Cantankerously Yours

Summer Aggravation

By Wendell Abern

Dear Readers,

          As I write this, September is just beginning.  And as a cranky columnist, I feel compelled to share with you a few of my memorable summer experiences.  To wit:

          On August 12^th, I gained five pounds.  In one day.

          And it’s all Dolly’s fault.

          Dolly is one of my bridge partners.  Lots of fun.  Polished bridge player.   One of the reasons I love playing bridge with Dolly is because when she picks up her cards, she morphs from lovely lady into Lizzie Borden.  Makes her a great bridge partner.

          Dolly and I belong to a six-member Bridge Birthday Group.  When one has a birthday, the other five take the birthday person to dinner.

          Dolly celebrated her 83^rd birthday on August 12, and the five of us decided to take her to Zuckarello’s Restaurant for dinner.  I picked up Edna and drove to a parking lot where Dolly and Joan awaited us.  Jerry and Joyce were already at the restaurant.

          Ordinarily, I insist on driving.  But Dolly had already loaded her trunk with her walker, her wheelchair and her cane, so I decided to let her drive rather than make the multiple transfers.  Besides, I was already very hungry and didn’t want to take the time.  So Edna and I boarded Dolly’s car.

          Mistake.

          I was sitting directly behind Dolly, and we were sailing along Commercial Boulevard heading east when I felt some bumping and clanking and realized the car was listing to starboard.

          “Uh, Dolly,” I said as we bounced along, “I don’t think it’s legal to drive on the median strip.”

          “I’m not on the median strip.”

          “Um, the left side of the car is.”

          “Oh,” she said, and pulled to a stop in the left turn lane at the next stop light.

          I stepped out of the car and looked at her rear left wheel.  Shredded.  Hole, the size of a grapefruit.

          “You no longer have a rear left wheel,” I shouted.

          Dolly made a limping left turn onto 15^th Street, where we parked in the grass and Dolly called her roadside service.  That’s when I noticed her front left wheel was damaged even worse than the rear.

          We called Jerry and Joyce at the restaurant.  They decided to come join us.  They brought us each a warm roll from the restaurant.  I inhaled mine in eight seconds, and then stole Dolly’s.

          When the tow truck came, the driver looked at both wheels and announced he couldn’t help; he needed a flatbed.  It would take an hour.

          “It’s going to take a #+$*?@!” hour?” I shouted.  “I’m hungry! 

And when I’m hungry, I get cranky!”  

          “How do you do?” he said.  “I’m Joe.  “And when I don’t get the right information, I don’t bring the right truck.”

          Fuming, ready to do considerable physical damage to anyone depriving me of food, I looked at Joe closely.  Clearly, he could disembowel a buffalo with his bare hands.  For once, I decided it was a good time to keep my mouth shut.

          Two hours later, at 8:40, we walked into the restaurant.

          “I’m hungry,” I scowled at our waitress, “and when I’m hungry, I get cantankerous!”

          “Don’t you worry, honey,” she said, “I’ll bring some rolls right away.”

          “Good,” I said.  “Bring one basket for me, and one for the rest of the table.”

          “You got it, honey.”

          The most unfair aspects about being old is that waitresses call me “honey” and Halle Berry doesn’t even know I exist.

          For dinner, I ate a gigantic Caesar Salad and the largest veal chop in the history of the world.  Then I wolfed down the last half of Dolly’s chicken parmigiana.  When I finally got home at 11:15, I made myself a sundae consisting of a small teaspoonful of Edy’s Caramel Swirl ice cream and

two-thirds of a jar of hot fudge.

          I gained five pounds that night. 

          And it’s all Dolly’s fault. 

                             *        *        *

It is August 24 as I write this.  During the Labor Day weekend, I will be attending my high school’s 60^th year reunion.  In Chicago.  I will be seeing some friends I haven’t seen since senior year.

          Including my old friend,Herschel.

          I’m sure we all have a friend like Herschel.  You know, someone who will never let you live down a mortifying experience, just because the rest of the world finds it funny.

          Last month, Herschel sent me a short, cryptic e-mail, saying, “See you at the reunion.  I’ve told my fourth wife all about you.  She can’t wait to meet you and hear all about you and Rabbi Friedland.”

K.A.M. Temple, 1949. 

We were sixteen years old and in a Confirmation Class conducted by Rabbi Friedland.  There were more than two dozen of my friends in that class, not to mention the voluptuous Jackie Margolin, on whom I had made such a big impression she thought my name was Walter.

          Rabbi Friedland was one of those teachers everyone loved.  Benevolent, patient, understanding.  Always smiling.  Tall, balding and bespectacled, he looked more like a college professor than a rabbi.

          Rabbi Friedland said, “Okay, who can tell me the names of some famous Jews in sports?  And I mean besides Hank Greenberg.”

          No fair.  I was all ready with Hank Greenberg.  As was, apparently, everyone else.  Complete silence in the class.

          Rabbi Friedland said, “Okay, I’ll give you a couple names.  Max Baer, a former boxer.  Also, ‘Slapsy Maxie’ Rosenbloom.  Both were boxers in the early part of the century.”

          I’d never heard of them.  But the rabbi’s hints spurred a thought. 

And I sat there thinking, don’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayitdon’tsayit.

          But even back then I had difficulty keeping my mouth shut, and suddenly blurted out, “Jew Louis!”

          Muffled laughs.  Snickers.  Muted chuckles.

          A slight frown from the rabbi.

          Not even a glance from Jackie Margolin.

          I could not stop myself.  “Jewsey Jew Walcott!” I shouted out.

          Herschel started laughing.  One of those infectious half-laughs,

half-giggles that makes everyone else laugh.  Raucous laughter erupted.

          Except from the rabbi. 

Instead, he looked at me and said, “Please go to my office and wait for me there.”

          Longest hour I’ve ever spent.  Culminated with a hand-written letter from the rabbi to my parents, informing them I was not welcome back in his class until he had talked to them personally.  As I trudged home with the letter, my only thought was that Jackie Margolin had smiled.

                                      *        *        *

          As I write this column, I am chuckling to myself.  I keep thinking, I’m seventy-eight years old.   And I’m still writing, “What I did on my summer vacation.”

          Cantankerously Yours,

          Wendell Abern

Wendell Abern can be reached at dendyabern@comcast.net.