I am not referring by this title to the Queen song, but rather one of the many stories my father wrote in his retirement, mostly. The one that follows was written in the 1990s, and to me, it reflects the area we both lived in then from a personal and historical point of view. Lots has changed in the Fairfax District of Los Angeles, and not all of it for the better. This story was well before the hip kids who overtook the traditional vegetable and bakery stores, and the family oriented Orthodox Jews, with sneaker pop ups, and the like, exhaling their weed smoke--as smoking is perfectly fine as long as it isn't tobacco. I realize how much I have inherited my father's cynicism, although it is less that I have become cynical I think than that the society has derailed in the 18 years since my father's death. He predicted it and while I believed him, I did not think it was coming in my lifetime. He did.
Things were starting to deteriorate when Dad wrote this short one and the one that will follow in another entry, hopefully today.
Do You Want to Live Forever?
The 217 bus, going south, stops at Beverly Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue. It is a sorry example of city transport, despite the protestations of the LA City Council. It is infrequent in its arrivals, unsupervised so that schedules are meaningless, graffiti emblazoned with shattered looking windows, and characteried by the odor of stale urine wafting from the well of the rear exit. Neverthelss, it never lacks for riders, usually the aged and the infirm and uncharacterizable individuals.
Inevitably, take today for example, three fully loaded buses ignore our stop to a chorus of vituperataion. A voice speaks to me in Yiddish.
"Do you speak Yiddish?"
"A bissel," I reply. My linguistic ability is a residual of my Bronx heritage.
He then proceeds to speak to me in English now that he has probed to establish my ethnicity.
"The month is my birthday," he says.
"Mazeltov," I reply continuing the imposture.
"I am seventy-seven this month."
I shake my head in acknowledgement. In my head I compute the difference in our ages, only three months.
He continues as if he needs no response.
"I have a cancer," he says blithely, "but it's out the doctor says. I'm cured!"
He adds the details, a prostatectomy, three years ago.
"The doctor catches it in time. How do I look?" he questions. Then, without waiting for a reply again,
"They say some people live to be one hundred and twenty; there's a woman in France I hear of. . ."
"There are stories of great longevity, some villages in Russia," I encourage.
"A lot of crap," he retorts, "they don't keep birth certificates."
I begin to wear. I suggest the testimony in the Torah of startling life spans. He ignores my reference.
"No kidding, how do I look? The doctor says if I take care of myself, I've got a long time. Some doctors are phony bastards but I believe Levenson. What do you think? How old do I look if you have to estiate in years. Ok how many do you say?"
"Conservatively," I lie, "a minimum of thirty."
His expression indicates he is assured. Clearly, he has asked this question many times.
The bus arrives. I decide to walk.
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