One time, me and Tessy got bombed. We were drinking beers in the park or
something.
Me: "Dare we?
Another six-pack, my friend?"
Tess:
"Sure. But listen,
Lena. We need some solid nutrition. We need to soak things up a little before we continue along this vein."
Me: "Split a bag of Doritos, then?"
Tess: "Blech!
Where's your sense of class?"
Me: "I left it home with my wallet."
Tess: "Hey - I know! Let's go to Beefsteak Charlie's and get our
mitts on some LOBSTER!"
Me:
"Tessy, I am broke as shit."
Tess: "I got some money."
Me: "Well, I can't pay you back for at least a
week…"
Tess: "So what?
LOBSTER, Lena! Waddaya say?"
So
off we go.
As always, IT'S TWO-BUCK PITCHERS OF BEER AND
UNLIMITED 'PEEL YOUR OWN SHRIMP' down at ole' BEEFY CHUCKS.
"This is obscene." Cocktail sauce is
oozing from the corners of Tessy's mouth.
Me: "Beefsteak
Charlie's is the official euphemism for 'obscene'. "
Tess: "Don't remind me." Long burp, then: "But what a deal! Pass
that pitcher!"
We are kind of a mess, I suppose. Albeit, a cheerful mess.
Then, for some reason we both notice a woman at the
next table who is staring at us.
Angrily. I guess we felt her eyes
burning into us.
She starts shaking her head and tsking.
Tess haughtily gapes back at the broad: "YES?"
Woman (dolefully): "Tsk. Such
young girls. Tsssssk."
Tess places her shrimp-tail on a napkin. "Listen,"
she says, wiping her mouth daintily:
"Why don't you just SHUT UP and FINISH
your CORN?"
This throws me for about half a second. Then I glance at the broad's plate and sure
enough: There sits a single, half-gnawed corn on the cob.
I nearly piss my pants.
Tessy, too.
Shut
up and finish your corn.
*
* * * * *
Growing up as my Father's Daughter was a real boon
to my skills as a teen reprobate. Not so
much because HE was any kind of a bum, mind you. On the contrary, Pops was a keenly
hard-working, conscientious businessman who ran a lucrative ornamental steel
company in Brooklyn. But when we were
kids, he wasn't around much on the home front due to his packed business
schedule and his equally packed social schedule.
A smoker and a drinker, ole Pops - the former being
of the chain variety. He smoked 3 or
4 packs of Winston a DAY until he turned 40, at which point he magically quit
cold turkey. A proud moment, no doubt,
but it also meant that my cigarette gravy train would come to a cruel, screeching
halt. The reason being that Pops always
had literally CARTONS of Winston laying all over the house. He'd have cartons upon cartons, this
man. To this day, I can smell a Winston
a mile away and think: Pop! (Altho', now that I think of it … do they
even MAKE Winstons anymore? I have my
doubts. I haven't smelled one in
awhile….)
So all I had to do was grab one of these Winston
cartons and shoot on over to ole' SEEWALD's Grocery on Myrtle Ave. & 80th
Street, where I'd trade the Winstons in for a carton of MY brand. Mr. Seewald
was always very accommodating, thank God, when he came across with MY brand,
which were Parliament 100's With The Patented Charcoal Filter. Aaaaahhh. Delicious!
And my ONE carton would last me at least
a week.
See, I was a fairly civilized smoker, not nuts like
my old man. HIM - he'd have stogies
burning all over the house, lying in every ashtray - forgotten and smoldering. Ole'
Light 'Em and Leave 'Em Louie, I called him. Not to his face of course. I value my life, thank you very much.
*
* * * * *
I've mentioned before that my Pops came over from
Hungary during The Revolution of 1956.
He and a fellow Freedom Fighter fled the communist regime together at
the tender age of 15, leaving behind their families, their farms and all they
had ever known. They spoke no English
but they already knew a trade as machinists, and they soon found work under the
kindly, firm mentorship of one Herman Zimmermann who owned Zimmermann Iron Works
over in sunny Williamsburg, Brooklyn. Somewhat coincidentally, during my own
adolescence I looked upon another Zimmerman - namely one Robert - as an
influential and much admired musical mentor.
Anyway, years later, when Pop bought the business
upon his beloved mentor's retirement, he chose to keep it running under its
original name in honor of Mr. Zimmermann, who had become a surrogate father to
Pop here in The States. (Pop's own
father - my grandfather - sadly died in a Russian work camp of severe
malnutrition when Pop was only a young boy.)
SO - Pop took his work very seriously, and his
recreation equally so. Loved playing soccer, bowling, golf. Loved to eat and drink well and had many
cronies to help him do it up right. He
knew a lot of characters in the construction field. Plenty of wise guys, too. They always gave him deals and gifts of good booze
and smokes. So that kinda stuff was always pretty easy access, if you get my drift, for me: The Teen Wild-Woman In Residence.
Pop had a very blasé way of being. Still does.
I've always been a little bit in awe of him, 'cuz he's like one of the
original hipsters: Smoking constantly, sporting these big side-burns and black
turtle-neck shirts. Drawling with that
Brooklyn-ese tinged-with-thick-Hungarian accent. "Brooklarian" I took to calling
it. Pop sauntered around whistling Louie
Prima tunes, or Elvis. He had a fancy
little whistle between his front teeth, and perfect pitch. I have a similar whistle (and a similar tooth
gap). But he lost his whistle when he
had caps put on some years ago. That was
a damn shame, because his whistle really had some zip. I mean, I try my best. But his whistle was just way hipper and zippier,
somehow.
It wasn't all smoke and whistles, tho'. Pop could get steamed at times. When his temper flared up, it was a shocker
and you stayed out of his way - BELIEVE IT.
But all in all, an A-OK Pop. He did his thing, and he did his best.
*
* * * * *
One time, me and Tessy got bombed again. It was during school hours and we were
cutting class. My Mom wasn't home - she
was TEACHING RELIGIOUS INSTRUCTION (!!) over at ole' Sacred Heart that
day. And of course, Pop was at
work.
So me and Tess went to my house and commenced to
drinking some of Pop's Chivas Regal or some other ridiculously strong shit that
he had sitting around in the big, always-unlocked
liquor cabinet. We were like 15 or 16,
just shit-faced by noon.
I remember I was laid out on the couch and Tessy was
draped out right in the middle of the living room floor - just sprawled out,
arms and legs akimbo - as if someone had dropped her out of an airplane. SPLATT. The T.V. was blasting Family Feud, or
one of those great shows.
AND SUDDENLY - IN WALKS POPS. Smack-dab in the middle
of the day: Unheard of! But he happened
to be doing a job in the neighborhood that day and decided to stop in at home
to use the bathroom.
So Pop strolls in, looks down for about half a
second before he STEPS RIGHT OVER TESSY and says politely and very
matter-of-fact: "Hiya, Tess."
And then he keeps going upstairs to hit the latrine.
Me and Tessy look at each other, our drunken mouths
hanging open like a couple of trout.
After a minute, Pop comes back downstairs.
To me, he goes: "No school today?"
Me: "We
got out early."
Pops: "Okay! Well, back to work. 'Bye, girls."
And that was that, off he goes: POPS -
THE MAN, THE LEGEND.
Tessy never even bothered to get up off the floor.
*
* * * * *
