No one would ever accuse Flip DeGaetano of being a gourmet. His tiny store was a reverse of what any good kitchen should look like. His hotplate grill always resulted in a sandwich that contained bits and pieces of the previous sandwich. It might even taste of egg or bacon. Anything from that grill would surely be loaded with a generous amount of grease. About the only thing that Flip did not prepare in-house was his meatloaf. Once or twice a week Flip would bring this in from home. It was of his own making and he used his own recipe, one he jealously guarded.
Buddy Taub ordered it regularly and always made a point to ask for it on a fresh roll. This was, of course, a request that Flip ignored all the time. Day old bread was always cheaper to buy. There was always a back and forth about this, but Buddy usually gave in and ate what was served. He had to. More often than not Buddy ate on the cuff, paying only when he was lucky at the OTB parlor or on a day when something was left from his meager paycheck.
Another customer of Flip's, Mr. Twin, ordered a whole loaf for take-out once a week. He'd order it the day before and pay up front. This was the kind of customer who made Flip quite happy. Mr. Twin not only bought the meatloaf he praised it.
"It's the best darn meatloaf I've ever bought", he'd tell Flip. "Skippy just loves it". Flip was never one for small talk so he did not even ask who "Skippy" was.
It would be the same thing, week after week and month after month. Mr. Twin regularly bought an entire loaf just for himself and at sandwich style prices. Flip charged him for the equivalent of 10 sandwiches, as it was how many he calculated he could make from one loaf. This was a great profit as Flip saved the cost of the day-old bread.
Time and again Mr. Twin would pickup his meatloaf and praise it on the way out. "Skippy adds his thanks" or "Skippy appreciates your hard work". It was always something like that.
All it took to undo this joyous moment was the singular remark of Buddy Taub. Buddy had eaten the meatloaf for years as well. He just couldn't figure out why anyone in their right mind and money in their pocket would buy Flip's cooking…and worse, praise it. He had finally heard enough to cause him to chime in one day.
"Ah, Mr. Twin. Just who is Skippy anway? I've never seen you come in with any family. Is it your wife? Your son?"
"No…no…no. Skippy is my schnauser. He is very, very fussy. He won't eat just anything, but he does love the meatloaf."

 BAUMANN & BARR ON THE TRADING POST

Posted May 24, 2013

Every Monday morning co-host Tony Barr and I are live from Laguna Woods Village with the show "The Trading Post", which is essentially a chance for people to buy and sell stuff. It is like being a matchmaker for people seeking to buy and sell junk. Ok, not exactly junk. Let's say these things are priceless commodities in near perfect condition at rascally low prices.

Barr is a native speaker of English, but occasionally is asked to prove this on the show when he stumbles over some wordings. Live TV? It happens to me, too.

We are now in our fourth year as Trading Post hosts and it is about the most fun a human being can have. The only better option would be to get hired as Salma Hayek's masseur.

Grandma's Apple Pie Recipe

October 4, 2008

There is never a bad time for apple pie. Never. It is usually best to make in the Fall when apples are plentiful. You can find apples all year round these days, so why not remind everyone of the best apple pie recipe known to man. Serve this apple pie in the Middle East and we can get the Sunni and Shia together. They will surely agree this is the best pie they've ever had. After that, the conversation could continue. Don't believe me? Give it a try. The measurements are Western, but don't let that stop you. You'll love it!

Bob

Grandma Millie Schwalbe made what I would call 60 second Apple Pies. It was not that it took this long to prepare. It took this long to eat the entire pie. She always had to make two and it was among one of the many fine things to be found in her kitchen.

I think it would give her great pleasure to know how many people have been given her recipe. I know it helped one woman's marriage when she prepared a pie for her mother-in-law. The lady told me she used peaches instead of apples. I know Grandma often made plum and apricot pies, too.

I share this recipe because I always live in the expectation that there might be leftovers for an aging, fat old man. I should know better. The pies never last in this world for long. Enjoy the treat this fall season.

1/4 lb. butter or  use stick margarine if butter is not available
1/4 lb. cream cheese
1 cup sifted flour

Knead these items together until you have a consistency for the dough of the crust.  Put in refrigerator overnight and next day roll out to fit 10" pan.  Fill with 8 apples (for baking) cut into at least 8 X.

        Note: My mom always used "greenings" as she called them. Different apples will yield a different taste. Try Granny Smith apples and see if it suits your palate.

Sprinkle with cinnamon, sugar or substitute.  Add a handful of raisins.

Use half the ball of dough for the bottom of the pie and the other half for top.  With a sharp knife make tiny slits in top.
Bake for 40-50 minutes in 350 degree oven.  If you have maple syrup pour a very little on top of apples before putting top of the crust on.

Use your judgement about the number of apples.  It will depend on the size of the apples.  It should be heaped reasonably high because the apples shrink when baked.

The Crow Story
[working title of an unfinished project]
Audiobook of this story is done and has been
posted on http://www.runyonsway.net

Posted 7/11/08

Manapefe, New Mexico is not on the map. It is a fly-speck town, really. It has the general store and a cafe/gas station, but not much else. It is farm country for the most part. The town within a town is Ellisville, but that's just a joke. Ellisville is a grain silo that has its own zip code. It stands on farmland outside of the main downtown area, but it's a part of Manapefe nonetheless. I was born here and I'll probably die here. Might even get my ashes spread about because there's no church in Manapefe or graveyard. We ship our dead out of the town over to Semapaw for a decent Christian burial. Those with the energy to make the round-trip drive can attend church there and a few folks do. Town itself has a population well under 100 souls. Like I said, it's farmland.

Most days I like to get up early and head over to the Manapefe Cafe and have some breakfast. Don't need much. My wife used to tell me I was getting fat, but she died a few years ago and ever since then it doesn't seem to matter much. I guess you aren't a married fellow, are you? Naw, you just look too damned happy. We could go there now and the coffee'd be fresh and hot. Might even set down to a bowl of cereal or pancakes, if you'd like. Your flat tire's all fixed and you don't have to rush anywheres so come on along and join me. You can park your car over at the Cafe and get yourself some gas. Oh, I mean from the gas pump, that is. Jurene is a bit waggish with her tongue but she's a pretty damn good short order cook. Been here all her life, too.

Did you say what kinda work you do? Oh, reporter? Well, not much news over here really, but like any small town there's just local gossip. By the way, my name's James but you can call me Jim or Jimmy, either one. You're a Jay? Ha. Well, I'm James. Can be interpolated about a dozen ways from sundown. How do you like people to call you? It's not your full name, but an initial? You say your name is Jesus? That's a pretty good name for these parts. The cafe is not far down the road, Jesus. Well, OK, if you say you prefer just "J", then J it is. You can coast the rest of the way if you're not in a hurry. Save some gas. You'll see the cafe as soon as you see the gas pump. Hah, and that's it on the right. See her? Just slide your car right in. No need to worry. You can park at the pump. Jurene hasn't had many customers since the highway wound through to Semapaw without clearing Manapefe some years back. The small town just got a bit smaller is all.

What kind of food you like for breakfast, J? Jurene'll serve you up just about most anything she has and she has some variety. You like a nice Sante Fe breakfast? Taos? Well, no matter. She can fix it, just about whatever you want... but don't be surprised if she asks you a lot of personal questions, J. In a small town people get nosey. You don't have to lock the car. It looks like there isn't much worth stealing and there's no thieves around these parts. Just follow me.

That was how they had met, these two strangers. The one, a somewhat straggly bearded fellow who looked like he could use a good meal or two and the other an elderly fellow who was like an old country dog. Just about everyone's friend... instantly. They walked into the Manapefe Cafe like they'd known each other for a lifetime, and now that I think about it... maybe they did. At least that is what Jurene had first thought when the two sat at her counter. She took their orders quick enough. It was the usual slow day at the Cafe and no other customers were waiting for their orders. Jurene eyed Jimmy Hall but didn't even have to ask what he'd want. Jimmy was always "two eggs, over easy with whole wheat toast, dry, no butter. A side of hash browns and a small OJ". The coffee was a given. Everyone has coffee in Manapefe. Tea? Downright un-American. Jurene had some old Lipton tea bags around somewheres, but they were staler than the Mayor's speeches. She kept them hid so's no one would even think to ask for tea. It was on the menu of course, but nobody asked for it.

The stranger named J? He had let Jimmy Hall order and then did the diplomatic thing by telling Jurene to just double the order. He'd reached into his pocket and pulled out a single $20 bill that looked newer than the morning sun. Jurene saw it and noted that she'd been wondering if the young man would be able to pay for the food, as clearly Jimmy was not going to have the resources to do so. As she thought this, the stranger had pulled out the bill and put it on the counter. A fleeting thought went through Jurene's mind. Did he know what I was wondering? She put that thought aside. She had four eggs and some hash browns to prepare. She was in the kitchen for several minutes and then brought the order out on two plates. The coffee came next along with the juice. Without so much as an invitation, she joined the two men with her own coffee. From behind the counter she went through a litany of questions, a bit more direct than Jimmy's had been. As he answered her, just for making conversation of course, he had the warmest smile. She felt as if her questions had amused him.

Well, why shouldn't they have amused him? Reporters are like ferrets, aren't they? They love to dig for details, so why shouldn't he have been entertained by the way Jurene went from one personal question to the next without so much as an "excuse me, but" in her method. That was when I came in and was promptly ignored. At least Jurene ignored me. Jimmy had nodded a hello and the stranger turned toward me slightly until Jurene brought him back with some more questions.

I sat just a stool or two over to the left of the stranger, but Jurene paid me no mind. It was with good reason. I'd been drinking, you see. I am an alcoholic. I drink, or at least I used to drink quite a bit. I've been sober now for about a year. Haven't touched a drop since that day. Might never drink again, but you never know. The desire to drink seems to have left me completely. I guess I am supposed to tell you what happened in the Cafe that day... and maybe just a bit more. It's a bit of a story, but at least now you know why Jurene wanted nothing to do with me. Last time I got drunk, I'd cussed her out and broke a few dishes. Paid for them the next day and apologized. Jurene'd forgiven me, especially since I paid her what was due to her... but I was far from her favorite customer.

The cup of black coffee that sailed in front of me was mine without asking for it. I just looked up from it, but Jurene had turned her back to me. I was less important to her than her trash. I thought about that as I sipped from the cup, trying to find in it enough sobriety to get through the day. Nights are pretty hard, but the daytime passes quick enough with a bit of hard labor. I am a farmer. I've been on my family farm since I was a kid. My dad was a farmer and his dad was a farmer, too. It's just about the way things went in those days. You got an education in the fields, not in the schools. There was no question about going to college, not in those days.

It was the stranger who turned away from Jimmy and Jurene. He sat right next to me and looked me in the eyes. He said "You're Michael Voss". It was not a question. It was a statement. "You're George Voss's son, and Jeremiah Voss's grandson." He said all this without so much as a "hello". I figured that he was some kind of tax man or sheriff, to be honest, but looking at his clothes I re-thought about it. It was all rather quick. It had to be a 'yes' or 'no' answer. He spoke as if he knew me. I was half sober enough to realize that. I took a long hard stare at this man and told him it depended upon what he wanted. My speech might not have been too clear, but he understood me.

Jurene and Jimmy just watched him and their mouths opened and shut like they were fish in a fish tank. J turned back to them and told them that he was en route to interview me when his car had that flat tire out on the roadway. "Interview me?", I thought. Why would anyone want to talk with the town drunk, a washed-up, no account, alcohol soaked and good for nothing fellow like me? He explained it very clearly. He wanted to write about John, my son, and suddenly the coffee didn't seem to fit what I needed. I reached around to my back pocket for the flask that carried my medicine, but the stranger touched my arm. "Could that wait a bit?", he asked. I smiled at him and told him that it probably couldn't. "Why you want to write about Johnny?", I asked. That stranger just looked straight at me. His answer baffled me. He told me that I knew why. At that point, I did not know why. I sure found out... but I'll get to that. I raised the flask to my lips and took a swig. Jurene came over and knocked the whole thing out of my hands. Told me she wouldn't allow any drinking in her place. She was right... as right as I was drunk... and I didn't want to sober up right then... not if I had to tell this man about my son.

Liquor has a wonderful way of changing the world and how you see it. It is a filter for those of us not strong enough to take what life dishes out. Self-pity becomes righteousness. Anger and frustrations are justification. A considerably poor self-image becomes blurred enough to make you think you're a heck of a fellow. Ask any drunk if this is true, but just ask him when he is sober.

"I want to know how John Voss lived his life", J said to me. "I think if we both consider that it might help to explain the reason why he died. My editor and I both think there is a story in that. The only one who knows John Voss really well is his father, and that is why I am here to interview you."

Jurene had saddled a bit closer and was listening in. When I looked up she was close enough to be breathing on me. I had to swallow my pride, a thing easy enough to do, and ask for another coffee. The spilled cup that Jurene had knocked out of my hands was still on the floor. She hadn't cleaned it up. There were tears in her eyes. I promised her that I wasn't going to add anything into the coffee, so she went off and brought another cup. She sat down near us to listen in and that's when Jimmy Hall ambled over, not wanting to be left out of hearing a good yarn.

"You want to know how my son lived and you think there is a story in that? Well, I'll give your readers a story all right. It might explain something about my son, true enough... but the story isn't about him. It isn't even about me so much. It is about old Jeremiah Voss himself, a man Johnny never met. Johnny's story begins with him."

J sat there looking at me and listening with his fullest attention. He had his hands folded across each other and leaning a bit on the table. I asked J if he was going to write anything down, seeing as how he was a reporter. J told me it wasn't his style. He said that he'd spent his lifetime listening to people and that he had the kind of memory that captured everything. If I had been in the schoolyard right then, I'd have asked him some dumbass question as a test. I'd have asked him to tell me the color of Jimmy Hall's shirt. I was thinking that and J looked at me without blinking and told me the color of Jimmy's shirt was blue. I was pretty sure I hadn't asked that question, but he'd answered it anyway. I sipped on my coffee thinking I really needed to sober up a bit more. J asked me to tell him about Jeremiah Voss, my grandfather. It was like saying that we should begin at the beginning... so I did. It was long ago and the memories are still clear.

"If you were to ask me what made Jeremiah Voss move from his homeland and settle in Menapafe, I couldn't tell you. His father and mother are folks I never met. They were long dead when I was born. Grandpa had been born some years before the turn of the century. My dad, George Voss, came along in 1905 and I was born 1938. By the time of the story Grandpa was quite an old fellow, but he wasn't about to retire. He was still up before dawn every damn day and that is what he taught my dad to do. My grandad taught that to me too, because my own dad had  passed on when I was young. I took my dad's place by the time I was ten. Around a farm there are chores to do and you begin way early."

I was explaining this to J because he was a city fellow. I figured he did not know much about farm life. He just sat and listened to me, nodded his head, and I allowed as how he understood such things. I continued.

"Grandpa was growing corn back then. He had some tomato vines. He grew grapes. He was magical with zucchini, but the thing that made the best money was corn. Now he'd already learned that some crops have to be rotated or they leach the soil of its nutrition. The dust bowl years had been hard on farmers, but Jeremiah Voss was quick to learn. The year I'm talking about we had planted corn. After I was finished with milking the cows Grandpa expected me out in the fields. He might not have been harvesting the corn, but he checked it every day. He wanted to inspect how it was doing. Never missed a day, either.

"Now the first day in this story, I'd joined grandpa out in the corn fields. He was looking at the husks of corn in one place and inspecting some damage to those ears of corn. When he saw me he looked up at me and showed me the corn. It had been sort of torn apart and pulled about. It wasn't just one or two ears of corn, either. The stalks had looked broken, too. Grandpa told me that the damage was due to the crows that hung about the farm. 'Son,' he said to me, 'these here crows are like flies at a picnic. They scavenge for everything they get and make themselves a damn nuisance. Tomorrow you and me are going to bring our guns and have a little target practice. When we are done, old Mr. Crow is going to be looking for a better and safer place to have his breakfast.'

The next day Grandpa was up early and was ready for me when I got to the bottom of the stairs of our house. He'd made his breakfast right early. He preferred a good swig of whiskey to lubricate his senses. It wasn't enough to make him drunk, but it was enough to hold off the demon until later in the day. Yes, my grandfather was an alcoholic, too... but he would've denied it. I tossed some eggs together and a biscuit, along with a bit of milk. I was all of ten years old at the time. Grandpa was nearing his 60's. He'd lost his wife the year before. My dad passed on back in 1945 toward the end of the war. My mom had passed on from breast cancer. It was just the two of us. An old man trying to be father and grandfather to a kid. He'd have probably gone more deeply into the bottle if he hadn't taken on my care, but as I was growing older he'd been drinking a bit more.

I turned to Jurene at this point and said: "It wasn't pretty to see, so you can understand that I know how you feel, Jurene." Jurene stared back at me. She had not known about Jeremiah Voss, now dead and buried all these years... somewhere over in Semapaw. I turned my attention back to J and continued the story.

"Sonny," Grandpa said, "today we are going to bag us a few corn-stealing crows. We are going to set out in them fields and just wait for them to dare to fly by." We headed out and it was still dark. We took up a place in the fields and Grandpa told me to wait till we heard the sound of their call. Crows are noisy birds. Big voices. Attitude. I think they all are, even today. They love to strut in front of all the bird kingdom with their noisy cries. Maybe, just maybe, they are begging God to pay attention to them. It surely sounds that way if you've ever heard a crow complaining. Maybe it's about the heat, or a marital dispute or a scolding of papa crow to his kids, but they are loud enough to hear at a distance. This day it was silence.

We sat out in that field all day and all afternoon. Not a single crow had shown up. As grandpa was about to give in he'd heard a crow giving a loud call. It was not far from where grandpa had parked his car. When we got to it, we'd seen a crow flying off in the distance. His call sounded like laughter grandpa had said. On the windshield the crow had left his "calling card". It was a bright sized lump that had splattered right across the driver's side of the windshield. Grandpa looked at it and cussed. The bottle came out from his back pocket. He took a swig and wanted to call the bird all kinds of filthy names I am sure. He knew I'd be listening so he toned down the bad language.

"That old crow is a Satan if ever there was one. He knew it was my car. He knew I'd had a gun. He knew I'd be shooting at him and his kin today. That's why he warned them off. He just did this to let me know he knew. It is a challenge now. I'm going to peg that bird tomorrow for sure!". Grandpa let a bit of his liquor do the talking as he told his story down at the General Store.... to any and all who would listen. No one dared laugh about the bird dumping on grandpa's windshield, but a few sniggered over it when grandpa's back was turned. Lucky he never heard that laughter. It would have riled him even more than he already was.

It was with a renewed sense of purpose then that we began our journey the next morning. Grandpa was not about to let a crow get the best of him. No, siree. He fortified himself with something at the bottom of his bottle that morning, just to have the extra strength needed to combat the evils of this crow... and the world in general.

We went right back to the area where we'd staked out the day before. Grandpa went through the corn rows and sure enough there was fresh damage to his corn. Each ear destroyed just seemed to make him angrier. He was cursing that old crow from one end of creation to the other. There was a sound in the heavens, or so grandpa said, of generations of crows looking down upon him and he was going to show them all. A lifetime of crows had stolen the corn of Jeremiah Voss, but today... this day... the score would be settled! Grandpa was laughing to himself and building up his triumph in his mind, you see. The bottle did that to him this day. When the crow arrived he was like a gate-crasher at a party of one. He'd interrupted grandpa's celebration... in advance... over a world of crows. It was time to put them all in their place. Time for them to recognize that stealing corn from Jeremiah Voss had consequences.

I saw Old Satan for the first time that day. He was flying by, observing the scene below. He dived through the air quite majestically. Any crow with an ounce of wisdom should have steered clear of any kind of human being or even a scarecrow. That was the way they were supposed to behave. They were supposed to be cowardly in the face of humanity's superiority of intellect. Never heard of a crow killing a man, but plenty of crows get shot down each year. Right? Old Satan would have none of that. He was not your average crow. He went right into Jeremiah Voss' cornfield that morning and, right in the face of that old man himself, Old Satan began to attack the field to glean his breakfast.

I suppose the art of making rifles had improved considerably since the Civil War. No longer were the days when you had to shoot, re-load and then shoot again. Grandpa had a pretty old gun, but it was trusty enough to do its job. He could take a slow aim, fire, and bag any kind of creature he was aiming for. Ah, but that was when he was sober, you see. By the time he raised his rifle to peg Old Satan grandpa was more than a little affected by the mash he'd been drinking. You could see it in how his fingers gripped that gun. You could detect the trembling in his arms as if the weight of the old gun had suddenly doubled. The barrel of the gun wavered a bit as grandpa steadied himself to take aim. If it had only been three years earlier there wouldn't be a story to tell. Grandpa would've shot Old Satan and the other crows would have fled into the trees for safety.

He fired. He missed, and Old Satan simply ignored him. He fired a second time and missed again. Any other bird would not tempt fate this way, but Old Satan was playing a modified game of Russian Roulette. Each time grandpa fired, by staying right on that cornstalk, Old Satan was returning the challenge. Only a fool would think there was an empty gun after the fifth time the trigger had been pulled on a six-shooter. Was this damned bird born deaf? No, I don't think so. He was just plain ornery.

When Old Satan was tired of playing the game, he flew off. Grandpa was no better an aim at a flying target than he was a stationary one. Grandpa's shots took on an edge of desperation. He was firing shot after shot now, more rapidly seeking to hit the disappearing target.

Grandpa had to find somewhere to direct the blame for his failure to hit Old Satan, and I was the only one around. "Boy," he says to me, "where was your gun when I needed it? Did I drag you out here to watch or shoot? If you'd have gotten off your lazy, good for nothing ass and taken the time, that bird would have been history. You think he was laughing at me? Well, son, he was laughing at the TWO of us. Tomorrow, you are going to go out to this field and bag that bird. It is a matter of family honor now. You come home to me with that crow in your hands!" Matters did not improve much when grandpa got back to the car. On the windshield, not one, but two distinct piles of crow turd. Old Satan left his mark for me, too.

-TO BE CONTINUED-

"Tales of Tossman"-Part 1

Also serialized at http://www.lightmillennium.org/

"You want to find an apartment in Manhattan?", exclaimed my parents.

"Yes. It seems logical. It is where I work and where I hang out. Why not?"

"It will cost you an arm and a leg!", said my dad. My mom thought worse. The only kind of rent I could afford would place me in a neighborhood where bullets were delivered like take-out Chinese food. She was certain that within hours after my relocation I'd be on a slab in a morgue, unknown, unloved and unidentified. Given their fears there would be no way logic or reason would calm them, so I just decided I'd move and that would be that. The only question indeed was the one they had given some worried thought to.... where?

My co-workers all knew the names of real estate people who, for a modest fee, would find me a palace. After all, hadn't they also forded the river and made their home in the city that never sleeps? You expect New York rents to be high. It helps keep the riff-raff on rent control.

On a sunny day in February I went apartment shopping with my agent. Agents usually have a place to show you right off the top of their head. They sit. They listen to you describe your dreams and then they show you the same apartment they were going to show you when you walked through the door. I think there is a law about that.

I was taken to a small building and an even smaller studio apartment on the West Side. Even the thought of the East Side was so amusing that my agent nearly wet himself with laughter at the mere mention of it. East Side? Do you know what the cheapest rental is that I am aware of? You'd have to supplement your income with robbery and even then you might not have enough, he told me. The West Side and the older buildings there were soundly constructed and affordable. I'd be near everything. I'd be happy. I'd be able to work long hours at low enough salary to make this a dream come true. I believed him. I moved in April after a lot of haggling, packing and planning. In May my mother let go of my left leg, thus making the move from home quite final.

Yes, it was a paradise. The small kitchen was hardly used. My whole studio was a bed and a table which doubled as my desk. I did have a chair. I did have TV. My window, such as it was, did not open. The air conditioner had been fit into it for year round use. It did have a nice southern exposure... of the building across the street. That building was the rear delivery side of an office building whose windows were constantly dark and appeared to be blocked by boxes or garbage of one kind or another. Paradise.

As bad as this may sound to you, not much made the place interesting until the Tossmans moved in next door to me. Arthur and Yvette Tossman. A pair of humans who truly defy description. They were a match like a black dress shoe matches a brown one. You could argue that you had two pair like this. This was the Tossman household. No kids. Just Tossmen, if that would be the plural for more than one Tossman.

I did not realize how thin the walls were until Ms. Tossman arrived to put them to the test. They failed. I think that her incessant dragon breath might have weakened the walls. The woman always shrieked and never softly. A shrill voice would be one you could get used to, but Ms. Tossman's voice was such that made such an adjustment impossible. Mr. Tossman worked during a night shift, so the arguments did not begin until he came home and woke up his wife, usually around 3 a.m. Arguments? No, more like lectures. I never heard Mr. Tossman do more than grunt. His grunts seemed to flow from out of the bathroom. They were of the sort that revealed some kind of strain he was involved with rather than agreement or disagreement. It was as if the whole life of this fellow was devoted to a rotten job with lousy pay and horrid hours. He arrived home for the one thing that gave his life some meaning: A good bowel movement. He apparently never used his office toilet because seven days a week I could hear the Tossman grunts followed eventually by the sound of relief. It would be too much to think that this could be Tossman sex, but who knows? During all the grunting I'd heard Ms. Tossman would be reciting a litany of invective about life and love in general. Would she have been shrieking about such things during sex? Possible but not probable.

No, none of it was silent. I'd gotten into the routine of being awake at 3 a.m. simply because one did not sleep when Tossmen were awake. I'd be up making coffee just around the time that Tossman began his grunts, usually within five minutes after slamming his door shut. Tossman never closed a door, nor did his wife. The finality of a closed door could not be accomplished without a nice, loud slam. I was beginning to think the Tossmans were deaf. Whatever the case, they were indeed loud. The neighbor on the other side of their apartment often hammered on the wall and Ms. Tossman shrieked and hammered back. The people above and below the Tossmans came and went, usually not long enough to have to put up with the noise.

Days were quieter. Ms. Tossman would be out shopping and Mr. T would be sleeping at some point in time. He did not leave for work until late afternoon. A brief argument with Ms. Tossman would be enough to get him running away to work. She was indeed quite a gem. I actually saw her once. It was early on and I tried being friendly enough to say "Hello, Mrs. Tossman". Ms. T read Sandburg, I think. Good fences make good neighbors. She turned to me and shrieked "I don't talk to strangers.... and my name is not 'Mrs'. I am Ms. Tossman!". On that note, the door was slammed shut. She did not talk to strangers. Hmmmn, I thought. How did she ever meet Tossman?

What do the arguments sound like? I recorded a few. I will tell you the next time we meet.

"Tales of Tossman"-Part 2

Also serialized at http://www.lightmillennium.org/

Never ask my mother to tell one of her jokes to you. She can't. There are some things in life that defy our own natural abilities. We all can't pitch in the major leagues. We all can't perform delicate surgery. We all can't be the President of the United States... ah... no, wait a minute. Most of us could be the President. I take that back.
 
My mother would begin to tell the joke by asking you if you had heard it before. She would proceed to mention the punchline of the joke by way of inquiry. If you had not heard the joke before, the telling of the joke would be ruined by mention of the punchline. That is how my mom kept major comedians from unemployment. Of course, this was just one variation. The other would be if she began the joke and then, as it was being told, she would forget or confuse the ending. A long journey to a dead end or the edge of a cliff. Her success in life was to find a husband so devoid of humor that her lack of ability in this area made the whole issue quite unimportant. My dad would continue, almost immediately, after my mother had failed to arouse cheering gales of laughter with words like "Now, as I was saying....". It was like a good husband might if he was trying to cover up the sound of a loud fart his spouse had just left in the room.

They are a perfect couple, my mom and dad. I think of them when I compare them to Arthur and Yvette Tossman. A neighbor, sharing gossip with me one day, told me that Yvette had actually not been Ms. Tossman's real name. It was Yentl. By choosing to change it, Ms. Tossman wanted the softer sound of French as it had more snob appeal. She would have been far more comfortable to be addressed, I suppose, as Madame de Tossman, were it but possible... adding the honorific "de" much as had Honore Balzac done to his own name.

Yes, among other things, the charming Ms. Tossman [Yentl or whatever] was a snob who did not talk to strangers. She must have talked to someone, however, as how else would the world be led to learn via the grapevine about her true name? Aha! Has it perhaps occurred to you that the long-suffering Mister Tossman may have spilled the beans on his beloved child bride? Listening to the endless litany of taunts, accusations, threats, invective and more that was blasted his way, could this be the only defense poor Tossman had? Hang his beloved, sylph-like treasure to dry on the line of truth? A distinct possibility!

Where did it begin and when? You are indeed bubbling with curiosity, aren't you? I promised to tell you of the battle of the Tossmans, didn't I? My regret is that I had not known at the outset what a great gift I'd been given by merely being fated to live right next door. More than a few of the best matches had gone by before I had the good sense to preserve the choicest of them on tape. Yes, the voice of Yvette Yentl Tossman was loud enough and strong enough to penetrate walls and reach a tape recorder's microphone. I did not need a hidden microphone inside her apartment to capture all she said. As a spy, Yvette Tossman would have been a failure. She was actually better suited to the Mafia.

I will try to recall for you the gist of the first such encounter. It was at 3 am or thereabouts. I had rudely and shockingly been startled awake by the slamming of Tossman's door. The neighbor on the other side of their apartment, Curt Dell'Isola, had similarly been awakened [as he later told me]. The apartment below them was used only by prostitutes for their trade and, by 3 am, was quite empty. The apartment above was being renovated, or so I seemed to recall. Other neighbors did hear the noise, but it was far fainter as the acoustics of the Tossman family seemed to expand outward like a bomb and not up or downward.

Tossman's grunts had begun shortly after his door slam. I'd say it took about as long as it might take to remove a jacket and pants comfortably. These were of a lowing nature. If you'd ever heard a cow groaning at a childbirth and then amplified the sound, this was what Tossman had sounded like. The noise penetrated not only his own bathroom door (assuming he had the decency to close it... but then there had been no accompanying door slam so maybe not), but I could hear each little burst of pain through my apartment walls as well.

"OYYYYYYYYYYYY. UNNNNNNNNNN. VVVVVVVVVEYYYYYYY. EH. EH. EH."

Do you get the idea? Such a child-birth pain had poor Tossman. He must have had an extremely infant-like colon. Our bodies grow as we mature. Everything except the head increases much in size, but what if poor Tossman's intestines had remained the size of a baby but his impactions had not? It would be like trying to roll a grapefruit through a straw!

Never wish pain on someone. It will only come back to you. My mother told me this. I felt sorry for the poor man, even though he had woken me up. I could hear him almost screaming. Dell'Isola was less charitable. I could hear him knock on the wall to remind the Tossmans of the time. Dell was a graphic designer. Interesting fellow actually. It was his job to design all the labels you see on mattresses and the back of shirts. Yes, someone has to do it, and Dell had been doing it for umpty gazillion years... starting at 9 am promptly. Dell would have loved to sleep right up until his 8 o'clock alarm. Waking up five hours early made him a tad grumpy.

Ms. Tossman must have woken up or had been awake, lying in wait for hubby to come home. At the first knock on the wall from Dell, I heard her loud voice screech at him "Get Cancer and die, you son of a bitch!". At first, I thought this was directed to Dell. It would have made sense at that point to think so. Now, a little later on in time, I am not so sure it was. I think Ms. Tossman would have ignored Dell. She did not talk to strangers, even ones who made contact through the wall.

Dell knocked on the wall in response and I think the second blast of Ms. Tossman may well have been directed to him. "Stick your head up your own ass and fart to death!". Charming. Ms. Tossman was trying for humor at 3 am. Little did I know at this point how sincere her wishes were. As this dialogue continued for a while longer, there would be periodic grunts, wheezes and gasps of a decidedly male Tossman nature. These would continue for a near quarter hour and would conclude with a very strong and decidedly conclusive expression of relief. To cap off the event and put a period at the end of the sentence, the toilet would flush. It would be like the fanfare of an orchestra that was about to conclude a musical.

What was lethal to me was the encore. All this sound and fury was the prelude for what would carry on for hours to come. Non-stop. No commercial interruption. A rat blast of fury like I had never heard before in all my given days. If you had asked me that very morning what color I thought was in the interior of the Tossman apartment, I'd have said I did not know. Whatever the color might be it would surely look scorched.

Complicating things even more was that Ms. Tossman once had a dog. She had to put the dog to sleep, I was told. The dog was named Arthur, same as Mr. Tossman. I sensed a bit of grim humor in that because every other generation of Tossmans named their male child Arthur. Arthur's grandfather was an Arthur, as was that Arthur's grandfather. The practice came about apparently because each Arthur had the good fortune to die upon the news of a pregnancy, thus resulting in the naming of the baby after the deceased. The current title holder apparently was named for his grandfather because the good man was hit by a bus and killed. I wonder if, being in good health, he jumped. At any rate, history would never be repeated as Ms. Tossman was not about to have a child, let alone raise it. She was still mourning Arthur, the dog, not the grandfather.

How do I know so much about this crazy couple? Gossip, of course. People love to share things about Ms. Tossman. Everyone leads into the gossip with some sort of revealing tid-bit they've discovered. No one has compiled these until now. Lucky me. I am the chronicler.

The morning in question was a chill one. I suspect the windows of their apartment were open wide. In addition to a need for ventilation, the audio effect of the open windows merely increased the volume of the already none-too-silent household. Mr. Tossman had arrived home, slamming doors. I was instantly awakened and trying to slow down the pace of my startled heart. Ms. Tossman did not wait to lace into her spouse.

        "I put the wrong one to sleep, God," said Ms. Tossman to the ever present deity. "Forgive me. I know you wanted poor Arthur [the dog] to have a longer life. I just did not want him to suffer... unlike the thing that lived, my Arthur was a gem. Do you hear me Arthur?"

At times I couldn't figure out which Arthur fit. When I have, I will try to place a helpful guess in parenthesis for you. Whenever there are no parenthesis, I think she referred to the husband. There are also times when Ms. Tossman used vague references. I will leave these do your own judgement.

        "My poor baby. Did you know it has been almost a year, Tossman? What? You could say that to me, you monster, you horrid nightmare? You have no heart Tossman. You are just a huge and slowly leaking pile of shit. If you had been the one who died, Arthur [the dog] would have visited your grave. Maybe Arthur would go just to pee on it, but he'd have gone. You sure you won't go with me? You would need a day off from work? So? Take the day off. They have to allow you time to grieve, don't they? Stop laughing, Tossman. Listen to me. Hurry up and drop dead, will you... God forbid. God is letting you die slowly, Tossman. Slowly. Every time you go to that bathroom it's a reminder. God wants you to die slow. Did you hear me?"

Who could not hear? Curt had pounded Beethoven's Fifth Symphony on the wall all during Ms. Tossman's shouting lecture. She ignored it. Tossman himself was grunting out, in pain from what must have been a sizeable return to the universe of used Tossman meals.

        "You hate that job anyway. Missing one day would be such a tragedy? What? So you took a day already for moving. So what? You don't have any days left? It is not like we go on vacation anywhere. Look in a mirror Tossman. That is my vacation. I get to look at that face. It would be easier to look at that face if I was in Paris... but here????"

I had been thinking of how much easier it would have been for everyone, God included, if the Tossmans were somewhere else. Is there any place at all for God to hide from that voice? Did He love it? The Bible tells me He does, but then there are no accounts of anyone resembling either Tossman in scripture. Not even Job resembled them, but as this was not the first such shouting match, I could relate a bit to Job.

"I am telling you. Do you listen? Bread. You eat too much bread. You look like like a stack of pancakes that were dropped on the floor, Tossman. Burt Reynolds you aren't. Shut up [directed either to the incessant hammering of Curt Dell'Isola or directed to Arthur] ! Fall off the planet, and disappear! Die scratching at an itch you can't, God forbid, reach!

"As for you, Mr. Tossman. You are taking me to the grave of our beloved Arthur [the dog, not the grandfather]. You'll tell your boss today that you are not coming in on Monday. What? Drop dead yourself. You'll do this or God help you when you walk through the door on Monday if you don't. You don't take that day off and I'll fix you. You may not be broken, but I will fix you but good. You think you're not broken? Well, I will break you into pieces and then fix you. Do you hear me?"

Dell had shouted through two walls at this point, aided by open windows, something to the effect that the United Nations could hear Ms. Tossman. She actually replied. She told Curt to find his penis and, having searched for this microscopic organ, by mistaking it for a pimple, give it a good squeeze.

Things did not settle down until Tossman had gone to bed. I could hear him snoring through the window until Ms. Tossman slammed the door to go out. He awoke, I guess, as the snoring stopped briefly. It began again all too soon.  Ah, no rest for the weary. I had looked forward to Monday. With the Tossmans at the graveyard, I thought, there would be one short, divine moment of silence. Thanks, God. There would not be many, but this is the first such match I put on tape. There were others.

Tales of Tossman-Part 3
A serialized saga of Manhattan

Baseball is uniquely American. Soccer fans patiently sit and wait for Americans to catch their fever, but so far the infection has not taken a hold as deeply here. Is it a great sport? Enjoyable? Yes. It has its moments... but the one thing it is not is baseball. Someone once told me baseball is not interesting because it is too slow. I agree. So is chess! Chess is about strategy, and so is baseball. Moves and countermoves are argued endlessly by fans. The slightest thing a manager does will be taken apart and re-assembled by those with the skill to evaluate... and even a few clueless fans who think they can.
 
The art of baseball lies in fan loyalty. My own is somewhat suspect. I grew up in Queens, you see. It was expected that you become a Mets fan and I did. I went to games out at Shea and saw some of the greats of the game. Keith Hernandez on first base, Bachman on Second. Elster at Short. Battling Terry Knight at Third. Montreal's Gary Carter catching for the Mets [I have to add that dig as Carter has not been much of a Met]. Darryl, Doc and that whole crowd that made 1986 one hell of a year. Everyone in Boston knows it. They tire of hearing about it. It was that ball that went through Bill Buckner's legs that symbolized the frustrated hopes of so many Beantown fans. Close once again... but no cigar. Not only did '86 play a significant part of Boston history, but it would take the Boston Red Sox 86 years to get rid of the "Curse of the Bambino", a legend that stated the trade of Babe Ruth to the Yankees would forever doom the team to failure.

The Curse is over now, so Yankees T-Shirts say "There Never Was A Curse--- Your Team Just Sucked!". You can buy one at one of the stores that ring the stadium up in the Bronx. A short time after the Miracle Mets won the Series, management began to ruin the team. It was frustrating to see bad trades and egos out at Shea. I began looking cross town and fell in love with a 26-time World Champion team. Even during the lean years there was tradition and victories beyond number. I did the unthinkable. I became a fan of the Yankees. It is a team that some like to call "The Evil Empire".

No doubt this is how Arthur Tossman felt. I refer, of course, to the current title holder of that name. His Grandfather was an Arthur Tossman, as was his Grandfather's Grandfather. His dog was also an Arthur, or should I say his wife's dog? Arthur Tossman was a Boston Red Sox fan who lived in Manhattan. It would be an unthinkable thing for Satan to reside in a corner of Heaven, wouldn't it? Tossman lived in enemy territory. He must have been a glutton for punishment. Not only a team like the Red Sox to cheer for, but the husband of Yvette Tossman as well. Perhaps fate had decided Job had it a bit too easy and a better example of suffering was called for. Enter Arthur Tossman, whose colon was the size of a newt but whose defecations were colossal.

On the rare occasions when Tossman was able to watch his team being bashed by either the Mets or the Yankees, you could hear the same kind of moaning and  groaning. Old Tossman did not have the ability to see his team year 'round. The cable costs were not approved of by Yvette. Also, Tossman's work schedule did not allow him to be home for viewing a game... save on rare occasions. It must have really tortured him to spend his day off with his wife and not with his TV if a game was being played in the city by the visiting Boston Red Sox.

I can only guess at these things, of course, as all I ever saw of Tossman was a fleeting glance from a distance. I mostly heard him shriek through my apartment walls. Today was no exception. Shriek he did. Yvette added to the peace and quiet of my apartment even more than Tossman did. She would shout at him to "Shut Up" or "Drop Dead", whichever came first would be fine with her. As far as their other neighbor, Curt Dell'Isola, it could not happen soon enough to both of them.

"I don't care who is pitching, Tossman. I want you to shut up AND drop dead", said his wife. "Schilling, Schmilling. Who cares? You are a loser. Your team are losers. A monkey in a hat and T-shirt would be a better fan than you are, you vicious lout!". Tossman groaned, but given the location of the sound, it clearly was not a toilet groan. It was a baseball groan. I'd heard those from time to time, but not as often of late. The World Series win had created a newer, brighter Tossman... or so it seemed. I knew it would be temporary. All Yankees fans knew. Some of us love to wear 2090 T-shirts. A reminder that the Boston team will win once every 86 years. From the sound of things I could have given one to Yvette Tossman. She hated her husband, if not men in general. She hated the Red Sox... but then what New Yorker didn't.... Tossman aside?

The taunting was non-stop. "Look darling husband at what I found for the bedroom," I once heard her shout. " A picture of Johnny Damon. Yes, a nice one. No beard. You remember how they said he had a flea infestation in that? You do? OK, so drop dead yourself. I like him better without the beard. Grow a long beard Tossman and I'll tie it up to your receding hairline so I can cover your ugly face!". [Damon, an outfielder, had moved from the Sox to the Yankees that year and had immediately shaved his beard. The point had not been lost on Arthur Tossman, the husband not the dog. The dog was dead and so was the grandfather.]

The dog had an unveiling a few weeks before and there was silence in the house while the Tossman family had gone to the graveside. You can only imagine how Curt and I wished for them to pay more attention to this animal, perhaps weekly, by visiting the grave. Such was not our fate. If anything, we were in for worse. It began when I heard Yvette shout: "Mother is coming! She's staying for a month!". Tossman had protested in some form unheard through the walls and Ms. T quickly replied "She is not! She never was and never will be! Where do you come off saying a thing like that about my mother! Tossman, have some more Johnny Walker. I poisoned it just for you." Tossman was groaning once more, but since the game was on and I was watching it too, I knew it was related more to a bases load run being scored by the Yanks and Schilling being lifted from the game.

I doubt that with this going on Tossman paid much attention to anything his wife said. Maybe he never did. Who knows? Wives shout when husbands stop listening. Did the arrival of Tossman's mother-in-law come as a surprise? I think it did. The groaning that first night was prolonged.

Older Wei
a new beginning

Quite a few years ago I sat down to write a story about a boy and his grandfather. It did not start out taking place in China. I suppose the one question asked most often is "Why China?". The best answer I might give is that the China in my mind was a place less developed than the US. It was a place much like our early nation of the 19th century. It was a time before machines took away the nature of life as it had been known. The age of mass production has certainly changed the world. Now we are in the age of computers. People no longer socialize as they once did. The front porch style of life is gone... but not back in China and not in the days when this story took place.

There were things I'd left open in the story and I've always wanted to go back for Young Wei's sake. He never had the chance to finish telling what things he had learned of the past. In the process of discovery of the past we learn about ourselves, not just about those whose lives we read and research. History makes the past come alive. When I was in school it did not seem so important. Now that I am older, the past becomes very much a thing I'd want to know more about... but all those who could tell me of the past are gone. Their secrets and the history of lives unknown are buried. If you cannot trace your ancestry back more than a generation or two, why not consider writing one? Isn't it just as much an adventure to create the world you came from? I feel a little of that as I begin to write "Older Wei". Here, then, is how the story continues:

        One of my last memories of Grandfather took place on a rainy, misty day. He had long ago retired from his job of heavy labor because his aging body could no longer perform the tasks they gave him. In retirement Grandfather seemed always to be waiting for something. He was impatient. It was not like his character to be impatient. If anything you may recall that I had said he was overly silent with his family. His rare journeys into town gave him a chance to meet with friends and talk, but the last time I went with Grandfather he just sat and listened, much as he did at home.

        He had not been at the table for lunch, an event he rarely would miss. He always had told Grandmother when he went out, but since her death some five years before there was no one to tell anymore. My wife loved him, but even though that love was returned in Grandfather's own fashion, he did not show her the same level of attention after Grandmother had died. The message was clear. No one could take his wife's place. No one could. No one did. No one tried to... or so I had thought.

        Knowing the behavior older people sometimes exhibited, it was my wife who told me to go out and search for him. The dinner would be kept warm... for both of us... when we returned. Had Grandfather gotten lost in the misty rain or somehow disoriented? We did not have an exact age for him because record keeping back in the days of his birth, whenever it might have been, was not clear. Grandfather did not much care about numbers, except when he was forced to endure a birthday party in his honor. I think he felt a certain amount of shame about not knowing the day of his birth, the month or the year. You did not measure life back then in terms of living long. You measured them in terms of surviving. It was a different China after all.

        Zhang Wei's parents were too poor to give him an annual envelope of "lucky" money or hong bao. There was not much to celebrate for Zhang Wei. When the times were good and rice was plentiful, songs would be sung in the evening. He told me this once. The songs were quite old and the lyrics made no sense, even though Grandfather said they were in Chinese. Grandfather and his family members were close enough to enjoy the tribal moments that close families have, even if they are less so these days. He sang songs with his family as if in thanks for one more year to be alive. Not all of his brothers and sisters did survive. Some died at childbirth, others died while giving birth to a child. You buried your dead each year. Found a new husband or wife if need be... and had new children to replace the ones whom death had taken away. Life was just a long march forward. Where were we marching? Who knew? Best to be silent and move ahead. Carry those who can no longer walk. Stay alive. Bury the dead and keep moving. This is what Grandmother told me. Grandfather said nothing of his childhood, or at least as little as he could.

        I was always curious about those times because Grandfather said so little. Who were his parents? No paintings of them were on the walls. Grandmother's parents were likewise long dead when I was born. My mother had never met them. My father? Ah, the less said about him, the better. He abandoned my mother forcing her to flee to Grandfather with child in hand. Grandfather took her in and took her shame. Everyone knew of her return. Tongues wagged non-stop, or so I as told. What silenced them? Grandfather's lack of shock, indignation, emotion. He was hard to read so there was really no gossip to believe. Only those with a long memory might have spoken... but they did not. It was perhaps for a good reason.

        Grandfather has never been a burden in the way some parents can be. They arrive making demands and suggesting changes their children might make to enjoy a happier "parent-approved" life. It was due to Grandfather being Grandfather more than anything else. He was also not a "parent" in the classical sense but rather a grandparent. He gave guidance only grudgingly and his life lessons were few and far between. When he gave them, the message lasted a lifetime. My lifetime.

Flip DeGaetano look alike Mike Mazurki

Flip's Hole: Dombitz' Kosher Cat Food-1

It was our usual Summer. The weather had gone from frigid to obscenely hot, and all in a short time. People were sneezing from the colds that came with the sudden and unexpected change. How did women, God bless them, react? They wore their Summer clothes, even with pneumonia. Breasts were more visible as were legs. It was an idiot's delight, if you enjoy the sight of women. Flip's Hole was no exception, and our resident idiot was faring rather poorly with Lori DeGaetano, the one woman in all the world who would not wear skirts because they made her look fat. Buddy Taub was employing reason with her, or what passed for reason in Buddy's infantile mind.

"You'd look great in a mini-skirt," Buddy opined.

"You'd look even better in a coffin," said Lori.

Right then and there any normal man would know enough to leave matters alone,but Buddy Taub was not a normal sort of man. He thrived best on rejection. In his mind it was only a matter of time before Lori gave in and accepted his lust for her. After all, Buddy Taub had much to offer a woman. Ah, he did, you ask? Well, not exactly. Let's just say that in Buddy's world it was not about what he could do for a woman, but more what she could do for him. Small wonder then that Buddy's bachelor days would string out into a life sentence.

"I'd die for a look at your legs," Buddy added thinking himself as witty as Shakespeare.

"If only, Buddy... if only...., " Lori added. "Hey, Pop, can I fix his next order of meat loaf? I want to season it for him."

Flip looked at the two of them and then at me. "Bart, do something. Control your woman, would you? She's arguing with my customers". This from Flip DeGaetano, a man who had never controlled wife or daughter in all his born days. I stared at him incredulously. If Flip didn't want to get involved in this I sure as hell did not. The arguing and cajoling went on for a pace. No other sit-down customers were in the Hole and Flip did some occasional take-out work through the window at the front of the store. Flip hated to work at the window on days like this. It was hot.

When Rabbi Dombitz appeared arm in arm with Lloyd Flahs the combination was enough to draw Flip's attention, especially from that front window. The good rabbi sat at the counter as far from Buddy Taub as was humanly possible. Buddy countered by moving closer.

"Rabbi, does the Bible say anything about women wearing short skirts?", asked Buddy.
Dombitz could only look in amazement. "Buddy, you're a good boy. Go drop dead, eh? When you get to Satan, tell him that Dombitz sent you. He'll have your room ready. It is a professional courtesy for all those I send to him." Taub, rejected on two fronts as regards the appearance of women in Summer, went back to his meal and started to pick at it.

"What'll it be, Rabbi?", asked Flip.

"What do you have that is cool?"

I was waiting for Buddy to pipe up and say Lori's name, but Flip gave a look to Buddy that kept him quiet.

"Cottage cheese and Jell-o?", said Flip. "You want something light and tasty, that's your best bet."

"Done", said Dombitz turning to his seatmate, "and how about you, Lloyd?". Flahs took the same order and the two men continued what was apparently quite a debate.

"No, ridiculous. Out of the question. Impossible. Never, and I might add, that this is final. Don't ask."

Lloyd Flahs was never one to take no for an answer. He was in marketing. Marketing people view "no" as the first step towards "yes". Impossible does not exist for them. The most foolish product in the world can be sold if only you find the right reason for someone to want it... at least that is what Lloyd once told me. Considering our political climate and those who occupy various elected offices I think Lloyd could be right.

"Rabbi, you know this makes sense. It is not foolish. It is pragmatic. If you don't agree someone else is going to, then all that revenue will be theirs and not yours. I am trying to help you. Just meet with the man. Listen to what he has to say. Give him your response if you insist, but let him make his case."

"Are you Jewish?", asked Dombitz.

"You know I am", said Lloyd. "What has that got to do with this?".

"Genug," said the Rabbi. "Do you know what 'genug' means? It means 'enough'. It means stop. It means 'don't continue!'".

"I know the word, but I've never considered it to be practical. No one ever has enough, Rabbi. They always need more, and so do you. If we ever have enough in this society the whole world will stop functioning. Be reasonable. Listen to this man and give him your answer."

"You want me, Rabbi Morris Dombitz, to listen to a man who wants to hire me as an authority? No. I am not an authority."

Flip and I were astounded. Rabbi Morris Dombitz not an authority? How could that ever be possible. The good Rabbi took credit for things that fell into his lap. How could he suddenly have an attack of modesty? It would be as shocking as Buddy Taub suddenly speaking with wisdom.

Flip served up the two plates of cottage cheese and interrupted the flow of conversation. It was the one thing needed to fill me in on the nature of the conversation that Dombitz and Flahs had been having. Dombitz explained it all to Flip and I just listened.

"Lloyd has a client named Kornbluth. Does Kornbluth have a company? No. Does Kornbluth have a job? No? What does Kornbluth have? An idea. He is a man with ideas. He is like a Hollywood scriptwriter who never wrote a single line and wouldn't know one if it bit him. He has a concept! An idea. This putz, who would not know how to breathe in and out if he had not taken lessons at a young age, wants to hire the great Rabbi Morris Dombitz! I tell you, it is an insult to even the intelligence of that human potato at the end of the counter."

"He has a great idea. You just won't listen. You are not only the great Rabbi Morris Dombitz, you are the stubborn Rabbi Morris Dombitz. The man wants five minutes of your time. Five minutes. You need longer to go to the bathroom, Rabbi. Why be so obdurate?"

"Five minutes for a Dombitz is nothing, I admit. For others such a time would be an eternity, I assure you. Yet in five minutes I can produce at least one very well formed bowel movement, a thing of beauty. What can Kornbluth give birth to? An idea? Ach, and such an idea! It is an insult."

"Not if you would give the man a fair hearing. Your mind may be closed now, but if you just listen to the man make his points, then you can say that your reply is based on a fair hearing of the matter. Be fair, Rabbi, that's all I am asking."

Lloyd Flahs knew well that the key word in his appeal had to be "fairness". The Rabbi prided himself on that above all other things. It was Lloyd Flahs' marketing strategy and one that worked... finally.

"Ach. Ok. I'll speak with him here tomorrow. Same time. Five minutes only. Tell him. He's got only five minutes of my precious time, which is like centuries to others. He should thank you for this, Lloyd. I am doing it only for you. Now leave me alone about it, because the answer will still be no!".

What was this epic meeting about to take place in Flip's Hole all about? That you will find out soon enough!

Flip's Hole

Many years ago, and just shortly after we were married, my wife told me I should use my time learning to write stories. It seemed harmless and, in a way, a wonderful way to pass time. I started. I stunk. I probably still do a terrible job of writing stories, but now... thanks to the internet... I can bore more people with them than ever.

My friend, Bircan started me off by using some of the early stories on her website... long before this blog existed. She still issues some of my writing there in her archives and current issue. You can visit this site at: http://www.lightmillennium.org/index.html  It is in Turkish and English. Take your pick.

You may have noticed a few other stories are running here simulataneously. I am putting a few of them up here for storage and eventually when all the pieces are in place I will try to organize them logically and in order. For now it will have to remain a jumble as Xanga does not allow the writers to post anything in more than date order.

How many Flip's Hole stories have I written? Many. It began with a small place that used to be on 32nd Street off of Park Avenue. I worked across the street. My first day on the job [in 1971] I walked into the place for lunch. I had many more lunches there over the years. The owner was a fellow who looked very much like the character actor Mike Mazurki. His name was Phil DeGaetano. Phil is the model for Flip, in appearance only. All the other characters are fictional, save for a very real Lori, the narrator's love interest and Flip's only child. I named her for an old friend, who I still adore in many ways, Lori Giordano. I think they would behave identically and Lori can shoot me for that.

The real "Phil's Lunch" no longer exists. All things pass away and so did this postage stamp sized coffee shop. The parking lot on the south side of 32nd Street is still there, but the sign on the wall above it that said "Let me Phil you up" is gone. THe fictional Flip's Hole got it's name from a sign above the small store that said "Flip's Hole in the Wall Coffee Shop". A storm broke the sign in two and half was thrown away, leaving only "Flip's Hole". It is an amusing note that some might read this as a reference to something about one's lower anatomy. I'll let the few stories I've salvaged from among the many lost stories speak for themselves. Here is one called "Flip The Artiste":

"Take that thing down," said Flip. He was talking to Lori, of course, who was once again trying to bring a ray of sunshine into the otherwise dirty and derelict place known as "Flip's Hole". The Hole is the world's smallest and least important coffee shop. It attracted a host of regulars that I have tried to describe over the years in adventures too unimaginable to believe.

Lori placed her hands on her sizeable hips and gave Flip the malocchio, the evil eye. It was an unspoken dare that said in one look that not only was she NOT taking the painting down, Flip was not going to touch it either.

I took a look at the thing and was amused. It was a picture of a cat dressed in a Victorian frilled collar and blouse. The cat was smoking a cigarette, but looked otherwise quite like a short-haired, white cat. I was told the painting was called "Aunt White". Lori also told me it was by the famous artist Donald Roller Wilson. I did not understand much about this fellow, but after looking at more of his work I began to sense the humor behind it.

Flip, no connoisseur or patron of the arts, was more inclined to see paintings depicting dogs playing cards. These paintings, done on velvet, are supposed to be the lowest class and the lowest taste in art... much like paintings of Elvis Presley on velvet. It fit Flip DeGaetano to a T.

No matter how low his taste was, old Flip did not think the Hole was the place for any kind of painting. For one thing, a painting in a frame attracted dust. Flip was well known for not dusting. Everything pretty much was left as it was in the Hole. The tables in the back dining room were left covered with boxes to discourage their use. Dirt covered both boxes and tables. The most notorious grime was the lengthy string of dirt that hung above the cauldron of soup that Flip kept warm on his hot plate burner. It was never longer and never shorter, but always poised above the soup like a Damoclean sword ready to drop at any given moment.

"We don't need it". It was not a royal "We" that Flip was using. He was attempting to speak for the many customers who, given the narrowness between the counter and the wall on which "Aunt White" was hung, would surely be bumping into it. It was bound to be knocked down with every passerby, coming or going... just as coats were knocked off the hooks on the back wall. Flip had a point, but Lori was immune to her father's logic. He was all too often wrong, in her opinion.

Buddy Taub sauntered in and looked at the new addition. "Fax looks better than this babe", he said. "What's with the picture?". Buddy was referring to our store cat, whose name was Fax. Lori normally ignored Buddy, but she was going to make her will made known to all of us. "It is my effort to bring a little class to this place. The whole wall should be filled with art and it will be. This is a very expensive work of art and you should have some respect for it." Lori reached out to Fax to show her the new "cat" in the store. Fax was having none of it. She leaped out of Lori's range and back into the kitchen. I suspect that Fax was smarter than any of the rest of us. A loud clatter and some curses in Spanish led me to think that Fax's escape route toppled something over and that Jesse Dominguez, the cook and delivery man, had some cleaning to do.

"It stays". Lori's last word. Her mom would be proud of her. Mrs. Marie DeGaetano was not only the one with the last word in the DeGaetano household, but one suspects that she even gave God an earful when He had it coming.

All this serves as a nice review of many of the names I've bandied about in my notes about Flip's Hole. My name is Bart, former production manager for the Pasmezoglu Publishing Company, now future husband to Lori and bottle washer to Flip.

How did the rest of the day go? Well, as you can imagine "Aunt White" got a lot of stares and more than a few smiles. Take out customers loved it, but those who sat on the stools invariably knocked it down and had to put it back up. By the end of the day "Aunt White" had been on the floor more often than a fleet of drunken sailors on liberty. The frame was starting to show a little wear.

Morris Ippai, known as "Moe" to his friends, took a look at the thing and asked "Why is the cat smoking? Isn't it illegal to smoke in the store?". Rudy Giuliani had enacted several measures to all but eliminate smoking in public places, and Moe Ippai was making a wonderful joke at Lori's expense. She glared at him. Flip lit a cigarette and took a puff.

"Moe, this is the god-damned USA. I spent a year in Korea to fight for freedom and I'll be darned if anyone is going to remove my rights without a fight. If the cat can smoke in here, so can I. Sue me." I could see Flip was starting to appreciate the cat a bit more. Lori glared not only at Ippai, but back at Flip. Lori hated smoking. Lori hated farting. Basically her idea of the world's best husband was a man with a cork in his mouth and in his... well, you know.

"I'm only a sign painter and window washer, but I can paint the cigarette out, if you want me to. I'd give you a good price." Lori glared at him even more. I think Ippai got the message as he turned to eat his tuna fish on rye.

Sigmund Schnipple turned up for a coffee and knocked the painting to the floor. It took him a few minutes to find the right angle to be able to lift the frame without damaging it and a few more to hang it back on the hook. "Where'd you get this albatross?", he asked. Lori stared at him, too and the silence was deafening. Flip had his back to the world and was ignoring the whole thing.

Mrs. Mohendas, a teacher from nearby Norman Thomas High School, stopped in and took a peek. "Why that looks just like my old cat Fluffy." Buddy Taub could not resist the opening. "So, was Fluffy a pack a day smoker?". Mrs. Mohendas cleared her throat and stared at Taub much as Lori did. A weaker man would have shrunk from the formidable looks of these two ladies. Taub was unaffected, lacking sufficient brain power or heart to be so moved.

Mrs. Von Frompsing was next in line. She looked at the painting and a let out a shriek. "Oh, where did you ever find this? It is an original Donald Roller Wilson. Why is such a priceless treasure hanging in a dump like this?".

"This ain't no dump," yelled Lori... but Flip was now interested. He knew Mrs. Von Frompsing was a lady with more money than Bill Gates. She was very frugal, which explains her habit of eating at Flip's. The quality was lacking, but he was also cheap.

"This painting is famous?", asked Flip.

"Oh! A Roller Wilson original canvas is very priceless. His artwork is constantly going up in value. If I could only have a few of his pieces, I'd have the dear man put to sleep. Dead artists are so much more valuable, you know."

"How much did this cost, Lori?" Flip was now VERY interested in art.

"It ain't important."

"How much?"

"I got a good deal."

"How much is a good deal?" Flip raised his eyebrows. When a DeGaetano does this it means the talking portion of the exchange is over. Lori muttered something.

"What? Speak up. I want to hear what you paid for this."

"Eight", said Lori.

"Eight? That's a bit high, but OK. I think I can afford eight bucks."

Mrs. Von Frompsing was laughing now. "More like eight thousand, Flip. Don't you know what art costs? Why Roller Wilson's collected book of art prints was sold originally for $10 and is now worth 15 times that... if you can find it."

Flip looked sick. He looked at Lori and mouthed the question again. No utterance, just the movement of his lips asking her 'how much'?

"Uh, Hundred".

"What! You spent a hundred dollars for this?" Flip misunderstood, as usual.

"Eight Hundred." Lori finally said clearly.

Flip looked at the painting of "Aunt White" and shook his head. He was so mortified that he could not speak.

"Well, that certainly is a bargain. I'll give you a thousand for it. It is vintage Wilson, after all."

Flip put his hand over Lori's mouth, which she promptly bit... but not before he could shout out "SOLD".

Mrs. Von Frompsing wrote out the check and Flip saw it as a $200 profit. Lori was incensed that her efforts to sanitize the Hole had been frustrated again. No one else seemed much to care. The painting had not been around long enough.

When Sigmund Schnipple came in the next day he noticed it was gone. "Where is it?", he asked, having wondered where his wrestling partner went.

Buddy looked up from his soup with an evil smile. "Dunno. I think it was in heat and just vanished." Fax did not find this a bit funny. Her glaring eyes matched those of Lori, who sat in a corner holding onto Fax. Flip looked at the empty wall and smiled. I wondered what would happen next. In this place something always happens next.

There is a real Donald Roller Wilson, artist. View his work at:

http://www.donaldrollerwilson.com/