A New Yorker's Stories (4 page)

A MINI-TRAGI-COMIC WEEKEND

Last Saturday, as is customary, I made my way down to the senior citizen center on 43rd Street for lunch. I found a table where my good friends were already gathered. We share common interests in the arts and current concerts about town. This day we lingered a bit longer to reminisce about the past, about old movies, about former political leaders in the city and in the country. We also had time to rerun some really old jokes and salty limericks. And then I took my leave because I have other things to do on Saturday afternoons.

I waited for the cross-town bus on 42nd Street by the entrance to the number 1 line of the subway. The cross-town bus service is often lousy and this day was no exception. I would rather walk than wait standing and since the weather was not cold, just a bit windy, I decided to walk to my destination, the 39th Street flea market.

I looked for my friend Stephen who presides over his space of Chinese artifacts like Peking glass beads and jade amulets, Mao period posters and so forth. Stephen had recently returned from a trip to his former country bringing some new acquisitions for sale. I took no time at all to spot several ceramic pieces, all done in underglaze blue. I examined each one of the four objects looking for signs of wear, for the quality of the blue pigment, and for the treatment of the unglazed bases. I made a decision to buy all four objects once the price was agreed upon. I wrote out a check and placed it on the table at my elbow, taking the care to secure it under the Bic pen I was using. I turned away, pleased with my decision. The next moment I turned again to look for my check. It was gone. As I noted before, the day was windy so I was sure a gust of wind must have lifted the check and sent it flying. Stephen was not so sure; he was not about to give up the merchandise without a check. We looked around, underneath, peeked into other possible hiding places. I walked to the stalls to the right and to the left of Stephen's space. No luck.

I made my way home empty handed worrying all the time about what to do about the missing check. If the check fell into the hands of someone dishonest forging the signature of the addressee would be easy to do. I had to reach my bank as soon as possible to put a stop payment order on the check. The day was Saturday and the next day was Sunday so I had to wait until Monday. The first thing on Monday morning I called my bank only to discover that the bank was closed, like all other banks, because this Monday was Columbus Day, a National Holiday. Stymied again. I thought time was running against me. The good news came late on Monday when I opened my computer to read my new messages. There was a brief two-line note from Stephen informing me that his neighbor had, in fact, found the errant check, recognized the name and returned it to Stephen before the end of the day. I might've silently hoped for such a denouement but the reality was even sweeter. I did not have to place a stop payment order which saved me at least 25 dollars. I was proven to be honest in writing the check in the first place and best of all I would be the lawful owner of the four Chinese blue and white ceramics to add to my collection.

Stephen, in an act of expiation, I suppose, took the trouble to drive from Flushing, Queens to my apartment in Manhattan to hand deliver the four ceramics after sundown on Tuesday evening.

ADVENTURE IN MIDWOOD, BROOKLYN

I read recently that among the things that comprise the good life is a visit to a new place every day. I thought I would follow this injunction by looking for a neighborhood in Brooklyn. I was inspired by an article in the Times about a stretch on Coney Island Avenue described as “Little Pakistan” and photos of Central Asian men in white knee length tunics busily conversing on the street. The caption on the photo called the neighborhood “Midwood.” I had no idea where Midwood was located. I called MTA information but the responder said you must give me the street number and nearest cross street, otherwise I cannot help you. Well, if I had that information I wouldn't need anyone's help. So I set out only with my determination to find the desired destination. I discovered the name Midwood on the map in the subway entrance near the turnstiles so I quickly figured out the subway line to take and the most likely station stop: the Q line to H station. I was on my way. This was the first time I took the Q train to get to Brooklyn. After the Canal Street station the train passes over an East River bridge with fantastic views of lower Manhattan and pretty good views of upper Manhattan depending on whether you were looking to the right or the left. Brooklyn is mysterious, that is, strange in its unfamiliarity. So I scanned every station attentively careful not to overlook H Street Station. H Street Station looked quaint squeezed in, as it were, by the small private houses on both sides. A lady directed me toward Coney Island Avenue, a walk that was lined with large private houses dressed by wraparound porches and ample lawn areas on all sides. The trees that lined the street were surely over a hundred years old, strong trunks and branches reaching well above the houses providing lots of shade below. I thought this district of Brooklyn must have been really affluent at one time.

I was walking faster now as I approached Coney Island Avenue and my heart beat a little stronger as well. When I hit the corner I was stunned by the wide avenue lined with low-lying buildings on both sides; it looked like a mid-western small town might have looked a hundred years ago with a string of mismatched shops not quite dilapidated but certainly not elegant. I was in a way both disappointed and relieved. Disappointed because I was looking for more color, more atmosphere and relieved because here was a part of New York not yet gentrified.

Well, I wasn't just sightseeing. I had a mission. I stopped in the first restaurant I passed. It was dark inside, spacious and the tables were set with white tablecloths. Must be expensive I thought but when I opened the menu nothing was over five dollars. I sat down after pointing to the pudding pot behind the counter and got served a portion. It was overly sweet, difficult to swallow but I did while trying to make conversation with a gentleman at the next table. He hardly spoke English like most of the people I encountered that afternoon. But I asked the boss behind the counter where I could find a bookstore. Just down the street he advised me. The direction was too vague. I didn't spot any bookstore as I walked down the street. I just had to try my luck, so I walked into a jewelry shop to inquire once again about a bookstore. The man in the shop got up from his seat and escorted me to a sort of convenience store with shelves of packaged foodstuffs and a pharmacy in the rear.

After being passed around several salespersons I was taken to a small section filled with books. I said I was looking for a copy of the Koran. The salesman asked if I wanted one in English or Arab. I replied Arab. This took him back a bit and he asked me if I read Arabic. I replied no but I liked the Arabic script and furthermore I wanted a handwritten one, a manuscript, in short. Well, he said, I'll have to call the boss which he did on his cell phone. The boss will be over in a few minutes. Sure enough I didn't have to wait long before several people entered the shop led by an elderly, slightly stooped man with a white beard, wearing a traditional white cap and holding prayer beads in his hand. There's my man, I thought. But no, the boss was the young fellow just behind. He introduced himself and took my inquiry in stride. We exchanged business and calling cards. He said he would make a few calls and get back to me a little later. He was the man who could make things happen, I thought to myself. I called him the next day only to learn that nothing could happen on the weekend. Monday was the day, he would call again with the results of his contacts. It is Sunday night as I write. I can't wait until tomorrow.

CHAPTER III: FAMILY

GROWING UP

Moving in New York in the Depression Period was a common and frequent event. Families were constantly seeking either cheaper rents or a cleaner apartment or both. The effects on children were secondary concerns. I had just begun the first grade when my family moved to a new apartment in a new neighborhood. I entered the class in the new school one week after classes had begun. The teacher, Mrs. McCarthy distributed slips of paper with words written in multilith ink. The words were meant to be memorized for the next class meeting. I had no inkling about the purpose of the lists so I could not respond to the “tests” the next day. Before the end of the week the teacher, fed up with my stupidity dragged me across the hall to another first grade class and dumped me there. The new teacher, Mrs. Roberts, was younger and of a more gentle demeanor. Before too long she asked me to be the window monitor because I was already tall for my age. The window monitor had a long pole with a brass fixture at its end to open or close the windows. Having somehow earned a distinction of having a responsibility changed my life. I suddenly became aware of myself as a person: I was somebody. After that moment I never had a learning problem.

In fact, elementary school was an experience of exemplary conduct: students always sat quietly in their desk seats, were always dressed “properly,” and only spoke when spoken to. We were, in fact, well-behaved children. The only thing I remember from six years of elementary school happened in the fifth grade. One day while the pupils were quietly sitting in the classroom I passed gas with a remarkably loud sound that lasted an interminably long five seconds or so it seemed. I couldn't believe that trumpet note was coming out of me. No one moved, no one said a thing, not even the teacher. After a moment the silence was broken and everything continued as though nothing untoward had happened. I was mortified, of course, and grateful at the same time because such good manners prevailed in the school at that time.

I was eleven or twelve when I graduated from elementary school, an event that passed without any fanfare. What was earth moving was my assignment to a Junior High School. I suddenly felt like I was a big shot. I was moving up in the world. With very little effort on my part I was elevated to a new status. I think this sense of euphoria was enhanced by the fact that hormones were racing through my body. At twelve I was growing fast accompanied by a sense of enhanced power. The empty lot next to the Junior High School was left in an unhampered natural state with rock outcroppings. I was thrilled to jump from one peak to another: I was Johnny Apple Seed scaling huge mountain chains and that was exciting. In class I was too absorbed in my newfound exultation to pay close attention to the proceedings of the teacher. In elementary school I can't ever remember being challenged to think. In Junior High I was caught unprepared for that awesome demand. I was expected to read books, whole books, and to write essays. One assignment asked students to write about the pros and cons of fire. I didn't have the slightest idea of where to begin. Fortunately I had a friend who was two years older who had passed this frontier. One evening while he was taking his bath I sat on the pooper with note pad in my lap. My friend rattled off the obvious points: fire was good because it provided heat when the weather was cold, heat to cook food and light in the night time, while fire was bad because it could destroy homes and hurt people. Why hadn't I thought of these reasons? The world of thinking was revealed…at last. What a quantum leap for me. There was no going back to innocence. I could see I would forevermore have to cope with existence on my own, come up with explanations about experience that stood up to reality. What an awesome discovery. Unfortunately this revelation came just a little too late to salvage my first semester in Junior High School. I was falling further and further back and in the end I was failing. This reality hit me like a ton of bricks, devastating. The prospect of being left back was so mortifying. My mother came to speak to the teacher and finally I did also, to beg to be advanced with a sincere promise to work harder. The teacher relented. I got to complete the second semester without problems and understood education was a serious business.

My family moved again and I went to another Junior High. The new neighborhood was less affluent than before and had a mixed population. I'm not sure if these facts had a bearing on my progress in school but soon I found that I was excelling in all subjects and sitting in the front row of the class. I got beat up a couple of times after school and had to run like hell to avoid unpleasant encounters as well.

Nothing could discourage my upward trajectory now.

I had been aware of drawing and art as an activity of choice. The art teacher in the last year of Junior High recognized my interest and gave me great latitude to pursue my fantasies. She actually helped me to prepare a portfolio which I presented to a committee for admittance to an elite high school for specialized study in music or art. I was accepted and the future of my life in art opened before me.

MEMORY IS SELECTIVE

PART 1

Memory is selective, as everyone knows. Some memories are pleasant and some are not. The memory I wish to talk about now goes back seventy years when I was just fourteen. It relates to an experience that I could not understand, strangely enough, until recently.

Back then I had a penchant for drawing and painting and to acknowledge the Thanksgiving holiday, I had the impulse to make a Thanksgiving card for my mother. I folded a sheet of paper in half and again in half so that it resembled the shape, more or less, of commercial cards. With colored pencils I drew a picture of a bouquet of flowers in a vase. I was persnickety and fussy about precision and neatness in art so I labored over the little picture and then again on the brief message on the inner page. Did I say that I was fourteen at the time and my older brother was eighteen. Before I had the chance to deliver this loving gift to my mother, my brother came by, noticed the card, picked it up, and on the spot tore it apart. I was stunned, dumbfounded and disconcerted but not really angry or outraged. I didn't go crying, at that age, to my mother or anyone else. I didn't look for retaliation or even for an explanation. My bother was not mean, certainly never mean to me. In fact, he came to my defense on a number of occasions when he thought I was being picked on by older boys. He would defend me even if it meant a fistfight. But I was perplexed by his rash action.

I had a sense this was something over which he had no control. It was a matter of an impulse without an easy answer, something so deep that he probably could not have explained why.

It dawned on me quite recently that my brother was eighteen at the time, or, in other words, four years older than me. He was not a very good student and he never finished high school. Instead he went to a vocational institute to learn a trade. At eighteen he was gnawing at the bit, as the expression goes, to get out of the house, to be on his own, to demonstrate his manliness, his readiness to tackle the world. He was tall and strong and good looking and interested in females. He was physical, loved the out-of-doors, and had a boat he used for camping trips on the Hudson River. At the same time lots of things were pressing in on him. He would be leaving the parental household very soon to strike out on his own. That fact was hardly part of my consciousness for I was thoroughly pre-occupied with myself.

I realize now how he must've felt as he was about to lose the comfort of motherly love while I, four years younger, would continue to enjoy that blessing for at least another four years. It must have been infuriating. Here I was kissing up to our mother while he was about to be bereft. These two conflicting conditions could only be painful for my brother. Without the possibility to give voice to his anguish he took out his feelings on my little Thanksgiving card. His action was clearly spontaneous, instinctive, and irrepressible. As I said, I was really not so much angry as bewildered and for seventy years I could recall that moment, even talk about it at times, without understanding it until recently. A few weeks ago I had the occasion to speak with my brother over the phone. He and his family live on the West Coast, and I and my family live on the East Coast. He will be eighty-nine this year and I will be eighty-five. We are both slowly losing our memories but the last thing he said in the telephone conversation was: “You are four years younger than me.” Of all the things to remember at this point in our lives was the difference in our ages! That fact spilled out freely now as it could not at the time he first struggled with the thought. I just laughed and laughed.