I cannot bear to lose it.

The water flows so gently

Ever so gently over and between the rocks.

The majestic Farmington

Able to drown and kill hundreds of people

Scourge of the 1950s, frightening in the 2200s

Capable even today of a sudden snap and break 

            Of a simple antique bridge, built to last forever.

Running gently, smoothly past my chair in the shade of a tree

Masked face, distanced friend

That mighty threatening stream of sparkling water

With hopeful anglers casting lines

Hoping to waylay a single beautiful trout

Swimming fleetingly between the rocks,

Hiding in the shade…

Only to be caught and held by soft calloused hands,

As the gentle angler removes the sharp barb and sets it free.

It is not a victim of a brutal end, killed for sport and thrown thoughtfully to one side.

This mighty giant Farmington River raging through the countryside

Has restored itself

Returned to rest peacefully, flowing from town to town

Until it meets its better larger master and is carried out to sea.

Oh, that our nation will survive the flood of hate that permeates the land,

Learn from the river

Let the anger and greed subside.

Then we will live peacefully once more.

David Green

I saw her standing on the corner at Ocean Avenue. She was there every day looking around for a “Cross Me.” I would guess she was about five years old. She never looked at the traffic light. It didn’t matter if it was red or green. She waited until someone came along to lead her safely across the intersection. Then she scurried off to PS 152. A pony with her short chubby legs trotting along and her auburn mane streaming behind. Once I asked her what her name was but, wrapped in her silence, she never answered, so I nicknamed her Carla May. 

     It was 1942. That Thursday was an unusually chilly day. Fall was closing in on Brooklyn. You needed a warm sweater to feel comfortable. The sun was bright. The sky was blue and perfectly silent. 

     “Please, mister. Cross me.”

     “Of course little miss. Sure. I’ll cross you.”

     She would hold up her hand and I would take it. So trusting. I could be anybody. What was her mother thinking sending her off to school alone?

     On that day we heard a buzzing overhead. A sort of droning sound, like bees swarming high in the air. The streets were usually empty at that time of day. Just garbage trucks and an occasional car passing by. I looked up but I couldn’t see anything. That was OK, I thought, there weren’t any planes anyway. There weren’t any passenger flights because of the war and all. And if you could find a flight, where would it land? All the planes and airports were military. “For the war effort,” they said and that was fine with everybody. For the war effort we didn’t complain that there were no new cars. Oh, we grumbled alright, but we lived with the rationed gas and meat and shoes and so many things. We gave them all up for the war effort.

     Carla May looked up. Even from where I was, I could see the worry line on her brow. We both heard the approaching noise. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until a screeching siren and a clanging bell came from the left and a fire-engine raced down Ocean Avenue with loudspeakers blaring. “Take cover. Unidentified plane overhead.” A fireman hung over the side and yelled at a driver, “Get out and run for shelter.” He saw Carla rooted to the spot with her mouth open and he called to her, “Go home little girl. Go home.”

     She forgot the “Cross Me.” Together we looked up and saw a small plane moving across the sky heading towards the beach at Coney Island. It was going to pass right over our heads.

     I ran to the corner and saw Carla running back home screaming, “Mommy! There’s a plane coming. They’re gonna drop a bomb. Mommy. Come get me!”

     I’m not sure what happened to Carla that day. I imagined her running home, stumbling through the door with her chest heaving, her throat hoarse from yelling, her face frozen in fear.

     Of course, nothing ever really happened. There were no enemies overhead or bombs poised to fall. Just an unmarked cargo plane on its way to the naval landing strip out by the bay. But the image of the little “Cross Me” kid is still with me. Here it is, forty years later, and I still hear her little voice, “Mister. Cross me please?” and I can feel her warm sweaty hand in mine. 

Carla May

I hate finding someone to cross me. I wish Mommy would walk me to school like the other kids. I don’t care about the new baby.

     I hate it when a woman comes. They stare at me like I was a bum or something. They think I’m gonna ask for something. I hate that. I’ll wait for a man. Mommy tells me I shouldn’t talk to strangers. Why’d she change her mind? Because of the new baby, I guess. 

     There’s that man down the street. The one I like. He says “yes” all the time and calls me “Little miss” and smiles and he doesn’t think I’m stupid or anything. I’ll ask him. But I still think mommy should walk me to school. 

     What’s that awful noise in the sky? Like daddy’s car but cars can’t fly. I never saw anything so high but birds.

     What’s that siren and fire bell? It’s coming real fast and maybe there’s a fire here. I’m scared. A fireman is leaning out shouting about a plane and he’s shouting at me, “Go home little girl! Go home!”

     I’m gonna run very fast and I’m gonna scream because I’m scared and I’m afraid the bombs will kill me. I want Mommy to be there and she’ll give me a hug and say “Don’t worry honey. I won’t let anybody hurt you.” But if she’s too busy with the baby to say those things, I won’t even cry. 

     It isn’t fair. That’s all.  

Whenever I feel really up

And life is fulfilling and fine

You can bet something new comes along

To make vinegar out of my wine.

I feel just like Gilbert and S

With a list of pet peeves made of bronze

But don’t fret, I won’t read it all now

I’ll abbreviate just for the nonce.

I’ll read from the bottom to top

I’ll save the best stuff for the last.

It’s confusing I have to admit

Like the problem of cast vs caste.

            The last gripe I have to read first

            (Just to flummox particular folks)

            It’s the show-off who reads us his poems

            Then he stops while he laughs at his jokes.

            The middle pet peeve on my list

            (See I promised to keep this poem short)

            Is the people who want you for free

            Or a pittance for pay … What a sport!

            The pet peeve that’s truly the worst

            The one going straight to my gut.

            I argue and think that I’ve won it

            Amazed, I hear you say “Yes but….”

            Oh, just one more thing I forgot

             (Brevity is not my strong suit)

            When I struggle for meter and rhyme

            With a smile you call my poem … “cute.”

I’ve probably angered you all

Indignant, you say …  “Dare she share it!”

But if you object to this patterI suggest … if the shoe fits … just wear it.

Sitting at my window, I spy my neighbors. Douglas and Anna have brought their children to our community and spread their happiness throughout the building. Joshua and Samantha, were born here.

I watched them grow from infants to babies to little children. Anna, with her babies in the carriage, used to stroll through the halls and point to the prints on the wall. Samantha would sleep. Joshua would stare at the picture of a harlequin for a moment then say “‘casso.” When Douglas played music, Joshua would say “Mozart.” He was always right.

This morning, I heard a small, commanding voice. Joshua was navigating the path around the little garden. A bright red chin strap held his safety helmet firmly in place. He sat proudly on his scooter that was low enough for his feet to touch the ground. It was his car, his Porsche, his Lamborghini. He was a pirate king steering his own course through rough Atlantic seas. He was Lord of the Manor and Black Beauty was his steed. 

Sitting down, he pedaled forward with his slender legs as he shouted to his sister to get out of the way because he might hit her. Samantha stood defiantly on her chubby legs and watched him approach. He was turning the corner. She stood her ground, shook her little index finger at him, chided him and then, little sparrow that she was, chirped loudly and flew quickly to the safety of the grass.

Anna sat nearby, watching her children play and squabble, knowing they were growing stronger each day. They were learning to navigate the world by themselves.

As I watched, I remembered my first-born son arriving on time to teach me, in an instant, that there was a different world to explore. I thought about my second son, thrust too early into this harsh life to teach me that there were new, treacherous roads to follow. In my mind, I re-lived all the times that I will never live again. Now, I watch my children maneuver their way through a maze I barely understand. Their lives will be very different from mine. In some ways, it will be easier for them. In others, it will be infinitely harder. Somehow, they have found a path around the walls of denial and ignorance. They have skirted the roads of anger and cruelty. They will make this a better place for having been here.

There is an old Jewish joke that goes something like this:

            Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are sitting by the country club pool, shvitzing and sunning themselves. It’s 85º and they’re fanning themselves with sheets of paper from the Daily News. When, all of a sudden, Mrs. Cohen, she starts to moan. 

            “Oy vey, what is it Mrs. Cohen?” cries Mrs. Levy. “What’s with the tears? Can I get you something? A glass iced tea? A Coke, maybe?”

            Mrs. Cohen. She starts to weep.

            “What? What is it? It’s the sun maybe? I’ll call Dr. Schwartz. He’ll be here before you can even say ‘Jackie Robinson’!”

            “Oy vey, Mrs. Levy. Tanks, but no tanks,” Mrs. Cohen replies through her tears. Did I say tears? A faucet … a river … a waterfall! Then, Mrs. Cohen, she pulls a Kleenex from between her sagging breasts, pushes herself up with her elbows, and wipes away her tears.

            “Ai-yai-yai! You don’t know the half of it, Mrs. Levy. You couldn’t believe such a calamity. Such tsuris I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy!”

            “So? So what is it already?”

            “It’s my daughter-in-law.” Mrs. Cohen sighs.

            “Your daughter-in-law? I don’t believe it! How could such a thing be? That beauty? with the dark hair? and the eyes? and the white teeth? and a nose so straight you’d think she was a Protestant maybe? So? What could be so bad?”

            “I’m telling you. It’s a curse, that’s what it is. Everything my son gives her, she don’t want. He gives her pearls, she wants diamonds. Pearls ain’t good enough. He says “let’s go to Montreal” she says “Quebec.” He takes her to Rome, and she shleps him to Paris! Oy vey, Mrs. Levy. You shouldn’t know from such a heartache!” 

            And the tears are back. Like Nairobi she’s crying. Mrs. Levy gasps and spills her rum and coke all over her brand-new seersucker robe she bought from Loman’s on sale for only $6.99.

            “Oy gevalt! Thanks God, I don’t have a daughter-in-law like that! I couldn’t stand it. She should only grow like an onion, with her head in the ground and her feet in the air!”

            By this time, the sun is sinking and they’re feeling better. But Mrs. Levy … she begins to cry. Very silently … shtill … but you can see her chest, it’s going up and down and up and down. A regular steam engine.

            “Mrs. Levy!” Mrs. Cohen cries. “What is it?”

            “Oy oy oy, Mrs. Cohen, I was just thinking how bad it’s been for you. Me? I have just the opposite. My daughter, she don’t ask for too much. She ain’t spoiled like those girls that shop at Macy’s instead of Moishe’s on Pitkin Avenue. And, Gott’s a dank, my son-in-law, he’s so good he’s like a dream! My daughter wants pearls, he brings her diamonds. She says a weekend in Montreal would be great. He takes her to Quebec! She thinks Rome is romantic, he takes her to Paris.

            Mrs. Cohen, she’s not so happy. She clasps her hands and looks up to the sky and gives a geshrei so loud you could hear her in Bensonhurst! “So Gott? What did I do to deserve this? Where’s your pity? How about a little rachmones for an old lady?” And Mrs. Cohen, she falls back into her chair so hard you’d think she’ll break the seat and crash on the sidewalk, so hard her kishkas would fall out! Take my word. You ain’t never seen such a fall. You shouldn’t know from it.

            Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are laying back and shaking their heads. They both are thinking that friends like this, they come only once in a lifetime. Mrs. Cohen and Mrs. Levy are counting how many once in a lifetime friends they got!

“So,” you say, “this a joke?” Well kids, maybe there’s a lesson here. I ain’t talking. I’m only saying, be careful you marry someone who treats you good. Just like me. OK?

“Bargain Books …Greatly Reduced …An Extra 10% for Members”. The signs are magnetic forces pulling customers inexorably toward the imposing displays. Men and women pick up over-sized books, fondle them, feel the smooth pages, linger over the images. They choose a few and sit by the windows where the sunlight illuminates the pages. Or they take them to the café where they sit over cups of cappuccino enjoying the prose while the sweet aroma of cinnamon and chocolate surrounds them.

Take a closer look.

Watch the people drawn to other places, wild spaces near the towering Rocky Mountains with valleys down below. They taste the wild strawberries, hear the rushing water, smell the honeysuckles, feel the soft meadow grass underfoot.

There a newborn fawn is lying on the ground as the doe gently raises him on wobbly legs to taste his mother’s milk. They hear majestic lions roar. They touch the lamb’s furry shawl. They smell the cedars in the swamp.

Then, they look at the prices, sigh, but take these treasures home to be placed on shelves to join other books of a wondrous world full of untouched places and fantastic animals. They may never look at the pictures again, but those images are theirs to keep.

A different breed of buyers arrives. They gravitate to the games and jigsaw puzzles, Black Belt Sudoku, and NY Times Crossword Puzzle books. They rummage through the shelves looking for any new Anacrostics which are almost never there.

The gamesters don’t sit and savor their finds. They hide them under some great classic. “Pride and Prejudice”, “Chaucer’s Tales,” “The Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire.” Each teetering stack moves to checkout and the customer blushes when the cashier examines each item one by one.

The gift shoppers! Should it be journals, or calendars? Perhaps a cookbook or scented candles? Do they really need fancy matching wrappings and shopping bags? Don’t forget the birthday card, anniversary card, get well card. Maybe it’s time for the grandchildren’s gifts. “Babar” or “Pinkalicious” or “Curious George” for the little ones. “Harry Potter” or “Goosebumps” for the older kids. Maybe the Beatles or Madonna for the teenagers. Whatever they choose, they rush out the door so as not to miss the festivities.

Here come the truly elite, the crème de la crème. First come the music aficionados who strut to the rear in search of CDs. On their heels come the movie lovers rushing to the DVDs. Both are content with great works of art. The music lovers shiver with delight to find something that somehow was lost over time. Bernstein conducting his own “Requiem” or Benjamin Britain’s “Ceremony of Carols”. Film buffs look for original versions of classic movies. “Psycho” with Anthony Hopkins or “Sleuth” with Laurence Olivier and Michael Caine. Orson Welles’ tawny Othello. Both shoppers walk out looking disdainfully at the ordinary folks wandering aimlessly through the aisles. As they leave, they guard their purchases as if they were relics from a distant and better culture.

Of course, there are the people who still remember that Barnes and Noble was always, first and foremost, a bookstore. Each person has a special interest, a unique taste. Some choose mystery and romance. Some like fiction and memoirs. Others choose poetry, religion, history, biography, science, psychology or self-help. One shopper will only look at the hard covers while the man next to him will only examine the trade paperbacks so he can conserve space in his own library.

So they stare at the countless variety of books, each book vying for the perfect space to catch a book lover’s eye. And the overjoyed, perplexed readers stand amazed, mouth agape, eyes scanning the row upon row of shelves, from the first book too high to reach to the last title too low to read.

In the end, piles of secret treasures move out the door to be lovingly placed on shelves and coffee tables and end tables and night tables and stacks on the floor. The contented Barnes & Nobel shoppers smile. They are happiest in the midst of all their own special clutter.

New England winters are beautiful.  Picture postcards with enchanting views.  Not so in NYC where I am sitting in my apartment watching a few hearty souls trying to cross the street without falling in the slushy waste that’s flowing down to the sewer. The winter blahs are here and I am waiting impatiently for spring.

I wonder, was it better when I was young?  Maybe I didn’t mind the dark so much or the wind or the snow.  What was it we did? I know we didn’t romp on the hills in Brooklyn or skate on an icy pond, with legs dancing and scarves flying behind.  We trudged to school over mounds of white turned grey while icy water slipped into our boots.  I always lost my mittens.  I always dropped my books.          

I remember that big hill at the end of our block. The one leading down to the deserted freight train railroad tracks nearby. All the kids came out after a snow. I shared a sled with my sisters. I can still feel the exhilaration as I flopped down on my belly, my big sister shoved me from behind and I went rushing down making my own wind, steering to safety at the bottom. It was wonderful.

Now I’m sitting here nursing a mug of warm tea and my mind travels back to that strange, beautiful, wonder day when the skies opened and the whole world changed.

I must have been 12 that year. It happened on a weekend in the middle of winter. Saturday was dreary…too cold to go outside so we stayed inside playing gin rummy and coloring in our Woolworth’s Special Sale Coloring Book for All Occasions.

Sunday was a bit warmer. By night time the winter winds raced by toppling hopeful pails and shovels, bending bushes, pushing uselessly at the oak tree in back of the house. That afternoon there had been a snow shower. What fell was disappointing.  Not enough to build a little snow baby or make snowballs, or even lay down and make angels with our arms.  Not nearly enough to make us happy.

At night, we polished our shoes for the new school week, brushed our teeth, and went to bed.

By morning everything had changed.  It was snowing…this time for real.  The lawn was covered. The cars were buried. The bushes were sagging under the weight of snow piled high on their limbs.

It was the best day of all.  The day of the Big Blizzard of 1947.  The schools were shut. The buses and trollies and subways didn’t run. Nobody rushed to work. Nothing moved. Silence descended.

From inside, the snow looked too deep to walk in. We couldn’t see the steps from our porch.  The sidewalk was hidden somewhere below. But it wasn’t really cold.  The snow made a soft blanket and if we crawled underneath, it would be warm. We put on our winter coats and boots and ran outside to explore.

 My father brought a shovel and cleared a path down the steps, and when I walked down, I could barely see over the white mountain on either side of me. I couldn’t get used to the quiet. It was too peaceful.  Where had the city gone?

Then, from far down the street, we heard the steady clip-clop of hooves. A horse? No! Not in Brooklyn? Never! We stood on our toes and looked down the block. And here came this sleek brown horse, head bent low, sure-footed in the snow, pushing before him a plow taller than I was.  The plow cut a giant V deep into the white terrain. I never saw anything like it and I’ve never seen anything so strange since. I never lived in a world so silently asleep.

And now I’m sitting here wishing I could do it again.  But I’m too old and too tired and I leave winter pleasures to the young and the crazy.  I’m going to bed with a good book.

Good night!

To two men,
            a college girl,
            an 80 year-old lady on a three-wheel bike,
            and a big sloppy Boxer.
I’m perfect.
I’m gorgeous.
I’m as sexy as a nubile Egyptian harem girl!
The pandemic changed my image.
It must be my cheerful face
            or my new wig
            or the crooked lipstick I drew on my face.
Maybe the big straw hat designed not to spare my skin
            but to keep my wig from blowing off.
Man number one smiled.   
I waved and called “Hi.”
The college girl nodded.
I smiled back.
The 80 year-old lady pedaled past.
I shouted “Bravo!”
The boxer nuzzled my hand
I wiped it off and scratched behind his ear.
Man number two whistled, waved, and called “How ya’ doin?’
I answered “Will you marry me?”
I don’t know when it will be
Or who it will be with but …
I’m going to get married again!

Isn’t it ironic that I never met the man who gave me the most pleasure in all my life?  But both my ex-husbands did? So who is this charismatic, charming, well-bred man of such character, intelligence, and grace?  Mel Brooks, of course.

So let me tell you how it happened.

My first husband was named Ben-Bob.  If you don’t believe me ask his second wife.  We lived in a wonderful 2 ½ room apartment on Henry Street in Brooklyn Heights. 

Now that was a long time ago, and in New York landlords were more honest back then.  In contrast, today, you can’t trust anybody in real estate or anyone who owns anything in real estate or anyone who knows anyone who….

Back in 1958, you knew that 2 ½ meant 1 living room, 1 bedroom, and a small kitchen.  In 1958 to call a room a room, it had to have a window.  My kitchen had a window but the room was so small no self-respecting landlord would pass it off as a room.  Of course now, there is no such thing as a self-respecting landlord except in very old-fashioned neighborhoods where people tell the truth. 

Also, bathrooms didn’t count.  The assumption was that every apartment had a bathroom and every bathroom had a window you could open after doing your business. You might want to use a little air spray but anyone entering the room after you left it, would back off quickly and murmur something about not feeling the need right now.

So anyway.  It was late on Saturday night and the Sunday New York Times was available on newsstands. From anywhere in Brooklyn Heights, you could walk to the St. George Hotel where an enormous elevator on the ground floor would take you down to the IRT Clark Street station.  There was an all-night newspaper stand there.  It was the fashion for people to go there on Saturday night and pick up the Sunday morning newspaper.  The next day, you went back and picked up the missing News, Week in Review, and probably the Sports section too. 

That was how Ben-Bob and I had found this wonderful 2 ½ room rent controlled apartment for seventy-six dollars and change with an automatic renewal once a year.  If you don’t know about rent control, Google it!

So it was about midnight on a Saturday night and it was time for his Book Review reading and my crossword puzzle entertainment before we went blissfully off to sleep.

It was a balmy night and no one needed a jacket. Ben-Bob strolled to the newspaper stand, picked up the paper, smiled to the sleepy newspaper man, and turned to go home.  As he turned, he bumped into this kind of short stocky smiling fellow who apologized instantly. My hubby thought the guy was going to whip out a whisk-broom and sweep away any dust from his shoulders.  As the small man was whistling and shooing away the imagined dust, Ben-Bob said, “Hey! Don’t I know you from somewhere?” 

The small man stepped back, eyes wide open, and with o-shaped mouth said, “Hey!  Sure!  We met at that party.”  He slapped my ex- on the back. Ben-Bob looked puzzled so the little munchkin said, “Don’t you remember?  The party that Joyce and Schloyme gave in honor of their son Tyler’s Bar Mitzvah?  Sure you remember. You even danced the hora with my wife!”  Then he picked up the paper, turned to go, hesitated and called back, “Don’t forget to say Hello to the wife and kids.”

My first ex-husband walked down the street marveling at the number of loonies who were walking the streets and no one ever got hurt.  He entered the living room, took off his shoes, suddenly shot up just like a Pop Tart and shouted, “My God!  It was Mel Brooks!

                                    ****************************************

So life went on like that.  He had all the luck.  I had to wash his underwear.  But then I got smart.  So after another 9 years, we got divorced.  So much for Ben-Bob, a sweetie if there ever was one.  I miss him to this day.

But, I didn’t stay smart.  I married an old, old friend from Brooklyn College and it was fabulous…for the first year anyway.  Even before we were married it was heaven on my simple East 23^rd Street house.  So one weekend his brother had a friend who had a friend who was a dear, dear friend of this fabulous comedian Mel Brooks, and husband number 2, was invited for drinks.  Just my luck, not only was Mel Brooks there, but so was his wonderful Annie.  The irrepressible couple entertained all night long.

So what could I say?  I hadn’t been invited.  But I suggested that my latest hubby could wangle an invitation to go back.  If he did, I never heard of it.  So because of that, I don’t feel so friendly when you mention my 2^nd ex-husband.

So I ask you…bubelah…Isn’t it ironic that I never met Mel Brooks but both my ex-husbands did?  

September, 2016

Let me tell you what happened when we watched that debate on Monday night. The whole thing was so stupid you won’t believe it. Here’s the scene. It begins just before dinner with Jack the Jerk whining … as usual.

“I don’t see why we have to watch it. I’m not even old enough to vote,” he says and makes that stupid face with his tongue hanging out and his eyes crossed. He thinks he’s really something.

So I tell him. “You know how they can be. Mom wants us to think for ourselves and make up our own minds. We should know what’s going on. She doesn’t want us to be like dad.”

Jack answers me. “Dad does so think. Listen, Alicia,” he says to me, “why should we always do what mom says?” Then he says, “And why do you always take her side? She’s a control freak. So leave me alone. Chill out!”
It’s the same old argument. My family is fractured by sex and politics. My brother is sixteen and my dad is forty-three and you’d think they were buddies. “Jack’s a chip off the old block,” my father’s always boasting. My old man thinks he’s so superior. So he looks at mom and me and shakes his head. “Too bad you girls can’t be like Jack and me, Sarah. You think Alicia is anything like you? No way! Well maybe that’s a good thing. I hope she doesn’t grow up to be like you.”

And then my mother gets all huffy and puffy like and says, “Hoo hah! Mr. Big Shot! Alicia and I are not girls. We’re women.”

And then he says, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

And she sticks out her chin and comes close up in his face and shouts, “You wanna know what we’re thinking? We’re thinking you’re a sexist pig! That right, isn’t it Alicia?”

You think this doesn’t go on every night? Well maybe not every night, but every night we talk about politics or the war in the Middle East or even Obama, for God’s sakes. We can’t talk about anything serious or —shit—you just wouldn’t wanna be there. My dad gets really pompous like. Mom gets really up tight and she looks at me … like we’re co-conspirators or something. You oughta see her. She raises her eyebrows, scrunches her shoulders up around her neck and cocks her head to one side. She looks like a sick gorilla. And she’s waiting for me to agree with her. She’s counting on me to take her side. You know what I mean? So what do I always do? Well, I don’t want to disappoint her but I don’t want to get into the middle of that fight so I say “No comment.” And dad grins, Jack smirks and mom sighs.

Anyway—on Monday night when Jack says he doesn’t want to watch the debate they tell him he has to. Mom takes off her apron and takes command. “You two finish the dishes. Tom, you take out the garbage,” and she tells him to find the cat and bring him in. Our cat’s a letch. It’s in his alley cat genes. He single-handedly has produced at least ten or twelve stray kittens in my neighborhood. Mom leaves the kitchen, and on the way upstairs she calls down, “I’m gonna change my dress before the Kleinmans get here.”

Jack the Jerk never knows when to shut up and he starts banging on the table. “You invited the Kleinmans? I don’t believe it!” He’s shouting and I’m thinking he’s making such a stink that maybe he’ll win. Then he throws up his hands and makes to leave the kitchen. Big mistake.

That really gets my mother going and she shouts back, “I didn’t invite Jesse and Harold Kleinman. Your father and I both invited them. We think you should see how an open exchange of ideas really works. So you’re coming tonight and you’re going to be polite. Understand?” And Jack knows he made a mistake so he doesn’t sass her but he looks like if she fell down dead right at that minute, he wouldn’t stop to pick her up. My mother tells us to finish the dishes and tells Jack to make sure his junk isn’t spread out all over the place.” Then she disappears.

Jack doesn’t know when to stop. “I’m not going to watch that debate! No way!” Jack shouts after her, but he’s not so sure anymore so he starts stacking the dirty dishes. “Trump is stupid and Hillary’s over the hill. They’re just two old farts who don’t know what they’re talking about.”

All this time my father’s been standing there like a dummy. He decides it’s his turn to put his foot down. As if my mom’s foot isn’t strong enough. He chimes in. “You listen to me young man. You and your sister will come and watch the debate with your mother and me and the Kleinmans. They’re our neighbors. Don’t you dare embarrass us.”

You can see my father’s face turning red and you can hear his blood boiling and you can feel his heart going thump-thump. It looks like he’s gonna have a stroke or something. But he grabs the sack of garbage and heads for the door. You gotta give my mother credit. She really knows how to handle the old guy. She lets him think he’s in charge. What a laugh.

Jack always wants to get in the last word so he shouts “The Kleinmans are jerks and you’re a jerk. I hate Trump. I despise Clinton. I don’t have to watch them if I don’t want to. It’s a free country! it’s a democracy, isn’t it?”

And my dad shoots him down with, “Not in this house it isn’t. You just shut up mister. Democracy? Democracy? Maybe if you paid more attention to the news instead of playing games on your computer all the time, maybe then you’d earn the right to live in this country.”

At 9:00 we’re all there in the living room. My father’s playing the perfect host in charge of everything alcoholic. My mother’s fussing over the cookies. Would you believe she went to the Big Y just to get something to munch on while the TV’s on? She bought something for everybody—chocolate chip cookies, plain vanilla wafers, and some gluten-free stuff just in case. The Kleinmans are passing around “chips and dips” that they brought over. The four of them are acting like it’s a party or something. Jack and I are sitting on the side watching them and thinking is this really an example of civic duty. In a way, it’s kind of entertaining, certainly better than the debate. We love watching our parents act like idiots.
So after the two candidates shake hands in false comradery and the moderator tells them to behave themselves, we sit back to listen, become enlightened, turn into responsible citizens, and vote wisely. Just then Jack stands up and says he has a big French test in the morning and a paper on “Why I Love Beyoncé” that’s due tomorrow. So of course, they have to excuse him and Mrs. K remarks, “what a conscientious young man” and my father says, “You can always count on Jack to be on time and smart on his feet, Just like his old man.” And my father gives that shit-eating grin he always does when he’s lying.

I can’t believe my parents are letting Jack get away with this. Jack study? Are you kidding? The only thing he’s ever studied is how to be a bull-shit artist. He’s King of the Bull-shitters! So of course, he gets away with it and runs upstairs to listen to some rap music and check Facebook for any sleazy stories he can pass along. The Kleinmans are smiling. My mother is fuming.

The debate is on NBC and Lester Holt is the moderator. Now there is one patient man. But NBC? The only thing they’re good at is football games and “Days of Our Lives”. Dodo stuff. How come they get to run the show?
Anyway, Holt opens the debate. The first question is about the economy. All about jobs and wages and the top 1% stuff. We gotta be in the other 99% or we’d be living on Park Avenue instead of in this Long Island pseudo-intellectual Never-Never-Land. I’m thinking maybe this is gonna be interesting after all. I’m in college and I’m majoring in Art History—definitely an unsaleable skill. Maybe one of them‘ll make a plan so I won’t be flipping burgers at McDonald’s while I dream about being curator at the Wadsworth or even MOMA.

So I’m listening and I don’t notice what’s going on. It’s pretty quiet from the sofa and my dad’s in his own world sitting in his own personal leather chair and he’s sitting back just staring at Hillary. He’s chuckling. He’s shaking his head every time she ends a sentence. She’s making a lot of sense to me. She’s got all these ideas but my father’s smiling and then he says “Pie in the sky. That’s all it is. Pie in the sky.”

My mother’s staring at the TV like she expects someone will crown Hillary Queen of the World. She’ll solve all our problems and they’ll disappear.

Mrs. K asks “Do you think she can do all that?”

And Mr. K says “Don’t know.”

My mom waves her hand. “Shh. I wanna hear this.”

Dad says “What for?”

Hillary looks pretty good to me. I’m gonna vote for her. When Trump starts to talk the living room air gets murky. There’s a storm a-brewing. My mother’s muttering and my dad says “Shut up, Sarah. I wanna hear what the man has to say.”

“Not worth listening to,” she answers. “Anyone want some more wine? I’ll get it. Tom, you can just sit there and listen to Trump babble.” She asks the Kleinmans “Have you ever noticed how that thief narrows his eyes and purses his lips all the time? That means either he’s about to lie about himself or he’s about to attack anyone he doesn’t like. He lies about them too.”

“Who made you so smart? You can read faces now? Go! Go! Serve the damned cookies and shut up for once, will you?” My father swivels around in his chair and turns his back to her. Now he’s getting really mad.
My mom slaps her thighs, pushes herself up, and storms over to the goodies. “Don’t mind him,” she says and she opens another bottle of wine. “He’s just a defensive dumb Republican.”

The Kleinmans don’t want any wine. They grab a handful of cookies. My father dips a chip and my mom pours herself a super big glass of Merlot.

About five minutes later, the TV debate starts to escalate. At the same time the living room is getting hot. I’m thinking Donald Trump is a dumb jerk. Like a “know it all” but he’s really a “know nothing.” And I’m thinking if he wins, I’m gonna move to Canada. And if Canada won’t have me, I hear Australia will. Or I’ll go someplace else. Maybe Fiji or Bali or somewhere. I’ll veg out in the sun and pray that the nuclear cloud blows the other way.
Did you watch the debate? Well, you know how Hillary smiles and talks and Trump interrupts her and frowns and bangs on the lectern and doesn’t stop and he interrupts Holt and it’s getting worse and worse. This incredible, not-to-be-missed confrontation, isn’t anywhere near half over yet and it’s getting super ridiculous. I can’t help myself and I start to laugh and that does it. All hell breaks loose.

“What’s so funny, Miss Smarty Pants? You think it’s something to laugh about. No more money! You can put yourself through college. You think I won’t do it? Art History? Junk! You don’t know anything. So just shut up!”
Mom butts in. “Leave her alone. Alicia’s entitled to her opinion. And I happen to agree with her.”
“Hillary’s a menace.” The fight goes on. “She hasn’t done anything. Like Trump says. If she’s so smart, how come she didn’t fix things when she was in Washington?”

“You think she could do anything what with your Republican cronies not doing anything but vote down anything Obama wants to do. You guys won’t even listen. You’re all racists and sexist male chauvinist pigs—and gun freaks. Trump a little Hitler and he’s growing bigger every day. You can put that in your hat and smoke it!” And she stands up and so does my dad and they’re right up close, face to face, and they’re yelling and yelling and yelling.
My father says she’s polluted my mind and what’s wrong with having guns and he’s going to buy a gun—a great big one. And then he shouts “Hillary’s a bitch!”

“Trump’s a threat!”

“What’s he done he’s so awful? Tell me, Sarah, my dear, my little pumpkin, I dare you, tell me what’s he’s done that’s as bad as that Clinton bitchy witch,” and he starts chanting “Hillary, Hillary, the stupid bitch, doesn’t even know which way is which.”

Can you believe it? I’m thinking to myself, my progenitor is amazingly clever or maybe he just thought of it and saved it for the right moment. More likely he heard it somewhere and passed it off as his own.
I’m as bad as Jack and I hear myself saying “Hey. “Is that original? Or is it something Michele said and you copied it, like some other Trump I happen to know.”

My mom father bellows, “Trump is just telling it like it is. We need to pull together to save this country. We gotta make it strong again! America for Americans!”

My mom is pacing back and forth. “What about the things he says about women? He hates women and anyone who says he doesn’t should have his head examined. And Mexicans? What does he say about Mexicans? Build a wall? And the Mexicans will pay for it?” She stops to get a second wind. “And how did he get his billions anyway? Selling junk bonds, not paying taxes, and using red-lining to protect his precious property. He’s a fraud and he’s hateful and he doesn’t mean America for Americans. It’s America for Trump. Tom, you shut up for a change, you shit-head idiot.”
At that very moment, when Hillary is saying maybe the country wouldn’t be in debt if he paid his taxes and Trump says “I’m just smart!” the Kleinmans get up.

Mrs. K says “I think I may have left something on the stove.”

Mr. K says “I forgot to walk the dog.” And they grab their coats and leave.

So that was that. I’m thinking my dad’s gonna punch my mom and my mom’s gonna scratch his face. This isn’t funny anymore. It’s getting really, really awful. I’m wondering is it gonna get worse? It’s scary to see your parents yell like that.

Is this the end of it? I don’t think so. But one thing I do know for sure, at the next debate I’ll be out at a soup kitchen or something and I’ll just forget about the whole thing. Something’s gonna happen in November and I hate to think what.