It's So Hard To Type With A Gun In My Mouth (23 page)

We all would eat lunch together in the cafeteria Arnold, Rena, Gloria, Steve Leest, Rosie, me. Over the years we experienced deaths and weddings and bar mitzvahs and firings and rehiring sitting around that cafeteria table.  It was the strangest collection of people ever... we came from all over and yet we were one. I remember once we had a party at a restaurant after work. People would look at our group trying to figure out what the connection was...why was that black woman sitting with that white boy and why was the skinny Puerto Rican girl talking to the fat Russian lady.  We were an odd mix but it was the oddity that kept us together.

I remember one woman in particular, Evelyn. She sat by herself and wasn't part of our group. She was short and frail and worked in children's wear. She was Evelyn from Children's wear. Most of the women in the store were fashion conscious, Evelyn wasn't. Most had their hair colored. Evelyn wore hers grey like a badge of courage. When she would come into the café it would grow silent and I never knew why. Then, one day as she passed, I heard a whisper,  "She lost her son. 24 years old. Viet Nam." Now I understood. They were giving her space to grieve.

Some time later I remember Evelyn coming into the cafeteria and seeming out of sorts, more distant than normal...more alone. I watched her as she peeled her orange. She slit it from the top to the bottom in four sections like a beach ball, and then she would peel back the skin to reveal the untouched meat inside. "I wish I could do that," I said almost not knowing I was talking aloud. "It's simple, come here, I'll show you." And she produced another orange and peeled it for me. When the rind was off, she shoved it across the table, "Nuh" (Jewish for "here".) It was then I noticed the tattooed numbers on her arm. I had never seen them before she always wore long sleeves. I had lived a very sheltered life in Boston.   She saw that I saw and she just tugged at her sleeve. I wanted so desperately to reach out and take her hand but I didn't dare. She was a very private woman. Suddenly she burst into tears. "One year... one year today." is all she said. I knew she was referring to her son.  It made me feel guilty. I was alive her son was dead. I had no reason to feel that way... but I did. I slid over to a seat next to her. "I'll be your son." She took my hand and squeezed it just a little... just enough to say thank you.

We never spoke of that moment again. I was too embarrassed to mention it. I think she just wanted to forget. But it created a silent bond between us. She'd bring me a cookie or peel me an orange. I would always make her laugh. "Stevie, such a funny boy."   I had always considered her frail but she showed me how strong she could be one day when Gertie came in and had a nervous breakdown.

We were seated around our table in the café.  They were long tables all lined up like a prison dining room. Their yellow Formica tops were discolored with years of misuse and half-hearted attempts at cleaning.  I was with a group talking about an impending sale when Gertie runs in and plops in a seat. She announces to no one. "I need to talk. I've got to throw her out." "Who?" "My Judy" (her daughter) "Why. What happened???" We all knew Judy was Gertie's pride. The first to go to college she was Gertie's  trophy, the reason she worked, the sun rose and set in that girl. And now she was throwing her out?? And then she tells us that the night before her beloved Judy had taken LSD. Gertie came home and Judy was sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor stark naked, sitting in a box of kitty litter, playing with it like it was water. Gertie told the story like each word was a knife cutting into her throat,  "I screamed at her. WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? And she laughed at me. She just laughed."  And with that Gertie broke down and began to sob. This was not like Gertie; Gertie was a tough cookie. Gertie was the one you called when your ad merchandise was stuck in receiving and you couldn't get it out. Gertie was the one you called when the buyers were giving you a hard time. Gertie was not a crier... Gertie made YOU cry.  My heart broke for her as she pleaded with us to tell her what she should do. We sat there like dummies, what did I know I was 23. Opinions were being offered left and right. Suggestions were a dime a dozen and then quietly, from her table, Evelyn gingerly raised her hand. "Gertie, go home and hug your daughter." "What?" "Go home and hug her. She needs it." Then, without saying a word, she picked up her tray, walked over to the trash and dumped her milk carton. "Hug her, Gertie. There may not be a chance tomorrow." She slid the dirty tray into the slot to be washed. "I know." And she left to go back to the selling floor shaking her head all the way to the swinging doors by the long line of time cards.

The group was hushed and stunned. Then Rena said, "You know, she's right."  Gertie sat there staring out into space, not crying, not blinking. I think she was processing the information.  The next day Gertie couldn't wait for our group's gathering at noon. She was the first one sitting at the table.  She had good news. She had talked to Judy. She had laid down the law. No more drugs. Evelyn walked by and Gertie yelled. "Evelyn did ya hear?"  Evelyn nodded as she sat by herself peeling an orange.  She looked at me and winked!

I loved those people at Alexander's. There were a million stories in that store. A million? Ten million. I never thought I would ever think of them again.  But I guess it all went into the computer between my ears. I'm sure I'll think of other stories... funny ones... but when I thought of Alexander's and New York and my life back then, the first thing I thought of was Gertie and Judy and the day she told us about the Kitty Litter. Funny, huh? What your mind let's you remember.

Now, where are my car keys?

JULY 17, 2006 -
CHICKEN IN THE PROJECTS

My father was a collector of crap. He'd be driving down the road, see a sofa,  bring it home and in three days he would turn it into an entertainment unit with running water.  I can do the exact same thing. I'm a dyed in the wool trash picker and proud of it. My mother has no artistic sense, she has good taste, she knows what looks nice but she can't create it. So when my father would bring home crap it always started a fight, which usually ended with the SWAT Team staying for dinner. 

One day my father was visiting friends in rural Massachusetts and took me along.  He passed a sign,  "Live chickens" and like a junky that's found the fountain of smack, a gleam comes to his eyes. "I need to stop."  We're walking around the chicken farm and my father meets the owner. The one thing my father had was a personality. He could charm the pants off a mannequin. He's joking with the farmer and the farmer is laughing and next thing I know my father is walking back to the car with two, live  chickens under each arm. I must have been 7 at the time. I was in heaven... new pets.

Back then we lived in a two-bedroom apartment in the VA housing projects.  My Dad walks into our tiny home with a gunnysack. My mother goes on the defensive. "What's that?" "Chickens" is all he said. The bag opens and it's the phone booth scene from The Birds; attack chickens are flying everywhere. She screams like Tippy Hendren and grabs for a broom. My father is yelling... "Don't! You'll break the drumsticks."  At this point I think she would have bitten off his neck al la Ozzie Osbourne if she could have caught him.

We finally get the chickens corralled in the kitchen. He's created a pen by taking her best folding chairs, the one she uses when the "women" come over to play canasta and he's got them in a corner with the chickens penned behind them. She's spread newspapers like we're training a puppy. I'm in seventh heaven... my own chicken farm right here in the projects. I get every kid in the building to see my new pets. These are city kids, not one of them has ever seen a live chicken. "Where do the eggs come from?" one kid asks. And my father picks up a chicken, flips it over and exposes it's ass. Childhood Nirvana... chicken ass in the kitchen.

The next day I'm up to feed the livestock. My mother is in a foul mood. (Pun. Thank you.) She's slamming dishes and throwing pots. She wants them out. He wants them in. "We can use the eggs."  She slams her fist down... "I will not live in an apartment with live chickens. You call Gopen or I'll break YOUR drumstick."

In those days we lived in a small town.  When you needed groceries you'd call Promisels. "Are the grapes good today? Ok, send me a pound of grapes. I need a box of corn flakes and make sure the box isn't crushed like the last time." And then Promisels delivered it to your door! They were way ahead of their time. Ralphs does that today via the Internet... but it's not the same, it's not bicycle delivered by a kid named Billy wearing a white apron. We also had a bread man, Toni, that delivered rolls and pastry; milkman for milk. And Gopen, the butcher.  DA-DA-DA-DUM!

Next day, no chickens. I ask my mother "Hey, where are Sadie and Jake." Evidently we had Jewish chickens. And she says, "They got lonely and went back to the farm." I was seven this made sense to me. I didn't question it. The chickens were back on the farm... I guess they flew.

Then my father comes home with the corpses...ah... packages wrapped in brown paper. I go out to play and my mother makes dinner. About 7 she calls me in. It was Friday night... you know what that means? Chicken. I swear to God, I never made the connection that dinner could have been clucking in our kitchen the day before. My mother couldn't eat.  "I feel like a cannibal." And she takes her plate and dumps it in the trash. My mother is not from the high rollers. This woman saves Tropicana Orange Juice Bottles by the thousands. My Dad sort of pushed his meal around on the plate with his fork. Meanwhile I'm sucking up white meat like there's a chicken shortage.

We never spoke of those chickens again. Why should we the next week he brought home a lobster. I'm not making this up, it filled the entire bathtub. We couldn't bath until... " It went back to the Ocean." He brought home birds and fish and eels and at one point I thought we was building an ark. There was a place in New England called Cherry Hill Farm, a working dairy farm. I loved to go there with my Dad. He took me one day and as we walked out the door my mother screamed... "Don't come home with a cow!"

Sometimes I feel there is divine intervention when I write... maybe my Dad is showing me my childhood wasn't as bad as I remember. Um, Dad,  YES IT WAS!  

JULY 18, 2006 -
PENNY MARSHALL

The stories keep coming back to me like a Mexican meal at a cheap taco stand. I can't think of anything to write about and then there it is, a whole story. Today I spent the day with one of my favorite people, Monica Johnson, screenwriter extraordinaire and she tells me my book is depressing her. Honey, what do you think it's doing to me! As a remedy for this landslide of depressing memories, she's given me permission to talk about Penny Marshall's Birthday Party.

Penny Marshall and Carrie Fisher have birthdays very close together so every year they throw this party with their combined guest list.   Last year Monica called me up, "Do you want to go to Penny's birthday party with me? It's always fun." (She's been invited to them all since she was a producer on Laverne and Shirley and one of the top comedy writers in town)  Now you have to understand that I have never heard about this party. I'm like the kid from the small town going to the city with his sophisticated friend. I'm thinking "party", ya know, like WE have a party, the deli platter from Costco and the Lipton onion soup dip. Wrong.

Monica comes to my house looking drop dead gorgeous. I'm in jeans. She says nothing. I drive and on the way to Penny's house Monica fills me in. "It's the last year they're going to do this bash and I'm really sad because I love this party." She's excited for me though. Bringing me to the party is like her gift.  I'm asking her all kinds of questions and all she says is... "You'll see."

We drive up a long windy road to Penny's house in the hills. There's a line of about 50 cars and valet parkers running to get everyone's car handled. "Jesus" is all I could say. Monica chirps like my spiritual guide, "You've seen nothing yet."  We give the keys to the valet and head down the driveway. I can see the front door is wide open and the place is packed with people. As we enter the house, Monica turns to me "Ok, honey, here you go." and we're in the foyer. The very first thing I hear is JAMES WOODS saying, "OWEN WILSON have you met JOHN MCENROE?"  And folks, that was just the beginning.

I have never seen so many A-List celebrities in one place in my life, ever; not at the Emmy's, not at The Comedy Awards, not at the Golden Globes... NO PLACE. The house is a huge two-story mansion. You enter on the top floor and walk down to the backyard, as the house is built into the side of a mountain. The entire back yard is a swimming pool and gardens. However, it's not a swimming pool and a garden like your Aunt Fanny has, it's like a swimming pool and backyard at The Hilton Resort on Maui. And this pool is packed with people. If a bomb went off that night, William Hung would be hosting the Academy Awards.

We're standing by the pool and I hear, "Steve" I turn and RICHARED LEWIS is standing there with his girlfriend. I've known Richard for about twenty years. We talk briefly.  Garry Shandling joins us, also a comedy friend. While we're chatting GEORGE LUCAS walks by. I look past him and FRANCIS FORD COPPOLLA is eating at a table with MAGIC JOHNSON.