The "Myra" character in a few of my dad's stories was the alter ego of my mother. But there are many facts of the character's life history that are changed within the story. And of course, romance was not something I ever saw between them, so I cannot vouch one way or the other for the historicity of the expressions here.
Myra is not always subtle. There is a particular aura about her when she is about to make an announcement I know I will not like. Now I do not mean to suggest that she takes on an unpleasant mien on these occasions. On the contrary, she is usually at her most charming and accommodating self, at which point, my radar signals danger.
There was, on this occasion, the martini glass frosted to perfection that she filled after brushing my cheek with a pre-emptory kiss; a bottle of Chianti wine sat prominently between two very long candles on the dining table; and the air was suspiciously redolent with her scent--a favorite of mine that I had given her last Christmas.
There are many things a man learns after seven years of marriage. One of these is proper demeanor--restraint, an iron will not to express surprise one way or the other, or body movement that can be stored material for future conjugal discussions. Men remember nothing in the inevitable jousts of marriage, but women remember everything. I asked no questions and simply waited for the inevitable. It came:
"Tempest is coming to spend Christmas with us," she said, casually, after sipping her wine with an unusual display of elegance.
For those of you of adult status, I need not record here the details of our further dialogue on the matter. Suffice it to say, for purposes of this story, that Myra retained her elegant social demeanor. I did not, but she won.
The next matter was a discussion of a proper gift for Tempest, and the little time left to shop for one. Christmas was just one day ahead.
I must say that I never did understand the relationship between Myra and Tempest. They were roommates at the University. This was a period of a natural succession of their childhood friendship, and their elementary and high school period of bonding.
Tempest was the maid of honor at our wedding. We had double dated before the wedding, and it was apparent that there was a kind of Damon and Pythias friendship between them.
The last time I saw Tempest was at my wedding. She was lovely, assured, and aggressive.
Certainly she demonstrated the last with her comment and subsequent action.
"Everyone wants to kiss the bride," she exclaimed loudly, "but I've decided to kiss the groom."
This she did, and I recall that it was efficiently done and slightly more than friendly.
Myra did not mention the event until perhaps three years later. I do not recall the words or the reason for the recollection. It seems, as Myra remembered it, that I had invited the act.
"Well," she said, " you certainly seemed to be enjoying it."
The distaff mind is a labyrinth best left unexplored.
I do not wish to be casual about my wife's relationships. Myra was adopted at birth. She an find, therefore, rejection in a glance.
Over the past seven years, there had been desultory responses from Tempest to the many letters Myra wrote. She could not understand the silence, the casual rejection.
"We were so close, like sisters. I don't understand," she confided to me, many times.
"But Myra," I would say, "She's been ministering to three husbands. This calls for full attention."
Myra did not care for my levity. She cried.
There was great joy when she received a call from the East Coast. She and Tempest were on the phone for several hours. I do not know the substance of this conversation, but it was a great catharsis. Myra was happy and reassured. She did not explain. I did not ask. Nor did she tell me that it was at this time the invitation for Christmas was engendered.
"Is she coming with one of her husbands," I asked.
"She's coming alone, wise guy, and we have no time to buy her a gift."
"Let's take her out for a fancy, dress-up dinner," I said.
Myra cried. There is no proper male response to tears.
"What about something of yours," I said, "a bottle of that French perfume. Perhaps that cameo with the silver neck chain I bought and you didn't like?"
"Great!" she exclaimed. "I have the original box and we can wrap it up for Christmas." She giggled like a delighted child.
Tempest got her gift and the fancy dinner. I must remark here that seven years and three husbands had little if any erosive effect on the allure she exuded at my wedding. The cameo was a perfect adjunct to her evening gown.
Myra said she still did not like it. "It was your idea," she reminded me quietly. There was no logic in the statement. At least to me.
I knew, however, that I would hear of the matter again, perhaps in a year or two.
Saturday, March 25, 2017
Friday, March 24, 2017
Paul Bynum: Still Thinking of Him Thirty Years Later
I had been at the State Bar of California as an attorney for just under two years when one morning, I heard that an investigator, whom I didn't know very well, but liked very much, had committed suicide, leaving behind a wife and a young child. It's only in recent years that you can look up his name and find some information on him, and what happened to him. Before he was an investigator at the State Bar, he had been a Detective at the Hermosa Beach Police Department. He had worked on high profile cases, and, as I understand it, after he was separated from the Department, he worked with a lawyer on the infamous McMartin cases. He was scheduled to testify before the jury in the case at the time he allegedly committed suicide. There were people who believed it wasn't suicide but murder, related to the high profile case. I have been paring down, slowly but surely of late, and I ran across this journal entry I wrote at the time of his death.
December 10, 1987
If I had known Paul Bynum better, other than as a friendly face whom I passed in the hall or rode up in the elevator with in the mornings or afternoon, I think I would have been emotionally incapacitated when I learned last night he killed himself.
He sort of stood out, because he looked so natural in his usually white shirt, rolled up sleeves and no matter what time of the day it was, early morning or late afternoon, his tie would usually be a little loosened.
He looked like a man hard at work, in the middle of some investigatory revelation. He was a former cop, like half of the investigators in our office.
Something was so horrible in his life, something which none of us yet knew, that he felt he had to shoot himself, leaving behind a wife and an 18 month old child.
I wanted to know if he left a note, something, some indication of what it was so compelling him to his death, or impelling him.
It won't be any less of a waste if I know, but at least maybe knowing why makes it all seem a little less random.
People die all the time, and there was something odd about the sense tonight, as I was driving home, that he had been here yesterday, all day. Then today it was as as if he never existed.
Fear, sympathy, confusion, questioning, anger, sadness. You feel all of these.
God, he felt so forsaken and he couldn't hang on. I'm tempted to ask where You were. You might say to me, "It was his choice. Paul had the choice to keep the gift or throw it away." But, Lord, what if his mind was clouded? I have known a clouded mind. One of the inexplicable things. We ask "why?". We cannot accept it And we try to wait patiently for explanation and rescue.
Paul is no different from the rest of us, and that is what is alarming. For now, we are left with, "Why did that man kill himself?" and pray that God will take care of him, that he was not forsaken, whatever the appearance.
He is not here anymore. All the cases that he handled, all the obsessing that he did over those things, for naught.
"What is truly important," said the Little Prince, "is invisible to the eye." I hope that Paul had a glimpse of the truly important. I hope that I avoid in my life the drastic choice that Paul made.
Lord, I suspect that Paul went through a great deal of agony. Look upon that agony as something which rendered him unable to think clearly. He fell. The Cross he bore was too heavy. Your Son died for him, for Paul who could not find you in his moment of despair. Protect him now, all things are possible with You.
I pray I do not forget Paul Bynum.
December 10, 1987
If I had known Paul Bynum better, other than as a friendly face whom I passed in the hall or rode up in the elevator with in the mornings or afternoon, I think I would have been emotionally incapacitated when I learned last night he killed himself.
He sort of stood out, because he looked so natural in his usually white shirt, rolled up sleeves and no matter what time of the day it was, early morning or late afternoon, his tie would usually be a little loosened.
He looked like a man hard at work, in the middle of some investigatory revelation. He was a former cop, like half of the investigators in our office.
Something was so horrible in his life, something which none of us yet knew, that he felt he had to shoot himself, leaving behind a wife and an 18 month old child.
I wanted to know if he left a note, something, some indication of what it was so compelling him to his death, or impelling him.
It won't be any less of a waste if I know, but at least maybe knowing why makes it all seem a little less random.
People die all the time, and there was something odd about the sense tonight, as I was driving home, that he had been here yesterday, all day. Then today it was as as if he never existed.
Fear, sympathy, confusion, questioning, anger, sadness. You feel all of these.
God, he felt so forsaken and he couldn't hang on. I'm tempted to ask where You were. You might say to me, "It was his choice. Paul had the choice to keep the gift or throw it away." But, Lord, what if his mind was clouded? I have known a clouded mind. One of the inexplicable things. We ask "why?". We cannot accept it And we try to wait patiently for explanation and rescue.
Paul is no different from the rest of us, and that is what is alarming. For now, we are left with, "Why did that man kill himself?" and pray that God will take care of him, that he was not forsaken, whatever the appearance.
He is not here anymore. All the cases that he handled, all the obsessing that he did over those things, for naught.
"What is truly important," said the Little Prince, "is invisible to the eye." I hope that Paul had a glimpse of the truly important. I hope that I avoid in my life the drastic choice that Paul made.
Lord, I suspect that Paul went through a great deal of agony. Look upon that agony as something which rendered him unable to think clearly. He fell. The Cross he bore was too heavy. Your Son died for him, for Paul who could not find you in his moment of despair. Protect him now, all things are possible with You.
I pray I do not forget Paul Bynum.
Thursday, March 23, 2017
Tuesday, March 21, 2017
First Kisses
At least one character in this short tale did exist; the other, Dorothy is a composite, a bit of my mother (though the time frame is long before my father met my mother) and who knows who else. The other aspect I like about this story is its reference to the 40s, the Astor Roof and Frankie, who made all the girls swoon.
There was little one could do to control the peregrinations of the spinning bottle. I could only hope that when it stopped, the alignment would not be myself on one and Dorothy on the other.
Fate has a malicious way of calculating the odds against which we are pitted in life. It almost makes one a believer in predestination. Dorothy beat the percentages beyond reasonable expectations, and I would brush my lips, fleetingly, against her omnipresent pucker, and mutter imprecations against "Lady Luck".
Now, in retrospect, Dorothy was indeed the most attractive of the preteen girls of the "Spin the Bottle" and "Post Office" kissing games. Early youth seeking a bit of that legendary sinful apple.
She was tall and slim. Perhaps on the threshold of thirteen, wide spaced very black eyes contrasting wit very white skin; a flashing smile brought points of light to her eyes.
I did not see her that way, then. This is all in retrospect. Young men have no sense of beauty. Their nascent drives are guided by a kind of visual anosmia. Perhaps a good thing given the meager distribution of beauty in our species.
I might have noticed the latent charm were it not that I had an uncompromising mental block; her severe hairdo--tight wavy tresses, parted in the center exposing an over-travailed whiteness of scalp in the very center of her head, and brushed severely back as if to obliterate purposely the minuscule curls in her hair.
In those days, it was Margie who had my attention.
To be fair, I must describe her also in retrospect, which is not the way I saw her in those early days of revelations.
She was short, sandy haired, wide hipped and large breasted for her age. Yet for all this, I was smitten. I thrilled when I would hear her voice, announcing from another room that the "Postman had a letter" for me.
Margie was skilled in delivering the mail. This was no hurried peck. She would come close to me, find some need to correct an errant button on my shirt, all the time leaning tastefully against my chest with her breasts. When we kissed, her little tongue darted quickly between my unopened lips, sending newly generated waves of pleasure through my awakening body.
Still, all these kisses were of rudimentary meaning in terms of that ubiquitous question asked by teachers of English exposition, or suspicious wives; "What was your first kiss like?"
Our teen years passed quickly. Some of us had cars--usually the Model A type Ford, some with that appendage in the rear known as the "Rumble seat', parenthetically an ideal place to pursue the study of kissing and related arts.
We were a tight knit social group up to the years of ferry rides to Staten Island, and trips to the dance casinos of upstate New York. There was no serious pairing. Margie did not confine her passion to correct wayward buttons to any one male. Dorothy and I were thrown together often, by unanticipated circumstance.
Several times we spent unproductive proximity in one of the wind-blown rumble seats of the day.
I remember the year of that prom. I will not give the date, but it was a memorable event. The Astor Hotel had not been demolished. Tommy Dorsey was holding forth on the celebrated Astor Roof and an emaciated Frank Sinatra was the vocal headliner.
Margie and Dorothy had no dates for their prom. Time was passing. Dorothy was forced to settle for her brother, Paul, as her escort. Margie exerted her historic proprietary rights and I was allowed the privilege of escorting her.
Paul was an aspiring stage actor, tall, poised, sophisticated, who was scheduled for a screen test in Hollywood. He drove the car with the open rumble seat.
I was not totally surprised to find that Margie had maneuvered herself into the seat beside the driver. Fate had interposed her will, again. Dorothy and I shared the rumble seat.
Somehow I was not displeased. I had never seen Dorothy as she was on this night. She was tall, poised, confident. A simple black gown draped daringly from one shoulder, leaving the other bare. It revealed the perfection of her figure.
The center parted hairdo was gone. She had allowed her hair to grow, and the weight of the growth had removed the tight waviness. Her long black hair was unencumbered and hung with its mass covering the exposed shoulder, to the front. She had discovered her own beauty.
Margie now devoted her full attention to Paul. He had no buttons on his shirt for her to manipulate, but she found his formal black tie frequently askew and in need of correction.
Dorothy was radiant. She was enchanted with the Astor Roof Garden and clearly a fan of Frank Sinatra. We danced almost every dance together. She danced well, and abandoned herself to the rhythms, lissome and unrestrained. For a good portion of the time, we stood with most of the dancers simply swaying to the beat of the Dorsey band in front of the bandstand when Frank was singing.
I had no reluctance in being relegated to the rumble seat for the ride home. It was cold and Dorothy moved close to me. I searched for a blanket in the dark recesses of the rumble, but there was none. I placed my arm around her and drew her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, looked up, and offered her slightly parted lips upward.
We kissed, that is, she kissed me and I responded, long searching kisses such as I had never known before. I responded though with some puzzlement at her ardor. I had never shown her the attention that would merit such pleasure. Her face was white in the moonlight, her eyes closed, her lips alive and apart, through which cool halting breaths accompanied each kiss.
This was truly my first kiss, unexpected, revelatory, remembered and cherished for many years, a brief, early glimpse into that labyrinthine psyche of woman.
There was little one could do to control the peregrinations of the spinning bottle. I could only hope that when it stopped, the alignment would not be myself on one and Dorothy on the other.
Fate has a malicious way of calculating the odds against which we are pitted in life. It almost makes one a believer in predestination. Dorothy beat the percentages beyond reasonable expectations, and I would brush my lips, fleetingly, against her omnipresent pucker, and mutter imprecations against "Lady Luck".
Now, in retrospect, Dorothy was indeed the most attractive of the preteen girls of the "Spin the Bottle" and "Post Office" kissing games. Early youth seeking a bit of that legendary sinful apple.
She was tall and slim. Perhaps on the threshold of thirteen, wide spaced very black eyes contrasting wit very white skin; a flashing smile brought points of light to her eyes.
I did not see her that way, then. This is all in retrospect. Young men have no sense of beauty. Their nascent drives are guided by a kind of visual anosmia. Perhaps a good thing given the meager distribution of beauty in our species.
I might have noticed the latent charm were it not that I had an uncompromising mental block; her severe hairdo--tight wavy tresses, parted in the center exposing an over-travailed whiteness of scalp in the very center of her head, and brushed severely back as if to obliterate purposely the minuscule curls in her hair.
In those days, it was Margie who had my attention.
To be fair, I must describe her also in retrospect, which is not the way I saw her in those early days of revelations.
She was short, sandy haired, wide hipped and large breasted for her age. Yet for all this, I was smitten. I thrilled when I would hear her voice, announcing from another room that the "Postman had a letter" for me.
Margie was skilled in delivering the mail. This was no hurried peck. She would come close to me, find some need to correct an errant button on my shirt, all the time leaning tastefully against my chest with her breasts. When we kissed, her little tongue darted quickly between my unopened lips, sending newly generated waves of pleasure through my awakening body.
Still, all these kisses were of rudimentary meaning in terms of that ubiquitous question asked by teachers of English exposition, or suspicious wives; "What was your first kiss like?"
Our teen years passed quickly. Some of us had cars--usually the Model A type Ford, some with that appendage in the rear known as the "Rumble seat', parenthetically an ideal place to pursue the study of kissing and related arts.
We were a tight knit social group up to the years of ferry rides to Staten Island, and trips to the dance casinos of upstate New York. There was no serious pairing. Margie did not confine her passion to correct wayward buttons to any one male. Dorothy and I were thrown together often, by unanticipated circumstance.
Several times we spent unproductive proximity in one of the wind-blown rumble seats of the day.
I remember the year of that prom. I will not give the date, but it was a memorable event. The Astor Hotel had not been demolished. Tommy Dorsey was holding forth on the celebrated Astor Roof and an emaciated Frank Sinatra was the vocal headliner.
Margie and Dorothy had no dates for their prom. Time was passing. Dorothy was forced to settle for her brother, Paul, as her escort. Margie exerted her historic proprietary rights and I was allowed the privilege of escorting her.
Paul was an aspiring stage actor, tall, poised, sophisticated, who was scheduled for a screen test in Hollywood. He drove the car with the open rumble seat.
I was not totally surprised to find that Margie had maneuvered herself into the seat beside the driver. Fate had interposed her will, again. Dorothy and I shared the rumble seat.
Somehow I was not displeased. I had never seen Dorothy as she was on this night. She was tall, poised, confident. A simple black gown draped daringly from one shoulder, leaving the other bare. It revealed the perfection of her figure.
The center parted hairdo was gone. She had allowed her hair to grow, and the weight of the growth had removed the tight waviness. Her long black hair was unencumbered and hung with its mass covering the exposed shoulder, to the front. She had discovered her own beauty.
Margie now devoted her full attention to Paul. He had no buttons on his shirt for her to manipulate, but she found his formal black tie frequently askew and in need of correction.
Dorothy was radiant. She was enchanted with the Astor Roof Garden and clearly a fan of Frank Sinatra. We danced almost every dance together. She danced well, and abandoned herself to the rhythms, lissome and unrestrained. For a good portion of the time, we stood with most of the dancers simply swaying to the beat of the Dorsey band in front of the bandstand when Frank was singing.
I had no reluctance in being relegated to the rumble seat for the ride home. It was cold and Dorothy moved close to me. I searched for a blanket in the dark recesses of the rumble, but there was none. I placed my arm around her and drew her close. She rested her head on my shoulder, looked up, and offered her slightly parted lips upward.
We kissed, that is, she kissed me and I responded, long searching kisses such as I had never known before. I responded though with some puzzlement at her ardor. I had never shown her the attention that would merit such pleasure. Her face was white in the moonlight, her eyes closed, her lips alive and apart, through which cool halting breaths accompanied each kiss.
This was truly my first kiss, unexpected, revelatory, remembered and cherished for many years, a brief, early glimpse into that labyrinthine psyche of woman.
Monday, March 20, 2017
There Is Nothing New Under the Sun
This piece is obviously a satire on history in the the late 1990s. I know, it is nearly twenty years ago, so who remembers? Anyway, I almost didn't transcribe this one, and I am editing it very slightly, to omit the last name of the young lady of Rome who is one of the two main characters. The remainder of the letters I leave to the reader's imagination and they are more than three just in case you think too quickly. I also redact two sentences that were jarring, at least to me.
Marcus Publius Varicus climbed to the top of the Palatine Hill. The sun was casting its dying rays on the drowsy city. Marcus was pensive.
"I could have torched this town. Nero almost got away with the dodge. Oh, well, something else will turn up. It always does."
Still, he could not erase apprehension from his mind. This new accusation of impiety resounded ominously. It had a perilous ring about it.
That ungrateful, vengeful Vestal. She was threatening to hold him up to a devastating accusation before all of Rome.
Aurora F. He would rue the day he ever heard the name. . . .
He would not wait. This one required immediate attention. A comforting thought struck him. It was relatively easy. He would send for his favorite town crier, Demetrius Golgotha, the one whose bald skull always reminded him of a tumescent appendage. Still, the sonofabith was effective. He could abide his disgust with his minion. Usually he avoided personal contact with him. . .The matters were always carried out through another flunky. The voice of this former slave whom he had liberated for State reasons grated on him. He abhorred the high pitch and vulgar dialect of the southern province of Neapolis, where one could not even get a good slave or pizza for that matter. . .
Say what one will. The irritating menial had done well in a half-dozen of his previous scrapes with his more vociferous playthings. They had been wished "into the fields" to coin a phrase, and not the Elysian ones.
Aurora would be accused of allowing the sacred Eternal Flame to go out. He did not consider the fact that there were six other Vestals around in continuous care of the Eternal Flame, perhaps witnesses to her innocence. Details for dissemination of the act and giving it the ring of verity was a matter for his trusted priests.
He was forced to a personal meeting with Demetrius. He had to admire, reluctantly, the labyrinthine turns of his sewer like mind. Demetrius assured him that Aurora would be done in long before the scheduled hearing with the Roman Senate scheduled for the ides of that month introduced into the calendar by his illustrious ancestor, Caesar Augustus.
Marcus Publius Varicus felt a new sense of calm. He recalled the smiling, loving faces of his audience as he orated at the Forum. It was know that he declaimed with the skill of a Cicero. Better, the great Greek Demosthenes. He did not fail his acolytes.
"I never had sex with that virgin, that Vestal, I mean, that woman," he thundered. It was an acclamation to be envied.
He was after all, in the tradition of his forbears, their god, a creator, a founding father.
So said all the street orators. So reported all his faithful followers. He himself was in the audience disguised as a peasant when he heard the bombastic Catatonious declaim, "Delenda est Aurora", "Down with Aurora". The orator continued, "Of what is our great leader guilty? The gods forbid this accusation against a peer, one who is Divine."
Did not the noted communicator Micah Jacksonius write that verity, that the Great Publius cannot be held to the standards of ordinary men.
"Yes, he is active sexually, but this is a gift of the great god Priapus."
Marcus was not concerned about the censure of the Senators. He was well provided with complete papyri on each of them. He had read many a juicy tale one night when he could not sleep and there was no other distraction available. He chuckled to himself, "Surely not Arrius Duplitius, why he brings new meaning to the Latin word, ambidextrous."
He waxed poetic. In these nocturnal musings, "breathes there a man with soul so dead/who has not in his closet hid/ a fleshy skeleton or two/or three or four."
Talk about Nero paying his lyre, or fiddle, he forgot which. Anyway, he knew he was better on the lyre than Nero was, hands down, regardless of how one spells the word.
There were irritations. Take for instance, that former mentor of his from some Asia Minor province, that Greek scribe, Papadopoulous or other, who kept gossiping among the literati of greater Rome about the nine hundred other Papyri, he, Marcus kept hid under his bed for safekeeping.
The Madonna in charge of the vestals was, he knew, more close lipped--literally and figuratively. He was certain that she had chosen the one profession suitable to her unfortunate physical aspects. Leonor Cleftus had a price, but it was worth it. She was heard to declaim, "O Tempore, Oh Mores," which has nothing to do with this narration and is simply a Latin aphorism relating to time, that he, Publius had gone from sixty four percent to sixty eight percent approval in the opinion of Rome's Virgins and that after the denunciation of that pseudo-Virgin.
Still, "judge ye, O gods," he mused. "How I am persecuted. That damned toga was stolen from my wardrobe. A toga is a toga, but this one is reputed to have miraculous manifestations. He cursed the maliciousness of certain Olympian residents, the lesser, peripheral gods. He was not about to name names, for safety's sake. They could be bitchy. It was said that the lost garment had a mysterious imprint, incontrovertibly his image, of erratic conformation. He made a mental note. This would be a job for that great interpreter for the goddess of Justice, blindfolded and holding the scales of truth, the revered patronness of Barrius Shekkius, who would explain her truth.
Truly, wasn't Leonora Cliftus a voice from Olympus when she explained, "Verily, our leader has remained reluctantly silent these many years for good and cogent reasons. He has been a fortress against the calumnies of those decadent right-wing Etruscans. For whom? For you, O people of Rome, and his immediate household, and good old fashioned Roman morality."
Marcus Publius Varicus fell soundly asleep and dreamed a kind of deja vu dream. He saw himself on the dais at the For Romano, his voice ringing sonorously above the silent masses. He was holding his battered robe before the people, pointing to the tears made by his calumniators, all stains against his divine person hood. The cheers were thunderous, thunderous, thunderous. . .
Marcus Publius Varicus climbed to the top of the Palatine Hill. The sun was casting its dying rays on the drowsy city. Marcus was pensive.
"I could have torched this town. Nero almost got away with the dodge. Oh, well, something else will turn up. It always does."
Still, he could not erase apprehension from his mind. This new accusation of impiety resounded ominously. It had a perilous ring about it.
That ungrateful, vengeful Vestal. She was threatening to hold him up to a devastating accusation before all of Rome.
Aurora F. He would rue the day he ever heard the name. . . .
He would not wait. This one required immediate attention. A comforting thought struck him. It was relatively easy. He would send for his favorite town crier, Demetrius Golgotha, the one whose bald skull always reminded him of a tumescent appendage. Still, the sonofabith was effective. He could abide his disgust with his minion. Usually he avoided personal contact with him. . .The matters were always carried out through another flunky. The voice of this former slave whom he had liberated for State reasons grated on him. He abhorred the high pitch and vulgar dialect of the southern province of Neapolis, where one could not even get a good slave or pizza for that matter. . .
Say what one will. The irritating menial had done well in a half-dozen of his previous scrapes with his more vociferous playthings. They had been wished "into the fields" to coin a phrase, and not the Elysian ones.
Aurora would be accused of allowing the sacred Eternal Flame to go out. He did not consider the fact that there were six other Vestals around in continuous care of the Eternal Flame, perhaps witnesses to her innocence. Details for dissemination of the act and giving it the ring of verity was a matter for his trusted priests.
He was forced to a personal meeting with Demetrius. He had to admire, reluctantly, the labyrinthine turns of his sewer like mind. Demetrius assured him that Aurora would be done in long before the scheduled hearing with the Roman Senate scheduled for the ides of that month introduced into the calendar by his illustrious ancestor, Caesar Augustus.
Marcus Publius Varicus felt a new sense of calm. He recalled the smiling, loving faces of his audience as he orated at the Forum. It was know that he declaimed with the skill of a Cicero. Better, the great Greek Demosthenes. He did not fail his acolytes.
"I never had sex with that virgin, that Vestal, I mean, that woman," he thundered. It was an acclamation to be envied.
He was after all, in the tradition of his forbears, their god, a creator, a founding father.
So said all the street orators. So reported all his faithful followers. He himself was in the audience disguised as a peasant when he heard the bombastic Catatonious declaim, "Delenda est Aurora", "Down with Aurora". The orator continued, "Of what is our great leader guilty? The gods forbid this accusation against a peer, one who is Divine."
Did not the noted communicator Micah Jacksonius write that verity, that the Great Publius cannot be held to the standards of ordinary men.
"Yes, he is active sexually, but this is a gift of the great god Priapus."
Marcus was not concerned about the censure of the Senators. He was well provided with complete papyri on each of them. He had read many a juicy tale one night when he could not sleep and there was no other distraction available. He chuckled to himself, "Surely not Arrius Duplitius, why he brings new meaning to the Latin word, ambidextrous."
He waxed poetic. In these nocturnal musings, "breathes there a man with soul so dead/who has not in his closet hid/ a fleshy skeleton or two/or three or four."
Talk about Nero paying his lyre, or fiddle, he forgot which. Anyway, he knew he was better on the lyre than Nero was, hands down, regardless of how one spells the word.
There were irritations. Take for instance, that former mentor of his from some Asia Minor province, that Greek scribe, Papadopoulous or other, who kept gossiping among the literati of greater Rome about the nine hundred other Papyri, he, Marcus kept hid under his bed for safekeeping.
The Madonna in charge of the vestals was, he knew, more close lipped--literally and figuratively. He was certain that she had chosen the one profession suitable to her unfortunate physical aspects. Leonor Cleftus had a price, but it was worth it. She was heard to declaim, "O Tempore, Oh Mores," which has nothing to do with this narration and is simply a Latin aphorism relating to time, that he, Publius had gone from sixty four percent to sixty eight percent approval in the opinion of Rome's Virgins and that after the denunciation of that pseudo-Virgin.
Still, "judge ye, O gods," he mused. "How I am persecuted. That damned toga was stolen from my wardrobe. A toga is a toga, but this one is reputed to have miraculous manifestations. He cursed the maliciousness of certain Olympian residents, the lesser, peripheral gods. He was not about to name names, for safety's sake. They could be bitchy. It was said that the lost garment had a mysterious imprint, incontrovertibly his image, of erratic conformation. He made a mental note. This would be a job for that great interpreter for the goddess of Justice, blindfolded and holding the scales of truth, the revered patronness of Barrius Shekkius, who would explain her truth.
Truly, wasn't Leonora Cliftus a voice from Olympus when she explained, "Verily, our leader has remained reluctantly silent these many years for good and cogent reasons. He has been a fortress against the calumnies of those decadent right-wing Etruscans. For whom? For you, O people of Rome, and his immediate household, and good old fashioned Roman morality."
Marcus Publius Varicus fell soundly asleep and dreamed a kind of deja vu dream. He saw himself on the dais at the For Romano, his voice ringing sonorously above the silent masses. He was holding his battered robe before the people, pointing to the tears made by his calumniators, all stains against his divine person hood. The cheers were thunderous, thunderous, thunderous. . .
Sunday, March 12, 2017
Random Thoughts In The Emergency Room
Now that I have put onto this blog, for posterity, the letters my father wrote to my mother during the thirteen weeks he spent in Augusta, George for Army Reserve Training, I am returning to transcribing his short short stories. Not all of them, because some were clearly unfinished experiments, but there will be many. It will take time, and this part of the project which I have undertaken, the preservation of a family whose line has ended with me, will alternate with my general blogging of thoughts.
The story that follows makes reference to a woman that my father met about four or five years after my mother died. Actually, it was a blind date set up by one of Dad's colleagues who knew the lady. Their relationship, which I encouraged, for both altruistic and selfish reasons, was beautiful, and lasted about a year. My father said he ended it, and the reasons are reflected in this story, her age, which was much younger than his, and his health. She became my friend both before and after Dad died. She said it was a mutual decision, that the timing wasn't right. I knew a little of her situation; it was possible that it was mutual. I do wonder why my father took the responsibility for the break-up. I so wanted them to stay together. She was an infusion of life for him, and for me. I always told him he made a mistake. Ours was not a family that pursued happiness. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me that we swatted it away when it approached.
It is hard not to note my father's cynicism toward religion. He was always questioning. Even after he decided to join me in my faith, officially at least, as a Catholic.
I walked towards the Admissions desk. It was three deep with applicants for service. Somehow, I caught the eye of a nurse. In that brief glance, I managed to point my index finger towards the middle of my chest. She was beside me in an instant, her unusually strong hand grasped my arm. She led me to the glass-enclosed office behind the emergency desk and sat me in a wheel chair, adjacent to another desk and a computer flashing kaleidoscopic colors.
I was reminded of the pin ball machines of my youth, and in my mesmerized state fully expected the clangor of a win--coins dropping noisily into a metallic pan and bells announcing, "JACKPOT".
She was young, pretty, long-haired. Her carefully burnished nails did not impede the speed with which she manipulated the computer.
"Are you a nurse," I asked. No secretary could have such long nails.
"Yes," she replied, never missing a stroke.
She stopped long enough to take my pulse.
"One hundred and twenty," I guessed.
"One hundred and fifteen," she corrected.
The typing was brief. I have a long history of service from Cedars-Sinai. The necessary vital material was available on the computer memory banks.
"We're short of beds," she noted, "but I'll try to set you up."
Indeed. It was the day after Thanksgiving.
The nurse smiled. It was a warming gesture. She handed me over to a volunteer, who squeezed my arm in the ritual of mercy.
The volunteer wheeled me to the entrance of the emergency room. It was barred by a large metal door that opened from time to time at the electronic signal of a guard.
It slammed shut with the authority of a prison gate, a kind of prophetic finality.
In the brief moments to allow passage the door remained open to disclose filled emergency rooms.
Before each, gurneys, wheel chairs, conveyances of all kinds guarded the spot that assured possession of the next empty bed.
I was relieved each time the door shut out the symphonies of pain, particularly the two note repeating cry of a very young child.
I was wheeled into room six. I wondered that the previously placed patient, already at the entrance had not been given the space. "Triage," I thought, apprehension overcoming my being. He looked and sounded worse than I felt.
I stood, silent, lost, not knowing what was expected of me. The room had a comfortable bed. The walls were full of equipment. My reverie was broken by a very small Japanese nurse, who threw a onto the bed.
"Get into this right away. I have to hook you up to the monitors. I did as I was told. I watched as she placed sticky circles about my upper body which had metal teats to which she snapped the leads. "An EKG," I thought.
She left. I closed my eyes and waited like old Scrooge for the next visitor. HE came. He was young, with a pointed goatee. He was dressed in a maroon shirt and trousers over which a a black leather devise, crossed against the breast squeezed against his waist and upper hips. A back support, I guessed. He had the look of an imp from some frightening darkness.
"I'm your nurse," he announced, "There'll be a little sting. . ."
There was. I could feel it--and a sudden sensation of liquid rolling down my arm. I dared a look, but he had wiped it clean. He held three vials of blood I had no idea he had taken. A little receptacle remained in my arm, secured in a fat vein, ready to receive whatever might be offered.
"Just in case," he said, pointing to the device.
I tried to doze but was interrupted by a succession of visitors, all looking at the monitors and taking notes. I forgot about the automatic blood-pressure machine and was startled by its unrelenting squeeze against my arm.
The curtains parted again with a metallic swoosh.
"I'm your volunteer." She did not elaborate. She had extraordinary, large unblinking blue eyes. They were hypnotic.
"The doctor will be in soon with the results of the tests," she whispered. I was transfixed by the ocular splendor.
She smelled pretty, though there was no hint of perfume. Probably regulations did not allow. Curiously, even with my awareness of that eternal shadow reading the kaleidoscopic monitor about my head, reaction to beauty was not dulled.
They're all wrong, Saints Paul, Peter, Jerome, Origen, the vaunted Church Fathers--those Biblical purveyors of guilt, who accuse of of Original Sin--they're all wrong. The Maker of all things watched, approvingly when Adam shared that eternal apple with Eve. It was God's way to insure the immortality of His chosen species. He opted for life.
An author said it better than I can. "Allah looks darkly on a man who refuses a woman's love, when she calls." The infinite being so near, I thumbed drowsily through memory for any faults Allah may have with me. Yes, there was one grievous sin, one for which twenty years later those who knew of us castigated me darkly, but not nearly as bad as my self-imposed penance.
I will not describe her beauty, that warmth of inner love that was transmitted with a touch. When we danced, it was as if one body was in motion. For more than a year, we dallied with the world of music, glitter and dance. Sardi's, El Morocco, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Rita Dmitri, of the famous Candlelight Room, descended the piano from which she sang nightly, to sit with us, and to probe--in the parlance of the milieu--whether we were "anybody."
People in love are a curiosity, and blatantly obvious.
My eyelids became too heavy to ponder this ancient sin, but the memory refused to leave on its own.
I was in a dream as real as life. We were on our way to greet the New Year. It was New Year's Eve, 1978, as we sped towards the restaurant where we had our first date, to a reserved corner table in the Chateau Henri IV, with its unique bridge over a moat, and the plus circular table setting that allowed us to sit close together, where we joined hands, and were seldom apart after that.
She sat close as I drove and her heady scent and warmth reinforced my determination. I would ask her to marry me. It was not an impediment that there was twenty years between us, that the summer her life was beginning I was well into fall. I could withstand the cynical, pervasive remark at social gatherings--"Introduce me to your daughter." It was her decision. She had assured me it was what she wanted.
I would wait till midnight. . .for sure, this time. . .I was happy.
The phone was insistent in its importunate ringing. I fought the unwanted persistent hand of the nurse on my shoulder. . .
"The doctor is here with the reports."
The story that follows makes reference to a woman that my father met about four or five years after my mother died. Actually, it was a blind date set up by one of Dad's colleagues who knew the lady. Their relationship, which I encouraged, for both altruistic and selfish reasons, was beautiful, and lasted about a year. My father said he ended it, and the reasons are reflected in this story, her age, which was much younger than his, and his health. She became my friend both before and after Dad died. She said it was a mutual decision, that the timing wasn't right. I knew a little of her situation; it was possible that it was mutual. I do wonder why my father took the responsibility for the break-up. I so wanted them to stay together. She was an infusion of life for him, and for me. I always told him he made a mistake. Ours was not a family that pursued happiness. In fact, sometimes it seemed to me that we swatted it away when it approached.
It is hard not to note my father's cynicism toward religion. He was always questioning. Even after he decided to join me in my faith, officially at least, as a Catholic.
I walked towards the Admissions desk. It was three deep with applicants for service. Somehow, I caught the eye of a nurse. In that brief glance, I managed to point my index finger towards the middle of my chest. She was beside me in an instant, her unusually strong hand grasped my arm. She led me to the glass-enclosed office behind the emergency desk and sat me in a wheel chair, adjacent to another desk and a computer flashing kaleidoscopic colors.
I was reminded of the pin ball machines of my youth, and in my mesmerized state fully expected the clangor of a win--coins dropping noisily into a metallic pan and bells announcing, "JACKPOT".
She was young, pretty, long-haired. Her carefully burnished nails did not impede the speed with which she manipulated the computer.
"Are you a nurse," I asked. No secretary could have such long nails.
"Yes," she replied, never missing a stroke.
She stopped long enough to take my pulse.
"One hundred and twenty," I guessed.
"One hundred and fifteen," she corrected.
The typing was brief. I have a long history of service from Cedars-Sinai. The necessary vital material was available on the computer memory banks.
"We're short of beds," she noted, "but I'll try to set you up."
Indeed. It was the day after Thanksgiving.
The nurse smiled. It was a warming gesture. She handed me over to a volunteer, who squeezed my arm in the ritual of mercy.
The volunteer wheeled me to the entrance of the emergency room. It was barred by a large metal door that opened from time to time at the electronic signal of a guard.
It slammed shut with the authority of a prison gate, a kind of prophetic finality.
In the brief moments to allow passage the door remained open to disclose filled emergency rooms.
Before each, gurneys, wheel chairs, conveyances of all kinds guarded the spot that assured possession of the next empty bed.
I was relieved each time the door shut out the symphonies of pain, particularly the two note repeating cry of a very young child.
I was wheeled into room six. I wondered that the previously placed patient, already at the entrance had not been given the space. "Triage," I thought, apprehension overcoming my being. He looked and sounded worse than I felt.
I stood, silent, lost, not knowing what was expected of me. The room had a comfortable bed. The walls were full of equipment. My reverie was broken by a very small Japanese nurse, who threw a onto the bed.
"Get into this right away. I have to hook you up to the monitors. I did as I was told. I watched as she placed sticky circles about my upper body which had metal teats to which she snapped the leads. "An EKG," I thought.
She left. I closed my eyes and waited like old Scrooge for the next visitor. HE came. He was young, with a pointed goatee. He was dressed in a maroon shirt and trousers over which a a black leather devise, crossed against the breast squeezed against his waist and upper hips. A back support, I guessed. He had the look of an imp from some frightening darkness.
"I'm your nurse," he announced, "There'll be a little sting. . ."
There was. I could feel it--and a sudden sensation of liquid rolling down my arm. I dared a look, but he had wiped it clean. He held three vials of blood I had no idea he had taken. A little receptacle remained in my arm, secured in a fat vein, ready to receive whatever might be offered.
"Just in case," he said, pointing to the device.
I tried to doze but was interrupted by a succession of visitors, all looking at the monitors and taking notes. I forgot about the automatic blood-pressure machine and was startled by its unrelenting squeeze against my arm.
The curtains parted again with a metallic swoosh.
"I'm your volunteer." She did not elaborate. She had extraordinary, large unblinking blue eyes. They were hypnotic.
"The doctor will be in soon with the results of the tests," she whispered. I was transfixed by the ocular splendor.
She smelled pretty, though there was no hint of perfume. Probably regulations did not allow. Curiously, even with my awareness of that eternal shadow reading the kaleidoscopic monitor about my head, reaction to beauty was not dulled.
They're all wrong, Saints Paul, Peter, Jerome, Origen, the vaunted Church Fathers--those Biblical purveyors of guilt, who accuse of of Original Sin--they're all wrong. The Maker of all things watched, approvingly when Adam shared that eternal apple with Eve. It was God's way to insure the immortality of His chosen species. He opted for life.
An author said it better than I can. "Allah looks darkly on a man who refuses a woman's love, when she calls." The infinite being so near, I thumbed drowsily through memory for any faults Allah may have with me. Yes, there was one grievous sin, one for which twenty years later those who knew of us castigated me darkly, but not nearly as bad as my self-imposed penance.
I will not describe her beauty, that warmth of inner love that was transmitted with a touch. When we danced, it was as if one body was in motion. For more than a year, we dallied with the world of music, glitter and dance. Sardi's, El Morocco, The Forum of the Twelve Caesars. Rita Dmitri, of the famous Candlelight Room, descended the piano from which she sang nightly, to sit with us, and to probe--in the parlance of the milieu--whether we were "anybody."
People in love are a curiosity, and blatantly obvious.
My eyelids became too heavy to ponder this ancient sin, but the memory refused to leave on its own.
I was in a dream as real as life. We were on our way to greet the New Year. It was New Year's Eve, 1978, as we sped towards the restaurant where we had our first date, to a reserved corner table in the Chateau Henri IV, with its unique bridge over a moat, and the plus circular table setting that allowed us to sit close together, where we joined hands, and were seldom apart after that.
She sat close as I drove and her heady scent and warmth reinforced my determination. I would ask her to marry me. It was not an impediment that there was twenty years between us, that the summer her life was beginning I was well into fall. I could withstand the cynical, pervasive remark at social gatherings--"Introduce me to your daughter." It was her decision. She had assured me it was what she wanted.
I would wait till midnight. . .for sure, this time. . .I was happy.
The phone was insistent in its importunate ringing. I fought the unwanted persistent hand of the nurse on my shoulder. . .
"The doctor is here with the reports."
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
Snap Into It
I am guessing that much of this tale is true in that my father did go to Officer Candidate School during the war, when there was a great need for officers to lead platoons which usually were demolished by the various enemies of the time, Germany and Japan and their allies.
He was an awesome figure. Tall, lean and grizzled, his uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his trim musculature. He stood austere and menacing before his platoon, monitoring the issuance of a rifle to each soldier. He was impatient with the recording of serial numbers. Clearly, administration was not his forte. "Snap into it!" he repeated over and over, as if the remark itself could hasten the inexorable authority of the Company Clerk.
When they were finally formed for the training session, he had his revenge. He called, "Attention!" in his booming voice and kept the men thus transfixed for what seemed an eternity.
Derek tried not to wobble. He cursed the intrusive insect that trod across his forehead, daring him to twitch and thus invoke the wrath of this new power in his life--the Master Sergeant--three stripes down, three up, and a diamond in the middle.
Now for you of this distorted generation where a one or two star Genera can be deposed by a civilian structure for such minor infractions as adultery, there can be no comprehension of the impact of a single stripe on a teen-age draftee from the Bronx. Three up and three down--with a diamond in the middle, alas.
"Christ," he muttered. "We hit the friggin' jackpot!" "At ease," came the booming voice, releasing them from their immobility.
Derek moved gratefully to the at ease position, his feet tingling from the tension of not being able to move. His relief was momentary.
"You, soldier," the voice was definitely addressing him. "Yes, YOU. Front and center with the rifle. Snap into it!"
Apprehension and anger merged in his gut. He especially hated the repetitive expression, "Snap into it!". He hated the Sergeant more. He hated the Army--he hated the world and that abominable lottery that gave him such a low number.
So, for the rest of that hot and humid afternoon, under a blazing South Carolina sun, he became the robot, performing under the crisp orders of the Sergeant, "Right shoulder arms; left shoulder arms, order arms, present arms", ad nauseam for the edification of the rest of the platoon. It was the first of many disagreeable experiences, one following the other like ten Biblical plagues--guard duty, P, fifteen mile hikes with full field pack, iron helmet and that damned nine pound Enfield rifle of his first travail, with the Sergeant of multiple stripes--three up, three down and a diamond in the middle.
There was worse. He was assigned extra duty as bartender at the Officers' Club. Now, all you experts, don't observe that this kind of duty was illegal. It was. But that did not make a damn bit of difference in 1942, I don't care how many years you think you had lying on your olive drab cot during your hitch.
He was given bartender duty, and that's that.
The sight of all these shiny first and second lieutenants parading the town Scarlett O'Hara's over the dance floor was painful.
"Bourbon on the rocks and a creme de menthe for the lady, and snap into it!"
That was the proverbial straw. After his duty, he repaired to the barracks, straight to Sgt. Greenspan's room, for consultation. Greenspan was his only friend, an anomalous relationship, based on the fact that they came from the Bronx and, consequently, were fellow aliens in the land of mint juleps. Besides, Greenspan was a master of the intricacies of morning reports, soft duty assignments and was not above a modicum of skulduggery.
"You can apply for Officer Candidate School," he said.
"What do I have to do?" Derek asked.
"Well," said Greenspan, "you need an IQ of 110 or better."
"Well, you SOB," Derek posited, "you have all the files, what is mine?"
"Can't tell you, classified," he said, adopting his official demeanor, and enjoying it.
"Never mind the horseshit, Greenspan," Derek shouted, "Just stamp your hoof, once for yes or two for no."
In reverence to his Bronx friend, whom he never saw again after being ordered to Officer Candidate School, Derek was before the selection board within two weeks. He starched his uniform, sat in the prescribed fashion before a panel of Colonels and Majors, answered practically every question wrong, and was selected.
"Snap into it," said Greenspan, "the truck for that 90 day wonderland is leaving." He then whispered a magic-spell word from the Bronx into his ear. "Mazeltov," said the good Sergeant and all he had was three up, three down and a miserly one up, but Derek remembered the incantation still with great affection.
There is no great climax to this story, perhaps though, a little irony. The Master Sergeant, whose name was Unger, his earlier nemesis, was the last to mount the truck for the journey. He had apparently applied for Officer Candidate School and he too was accepted. His shirt sleeves were curiously bare. He had been required to remove the formidable three up, three down, with the diamond in the middle. He didn't mount the truck fast enough for the Sergeant now in charge,
"Snap into it, soldier!"
Former Sergeant Unger sat across from me, folded his arms across his chest and stared past me.
I could still see the residual imprints of the stripes. How transitory are the symbols of power of one man over another.
For now they were starting as equals. Derek felt greater kinship now than he had before. He wished Unger luck mentally, and all the rest of the guys on the truck, for good measure.
"More that goddamn truck," bellowed the ubiquitous voice of the times. "Snap into it! There's a war going on, you know. Snap into it!"
He was an awesome figure. Tall, lean and grizzled, his uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his trim musculature. He stood austere and menacing before his platoon, monitoring the issuance of a rifle to each soldier. He was impatient with the recording of serial numbers. Clearly, administration was not his forte. "Snap into it!" he repeated over and over, as if the remark itself could hasten the inexorable authority of the Company Clerk.
When they were finally formed for the training session, he had his revenge. He called, "Attention!" in his booming voice and kept the men thus transfixed for what seemed an eternity.
Derek tried not to wobble. He cursed the intrusive insect that trod across his forehead, daring him to twitch and thus invoke the wrath of this new power in his life--the Master Sergeant--three stripes down, three up, and a diamond in the middle.
Now for you of this distorted generation where a one or two star Genera can be deposed by a civilian structure for such minor infractions as adultery, there can be no comprehension of the impact of a single stripe on a teen-age draftee from the Bronx. Three up and three down--with a diamond in the middle, alas.
"Christ," he muttered. "We hit the friggin' jackpot!" "At ease," came the booming voice, releasing them from their immobility.
Derek moved gratefully to the at ease position, his feet tingling from the tension of not being able to move. His relief was momentary.
"You, soldier," the voice was definitely addressing him. "Yes, YOU. Front and center with the rifle. Snap into it!"
Apprehension and anger merged in his gut. He especially hated the repetitive expression, "Snap into it!". He hated the Sergeant more. He hated the Army--he hated the world and that abominable lottery that gave him such a low number.
So, for the rest of that hot and humid afternoon, under a blazing South Carolina sun, he became the robot, performing under the crisp orders of the Sergeant, "Right shoulder arms; left shoulder arms, order arms, present arms", ad nauseam for the edification of the rest of the platoon. It was the first of many disagreeable experiences, one following the other like ten Biblical plagues--guard duty, P, fifteen mile hikes with full field pack, iron helmet and that damned nine pound Enfield rifle of his first travail, with the Sergeant of multiple stripes--three up, three down and a diamond in the middle.
There was worse. He was assigned extra duty as bartender at the Officers' Club. Now, all you experts, don't observe that this kind of duty was illegal. It was. But that did not make a damn bit of difference in 1942, I don't care how many years you think you had lying on your olive drab cot during your hitch.
He was given bartender duty, and that's that.
The sight of all these shiny first and second lieutenants parading the town Scarlett O'Hara's over the dance floor was painful.
"Bourbon on the rocks and a creme de menthe for the lady, and snap into it!"
That was the proverbial straw. After his duty, he repaired to the barracks, straight to Sgt. Greenspan's room, for consultation. Greenspan was his only friend, an anomalous relationship, based on the fact that they came from the Bronx and, consequently, were fellow aliens in the land of mint juleps. Besides, Greenspan was a master of the intricacies of morning reports, soft duty assignments and was not above a modicum of skulduggery.
"You can apply for Officer Candidate School," he said.
"What do I have to do?" Derek asked.
"Well," said Greenspan, "you need an IQ of 110 or better."
"Well, you SOB," Derek posited, "you have all the files, what is mine?"
"Can't tell you, classified," he said, adopting his official demeanor, and enjoying it.
"Never mind the horseshit, Greenspan," Derek shouted, "Just stamp your hoof, once for yes or two for no."
In reverence to his Bronx friend, whom he never saw again after being ordered to Officer Candidate School, Derek was before the selection board within two weeks. He starched his uniform, sat in the prescribed fashion before a panel of Colonels and Majors, answered practically every question wrong, and was selected.
"Snap into it," said Greenspan, "the truck for that 90 day wonderland is leaving." He then whispered a magic-spell word from the Bronx into his ear. "Mazeltov," said the good Sergeant and all he had was three up, three down and a miserly one up, but Derek remembered the incantation still with great affection.
There is no great climax to this story, perhaps though, a little irony. The Master Sergeant, whose name was Unger, his earlier nemesis, was the last to mount the truck for the journey. He had apparently applied for Officer Candidate School and he too was accepted. His shirt sleeves were curiously bare. He had been required to remove the formidable three up, three down, with the diamond in the middle. He didn't mount the truck fast enough for the Sergeant now in charge,
"Snap into it, soldier!"
Former Sergeant Unger sat across from me, folded his arms across his chest and stared past me.
I could still see the residual imprints of the stripes. How transitory are the symbols of power of one man over another.
For now they were starting as equals. Derek felt greater kinship now than he had before. He wished Unger luck mentally, and all the rest of the guys on the truck, for good measure.
"More that goddamn truck," bellowed the ubiquitous voice of the times. "Snap into it! There's a war going on, you know. Snap into it!"
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