my obituary would read, “Drowned at a football game.”

W.S. sat between Claris and Cheris holding a tarp to shield all of them from the rain. However, each time his team made a touchdown, he’d jump up and empty the collected water into their laps. As expected, they screamed in unison. He’d mumble a remorseful, “Sorry,” until it happened all over again. Fortunately, he didn’t drench them too often since his team lost, which really put a damper on the rest of the day.

After checking out of the hotel, we stopped for a consolation lunch at the ALL YOU CAN EAT CHUCKWAGON, where we tested their truth in advertising to the best of our stomachs’ abilities. Getting back into the car, I pushed Cheris into the middle backseat and clung to the armrest. “What time are Hank and Maxine expecting us?” I asked. “Don’t call him “Hank” said Cheris. It’s “Henry.” He’s a dentist. “Is it because Hank sounds too much like yank?” I asked, but no one dignified my question with an answer. “I told them we’d get to their house at about four o’clock,” George replied. “I’m glad they aren’t expecting us for dinner,” I said. “I’m stuffed.”

When we arrived, Maxine greeted us at the door with a big smile showing off beautifully gleaming teeth. “So glad you are finally here,” she said. “The chili has been cooking for hours and hours.” Entering the house, we saw a fully set table, and what looked like a baby’s bathtub filled with chili. “It’s Maxine’s secret recipe,” said Henry. “You must be starving.”

We all looked at George. He said to Maxine, “Didn’t I mention that we’d stop and get something to eat along the way?” “Well, I just knew you’d be hungry anyway,” said Maxine. “Thank you, but I can’t eat a thing.” I said. “I really can’t” But Henry pushed me into a chair and tied a napkin around my neck. “That’s so you won’t get spots,” he said.

I wasn’t planning on getting any spots, because there was no way I could eat even a spoonful of that chili. I didn’t even know these people, and I didn’t feel like being nice for even five more minutes. I was praying they would have a dog under the table, but no such luck. They had a goldfish. For a minute, I asked myself, “Do goldfish eat chili?” My stomach was starting to do CHUCKWAGON flip-flops. I knew I could not even fake eating a spoonful of that chili, and I did not want to hurt the feelings of this gracious hostess.

By now, it had turned into a beautiful afternoon. The window was open, so I carried my bowl to the window, leaned out and said, “What lovely rosebushes. Do you take care of them yourselves?” “No,” said Maxine. “We have a gardener.” That was good enough for me!

“Oh,” said Maxine, “Your bowl is empty. Do you want more?” “No,” I said, “I’ve had more than enough. Thank you very much.” After we said our goodbyes, I asked Claris. ”Did anyone find out about Maxine’s secret chili ingredient?” No one had, but all the way home I suspected that it was extra beans---lots and lots of extra beans.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

DOUBLE TROUBLE (Part One)

I have never been overly fond of high school or college reunions, especially when they weren’t my alma mater. However, when George called W.S., and told him that their college fraternity class was having a reunion, and that tickets for a football game were included, it was just too much for W.S. to resist. He had a few vacation days coming, and wanted me to see where he had misspent his youth.

“It’s only an eight-hour drive,” he pleaded. “And you like George and Cheris.” I had to admit that George was a fine fellow, and Cheris was okay in small doses. It wasn’t that I didn’t like her; I just wanted to avoid her shrill voice. Cheris had vocal chords with a range pitched so high, that I didn’t want to stand under a crystal chandelier when she got wound up. “But then,” I rationalized, “How bad can one weekend be?”

The next morning, George rang our bell, and told us that he was double parked, so we hurried to the car. “Hi, Cheris!” I said, as I climbed into the back seat. “Ha, Ha, Ha,” she trilled, “I’m not Cheris.” “What do you mean, you’re not Cheris?” I replied, “Of course, you are.” “No, she’s not,” a voice shrieked beside me. “That’s my identical twin, Claris. Scoot over!” Scoot I did, and now I was sitting in the middle of a stereo nightmare. On either side of me were two of the best arguments against egg splitting I have ever experienced. Doomed I was to be wedged between these identical twins, of identical voice pitch---for eight hours.

For some reason, the sisters thought they could shout to one another right through my head. I guess they figured there was nothing that would interrupt their conversation on the way through my ears. After two hours, I remembered that Cheris loved to play games, so I suggested Charades. Other than “smother your neighbor with a pillow,” it was the only quiet game I could come up with. “I’ve never heard of playing Charades in a car,” said Claris. “Well, now you have,” I replied, closing my eyes. “Guess what I am.” After a few moments of blessed silence, Claris poked me. “Are you a sleeping person?” “You got it!” I said. “Your turn. Isn’t this fun?”

Charades only lasted for 10 minutes, but then we played, “Twenty Questions.” I think that W.S. played along for a while, but by then my ears were ringing so badly that I couldn’t hear the questions, let alone come up with any answers. I shoved toilet tissue in my ears during the bathroom break, and from then on, games be damned, I sat with a stupid grin on my face for the rest of the journey.

We finally arrived at our destination and checked into the hotel. George asked if any of the other fellows and their wives had arrived. “What fellows?” asked the desk clerk. Each time George gave him a name, the clerk said, “Nobody by that name is registered here.” After the 20^th name, George turned to Cheris and said, “That’s strange. Do you think they checked in somewhere else?” “Did they RSVP the invitations?” she asked. “What invitations?” said W.S. “We didn’t get an invitation.” Looking at me, he asked, “Did we get an invitation?” I shook my head from side to side, as the toilet paper flew out of my ears. After a lively discussion, George came to the conclusion that the invitations, which Cheris had so lovingly designed, had never been mailed and were probably still in the out basket on his messy desk, which he was now doomed to clean up the minute they got home.

“Does this mean that no one else is coming?” I asked. “Looks that way,” said W.S. Giving him my, “I’m going to get you for this,” look, I said, “You mean we drove for eight hours to re-unite with the people we came with?” “But look how much fun we had on the way up,” said Claris. “I’ll call Henry and Maxine,” said George, sounding rather desperate.” They only live three hours from here. Maybe they will join us for the game.” It turned out that Henry and Maxine couldn’t join us, but invited us to stop at their house on our way back.

I was exhausted. My ears were ringing. My head hurt, and I just wanted to go to sleep. W.S. begged off meeting our comrades for breakfast, but we arranged to meet them in the lobby the next afternoon, so we could go to the football game together. It began to drizzle.

 Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---) 

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THANKS A BUNCH

Upon hearing about our robbery, W.S.’s entire family was so thankful we weren’t murdered in our beds, that they decided to exorcize all bad vibes by having Thanksgiving dinner at our place. I would cook the turkey, and they would provide everything else.

Our kitchen was very small, so when the oven door was completely open, I was pinned against the wall. I had never used the oven nor roasted a turkey, but how hard could that be? I jammed a 25 pound bird into the oven, closed the oven door and proceeded to set card tables with my best wedding gift dishes and glassware. W.S. said, “It’s going to be cramped,” and I yelled, “Cozy! The word is cozy.”

My in-laws arrived first, and my mother-in-law pulled sweet potatoes and stuffing out of a suitcase. Their car hadn’t started, so they had to take a commuter train and taxi. She said, “We had the best smelling suitcase on the train.”

Soon, aunts, uncles, cousins, and a few people I had never seen before, began to arrive. The men mumbled their hellos, and headed for our diminutive television set, which usually provided more snow than God, but anything would do for football. And, to my horror, the women all descended upon my kitchen. It was wall-to-wall bosoms, and I could barely move. When I shouted, “Help! They all thought it meant, “help.”  Happily, W.S. herded them into the living-dining-bedroom areas and gave them orders to stay there until the turkey came out of the oven.

Braced against the wall, I opened the oven door, and was greeted by a blast of hot air. It was then, that I realized, that jamming a cold turkey into a small space was very different from trying to wrestle one out of an iron box that is hotter than blazes, and if I used potholders, there was no wiggle room. “Everything, okay in here?” asked W.S. Seeing tears streaming down my face, he said, “I guess not. What’s the problem?”

“Can’t get the fowl out of the oven,” I sniffled. Seeing my dilemma, he said, “Not to worry. I can handle this. Where do you have the big forks?” I handed him the big forks, and he said, “Stand back.” Whereupon my dear husband stabbed the bird, yelled, “Ouch! That’s hot!” And proceeded to toss it over his left shoulder and onto the floor.  At that, Aunt Blossom started to open the door, pushing the turkey into the corner.

“Don’t ruin the surprise,” shouted W.S. as he began a door pulling contest with hefty Aunt Blossom who shrieked, “I used to diaper you.” I don’t know what that had to do with anything, but think it was s cry for respect. She finally stopped pushing on the door, and we placed the turkey on a platter---dusty side down. W.S. and I ignored the, “”Delicious but unusual taste” comments, and felt that our dinner was an unqualified success. But now came cleanup time. Not being used to washing dishes in a sink, Aunt Blossom snapped six stems off my crystal glasses. Uncle Meyer knocked over a lamp, but no one fell out of a window, so I considered myself lucky. 

While the women were yakking in the kitchen and the men were shouting at the television set, the phone rang.  “Hello,” I said. The only reply was heavy breathing. “Hello,” I repeated.

“What are you wearing, Baby?” was the reply. I looked at my dirty apron and yelled, “You schmuck! I have a house full of glass-breaking relatives, had to pick a turkey off the floor, and my mother-in-law arrived with sweet potatoes in her suitcase. I’m not wearing a smile.” Before I slammed down the receiver, I bellowed, “Call back later!” I think I ruined his Thanksgiving, because I never heard from him again.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part Two)

“We’ve been robbed!” The first thing we noticed missing was our television set. The next thing was our wedding recording. They had stolen our entire vinyl record collection, and among the records was a recording of our wedding. “Well,” said W.S. trying to cheer me up, “I certainly hope that one of those crooks understands Hebrew or they’re going to miss the best parts.”

They obviously didn’t want our old furniture. Hell, I didn’t want our old furniture, but one of the criminals had taken a fancy to the clothes in W.S.’s closet, which was completely empty except for one jacket and one pair of trousers that didn’t match. My clothes hadn’t been touched, but the drawers had been ransacked. The police reckoned that they were probably kids and only took things they could use themselves. That made me feel a whole lot better, because I didn’t think my taste in clothes was all that bad.

Two tired looking policemen had arrived several hours after we called and reported the robbery.  I asked them, “Who do you suppose did this?” Looking around our little dingy apartment, one of them replied, “Haven’t got a clue, Lady.” “Aren’t you going to take fingerprints?” I asked, as they were about to leave. “Don’t think so,” was the answer. “Nobody died here.”

“What do we do now?” said W.S. “Take inventory,” was the best advice the policeman could give. He also told us that for insurance purposes we had to report the crime at the police station, and that the closest station to our home was the Halsted Street precinct. So the next day, we drove there to report the dastardly deed. Neither one of us had ever been in a police station, let alone a station like this one. The building was foreboding, and the activity inside made the French Revolution look like a Sunday school picnic.

People were shouting and pushing and cursing and running and bleeding, and we couldn’t tell which ones were the cops and which were the criminals. I suggested, “Let’s look for a uniform---preferably not the skinhead over there dressed like a Nazi.” We finally found a detective who took pity on us, gave us the proper paperwork, and sent us on our way.

The next day we read in the newspaper that a ring of dishonest cops had been exposed. They had besmirched the good name of the entire hardworking police force when caught burglarizing apartments along the Outer Drive. Our buddies at the Halsted precinct were not involved, but from that day on, whenever W.S. wore his mismatched outfit, he proudly claimed that he was wearing his “police rejects.”

I began browsing apartment ads. As soon as this lease was up, I had decided, we were going to move---one more time.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006