WHOSE JOINT IS THIS ANYWAY? (Part One)

There was a very large federal prison on the outskirts of my hometown, and my father felt it humane to occasionally visit with the three incarcerated Jewish inmates. Usually, he would drag a few reluctant men from his congregation along with him, but it was difficult to find volunteers, as most people want to stay out of prison rather than to go in.

Two of the inmates were brothers, who, when they were nineteen and twenty years old, decided to hold up a bank in a small town on the commuter railway line. Since they didn’t have a car, they got off the train, held up the bank, caught the next train back, and were picked up by the police at the other end. Proving that no matter what their mothers think---all Jewish children are not gifted. The other inmate, “Boom, Boom Julius,” was a reputed bagman for the mob.

Before we became engaged, W.S. thought it would be a nice gesture to ask my father for my hand in marriage. I was a bit concerned when he didn’t show up at the appointed time, but found out later that he had been home throwing up. The thought of marrying me obviously wasn’t as daunting as facing my father.

When he rang the bell, Dad answered the door, grabbed W.S., yanked him inside, and yelled, “Congratulations, Son! Do you want to go to prison?” That took some explaining, but W.S. did agree to accompany his future father-in-law. It was, as the boys inside would say, “an offer he couldn’t refuse.”

The three prisoners congratulated W.S. on our engagement and asked if they could come to the wedding. Dad said, “If you can get out, you can come.” I was later told that they had placed an announcement of our forthcoming nuptials in the prison newspaper; an honor not afforded most brides.

When Boom, Boom discovered that he and W.S. came from the same hometown, he asked, “Do you know Morty Ross?” W.S. came from a very small, industrial town in Indiana. Everyone knew everyone else. His uncle had gone to high school with Morty Ross, but how should W.S. answer this question?

This posed a dilemma. If W.S. answered, “Yes,” would Boom, Boom kiss him on both cheeks or on the lips? Boom, Boom was a scary guy. The tip of his nose touched his cheek. Someone must have put it there. And how did Boom, Boom get his nickname? Did he play the drums as a child---or was it something much worse? W.S. didn’t want to know, nor did he want to find out, so he said, “No, I never heard of Morty Ross.” Losing interest, Boom, Boom Julius shrugged, smiled and said, “Well, maybe the son-of-a-bitch is dead,” as he walked away.

I don’t know if the bank-robbing brothers ever got out of prison, but I heard years later that Boom, Boom had been released and returned to his home town. I never did find out what he did in his retirement. Thanks to my Dad, that was W.S.’s first brush with criminals. His second encounter was the botched break-in of the trunk of our car. But obviously not just good things come in threes. Soon we would experience one of the perks of big city living---an honest to God, Chicago burglary. Bad things don’t just happen to other people.

Returning home from a weekend in the country, we walked into our apartment. I switched on the light, and W.S. growled, “We’ve been robbed!” It was hard to tell at first, because my husband wasn’t the neatest kid on the block, but he recognized immediately that this mess wasn’t his.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.

THE STRAIGHT POOP (Part Two)

Hank grabbed a bottle of champagne and said to W.S. and me, “Let’s the four of us have a private toast before the wedding.” “But, you’re not supposed to see the bride are you?” I said. “Don’t worry. We can do this without me seeing her,” he replied. “Follow me!”

He led us up the stairs into a bedroom and then into the adjoining bathroom. “Shut the door,” he whispered. Then Hank stepped into the oversized bathtub and knocked on the wall. It was then that I noticed the hinges and the secret door on the other side of the tub. “Get in,” he said. “There’s plenty of room.” So, W.S. in his tuxedo and I in my chiffon dress, climbed into the tub.

“What is this?” asked W.S. Hank replied, “Elsa had a nanny when she was growing up. The nanny’s room was on the other side of the bathtub, so Elsa’s Dad had this secret door cut into the wall in case Elsa needed her nanny in the middle of the night. That way nanny could get to Elsa without disturbing anyone else.” “And arrive clean,” W.S. added, but Hank ignored him as the door opened, and Elsa stuck her head into the bathroom.

“What do you want?” she asked. Hank said, “I thought we’d have one toast before the big event.” “Okay,” she replied, “But you can’t see me. Just hand me the glass.” Well, it was extremely good champagne, and who can drink just one glass of extremely good champagne? True to his word, Hank didn’t peek around the door, but kept filling the glass of the extended gloved hand from the other side.

Thirty minutes had passed and by this time, Hank, W.S. and I were comfortably getting pickled in the tub, when Elsa’s mother barged into the bathroom and shouted, “What is going on here? Over one-hundred people are sitting in my living room waiting for a wedding, and you are---you are—What are the three of you doing sitting in the bathtub?” Then she spied the door above the tub slowly closing, and wailed, “Elsa are you getting married or what?”

From the other side of the door we heard a muffled, “Yes, Mama. I am definitely getting married.” Elsa’s mother left the bathroom as we clambered out of the tub, and Hank tapped on the door, “Are you okay in there?”

“I’m fine,” Elsa giggled. “This is going to be one hell of a wedding. I love you, Hank. I love you W.S. and I love you too, Kiddo---dog shit and all!”

It turned out to be a pretty nice wedding. The bride was reasonably sober, the groom was happy, and the parents were relieved. However, when I got home, I threw out those shoes before I entered our apartment. The best man made me do it.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THE STRAIGHT POOP (Part One)

Sitting on a hillside, eating fried chicken and drinking beer, on a sunny day sounds like a lot of fun, until you add auto racing into the mix. Once the chicken and beer have been consumed, it is really boring to wait for the next gaggle of cars to zoom around the bend. If you are slapping a mosquito, you might miss them, and then you have to wait until those autos come around again---and again---and again.

Hank was a new friend W.S. had met at work. He was a former racecar driver, and thought it about time we become exposed to his favorite sport. I was surprised that W.S. had succumbed to this invitation, but we liked Hank and his fiancée Elsa, and W.S. was to be the best man at their wedding, so how could we refuse.

Their formal wedding was to be held at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth, a very exclusive suburb in Chicago. Mother-in-law, Fannie came through again. She gave me the peach colored chiffon dress she had worn to her niece’s wedding in Los Angeles. With minor alterations, it fit perfectly, and all I had to buy were some peach colored shoes.

Six weeks later, we arrived at Elsa’s parent’s home in Kenilworth. We parked on the street, not realizing that we’d have to hike a half-mile to the house. Also, there were no lights along the driveway, which kept it very private and exclusive. Taking my hand, W.S. kept saying, “We’re almost there.” “How do you know?” I whined, “I can’t see a thing.”

“Well, there has to be a house in here somewhere,” he replied. “Do you want me to go back and get the car?” “No,” I moaned, “I’m not going to stand here in the dark by myself.” Finally, we spied the glimmering lights of the house, and W.S. groaned when he saw the parking attendants. The driveway looked like a Mercedes dealership. “Now aren’t you glad we walked,” he said. “Right,” I replied. “We saved a bundle on tips.”

Elsa’s father opened the door and greeted us warmly. As I limped into the house, I was dazzled by the opulence. Everything was white---white sofas, white chairs; glass tables decorated with white accessories, and magnificent white, lush carpeting. It was like walking into a blizzard. As Elsa’s father took my wrap, he looked down at my feet and froze. Then everyone in the room looked at my feet and froze. Did I miss something here? Were we playing, Simon Says? Then I looked down.

There on the white, lush carpeting were my petite, but extremely brown, footsteps. With a little scream of greeting, Elsa’s mother entered the room, but composing herself, she said, “I told the gardener to pick up after those damn dogs! Take off your shoes. Hiram will clean them for you.”

I wasn’t sure who Hiram was, but I was relieved to step out of my shoes, which were both pinching and smelling bad by this time. I gingerly handed my semi-peach shoes to Elsa’s father, and he invited us to step into the adjoining white room. I hesitated, but was relieved when he added, “You too.” In thirty minutes, not only were my shoes returned unscathed, but also the carpeting was miraculously restored to its undefiled state.

Hank grabbed a bottle of champagne and said to W.S. and me, “Let’s the four of us have a private toast before the wedding.”

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THE PRICE OF FIFTEEN MINUTES

When we moved to Chicago, I had to trust the television meteorologist when he said that the sun was shining, because the outsides of our apartment windows were covered with a coating of grime and smut. It was kind of like the rings on a tree, and I was convinced that a dendrochronologist could probably determine the age of my building by reading the layers of schmutz on my windows.

 When I mentioned to the “super” (which I found hadn’t the remotest relationship to Superman) that our windows were extremely dirty, he scratched his stomach and said, ”So?” As in, “So what do you want me to do about it?” I thought that perhaps a little bribe wouldn’t hurt, so I baked a pie and took it to him. He seemed very pleased with the pie, but I will never know if it would have done the trick, because the next day, I read in the newspaper that one of the other tenants went berserk and shot him---right outside the building.

That was when I realized that windows covered with dreck might actually be a blessing while living in Chicago, because what you don’t see, you don’t witness. No matter what it said in the newspaper, my husband, W.S. told everyone that my pie had killed our “super,” because, he claimed, that my cooking was far more lethal than any bullet. With no pending autopsy, I couldn’t prove my innocence, so I had to find a way to redeem my reputation.

My chance came with a notice in the Chicago Tribune. The editors were running a contest asking readers to submit recipes. The winning cook would be photographed, would receive $5.00, and the prize-winning recipe would be published. “I can do this!” I shouted, and with reassuring cheers of “Shut-up!” echoing down the apartment hall, I hurried to the phone to call the family’s master chef, my mother-in-law, Fannie. After explaining the situation to her, I asked, ”May I use your recipe for Chinese Pepper Steak to vindicate myself in the eyes of your miserable son?”

“You most certainly may,” she replied. My dear mother-in-law always took my side because she liked me better than him. She was the reason I could never consider a divorce. I could never do that to her. “I will have to take credit for the recipe,” I told her. “That’s okay, honey,” she said. “You always make it better than I do anyway.” I submitted my recipe and a few days later received a call from someone at the Chicago Tribune informing me that I had won the contest, and would I please come to their offices to have my picture taken tomorrow. I needed a haircut, my nails were a mess, and I had no idea what one wears for a photograph in the Chicago Tribune. By the time W.S. came home from work, I had gotten a new hair-do, purchased a dress and given myself a manicure. When I told him that my appointment for the picture was at 4:30 the next day, He said, “I guess this calls for a celebration. We might as well stay downtown for dinner.”

The next day, I caught a bus, and since I was a bit early, I decided to walk a couple of blocks before arriving at the Tribune building. I stopped at a red light and a man smiled at me and said, “Would you like to show me around Chicago?” As the light changed, I said, “No, I would not.”  Desperately hoping that if I looked like a hooker, I looked like an expensive one, I entered the imposing offices of the Chicago Tribune.

I found the photo studio and entered. “I’m the Chinese Pepper Steak person,” I said. The photographer yawned, told me to sit on a stool in front of a white curtain, snapped my picture and said, “That’s it. You can leave now.” Just to make sure that my photo wouldn’t show up on the obituary page, I said, “You do know that this is the picture for the recipe contest?” “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he said. “Chinese Pepper Steak.” “You got it,” I said, starting to leave. Then I asked him, “You don’t think my dress makes me look like a hooker do you?” He looked at me and said, “Lady, it’s a head shot.” That was good enough for me.

An hour later, at the restaurant W.S. mumbled something complimentary about my dress and hair, so I felt much better. However, he said, “You know, I’m glad you won the contest and that your picture is going to be in the paper, but it wasn’t very cost effective. If you add up the dress, the hair-do and the dinner and then subtract the $5.00 prize, we end up $120 in the hole.” “But,” he added, “I won’t tell that story about you killing the super anymore. How’s that?”

After two more killings involving my pies, it was a promise he couldn’t keep.

Esther Blumenfeld (Someday, I will tell you the rest of the story.)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006

JUST FOLLOW DIRECTIONS

“If everything else fails, read the instructions.”

El control automatico---

Le controle de contre-jour automatique---

Dank der automatischen gegenlichtkorrektur---

If this doesn’t work, you might try to decipher the little Chinese illustrations.

Nowadays, most instructions involve something very technical. “Those parts of the system that you can’t hit with a hammer (not advised) are called ‘hardware’; those program instructions that you can only curse at are called, ‘software.”’ Frank Tyger said, “Discoveries are often made by not following instructions; by going off the main road; by trying the untried.

My husband, W.S. enjoyed sports, but he absolutely abhorred parlor games. When we lived in Chicago, we were invited to a dinner party. W.S. was enjoying friendly banter with a fellow sports enthusiast, when the hostess announced, “We are going to play a game.”  Ignoring the groans, she proceeded to throw magazines on the floor. Then she pointed at W.S. and said, “You’re It!  Go outside, and I will call you back after I have given everyone instructions.” He left the apartment.

After giving us directions, the hostess threw open the door and shouted, “You can come back now.” Everyone looked expectantly at the door. “Where did he go?” the hostess asked me. I started to pick up the magazines and said, “Well, it can’t be far. He left a hostage.” She didn’t laugh, and said, “Drop those magazines.” She said, “Does anyone else want to be IT?” No one else was even making eye contact. Since game instructions were now wasted, she announced, “Dinner is served,” whereupon W.S. opened the door and moseyed back into the room.

“Where did you go?” asked our frustrated hostess. “Well,” he replied, “You instructed me to go outside, so I went down the block and had a beer.” The hostess gave me a pitying look that reminded me of when Garrison Keillor said, “Some people would not be smart enough to pour piss out of their boots, if the instructions were written on the sole.”

Esther Blumenfeld (Sometimes the lesson comes from the journey not the destination.)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006