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Ah, Youth!—Three Memoirs

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by Charles Troob
 

Ancient Greece 

In 1966 I was in a master’s program at the London School of Economics. Over the long winter break I traveled to Greece, Cyprus and Israel. The day before my departure, London friends gave me a Blue Guide to Athens. An hour into the flight from Heathrow I put down Thucydides and picked up the guide. One entry caught my eye. “There is a wonderful view over the city from the top of Mount Lycabettus. It’s recommended that one should go at sunset or sunrise.”

I was on a red-eye, arriving in Athens at 4 am. When the lane landed, I took a bus to a terminal downtown, where I checked my suitcase. Blue Guide in hand, I explored Syntagma Square, then followed the map to the foot of Lycabettus. On the steep road up I passed nondescript apartment houses–this quiet city was disappointingly dull. But the air was fresh and stars twinkled in the cloudless sky.

At the top of the hill was a lookout. Greece was hidden in the dark. I impulsively took off my clothes, and stood naked in the cool breeze. As light began to surround me, the shoreline of the Aegean came into view; then, to my amazement, the Acropolis lay right below. Piraeus, Corinth, Argos–here I was, not quite twenty-one, communing with the ancients.

The exaltation lasted an hour or two. Then I descended into modern Athens, where hardly anyone spoke English, and I felt stranded, alone, exhausted after a night without sleep.

 

Army Life 

I dropped out of grad school in 1970, and thereby relinquished my student deferment. I had a fairly high number in the draft lottery, so I thought I might be safe—but in December I received an induction notice. Along with hundreds of others I reported for my physical to Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn. When I got to final clearance—it looked like the checkout area of a supermarket—nearly everyone else had been loaded onto buses and sent off to Fort Dix and a dangerous future.

I handed my papers to the clerk—along with a letter from a psychiatrist in New Haven. When his eyes got halfway down the page he trembled slightly and called me over. In a very low voice, he said, “This letter says that you are a homosexual. Is that true?”

“Yes,” I was appreciative of his tact, amused by his discomfort.

“Have you committed homosexual acts?” He paused, gulped, continued. “Oral? Anal?”

“Yes, yes,” I said airily. To my surprise—I was very much a closet case at this time—I was enjoying myself. I hoped he’d ask for additional graphic detail—that would make the experience really perfect. But he just nervously wrote a few things on my papers, then stamped them and waved me away.

I wondered idly if this official documentation of my infamy would stay buried in Army files, or might come back to haunt me at some later time….

When I went to get my coat there was one other man in the locker area. “You’re not going?” he said.

“No. I told them I’m a homosexual.”

He laughed. “I said that too! I just thought of it when I got here. What an easy way to get out!”

“I was telling the truth,” I said. “I had a note from a shrink.”

He gave me a funny look, turned, and walked away.

 

Teleport

In 1976 I got a job in Washington DC. I returned to my New York apartment on weekends. Friday evenings I’d queue up at Union Station, waiting for Amtrak to teleport me from a world of offices, malls, and soccer moms to a hothouse of culture—and sex. A few hours later I’d emerge from Penn Station onto Eighth Avenue, assaulted by the energy of the city. I could hit the bars and sample the sleaze. I could climb a dingy warehouse stairway and applaud some crazies who were reinventing theater. New York was dangerous at that time, but hey, it was a danger to flirt with and dance around, not one to avoid. My weekends were filled with adventure and exploration—and then on Sunday night I went back through the wormhole to Dullsville-on-the-Potomac.

But somehow I was happy on Monday morning. In DC I felt myself growing and stretching.  Working for DHEW—the Department of Health, Education, and Welfare—was like grad school on steroids.   I was quickly promoted, with a choice of jobs. So I was never sure which phase of this cycle was the main narrative, and which the parenthesis.

Still, in time the ping-ponging back and forth wore me down. The double life felt like a refusal to commit to an identity. Put that way, the choice was easy—I was a New Yorker. After three years I cut the DC knot. Without a tinge of regret, I slipped away from the dream career and came home to rejoin the carnival full-time.

Or so I thought. Soon AIDS hit New York—and Reagan hit Washington. The 70s were history.

 

These three pieces were written for the IRP Writing Workshop.  Charles Troob joined this workshop when he entered the IRP in 2010.  After a few enthusiastic semesters he was invited to become one of its coordinators.  

Oh, You’re Supposed to Leave Coins!

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by Pat Fortunato

Forget about San Francisco: you can leave your heart in Rome faster than you can say Ciao, Baby!

I, however, held on to my heart, but left my underwear.

As some of you know, I am capable of losing almost anything. Gloves, of course, pens and pencils, cell phones, keys, wallets, not to mention money, checks, credit cards, address books and laundry lists, plus scarves, hats, earrings. You know, the usual.

But am I satisfied with these paltry everyday items that any idiot could lose? Not I!

Perhaps I was cursed at birth by a vindictive gypsy (or have been watching too many operas), but I do have a deep and abiding talent for losing virtually anything, any place, any time. Back in college I misplaced my senior thesis and had to rewrite it from scratch, using my barely legible notes, and didn’t get the A I thought I deserved. So young, so tragic.

But the thing that has captured my friends’ imagination—and the incident they want to hear about—is that I once lost my underwear near the Trevi Fountain.

Let me explain.

I was in Rome with my business partner, Diana, and we went shopping for tennis outfits at this really nice store near the Trevi. We had a ball (no pun intended) trying on all the skirts, shorts, and tops that the cute Italian clerk handed us through the curtains of the teeny little fitting room. He did seem to be lingering a little too long, and leaning in a little too far, but we’ll get to that later. Each of us bought a few outfits, some of which I still have today, and so, mission accomplished, we scurried off in search of gelato.

Later that day, around cocktail hour, we met up with Diana’s husband at the piano bar in the lobby of the Hassler Hotel, a very chic, very fancy Italian place at the top of the Spanish Steps.

So there we were, the three of us, lounging at the lounge, working on drinks of Campari (me) and Scotch (them). It was to be my last evening in Rome; they were staying for a few more days. As the piano quietly tinkled in the background, and elegant Italians (elegant Italians are really, really elegant) stylishly conversed over cocktails and delicious little nibbly things, I asked my friends if they thought they’d be going back to the Trevi. If so, I wondered, could they stop in that sweet little store and see if anyone had found my underwear?

I was surprised by their simultaneous loud and startled “WHAT!—which resulted in a kind of happy hour hush among the privileged patrons. There seemed, at least to me, to be total silence in the room. Even the piano player stopped, his hands poised in mid-air as he turned to stare. Remember that commercial, “When E.F. Hutton speaks . . .” and everyone stops what they’re doing to lean in and listen? That’s what happened, there in the piano bar that night in Rome. It seems that, in Italy at least, sex sells even better than financial advice. Italians are so wise.

Well, maybe it was the Compari, or that When In Rome Feeling, or maybe it was just me, accustomed practically from birth to losing things of all nations, but I didn’t think it was that big a deal.

In the shop, I had been wearing my favorite cream-colored camisole and tap pants set—silk, lace, the whole nine yards (actually, very little in the way of yardage, but very effective, lacy lingerie-wise). In my defense, your honor, I was wearing a bra and pantyhose underneath the sensuous silk set, so that when I got dressed (Remember, we were dealing with very cramped quarters and I was tired from all that shopping!), I guess I forgot to put on the cami and pants. It could happen to anyone, right? Well, maybe not.

The next day, I took off for New York, and my friends headed for the Little Shop of Panties, down by the Trevi, where the very good-looking young man who had been helping us (and perhaps himself) claimed that no, no signori,of course he had not found anything like the intimate articles being described to him by this crazy American couple.

My friends left the shop empty handed, and went to the fountain to throw in a few coins. You’re supposed to do that, you know, to ensure that you’ll return to Rome.

But you have to wonder: If tossing coins in the fountain brings you back to Rome, what happens if you leave your underwear there? Will the Italian branch of Victoria’s Secret send you a catalog and ask you to pick up your purchases at the Piazza Navona? Will you be extradited from the US and hauled back to Sunny Italy on charges of lewd and indecent behavior? Or will you return to Rome to have an encounter with the cute clerk? He’s the perfect age by now.

Whatever. But that young man knew more than what he was telling. Much more. It is my firm belief (it’s so nice to have something firm these days)—and very pleasant fantasy—that somewhere in Rome, someone, perhaps at this very minute, is riding around on a Vespa wearing my underwear. In my imagination, it’s a woman, but who knows?

Whoever it is, my loss was somebody’s gain, and one way or another, with, or more likely without, silk underwear, I will return to Rome someday. And to be perfectly realistic, me being me, it’s extremely likely that I will leave behind more than just my heart.

 

After working as writer, editor, and publisher for many years, I formed my own company in 1984, optimistically naming it Mega Books. When I retired, I started a blog called I Can’t Believe I’m Not Bitter, and now do everything I can to stay that way, including joining the IRP.
Visit the blog at: http://i-cant-believe-im-not-bitter.com/

 

Who Was That Countess At Harry’s Bar?

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by Pat Fortunato

It was me. Well, sort of . . .

My husband and I were staying in Venice in a swanky hotel, with a staff more than willing to satisfy our every whim.

Actually, I was pretty whimless, except for one thing: I wanted to go to the famous Harry’s Bar — and I wanted a good table. If you were banished to the back room, you might as well skip the whole thing.

In my mangled Italian, I conveyed this to the exceedingly cute desk clerk. (In Italy, aren’t they all?) He nodded knowingly, made the reservation, and gave us a card with a note to the effect that Mr. & Mrs. Us were honored guests of the Bauer Hotel. This was code for: Give them a good table.

And so, that night, dressed in our one “good” traveling outfit: basic black with (real) pearls for me, blue blazer, grey pants and a tie from Ferragamo for him, we strolled to Harry’s Bar. Note: in Italy, you stroll, not walk.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Trashy

Harry’s Bar looked quiet on the outside, but inside, it was a zoo. The bar was loaded with assorted Eurotrash, including one young couple who couldn’t keep their hands off each other. While I was trying to figure out how to negotiate this scene, my husband, who wasn’t impressed by this sort of environment, calmly handed the card from the hotel to the guy who looked like he was in charge, saying simply, “Prego.”

That did the trick.

We were shown to a tiny table across from the bar, probably the best in the house. But I, still a bit dazed and going into princess mode, noted that it was a very small table—which comment, rather than annoying the maitre d’ or whoever he was, made him take us more seriously. Who the hell was this picky little princess? Little did he know.

Is that Gore Vidal over there?

After being cajoled into accepting the great table and ordering the required Bellinis, I looked around and saw that all the tables were small, except for one in the corner with a group of sophisticated looking folks, one of whom bore a strong resemblance to the famous writer and curmudgeon, Gore Vidal. Could be. He lived in that part of Italy, he must eat dinner, and he too, had a good table.

Looking more closely, this guy was much younger than Gore, and seemed, well, nicer. After a while, I figured out who he was: Ken Auletta, writer for The New Yorker and author of many bestselling books, including Googled: The End of the World As We Know It.

Meanwhile, I got distracted by the couple at the bar: he now had his hand down her jeans, and . . .

. . . by the elegant gentleman who sat down to our left. Obviously a regular, and possibly a real prince with a palazzo on the canal, he told the waiter, “I’ll have something light,” without looking at the menu. How cool is that? On the other hand, considering my grasp of the Italian language, he may have said, “Who the hell are these people you sat next to me?” I worried that he would be bothered by the groping going on in front of us, but my husband reminded me that the man was Italian and was undoubtedly enjoying it.

We too, ordered light, although from the menu. A little salad and some risotto. We split an entrée, even though the portions were small, and shared dessert. The bill came to $400. Which is, to this day, the most expensive meal I’ve ever had — per bite.

It was worth every penny.

The Kid Gets in The Picture

We happened to be leaving at the same time as the Auletta party, and when we got outside, they were posing for a picture. Being the helpful little thing that I am, I asked Mr A if he would like my husband to take the photo, but Ken, as I now like to call him, said no, they came with their own paparazzi (he was kidding), and that we should get in the picture (he wasn’t kidding).

Then we all walked, or strolled, to St Mark’s Piazza, which has to be the most beautiful outdoor living room on the planet, and on the way, the woman who turned out to be Ken’s agent asked me if I was the Countess De Something Or Other.

I didn’t really hear the name, having been shocked speechless by the question—literally, because I knew that once I opened my mouth she’d know I was no Italian countess.

Miraculously, I managed to pull out something from deep within my would-be royal gut and without pausing, I said, “If you wish.“

I Should Have Said . . . Exactly What I Said!

If you wish: so tantalizing, so vague, so not exactly a lie. For me, that answer wiped out all the “I should have saids” on countless, rather than countess, occasions. On several continents.

We all said goodbye at the Piazza, air kisses and all, and my husband and I returned to the hotel, having gone to the famous Harry’s Bar, having been made royalty by Ken Auletta’s agent, and having been in a photo with him that must still exist somewhere in the universe. I only wish I knew the name of the royal personage I was mistaken for so I could look her up and see who I almost was.

But what the hell, you can’t have everything.
Even when you’re a countess.

After working as writer, editor, and publisher for many years, I formed my own company in 1984, optimistically naming it Mega Books. When I retired, I started a blog called I Can’t Believe I’m Not Bitter, and now do everything I can to stay that way, including joining the IRP.
Visit the blog at: http://i-cant-believe-im-not-bitter.com/

Entering Opera

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by Sonya Friedman

By the late ‘70s, I was well known for my subtitles for foreign films, mainly French* and Italian**, but also other languages, even Czech.*** So John Goberman, the producer of the tv music series “Live From Lincoln Center,” called me with what he thought was a normal request: “I’m doing an opera, live on TV, and want subtitles for it.”

I gulped. “How does one do titles for a LIVE opera?”.

“Oh,” he said. There was a long pause. “I thought you would know.”

“Ok,” I said, “let’s have lunch, bring your tech people, and we’ll figure it out.”

For subtitles for film you indicated the start and end points of each title by giving the lab the exact footage – i.e., 135 feet, 3 frames (these days, indicating digital time codes). But for a live performance? I had no idea.

I met with John and his team, then decided that after seeing the opera, I’d listen to it multiple times on tape while following the Italian libretto (for “Il Barbiere di Siviglia”). Then I’d sit in on the tv rehearsals to get familiar with the timing of the singing as well as with the camera shots.

My titles would be typed into a chyron – the same device that projects tv texts onscreen: names and scores for football games, for other sports events and for concerts. I would call up each title by pressing an “on” and “off” button, hopefully in synch with the singing. But I also wanted to avoid having a title go over a camera cut (a switch from one camera, one “take,” to another), because that makes the title seem to jiggle on screen. So I got a copy of the libretto that indicated every camera shot: which camera would be “on” and what it would show: i.e., camera 1, close up of Rosina; camera 4, full shot of stage; camera 3, close up of Figaro, and so on.

Timing my titles by following the camera shots, I could avoid having a line that I wrote for Rosina appearing over the face of Figaro, who was also singing at that time, now on camera.

So far nobody knew how this would work. Including me. Then the PBS executive who was enthusiastic about John’s novel experiment in presenting live opera subtitles to the tv audience, had a suggestion. The last camera rehearsal would include my rehearsing the titles, “calling” them, hopefully in synch with the singers and the camera shots.  That rehearsal was a life-saver. First of all, we learned that it could be done, and looked pretty good. Secondly, it calmed everyone’s nerves.

On broadcast night, we produced the first live tv opera with subtitles. But nobody outside the tv crew saw them. PBS was worried that we’d screw up, that the experiment would be a disaster. So that telecast did not include subtitles. PBS had arranged for me to fix the titles afterwards in the tv studio; the titles would then be added on the rebroadcast. John called me soon after to say the titles were ok; they looked fine! No need for this big fix. And sure enough, the rebroadcast went on with English titles for “The Barber of Seville,” a splendid New York City Opera production by superstar Sarah Caldwell (stage director and conductor) with the wildly popular diva Beverly Sills.

There was a big viewing audience. And then the letters poured in, thousands of them. People appreciated having subtitles, adored them, wanted them for all future opera broadcasts. PBS got the message. For our next televised opera, “Manon,” PBS widely advertised in print and on radio and tv: “You can follow the story because, for the first time ever in a live telecast, there will be subtitles on the screen.” The telecasts were the subject of a major editorial column in the New York Times, praising the introduction of opera subtitles, and my work.

I had entered the world of opera.

*French: Godard’s “Weekend,” and films by Truffaut, Clouzot, and others.
**Italian: films by De Sica, Rossellini, Fellini, Petri, Monicelli, Bolognini, and others
***Czech: Milos Forman’s “Black Peter” and “Loves of a Blonde”

In the 50’s, MGM had an enormous distribution of its films worldwide. To accommodate viewers in foreign languages, their NY office trained a couple writers in the craft of writing subtitles, narration, and dialogue. I was one of those lucky trainees, and went on to a career subtitling many foreign films by leading and upcoming directors. I am interviewed about my career in this video: https://vimeo.com/93793577

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Rossellini and Masaccio

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by Sonya Friedman

So there was Roberto Rossellini in 1973, inside Santa Maria Novella in Florence, Italy, having a full-blooded choleric fit. Before him, Masaccio’s ground-breaking portrait of Christ on the cross. Around him, a blizzard of 35mm equipment: camera, lights, crew and a dolly with a special focus-pulling device on which RR delighted in wheeling around, operating it himself during shooting. Missing? The actor who was to play a priest railing against Masaccio for portraying Christ not as the radiant Son of God but as a wretched, almost naked man dying of torture. With Masaccio’s startling foreshortened perspective.

To play the priest, RR had chosen a Dutch tour guide, not an actor at all. At this point in RR’s long career, he preferred to cast the man-on-the-street – those he found to have “authentic” faces. Although the dialogue had been written in English (the reason I was there as dialogue writer), many of the “faces” couldn’t speak English. In fact, the “authentic” lordly Prince of the Medici, was really a taxi driver, an Italian-only speaker. A disaster. The non-English speaking actors were frantically moving their lips, in order to be dubbed later – babbling numbers, “trent-otto, cinquanta tre, venti quattro….”

The Dutch guide, however, did speak excellent English. But where was he? Nowhere. As time clicked by, minute by expensive minute, RR’s blood pressure clicked upwards, bloated vessel by vessel. What to do? How to avoid the sudden death – right before my eyes! – of one of Italy’s most beloved and innovator directors?

“Roberto,” I suddenly said, “why not change the priest to a nun? And why not have me play her? I know the lines. I wrote them. And I’m here.” RR’s tense, agitated features relaxed into a wide smile. “Mia ebrea atea!” (My Hebrew atheist!)

He called loudly, gestured widely, crew members hurried, nuns arrived. I was ushered into a large room, walls and ceilings of dark wood, low lights. The nuns, some serious, others giggling, brought out a nun’s habit, removed my profane clothing, and dressed me saintly, hood to foot. I was ushered back into the holy cathedral. RR was already stationed on his focus-pulling apparatus; camera, lights and mikes were ready.

“Azione” was called, and I went into my angry spiel, shaking a furious fist at the offending painting. Afterwards, I could tell by the crew’s reaction that I’d done well. A year later, when I saw the final film in a Manhattan movie theater, the sight of myself as a Catholic nun was quite startling, as well as the fact that I’d been dubbed, still in English, by a more practiced actress’s voice.

I was a Fulbright student at Italy’s State Film School (Il Centro Sperimentale di Cinematografia) and then worked in the U.S. as a documentary filmmaker, and a sub-titler of foreign films – which is how I met Roberto Rossellini. He had been criticized for his less than-accurate dubbing. And even though he complained, “We Italians look at the eyes; you Americans watch the mouths?” – still, he hired me to write English dialogue for his new docu-fiction trilogy “The Age of the Medici.”

Dying and Remembering

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by Joy Schulman

After my 50-year anniversary high school reunion, I was exhilarated and full of emotion, as was the rest of the organizing committee, which I headed. Through our conscientiousness and hard work, we had succeeded in getting out a representative portion of our class. As the class was 50 years ago, our attendance was equally divided between African-American and Jewish classmates. The valedictorian and salutatorian were both there, as well as the cheerleaders and best dancers. And to everyone’s delight, the basketball players showed up! That basketball team, those very tall Black men, had been named the best team in the country in 1967, and had gone on to play in college and professionally. We were all very happy to see each other. The dancing and socializing went on for nearly five hours. The night before, at was originally a gathering for out-of-towners, nearly 50 people showed up. And on Sunday morning over brunch, a classmate of our own, a well-known historian, talked about Jews and Blacks in Newark’s civil rights movement.

Out of a graduating class of 480 students, 160 attended, about one third. But the percentage was actually much higher because 59 of our fellow students had died.

There was only one dead student that I had known well–Tom Flagg–and he had been a very important friend to me. I met him in Honors English when I was a sophomore. We were both odd people out—-me because I came from one of the poorer schools that fed into Weequahic High and Tom because he was Black, even though he came from a richer school. We bonded very quickly and he would mouth snide comments to me from across the room. He was very smart and very athletic, seemingly the personality traits for being outgoing and confident, but he was very reserved. I got to know why: his parents, who both had PhDs, were trailblazers. His mother was the first Black person to become principal of an integrated school in Newark, and ultimately became Assistant Superintendent. Of course they wanted their children to go to the best elementary school in Newark, and so before he went to kindergarten, some white civil rights activists bought them a house on an all white block that was zoned for that best school. Until his younger sister enrolled 2 years later, he was the only Black student, and though he did not need guards at the door, he went through some awful stuff that he learned to endure and ignore by being reserved. My friendship with Tommy extended past high school. In our 20s, when I was home from Wisconsin and he from Michigan, we went into NYC together. (I remember it was to see a Woody Allen film.) And I spoke to him on the phone around 15 years ago, when I read that his mother was giving a keynote speech at the main branch of the Newark Public library. But that was the last time; the geographical distance between us was too great.

The alumni association of my high school has a weekly newsletter that I read irregularly. Two years ago they reported Tom dead, but I had not seen it. An old friend, who had read it, called me to offer condolences because she knew I was close to Tom. Instead she shocked me.

I really had no one to commiserate with and felt terrible. I wrote a little note on his legacy page, and I also wrote on the Facebook page of my high school classmates. About 20 people responded about what a nice kid he was. But their intensity did not match mine. Besides just liking him, I learned so much from his life experience. He was very smart, very respectful, but he had heard slurs even in elementary school. White people acted nervous when they were on an elevator with him. During the 1967 riots in Newark, he was stopped numerous times by the National Guard. I think that the racism was so stark because he fit no negative stereotype. When we were graduating in 1967, 43 colleges tried to recruit him, including the Ivy Leagues. He decided on University of Michigan, saying he did not want to be in an Ivy League fish bowl. His first letter to me from there had these words. “I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere, either with the poor Black kids from Detroit or the rich white kids from the suburbs.” That was the constant of his life. Without having anyone to grieve with, Tom’s death receded to the back of my mind.

Then about 6 months after his death, his sister contacted me. Though I did not know her at all, I was so happy to hear from her. The first line of her email was “you might not remember me, but I remember you” and an offering to send me Tom’s obituary. In response I poured out my heart to her, and we became email friends. We finally met for lunch in Newark. Afterwards, she drove us to the old neighborhood, where we dwelled on every corner and remembered the classmates that used to live there.

Their well known mother was still living at age 99. But she died a few months after I met up with Tom’s sister. Her funeral service was quite a send off—-a declaration from Newark’s mayor, Ras Baraka, the attendance of past mayors and city officials, as well as many of the children of those progressive parents who had conspired to buy the Flaggs a house on that formerly all white block. The Black congregants in the beautiful old Church in Newark sang familiar spirituals.

Alma Flagg was laid to rest, and so was my mind. I forgave myself for not seeing Tom in the years before his death.

Growing up in Newark influenced by whole life. I have been involved in progressive politics, with an emphasis on anti-racist work for my whole adult life, and professionally have been an advocate as a lawyer, community organizer and union representative.

The Black Truck

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by Eric Roper

1955: Molly’s Diner and Truck Stop – six miles from Ames, Iowa

Six men gather for their regular morning “confab” about chores on the farm.

“I saw that Riley’s dealership has a lineup of the new Ford trucks,” one observed. “He has green one, a kinda yellow one, one bluish and two black.”

“Don’t know why those black ones came in,” interjected another. “Lots of people in this town are superstitious about black trucks. Reminds me of a hearse. Especially with those two guys who died last week; crushed in a heavy baling machine. Wives almost had to share a hearse ‘cus of the damn economy.”

1990: Somewhere on Main Street – Stockbridge, Mass.

I’m headed back from Albany and spot a black ’55 Ford F100 with whitewall tires outside a small garage with a sign: “All stock / runs good / prized to sel / inquires within.” I’m thinking: “Maybe a vehicle for local stuff – take the wife and kids around town in a parade or two.”

Now, I’m kind of conservative. But occasionally I follow my impulses into something curious and unusual.

Go inside and this dude is wearing an engineer’s cape, coveralls and penny loafers – don’t get that last part, but what the hell. “Howdy,” I tell him. “Seen that truck sign – what’re you asking?”

“Got to get $2,500. All U.S. big ones on the cracker barrel.” Odd expression. Maybe he means barrelhead? “Take her for a drive – if ‘yer interested but not outa sight.”

I go, “OK” and do just that. It’s “three on the tree” – trucker for gears on steering column – which took some getting used to. I fiddled with the AM tube radio, first one I’ve seen in several decades.

Mostly I’m doin’ circles around his lot. But in my head, I’m seeing a small town parade. Maybe the truck is up front. Kids waving flags. The din of a band somewhere. Summer sun.

So I make a deal.

2018: Kent, Ct.

I’m sitting in the village, having my “sledgehammer – decaf” combo, reading the local rag. The most fun part is looking for things like impeachment with two e’s or Trump with a “q” at the end.

Town’s kind of a biker stop and three dudes – all leathered up – ask if my table’s free.

“Sure – them seat’s yours.” I hate heavy biker talk. Non-stop about exhaust pipes, saddle bags, Harleys vs. God-knows-what – you know the type. One dude’s talking about college stuff and says his only kid who made out decent was the one that could always find Waldo growing up.

My thing about conversation is to compliment people on tattoos –which, personally, I hate. But it never fails to stir some discussion. Since these dudes are all leather jackets and the like, instead I ask, “What’s your favorite lawn fertilizer?” Blank stares all around. So I’m figuring these dudes are all “mo, blow and go” hedgie/dentist types and don’t know fertilizer from bird seed.

Back to the rag, when I hear, “Oh My God, Oh My God – whose black truck?” I look up and there’s a heavy-set lady with big owl-type glasses.

I pipe up: “Mine.”

“Perfect for our Yankee Magazine fall cover,” she says.

“No way, I’m a Mets fan,” I tell her.

“No, it’s a country–type magazine, nothing to do with sports. Do you have a dog?”

“No – it’s lost,” I say, growing a bit tired of the situation.

“Oh My God, Oh My God,” she says. “That’s terrible, did you put up flyers and call all around?”

“No, she passed.” And then the woman started that Oh God business again.

She goes, “Well we can find a dog and just want to photograph it in the back of your truck with a picnic basket.”

I’m thinking this lady must be nuts or what.

“It will be great, a real country scene,” she said, growing excited.

“No people,” I tell her.

“Don’t need them.”

An empty truck, picnic basket, dog and no people don’t add up to any picnic I ever heard of. Just makes no sense. Plus, I still hate the Yankees!

 

Eric R. Roper is a lifetime learner, avid reader and lover of old trucks, particularly the one pictured above which had been his regular weekend buddy for almost 20 years.

A Matched Pair

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by Ira Rubin

My mother can only be described in bold, upper case type. Her friends called her Diamond Lil, a reversal of her first and last names, because she resembled that flamboyant Mae West character. She was what they used to call a “bombshell,” with long legs and the voluptuous figure of a pin-up girl. Her hair was dyed a vivid red and she had a smile so overpowering it obscured the rest of her face, like the Cheshire Cat in Alice In Wonderland.

You always knew when my mother was in the room; she would have been offended if you didn’t. Her raucous laugh, too loud voice and gregarious personality demanded immediate attention. “Off stage” she was a different person, less concerned with how she looked and mostly interested in her women friends. As she put it, “girlfriends are forever.”

My father, Sol, had the characteristic gut of a former high school football player, but the first thing you’d probably notice was his warm smile and open face. Charming Sol was your friend the moment you met him, and just being in his company was an instant remedy for most worries or anxieties. I never saw him unhappy for more than a short time, perhaps because he made few demands on life, content as long as he had my mother and friends nearby, good food and a book or crossword puzzle.

Most memories of my father are not about experiences we shared – I wish more were – but about things I saw him do or heard him say. For example, once he picked me up at the airport. We hadn’t seen each other for three months, and as we were walking to the exit, he said, “You haven’t noticed how much weight I lost.” Before I could answer, a stranger behind us who must have overheard, shouted, “Hey, you look like you lost a lot of weight.” Without a second’s pause, my dad turned around and shot back, “Sure, I knew I could depend on you to notice.”

My brother and I agreed my parents were like opposite poles of a magnet, strongly attracted by their differences. My mother was insecure and needed unwavering support, my father needed to be needed. It was unimaginable that anything could break them apart, though that certainty was tested on Valentine’s Day in 1960.

My father, brother Ray and I were hanging out in my parents’ bedroom. My father was lying on the bed writing on a piece of paper as Ray and I watched television, when my mother barged through the door and made a request of my father that led to an argument.

“Sol, I need you to drive me to the beauty parlor.”

My father glanced up from his writing. “I’m sorry, Lil, I have to finish writing this.”

“What can be so important that you can’t take a few minutes to drive me?”

“What’s the big deal; it’s only a ten minute walk?”

“Everything is too much for you, Sol! Why can’t you just do it because I asked you to?”

The phone next to my father rang and he reached over to pick it up. His beaming smile told us the caller was his life-long best friend, Jack. After he hung up my father told us he had to leave immediately to give Jack a ride to New Jersey.

My mother exploded. “I don’t believe this! You can’t take a few minutes to drive me to the beauty parlor, but you’re going to take Jack to Jersey. That’s at least an hour’s trip each way. Why should I be surprised! That’s how it always is. I have to plead with you to do something for me, but let Jack ask and you jump.”

“Enough, Lil. I’m going as soon as I finish writing this”.

“That’s it,” my mom screamed. “I can’t believe I married such a selfish jerk! I’m leaving you. Lots of men will thank their lucky stars for a chance with me.”

I stared in panic as she marched to the closet, pulled out a small suitcase and started packing.

“Dad, do something,” I called out in alarm.

My father watched, a bemused expression on his face, but said nothing, while my mother slammed the suitcase shut and stormed out.

“Dad, why didn’t you try to stop her?” Ray cried.

“Relax Ray. You don’t know your mother like I do.”

My brother and I tried to convince him to go after her, but he ignored us and went back to his writing. No one spoke again for the next few minutes. The silence was oppressive. I could feel the room shrinking and had an irresistible urge to chase after my mother. Before I could get up, my mother came bursting into the room.

“You don’t how lucky you are, Sol. I just missed the bus. A minute sooner I’d be gone.”

My father winked at Ray and me.

“Well, I’m glad of that, Lil; I was really worried.”

They stared at each other in silence. Then as if on cue, they both broke out in laughter.

“Yeah, I guess that did sound a little lame,” my mother said. “What are you writing that’s so important you have no time for me?”

“It’s a Valentine’s Day card for you, Lil. I couldn’t find one that said what I wanted, so I wrote my own. Here, I’ll read it to you.”

….And if I didn’t love you–
…………Would your smile be as sweet
…………Your manner as charming
…………Your arms my retreat
…………And your lips just as warming?
….And if you didn’t love me–
…………Would I treasure each day
…………Without rhyme–without reason
…………Would each month be May
…………And spring every season?
….If we didn’t love each other–
…………It’s drunk I must be
…………Such ridiculous chatter
…………If our love wouldn’t be
…………Then what else would matter?

My mother framed the poem and hung it near the apartment’s front door, where it was the first thing you’d see on entering.

Even death could not break their bond to each other. The gravestone spanning their resting place is inscribed with the words, “If our love wouldn’t be, then what else would matter?” To which I would add, “Sparkle forever, Mom; watch over her, Dad.”

Ira Rubin is delighted to be an active member of IRP since 2017. He was trained in and taught social psychology before changing careers to work as an evaluation specialist in NYC government. He developed his writing skills in Toastmasters, a public speaking organization, and in continuing education courses at NYU and The New School.

Gulliver’s Travels: An Urban Fable

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by Judith Meyerowitz

Gulliver uncurled from sleep twitching, sensing this would finally be the day. He took his time to go through careful preparations: first having a bath, methodically washing every nook and cranny of his lean and muscular body. Then he did the same stretches he did every morning.  Lastly, he drank a bowl of cold milk to give himself the energy he would need.

Gulliver had often looked out the window at the world below, but everything was so small. He had to get closer. From an early age, he was known to be extremely curious. It came naturally to him, as much a part of him as his breathing. He was sorry. He couldn’t wait to say goodbye. He was too excited about setting off on his travels. As soon as the door opened for the delivery guy, he executed his plan to slip out. He was fast, very fast and had surprise on his side. It worked! He was on the other side of the door for the very first time. And ran, and ran—smack into a wall. In fact, all he saw were walls, every which way he turned. Then he couldn’t believe his eyes— one of the walls separated right in front of him, like magic. He was scared, but his curiosity got the better of him. He stepped into what looked like a box, but in a few seconds, he felt himself falling. Was he going to have to use one of his nine lives?  Suddenly, the box came to a stop and the walls separated once more.

He ran as fast as he could again but he found himself caught between glass and feet and going in circles. Suddenly, he was propelled out of the revolving door onto the street and it took him a little while to come to his senses. He was met by a parade of marching feet. He barely escaped in time by jumping off funny little stone ledges. Surprisingly, they were his height and magically they seemed to keep the marching feet in line.

Thinking he was safe, he didn’t see the metal monster with wheels bearing down upon him; Gulliver is paralyzed. In the nick of time, he was shoved and grabbed by the scruff of the neck, roughly pushed out of the way. A very skinny, black furry thing yells: “Stupid! Get out of the way! Hasn’t anybody taught you to cross the street?” “Wha…Wha…What is a street?” asks a shaking still terrified Gulliver.

“Were you born yesterday?” the furry thing says gruffly. He doesn’t know that Gulliver has never been out of the apartment nor spoken to a furry thing. “A quick survival lesson for the streets: always dodge moving monsters and hide behind not moving ones. Zig and Zag. Got it!”

All Gulliver can do is gulp and say, “Thanks!”

“C’mon! Follow me. There’s still time for lunch.” Everyday at noon a lady left some scraps a few blocks away. It wasn’t the sumptuous feast of milk and tuna Gulliver had at home, but his travels had made him hungry. He understood now why he could see the bones on his new friend. They were in luck. After eating, he showed Gulliver a slab of concrete on which to stretch out and nap in the sun. Later, the street wise cat had some parting words: “Remember, always land on your feet!”

Gulliver had learned that travels come with risk. He had terrifying moments but also new exciting experiences. This couldn’t have happened had he played it safe looking down from his window. And he wouldn’t have made a friend. He zigged and zagged and made it back through the magical revolving door and walls that separated. He dodged the feet of the delivery guy, and quickly slipped back into the apartment unnoticed, as the door closed behind him.

Gulliver climbed up on the window seat and thought of his adventure. He had a Cheshire smile on his face.

Judith Meyerowitz is a licensed psychologist. She currently volunteers as a disaster mental health counselor for the American Red Cross and as a docent for The Metropolitan Museum of Art. This piece was developed in the Spring 2018 writing workshop and is in memory of our classmate Joanna Anderson.

Theodora

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by Judith Meyerowitz

It is 1926 and in a week Theodora, or Dora as she was known to her friends, would be 25, nearly as old as the century.

Every night, her circus act could be seen under the tent in Coney Island. She had been doing the show now for seven years! The crowds began to grow when the subway station was completed in 1920.

Dora took pride in being a modern young woman, living in the most exciting times in New York. She had just had her hair bobbed, as was all the rage. It was important for her to be in style. She had a plan for making this birthday trend setting. She led a life of risk-taking, making a living engaging in daredevil stunts such as being shot out of a cannon. She drew inspiration from the daring of the presidential namesake her parents had greatly admired. She wanted to live up to their dreams for her. Like TR, Dora was short in stature, a plus in her line of work, but full of spirit and heart. Standing within a few feet of her you could feel the electricity. Dora’s eyes burnt with an intensity which mesmerized people.

She lived as large as the roaring decade. Nights were spent in Harlem at the jazz clubs and the New York Theater on W.125th or in the speakeasies downtown. She could be seen in her sleeveless, sleek fitting, silver lame tasseled gown, with requisite matching neckband and headband with feathers. Dora enjoyed being out in the cabaret world, especially when she was recognized. She was not averse to sipping bootleg green absinthe in smoke filled private booths with heavy red velvet drapery.

She loved to go out dancing and even entered some of the dance marathons. She caught Houdini’s act as often as she could. Dora didn’t know what to make of the irony of his recent death from appendicitis after all the high risk moments that he had survived.  She thought of herself, too, as an escape artist, for those seconds of flight, freed from the ties to earth. However, when she came hurtling down physically, she crashed emotionally as well. Dora shook it off and thought of her next performance. She also had her gang, a group of friends with whom she partied all night after the show.

Dora lived in a time of outrageous activities. She watched newsreels of New Yorker Alvin Kelly sitting on a pole in Hollywood for 13 hours and 13 minutes. She chuckled to herself, “An act like that would be hard to top.” During her death-defying feat, the audience watched and gasped to see fuchsia silk shorts whizz by as she arced over their heads, shot from a cannon.

What did Dora see? As she flew through the air, she saw a blurred snapshot of the Speigeltent that was crafted in Belgium and brought to the Brooklyn amusement park. Then she saw nothingness. The beige of the canvas was softly out of focus and her dream state began. She knew what was to come—colors a kaleidoscope of stained glass, with hard edges, frighteningly distorted by speed. Lastly, those mirrors, everywhere, surrounding her, upturned faces watching, reflected tens of thousands of times. She thought, “In the unspoken silence did they wait for failure or triumph?” Dora awoke from the recurring dreamlike state when she hit the safety net. But seeing the sawdust covered, hard ground rise up, did not erase those thoughts.

Over the roar of the crowd, she thought back to the beginning. Dora was born into the life of a circus performer. Her parents were renowned aerialists. The crowds came to see them defy the limits, to balance on each other and on the bicycle, which trembled on the wire. Without a safety net! Two years ago, she looked up and watched them fall off the wire out of the night sky.

She could hear her heart pounding, keeping rhythm with the drumming below. Although she had done this act countless times, she never stopped seeking the attention, lights, rhythmic clapping from the audience below. She could feel their eyes upon her. She also imagined her parents’ eyes upon her. On that energy she flew, that sensation lasting mere seconds, thrilled her and carried her to a wished for reunion with her parents and living up to her daring name.

Now she needed another attention grabbing feat which would set apart her twenty-fifth birthday. She had just the place in mind. It is one which will take her from the inside familiarity of the cannon to an entirely different, more open setting and will push her death defying behavior to the limit.  In ways she didn’t understand, each night Dora revisited and overcame her parents’ early deaths. She carried the burden of keeping the family name in lights. These needs underlined Dora’s intensity. She was driven to raise the ante.

The day of her birthday, Dora travels early in the morning north from New York City by train and then transfers to a boat. It is summer, but she is surprised by the strength of the wind and coldness of the mist that hits her in the face, as she approaches the drop-off point. She is soaked even before the stunt begins. Her assistants help her to enter the enclosure. It is reminiscent of the inside of the cannon but her thoughts race ahead to the wild fury of the pouring water. This will be the last image that she sees as the barrel lid is closed and the ropes holding it are freed. More rapidly than anything could have prepared her for, but more slowly than her screaming mind can stand, she is crashing to the bottom of Niagara Falls. On her twenty-fifth birthday, Dora has become the youngest person to go over the Falls in a barrel and survive!

Judith Meyerowitz is a licensed psychologist. She currently volunteers as a disaster mental health counselor for the American Red Cross and as a docent for The Metropolitan Museum of Art. This piece was developed in the Spring 2018 writing workshop and is in memory of our classmate Joanna Anderson.