Medea

So, I frequently ride the M20 bus. It travels to most places I go.  Early one morning I was sitting near the back of the bus reading the NY Times on my phone.  Two high school boys were talking. They looked to be about 15 or 16 years old.  From their conversation I could tell they didn’t go to the same school but they were amiable and their banter was easy.  My guess is that they rode the same bus at the same time and became friendly that way.  

One of the kids was telling a story, I will call him Ethan.  I was really trying to focus on my news story but got caught up in Ethan’s story.  Which is here:

On Saturday, Ethan went to take his AP History exam.  AP means advanced placement and high schoolers take the class to earn college credit.  It’s a national test given at the same time throughout the country so that no one can share the questions.  The exam was scheduled to start at 8:00 AM.  The Proctor who seemed like Madea from Tyler Perry’s movies did not arrive until 8:45 AM.   

Madea told the students to take the student sticker and put it on the examiner spot and the examiner sticker in the student spot.  Ethan raised his hand and said that didn’t make any sense.  Madea called the Vice Principal, who agreed with Ethan.  

Madea told the students that they had 1 hour to take the exam.  Ethan raised his hand again and said they had an 1 hour 1/2.  Madea called the Vice Principal who agreed with Ethan.  Madea said, she wasn’t very good at math.  Ignoring the fact that she was late by 45 minutes.

Then as they were taking the exam Madea went up to Ethan and asked if he was a football player.  He said, no I’m not.  She asked another student if he liked football, he said not especially.  Madea’s husband is crazy about the sport.  She attempted to make conversation with the students while they were taking the exam. 

I was giggling to myself as I left the bus.  And thought, somehow people like Madea manage to live their lives and get by.  

A few days later I saw Ethan on the bus and debated whether I should say anything to him.  I did. I told him I overheard his story and it was hilarious.  He told me he sometimes performed comedy in a club but hadn’t done it in a several weeks and was rusty.  I told him to tell that story just as is.  I don’t know if he did it or not but I thought I’m going to tell this story.  Et voila.

Naughty Kids

Innocent moment

So, when I was young I was quite mischievous. My brother and I joined forces and created havoc. Sometimes he was the elder one and sometimes I was. We were good bad but we weren’t evil.

It was early morning, and it had snowed overnight. Everything was layered with clean white snow.  A neighbor drinking his early morning coffee, looked out the window.  He saw the pristine white and then noticed something moving.  He called to his wife and said, “I didn’t know Betty (my Mom) let the kids play in the snow in their pajamas.”  His wife said, “What!!!”  Obviously, Betty didn’t let the kids play in the snow in their pajamas.  We had escaped.

We lived on a side street that had a fair share of traffic.  It was a snowy day and my Grandfather was babysitting us. We were probably around 5 at the time.  There was a car accident just in front of the house.  My Grandfather went outside to see what happened.  He left without a coat thinking he would be out for a few moments. My brother and I had other ideas.  We did something quite special — we locked the front door.  Grandpa came back and was a little startled when we wouldn’t let him in. He banged on the door, “Let me in Annie and Chuckie, let me in.”  We didn’t.  He knocked on the window, we waved to him. “Hi, Grandpa!”

Fortunately for Grandpa, we had a vestibule.  He stayed there for a for while and then a neighbor took him in.  

My brother did something so audacious it shocked and impressed me.  He came home one day with a new toy, a periscope.  He said, Eric, his friend had given it to him.  My Mom called Eric’s Mom to say thank you.  Eric never had a periscope.  After some investigative work, my Mom realized that Chuck had stolen the money from her wallet, crossed the busy street by himself and bought the toy. He had left the packaging on the periscope, which helped her investigation.  I was most impressed that he crossed the street by himself.  I wouldn’t have dared.

When my brother mentions something naughty that my nephew had done, I remind him that it doesn’t come close to our exploits.  Somehow we both survived and became valuable members of our communities.  

Easter Duckies

So, I coach track for fourth graders at a Catholic School.  While walking back from the park to school I asked them if they had a new Easter outfit. They looked at me as if I had two heads. Why, they asked?  I remember how I loved my Easter outfits at their age.  A new dress, hat, lacy anklets and shiny new mary janes. How fabulous Easter was!  We would dress in our finery and drive to my Grandparents house.  My Grandma would cook for days, the meal would be fabulous and then afterward we would gather around the piano and sing.  

My family did Easter well. What makes this particularly noteworthy is that we are Jewish.  We certainly didn’t go to Church.  Nor did we attend Easter Egg Hunts, something I dreamed of.  I finally threw one myself which Darth Vader attended.  I’ve written about that here, check it out when you get a moment.  

It was an American  holiday and we celebrated. Just like we celebrated Christmas, though my brother was born that day so we had an excuse. 

My father had a fondness for animals.  And they had an affinity for him. The fact that he was very allergic to every single animal did not deter him. He would bring home a plethora of animals, which I shall write about in another post. 

When I was 6 years old my father bought us ducklings for Easter.  Not chickies or even a bunny, but two little ducklings.  We didn’t have a pond, lake or river, so we kept them in the bathtub.  I don’t think the ducklings or my mother were particularly happy. 

I don’t recall how or when but suddenly they were gone. Years later I asked my father where they went. He returned them to the pet store. I can only imagine  the conversation my father had with the owner.  Father - these ducklings are defective.  They want to live their own lives and they won’t stay put. I demand a refund!  

In retrospect I’m glad that the duckies had each other in their time of torture. I like to think they found a nice new home on a farm or a park. Nothing says Easter like ducklings in the bathtub!  

Happy Easter, Everyone!  Here’s to Rebirth!  

Tracey and the Tiramisu

So, I worked in an Italian restaurant called Divino when I was quite young.  The owners Mario and Antonio, were dignified gentlemen from Northern Italy and they ran two places next door to each other.  The restaurant was elegant and the servers were men.  The cafe was a fast paced local favorite that had waitresses. I was one of them. The food was very good and the place was always packed.

Waitressing is tough. However, I look back at this time and remember all the fun we had.  They hired women that sparkled, smart, alive and presentable. We worked hard and made decent money.  It was a time when I was very creative — performing with a comedy group called Premises, Premises, singing back up, dancing, writing and going out to clubs that are now legendary.

I learned about service from these gentlemen. They weren’t interested in hearing the details of what went wrong. All they cared about was that you make it right, instantly. If it was a small matter, you would comp a desert, and up and up till, if the matter was large enough you comped the entire table. They wanted their customers taken care of and to leave happy.  

Tracey was in college when she worked at Divino. She was born and raised in Virginia, her father was a congressman.  She had dark hair, pale skin, delicate features and the bluest of blue eyes. She was lovely and lived an uptown girl life. Tracey taught me an invaluable lesson.

Tracey and I worked the Divino booth at an NYC Street fair.  We served dishes that could be prepared in bulk for a smaller price.  A woman came circling about over and over asking the price of this and the price of that. She wondered if she could be charged less for a smaller portion. I didn’t know how to handle the situation. Tracey knew. She loaded up a plate full of food and gave it to the woman at no charge.  The grateful woman walked away with food that might have fed her for a day or two.  I like to think that.

It was a long Saturday night and Tracey and I were tasked with putting the deserts away.  We had to carry them down narrow steps to the refrigerators.  We made many trips up and down.  Suddenly on the way down, I dropped a full tray of tiramisu on Tracey’s feet.  We could not stop laughing.  We made a ruckus and Antonio told us to clean it up.  We couldn’t move we were laughing so hard. Tracey said she could feel the tiramisu  between her toes, and that made us laugh even harder.  We laughed till we cried and then some.

Tracey had one eligible beaux after another.  She went to a fortune teller was told that she would meet her husband on Christmas.  She did.  She married him and had one of the most fun weddings I’ve ever been to. She now lives back in Virginia and has a successful life.

I’ll always remember Tracey’s lesson in kindness.  And the tiramisu.

Peace Corps

So, I know several people who were in the Peace Corps. My friend Jim, joined in the early 1960s, when both he and the Corps were quite young.  He was stationed in Madras (now called Chenai) in the south of India in the state of Tamil Nadu. He worked hard with the locals and they treated him kindly.  His hut was right next to the jungle.  He wouldn’t go outside at night because he never knew what he might encounter.  He eventually was bitten by something and developed a type of encephalitis and had to be taken to Germany for treatment.

I know of a woman, Lucera, who was at a crossroads in her life and didn’t know what to do, so she joined the Peace Corps.  She made it to her assigned country, took one look at the conditions she was to live in and said - no.  I believe she lasted less than 1 month. I imagine the scene to be something like Private Benjamin, “This isn’t the Peace Corps I signed up for.  Where are the palm trees and the ocean view?” 

Sam, spent his time in the Peace Corps in Senegal.  He did good work and felt enriched by the experience.  He told me the following stories:

Jeff was stationed in Uganda. His supervisor came to his small village to do a spot check. The supervisor was astonished to see that Jeff had the whole village treat him as a king, bowing to him and doing his bidding. Jeff even had the locals fanning him with great leaves.  This young man was quickly removed from his post. 

Jenn, a young woman was stationed in Uganda.  She’d been in the Corps for about a year and everything was fine.  One day the Village Elder contacted the Peace Corps and said, you must see about your person, she needs attending to.  Apparently the young woman reached a point where all she did was make doughnuts.  The doughnuts filled her hut.  When there was no more room, she placed them in great piles around her hut.  And then beyond that, until the entire land around her hut had pillars and pillars of doughnuts. She too was removed from her post.

Peace Corps certainly does a lot of good in the world.  It just seems that not everyone is cut out for it.

Brown Rice

So, eventually I moved away from 63 Carmine Street further west into the deep West Village, to a charming red brick building with a court yard.  It was more upscale, quirky with great character. It was a smaller space but finally it had grown up attributes.  It was a big step and I started to upgrade my accoutrement.  One of the many things I purchased was a complete set of pots and pans.

I decided that I would make a big pot of brown rice every Sunday to have throughout the week.  I started cooking the brown rice and then popped in a movie.  I don’t recall what movie it was but it must have been engaging.  Deep in the movie, I’m smelling some cooking and I think my neighbors must be making potatoes.  A little later I smell the cooking and think, those potatoes are getting burnt, but boy, do they smell good.  Later still, I think those potatoes must really be burnt, I like burnt potatoes.  Later still I think, I think they better get those potatoes out of the oven, they must be really burnt.  Finally, I think – Potatoes!  That’s my brown rice! 

I ran to the stove. I burnt the brown rice and the brand new pot. The pot was burnt through and through. My new pot set was now less one pot. After telling the story, my friends gave me timers. I had quite the collection. I just don’t make brown rice anymore.  I still eat it though.

Job Training at Coney Island

So, I met Khawaja when I started working for one of the Bad Bosses I mentioned in my True-ish piece by that name.  The boss who practiced real estate law and extortion.  I shall call him Steve.  Steve had a little fiefdom in a big bank.  Khawaja was his main serf.  Steve used a word processing software called MASS11, a friend was working for Steve, I had just learned MASS11 and that’s how I was hired.  MASS11 was a looming dinosaur when I learned it, but someone told me to do it, so I did.  That’s pretty much how my life played out at the time.

Khawaja (a very nice man) was Steve’s everything serf including his expert on MASS11 and how his documents needed to be formatted.  So, when I was hired I was told that I needed to be trained by Khawaja and that I would be paid for the training.  Sounded fine to me.  I was told that I would need to go to Khawaja’s home to be trained.  Okay.  Then I was told Khawaja lived in Coney Island and I needed to be there at 11AM on Saturday.  Sure, I thought, this will be an adventure.

I take the subway and arrive in Coney Island, it’s a cold grey day and the wind off the ocean goes through you and beyond. Khawaja opens the door and introduces me to his family - his wife, his 2 daughters ages 10 and 12 and a 6-year-old son. We sit in their living room making chit chat. They are very warm and welcoming. 15 minutes in, I’m taken to the office and given an easy assignment.  No problem.  After a half hour, Khawaja comes to tell me the lunch is ready.  Lunch! Not what I was expecting but I rarely turn down a free meal.

I sit down to a lavish Pakistani meal that went on and on.  The food was very good however, I was not allowed to have one helping, I had to have two, three. I am stuffed, and I’m wondering if it would be okay if I lay down on the floor for a nap. I go back to work for about an hour, and then I’m told that I’m done, and they will see me the same time next week.  Alright, this wasn’t a bad way to make money.

Next week, the same.  Perhaps the food was more extensive and the time spent working was less. The following week, even more of the same with the accent on more. During the lunch, I’m thinking I can’t keep doing this. At a certain point being forced to eat becomes abuse. After lunch, we sit in the living room and I’m shown the family picture album. Picture after picture is of his son. Where are the photos of the girls, I wonder?  Nowhere is the answer.  I believe that day I may have worked a total of 20 minutes. 

I start my job and learn that the son goes to a Hebrew school because they needed the food to be Halal and Kosher is similarly aligned.  Everyone involved was fine with this.  There was only problem that came up.  The son kept exposing himself.  This was not fine with everyone.  I kept thinking about the photo album I saw - this is my son, this is my son’s weenie, this is my son…

I’m sure that Khawaja found a much better boss when Steve landed in jail.  I certainly hope so.  I also hope his son straightened himself out.