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

DINING WAY OUT

When W.S. informed me that we were invited to dine at the home of a former college friend from his undergraduate days, I was both excited and wary. Although I was thrilled to shelve my 1001 Ways to Cook Hamburger recipe book, I was suspicious of anyone who actually chose to live, as a regular person, in this college town.

Quinn and Tami were non-university civilians, and lived in a neighborhood where Goodwill makes pickups instead of deliveries. I was glad it was beginning to get dark as we chugged up their elegant winding driveway in our dilapidated, 200,000 mile Plymouth.

As our host opened the door, it was obvious that Quinn was delighted to see W.S., and it was inevitable that soon the two of them would be lost in reminiscences about those carefree college days when they threw up into each other’s shoes, and other raucous undergraduate activities.

I didn’t understand if his wife, Tami was putting the finishing touches on dinner or herself, but Quinn said she’d be right out, as he handed each of us a genuine crystal glass, containing two carefully measured shots of single malt scotch. I calculated that a bottle of that stuff could keep us in groceries for two weeks.

Tami entered just as the doorbell rang, and as our hosts went to greet their other guests, I sank back against the soft sofa cushions and began to relax. It was Saturday, and while W.S. had spent most of the day studying at the library, my day off had involved cleaning, grocery shopping, and an unhappy two hours at the crowded laundromat. I had allowed just enough time to shower and trim a torn cuticle on my left thumb, before putting on my brand new hand-me-down dress lovingly sent by my mother-in-law, Fannie. Sitting in this beautifully appointed living room, sipping expensive scotch, I was anticipating a delicious meal and some stimulating non-thesis conversation.

As our hosts arrived with two other couples in tow, W.S. was quickly dragged off to the “boys” side of the room, and I was left at the mercy of “girl talk,” which involved one Mr. Alexander, a gifted but rude brute who teased hair and waxed upper lips for a hefty price. Although, my limit is one drink, I seriously considered a second shot of scotch when the discussion turned to clogged pores.

Then, the hors d’oeuvres arrived. Either I was hallucinating, or our hostess had just put raw meat loaf on the coffee table. Since there was no barbecue grill in sight, I assumed it was supposed to look that way. I was starving, and our hostess had just driven a steak tartare through my heart. It was after eight o’clock. The dining room table looked so inviting with a beautiful floral centerpiece, fine china, sterling silver cutlery, and gleaming stemmed goblets. Over my growling stomach, I heard, “Would you like to tour the house?” “Yes,” I shouted, looking forward to any excuse to escape that bleeding hunk of meat.

Gliding from room to room in her designer gown from Paris, Tami led the group--- and me---in my dress by Fannie, through their magnificent home, proudly describing the pedigree of each stick of furniture. Finally, she announced, “Dinner is served.”  I eagerly offered to help. Following her into the kitchen, I saw one small salad, and one large kettle. An unusual, pungent aroma filled the air as she lifted the lid. I peeked into the pot and saw one large bay leaf floating in what looked like murky bath water.

The rest of the evening was a blur, because I did have that second shot of single malt scotch, but I distinctly remember seeing that brown leaf swirling in W.S’s bowl, and the hostess fishing it out in a huff, when he said, “I think something fell into my stew!”

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006 

THE PLACE (Part Two)

So there we were---sitting in a booth at THE PLACE, and Professor Taser had spotted us. I knew he had seen us, because he nodded. I waved back, and said to W.S. “He’s the only guy in here wearing a suit.” Smiling weakly, W.S. responded, “It’s his uniform. He never takes it off. I think he sleeps in it.”

Perceptively peeved, Taser trooped to the bar to see if he could find a stool. There was nothing available. The chef was already throwing people out into the snow; waving his trusty cleaver yelling, “Get out of here. You can’t hang around unless you’re sitting down.” At that, Taser sighed heavily, no doubt thinking, “Any port in the storm,” and headed our way. Throwing a big shadow over our booth, he smiled and said, “Hello.” His hello meant, “I am going to sit down and join you!” We got the hint.

As we nursed our beers, we attempted to be casual and engage him in small talk as he quaffed his first martini. His wife was out of town, he was on his own, and rather than go to the country club, he had opted to come slumming at THE PLACE. His second martini arrived and the small talk became excruciatingly painful. It was obvious that our sole contribution to the evening was the booth.

W.S. tried in vain to impress him with the fact that he was working hard, but having years of practice of fending off these kinds of comments from students, it was obvious that Taser was more interested in fishing the olive out of his drink.

Then it happened. Somehow the conversation turned to me. We had already told him W.S’s life’s story---twice, but that was okay, because he wasn’t listening. At that point, I mentioned that at one point in my life, I had lived in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. The man’s eyes lit up. Either he was going to cry---or throw W.S. out of graduate school. Breathlessly, we waited for his reaction.

“I am from Sioux Falls,” he responded. At that point, the two of us mercifully left W.S. totally out of the conversation. I realized that if this evening was to be salvaged, it was totally up to me. Taser happily ordered his third martini, and I cheerfully prattled on about whatever I could conjure up about Sioux Falls. I finally settled upon a spot called McKinnon Park. Between us we described it in agonizing detail. W.S. looked bewildered. From his point of view, a slide is a slide, a swing is a swing, a bench---, but seeing how happy Taser was, I rhapsodized about McKinnon Park. I even told him about when I was caught in the middle of the park during a tornado. He loved it!

By the time dinner was over, Taser happily picked up the check (permitting us to survive financially for another week) and through martini-glazed eyes, viewed my husband with new perspective. W.S. swore that at that moment his academic career began to rise. He declared, “It was like Pickett’s charge had been to the Union at Gettysburg.” From that day on, he held his head high as he stood next to Greg and Todd in Taser’s office.

I didn’t see Professor Taser for several months after our booth episode, but one afternoon W.S. and I did pass him in the hall of the Student Union. He mumbled something as he scurried by. “What did he say?” asked W.S.

“Don’t know,” I lied, because---Taser had remembered my name.

Esther Blumenfeld

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006.

THE PLACE (Part One)

Our favorite restaurant in the downtown area of College Town was a little bar and grill called, THE PLACE. Downtown only had one dusty street, and THE PLACE was the only restaurant in town, so naturally, it was our favorite. We saved our pennies so we could treat ourselves to TGIF (Thank God, it’s Friday) each week, but since THE PLACE was the only spot in town that offered food, as well as booze, we had to get there no later than 5:00 pm. We preferred to sit in one of the booths as far away from the bar as possible---especially on football weekends, but to do that required leaving work early and arriving at 4:30, which wasn’t always feasible, especially when the boss dumped extra work on my desk saying, “Have a nice weekend.”

Every week we’d treat ourselves to a steak with French fries and a salad with Roquefort dressing. Actually, the dressing was French dressing with an occasional piece of Roquefort cheese. Dena, our long-suffering waitress had been with the restaurant for many years. As a matter of fact, I suspected that she emerged from her mother’s womb carrying a tray of dirty glasses.

The owner/chef was a former Army cook, and it always helped our digestion and appetite when he did not show up outside of the kitchen. He was a hairy, shirtless fellow, who wore a long dirty apron and usually carried an extremely big cleaver. No one was allowed in his kitchen, but only a fool would want to know what went on in there.

W.S. had an excellent relationship with all of his professors, but his relationship with Dr. Taser was marginal. For some reason, W.S. found it difficult to carry on a conversation with the man who was his major professor and held his professional future in his hands.

One Friday night we got to THE PLACE just in time to grab the last booth available, not in the back, but up toward the front right alongside the bar, where the overflow crowd would either seat themselves on the stools or be asked to leave. The local law prohibited people from drinking while standing, so the owner/chef was already rudely throwing people out---telling them they could wait in line outside in the snow, but they couldn’t hang around inside unless they were seated.

W.S. had spent the day wrestling with statistical charts and hadn’t bothered to shave or change clothes. I had taken pity on him and hadn’t mentioned more than once, “If we run into anybody you want to impress, you will definitely make an impression.” W.S. insisted, “Look, we travel in different circles than faculty, and the probability of any of them showing up in this dump is infinitesimal at best.”

So, there we were, sipping our beers, when in walked Taser, the professor whose smile or frown made or broke academic reputations and careers. I forgot who saw him first, but I remember that W.S. hit his chin on the edge of the table as he started to slide down in his seat. Too late! Taser had spotted us.

Esther Blumenfeld (To be continued---)

CROSSING WITH THE BLUE LIGHT, Blumenfeld c. 2006