upfromdysfunction.com

For a long time now my brother and I have ended conversations with a simple exchange. “Have a good one,” says one of us—to which the other closes: “Thank you very much”.

This practice stems not from common courtesy but shared derision. The dialogue, truth be known, is our joint nod to a treasured aunt: a lady so distraught hearing people wishing “Have a good one” (rather than “Have a good day”) —a woman once visibly and verbally unnerved by my bidding “Thank you very much” to a drycleaner who was, according to her, “Just doing his job”. “Why would you thank him?” she scolded me, “He gets paid for his work!”

And so… educated adults in our 60’s, ere we part…each time —in person or by phone—we honor her with subliminal tribute to her sustained lunacy.

“Have a good one.”
“Thank you very much.”

BULLETIN. Cleveland, Ohio. April 21, 2013: Aunt Helen is getting difficult!

She thinks Hal’s the nice one and perhaps he is. That stated, historians note it was H, the Raymond everybody loves, that years ago actually compiled our aunt’s complaints on an Excel spreadsheet. There it was, in aggregate: a black/white listing of every grievance ever spewed by the Jewish Margaret Hamilton: from Nephew Bruce to Cousin Norman to Rabbi Cohen to, … the Cleveland Institute Of Music. All this and more, wondrously available to the masses by one click of the button… courtesy of The Good Son.

Alas, even Hal…even my brother admits it’s now worse.  It’s not that she’s complaining less—she’s just returning more! No longer content just voicing displeasure, our aunt’s taken to affirmative action, summoning us to claim her refunds. You’ve heard of HBO On Demand? This is H & B on demand. And it’s getting old.

In this most recent winter of her discontent, Hal and I, flanked by what presents as a “nice little old lady”, have burdened area merchants returning:

Apples (“too hard”)
Oranges (“too soft”)
Hershey Kisses (“tastes ‘tinny’”)
Hershey Dark Chocolate (“They’ve changed the recipe”)
Manischewitz gefilte fish (“Oh, please—if I tell you it tastes bad must I say more?”
Knee-high Panty hose (“They fall down”—HOLD THE VISUAL!)
A Winter Coat (“too long”—Did she grow this week?)
Postage stamps (“Why did you get the ones that say ‘Love’”? You know
I prefer the American flag!”)

It’s not funny! Not to us. Last week (for example) our aunt, evolving at the rate of Senator Portman, announced she was ready for touch-tone dialing. Yes, with the help of my brother, she would discard her rotary and venture forward to a new frontier.

“It’s only a question of when,” H advised me that Saturday, the night of their purchase. “We’re returning the phone,” said his message, the very next morning.

We can’t keep pace!  (And she thinks it’s a COMPLIMENT that store managers know her first name)!

Heck, even before Hal could reprise his Target run and replace her phone, she volleyed again.

“There’s a slow leak in my milk carton,” she announced. “It must go back”.
“Not tonight Aunt Helen…really…I’m exhausted.”
“Very well,” she obliged (almost warmly). “It can wait until Wednesday.
Her mood changed quickly though when I suggested we take it to a service station, have them put it on a lift, and locate the leak. “Perhaps they can patch it?” I suggested.

—-This, in the same week she had me tiptoeing into The Jerusalem Grill, a kosher eatery on Cedar. How embarrassing is it—really—when you enter a deli and as one guy moves to get you a table, from the back of the counter you hear a voice shout “No, Simon, she’s here to return something.”

I swear.

Ah, but we laugh today. Somewhat… my bro and I.  Not always, of course, but certainly when it’s the other one doing the returning. All’s fair in love and war, you see—and she’s both.

Still, we love our aunt, through it all. And we honor her, in our talks.

I spoke to Hal today, for a bit. It ended in the usual fashion—with a twist.

“Have a good one,” he said. “Thank you very much.”  Then he got the last word in, my little brother did.  One last shot:

“Many happy returns!”

I don’t want to say my life is different now than it was at this time last year, but (Thank You Howard Ross), Yes, it took a rocket scientist to put things in motion.

Here was my rhythm last spring: Wake up at 6, pray and go eat. Work most the day, then meeting or theater… and then… on the way home, 10 or so, stop to pick up Fourth Meal (which I’d inevitably devour in bed on my stomach to Seinfeld or Letterman). Oh yeah, and but for the occasional road trip, I slept alone.

Somewhere about that time the man that Brother Bob still considers but Fran’s younger brother got wind that a bunch of sixties groups would play Cain Park in August. Corralling his cronies, Howard, (or maybe H, sensing the bands were Bruce-appropriate), emailed me.

“Two tickets,” said I. “Let me know who to pay.”

They were buying them together, this crew of theirs—months in advance. “Who you going to take?” asked my brother (not to be insulting so much as to invite theoretical my hypotheses. With us, it’s always the art of conversation).

April became May became June became…

—-Sometime mid-July the seat was filled. (I think. Frankly, it may have been later).
—-Sometime mid-August I found out it was a date. (I think. Frankly, I’m still not sure).

Ed. Note: When first I was notified by Carrie that indeed she’d considered the concert a date, I pushed back.

“No way”, I’d insisted, citing A) our driving arrangements (H drove), and B) my steadfast adherence to the neutral zone, pivotal fact being that I didn’t try to kiss her.

She smiled.

“Even the fact that you didn’t talk to me,” she shot back—“Even the fact that I spoke more to Hal and Margie that night…even the fact that when we sat down you called your friend Stuart and ignored me“….”It was still a date.”

(This must have been autumn, as our debate was loving. It did not, however, preclude further scrutiny).

“I’m calling my brother. He’ll know.”
(Her eyes rolled, not unlike my son Michael’s when I say something specious).
I hung up the phone.

October became November became December became…

— ‘Twas the dead of winter, I suppose, and our Wednesday date. Sitting, chilling at the Cedarcreek Grill, her friend approached. ‘Though we’d met once before, that night, for whatever reason, the talk came easy.

“You know,” said the lady, “You really disappointed her on that first date. You didn’t even kiss her!”
“It wasn’t a date,” I asserted. “And she had me drop her in the back”.
“Puhleeeeze”, said her buddy.
“OK,” I exclaimed, a la Cosmo Kramer. “I’m never going to say it wasn’t a date again….STARTING NOW!!!”
(But I wasn’t done. There were, I’d supposed, amends to be made).

We went home that night, the two of us—just a half hour later. She stepped from the car and gingerly I cut her off.

“Let’s go back ‘round the house,” I insisted. “I want that first kiss”.
“You’re nuts,” she decried, acquiescing.
“There,” I said moments later, “ THAT’S for our first date.”

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

I got a note from my brother—last week. They’ll be at Cain Park again, they will: The Turtles, Gary Puckett…even Mark Lindsay.

“Two tickets,” said I. “Let me know who to pay.”

Ah, but this year the dog won’t hunt. ‘Though the emails did sail, the guys didn’t care. Not this year. Not even H.

I went on line today (to get the tickets).

For two of us–just the two of us.

We’ll go in one car this time and I’ll drive. I’ll take her home this time, alone.

Where I’ll stay.

It will be more than a date this year. It will be the two of us: happy together.

“For a moment like this, some people wait a lifetime….”  – – -Kelly Clarkson

Midway through a pre-Masters interview of The Golden Bear I sat wistfully wishing Linick was watching. David, like me, looked to Nicklaus with reverence; David (like me), would have called this the finest single sports interview ever televised. David, like me, would have had a lump in his throat and been lost in thought when the golfer was ultimately asked “What single moment are you most grateful your father saw?

I’ve done a lot of things right and a lot of things wrong in my life. My father saw much and, until I was 35, lived through it all. What instance am I most glad he shared? What Kodak moment? What video runs viral through my montage of “stuff”?

Wasn’t my schooling, good grades and all. Wasn’t the military, (his politics and all). Wasn’t even when I hit 1,000 career sales and they planted a rose in my honor at the Highlights For Children garden in Columbus.

No, it was a lot earlier… on a sunshiny day…when the world—when all of us—- were young.

Opening Day, 1962. Memorial Field, South Euclid, Ohio.

This would be it for me: my last year of Little League. To my father, ‘twas the season the stars had aligned for—and the big guy was ready.

Coming off my brother’s epic season with Hollywood, (Ed. Note: twin southpaws Ross and Bogart pitched them to the 9-10 trophy), my father eagerly awaited my final stanza. He’d watched in ’60 when as a ten-year old I got my two innings per game and, surrounded by the league’s icons, won a world championship. He’d suffered a year later, when the White Sox, devastated by the loss of eight 12 year-olds, began rebuilding. And he’d jumped, just months before, at the opportunity to manage me in what would be my final stanza.

He knew the players, both old and new. Racila, Vince, Fenton, Fischer, Karabinus, Myslenski: they were twelve now and ready for prime time. Hand-picking other draftees (Ross, Bogart, Mandels, Ricky Fenton), he filled out his squad.

And there was me. Always me. ‘Though he never said it, I knew he felt it: This would be my year. This would be my time. I’d paid my dues; I’d honed my skills. I was ready. This annum, all Rowland games and backyard catch, all the “Watch John Romano—-just take a level swing like he does” would pay off!  Yes, 1962, for my teammates he’d watch mature, for the man himself (in his gut perhaps knowing this would be his final married season), but most of all, for ME..… this would be that one shining moment!

It was a beautiful May night, it was, and a Monday or a Tuesday…and we sat on the third base side. (My Dad loved the third base side on that field. “Less sun,” he’d point out, for whatever it mattered). And I was batting fifth, and the pitcher had red hair, and there were two men on and two men out.

I hit the ball high and hard. To left. There was no fence and I ran. And I ran.

‘Have no idea if the guy played shallow or if I hit a gap or if anything. What I do know is with the bases circled, as I crossed home plate (No slide necessary, Thank you), I saw him. First. Clipboard in hand, eyes shining bright, his smile spoke: Fenced in or not, his boy’d knocked it out of the park!

It was one of only three homers I hit that year. One of only six games we won. Yet it mattered not.

I remember that hit, the shot heard ‘round my father’s world, like it was yesterday. And I remember his smile too, because frankly, it never left him.

I walked every step of my life in the light of my father’s love. Every misstep too. He was always proud, ever accepting, pristine. His greatest beauty, though— especially in later life— was to see every day as opening day, and every pitch as one his loved ones would hit.

And teaching me that if I took a level swing, every moment would shine.

        “Here I am staring at your perfection
         In my arms, so beautiful …”

Six days after touch down from Vegas the travelling Wilburys again hit the road. Warm heart and soft tooth all packed, as RFK’d once exclaimed, it was “On to Chicago!”

“Too soon,” Jason exhorted. We had just arrived and there I was overwhelming the baby like a used car salesman. “Give her a moment,” said Stacy.

They were right (I knew), but my eyes were pinned to the silken hair and pearl skin of perfect progeny. She was a quiet, delicate flower and I was straining to sense she knew me.

“I’m your Pappy”, I whispered. “Your happy Pappy”.

(My theory, dating back to the Maxwell Infancy, is that young bundles learn not only the dynamic of our smells but hear the comfort in our sounds. They KNOW us, and indeed know us better than we know them. Go figure).

Out-of-town grandkids? Let’s call it like it is: the agony and the ecstasy.

My thinking’s changed. Time was upon visiting kids that once I’d heard, seen, felt and touched the bambino I was—mentally anyway— prepared to go home. Great to see the children, but…(and they know it too): they’re no longer the straws that stir the drink. And yet, it’s different now. Grown up kids oft act grown up…and, thriving in their own elements…are true joy.

We spent Friday night on a couch: five of us. It is a quite old sofa (remarks Jason), and one she “inherited” (reminds Stacy), but as Lucy slept we curled ‘round the soon-to-be-discarded sectional and laughed. Time stopped as the Cubs lost on the wall and we shared pictures and stories. Had I never seen their wedding album? (I wondered) “Were you really that thin?” others blurted.

“I love the black and white photos,” Carrie told them. (Did anyone else catch the subliminal metaphor of the weekend? We’re here then we’re not. We see Lucy, then we don’t. We hold her, then there’s daylight between us).

       “…Here I am waiting, I’ll have to leave soon
       Why am I, holding on? …
       —How did it come so fast?
       ….Cause I know, when I wake, I will have to slip away…”

The weekend pressed on and Sat. AM, no different than Cleveland, meant potchkying around. “This is my favorite deli in the world,” Stace said as we entered. With a tooth on the critical list and a Lucy on board, I cared very little. Just let me watch the kid.

Torture of soft-boiled eggs over, life ventured on—-

Stopping at an art store, Bonesy stayed with The Little One as Father & Daughter moseyed in for her package. No sooner had we broken the plane of the entrance than I was overcome with hot flashes, suffering severe, sustained flashbacks to Gramercy Interiors and my life in the ’80s. And THEN I heard the price! Indeed, dare I say once she spit that out…had I not been ill and had I in fact ingested my normal breakfast….well…there’d have been something else on the wall for framing. “They’re thieves” I texted Jason, as a show of support. (Indeed, sometimes water trumps blood).

‘…And when the daylight comes I’ll have to go
But tonight I’m gonna hold you so close
Cause in the daylight …”

We slept the afternoon. All of us. When babies nap old folks tend to rest because as babies waken, symphonies play.

Music that night played at Chez Baskin. Brother Dick (once known as an usher in my wedding but now footnoted as CJ’s brother) and Adrienne hosted as many of their kids and ours as could get past the fire marshal. Endless Sinatra blared from speakers against the backdrop of a disappointing national semifinal while three generations mingled, caught up and (except for me), ate. It mattered not—I was watching Lucy…and thinking…

The kid DOES know me—somewhat. I mean she may not intellectually know who I am, but she senses the comfort. It’s there on her face, in her demeanor and…

“Give me a kiss,” I prompt her as she sits on my lap…and gingerly, blissfully she tilts forward, ‘til her forehead hits mine. “This”, I tell myself, “Is why I’m here.”

We went home that night and they put her to bed. ‘Til tomorrow. ‘Til daylight.

It would be another breakfast, another hug, and another goodbye. The agony and the ecstasy.

The way it is.

Bittersweet, the daylight is—the inevitable mornings that always come: when it’s time to leave, to get that that one more tilt of the baby’s head ‘cause you know you’ll be separated once again by miles and miles. And daylight.

“…This is way too hard,
‘Cuz when the sun comes up I will leave
This is my last glance that will soon be memories….”

Maroon Five

My Dad’s dentist was Sylvan Simon, a very nice man with an office out on the town square in Twinsburg. This was the sixties—long before Twinsburg was Twinsburg. Anyway, once—my father swore—he was so afraid of an upcoming visit that when he got there he told Dr. Simon he just wanted to sit on the chair and chat. And they did…after which my father insisted he pay for the visit. “After all,” he assured me, “I took his time.”

I don’t like the dentist. At all. Indeed, if I were inclined to hate, I would hate the goddam dentist. I don’t though, as I’m mature… balanced. Still, the thought of going to one seems inhumane—so much so that I term it an “it” rather than a “he” or “she”. I don’t like the dentist.

Can stand neither the smell of the office nor the phoniness of the magazines. (Why is it that only in a dentist’s office do we find CURRENT magazines?). And I certainly am not enamored by the fake smiles that greet you as they try to put you at ease. I mean, really: why must they seem happy to see us, why must they act as if we too will enjoy interacting. Really? Why would anyone in his right want to see a dentist? Why, for that matter, would anything in its right mind thrill at poking in someone’s mouth for sport?

Dentistry is the dark side of gynecology.

Ed. Note: Contrast this to the eye doctor. Walk into Lester’s office, why don’t you? Everyone’s pleasant yet everyone’s real. No staff does hand stands as you enter and, better yet, not once will you stagger out clutching your eyeball in pain.

Phil Passan, office above the old Mayflower Drug at Cedar Center, was my first dentist. These were pre-braces days. He was Al Bogart’s lodge brother, (go figure), and the best thing I can say about him was that he had no pretension. He never smiled.

And then, through a series of cosmic confluence of events, I avoided the dentist…

First, my parents’ marriage was crumbled. Second, and about the same time, it was determined I needed orthodontia. Bingo! What the absent father couldn’t see the deafened mother couldn’t hear. “Guess what,” I told her after a visit with Dr. Rabin, “You don’t go to the dentist as long as you have braces”.

Who says I didn’t have “game”?

Over time my mother lost not only hearing but focus. The next time I saw a dentist was the late ‘70s. and yes, it was another lodge brother.

Jerry Adelstein’s office was at Emery and Green. I really didn’t want to go but by then the wife was pushing me to “TakeCareOfYourTeethYou’reAFatherNow” and it was either lose my mouth or lose my mind.

I arrived early that Saturday—first thing. (Heeding my father’s advice of years gone by, I always made the first appointment of the day. That way they couldn’t be behind).

I was scared that day. (Not because by then Jacobson had told me about the time Jerry got the dental drill stuck in his chest hair. No, I just didn’t want to go).

“Look,” I told the Past Chancellor while ascending the chair, “I don’t want you to touch me. Let’s just talk.”
“Oh, B”, I’m just going to look.”
“Don’t look—really. Put down that spoon.”

We fought a bit, gently…but then he did. It was, truth be known, a wondrous talk we had. We laughed—about lodge politics…about our wives…and even about Jacobson.

Twenty minutes passed, give or take. It was time to go. Always my father’s son, I forgot not my manners.

“I expect to pay for your time,” I insisted. “Don’t be ridiculous” he said—in a tone that told me “Write the check.”

We shook hands and he turned away—me moving toward reception.
“$25.00” the lady said—SMILING, as I moved toward my pocket.
From a distance came Jerry’s voice: “Marge, don’t forget to give him the lodge discount!”.

Ah…memories. The good news is it would be a new millennium before again I’d smell the clove oil. The bad news is….

Today I will see a dentist. A nice man, his name is Marc Price and he doesn’t smile too much—just the right amount. Still, I don’t want to go. I’m afraid.

But my tooth is loose…and two weeks of yogurt’s enough. I’m manning up.

It’s an afternoon appointment—that’s all he had. I hope he runs late.
I’d be happy to read a magazine.

       “…I am no better and neither are you
       We’re all the same whatever we do
       You love me, you hate me
       You know me and then
       Still can’t figure out the bag I’m in—
       I am everyday people…”

It was the ‘50s and the birth of suburbia. In fear of blacks, Cleveland’s Italians and Jews fled Collinwood and Glenville heading up U.S. Route 322 seeking refuge. In separate cars they went, caravan style, the Jews and Italians— separately but together, up The Hill, out of Dodge.

Ah—-but there was a problem. They didn’t want to live together, you see. Not really. All they truly shared was “white flight”.

According to what I was told by Herb Loveman years later, a deal was struck at the old Tasty Shop. Then and there the emigres decided that when they got as far east as Warrensville Center Road, that the Italians would turn left and the Jews would go right. This, my friend pointed out, accommodated not only the former’s need to be near Lake Erie—they controlled the docks —but facilitated the Hebrews’ annual migration to Florida.

And so it was that Hal and I were raised in the friendly and very homogenous confines of South Euclid. Thriving in a town one hundred percent white and ninety percent Jewish, we shared a warm, fuzzy childhood. (Ed. Note: my percentages may be off. Jimmy Masseria observed all faiths, missing school on all holidays).

Nobody “different” growing up. Not in grade school, and not even in Little League or junior high—when we first met Christians. They were, (of course), as nice as us (Welc or Raisin?) and as smart as us (Reagan or Reich?).  Moreover, truth be known, Capretta’s fastball was every bit as good as Fromin’s curve. Indeed, even at Brush High, where “greasers” intimidated me, even then we were all in it together. (Ed. Note 2: Over time I outgrew my fear of Lou Trolli. He is, to this day, a valued friend).

       “…There is a long man
       That doesn’t like the short man
       For being such a rich one
       That will not help the poor one
       Different strokes for different folks
       And so on and so on…”

I never heard the word “diversity” in the day, but I saw it first hand (for the first time, perhaps) in the rooms of recovery.

At 47, I was heading nowhere fast. It was a Wednesday night, and walking into that first church basement all I could see were people half my age and twice my age—but no one just my age. And I saw tattoos and piercings and pink hair and no hair…

All I could think– all that went through that skull of mine was “What the ___ am I doing here with these people? We have nothing in common”. (Ed. Note 3: It would not be my last mistake, but it may have been the wrongest I’d ever been! The folks in that room and in the rooms just like them would guide me and teach me and save my life—and would continue to be doing so, one day at a time, some fifteen years later). Our common denominator then and now was a disease, and Yes, clearly we were all there because—frankly—we just weren’t all there. Yet we were one.

       “…There is a yellow one that won’t
       Accept the black one
       That won’t accept the red one
       That won’t accept the white one…”

It was an interesting Seder this Monday. The table—exquisite, traditional—had it all, from the Maxwell House Haggadahs to the shank bone and carpas. Still…well, let’s just say it wasn’t “My father’s YomTov”. Surrounded I wasn’t, by the cacophony of rote liturgy. Oh, we recited the Four Questions and Yes, the Ten Plagues were sung. (Ed. Note 4: The Eleventh Plague:  our mother’s third husband Ed Turner, was omitted. Alas, this wasn’t “my brother’s YomTov” either).

It was, dare I say, like a community seder at the U.N. On a night recalling years of diaspora, it was deja vu all over again. Breaking matzoh were Jews and half-Jews and non-Jews and…. people I’d known forever, people I’d known a bit, and people I just there met. Moreover, to extend the U.N. analogy a bit, there were some there that viewed me with Most Favored Nation status, those that were friendly, and one—truth be known—that doesn’t recognize my right to exist.

So whom did I sit with, what with Carrie was serving and others occupied with babies? Who then, caught my interest ‘tween fractured Hebrew and festive meal?

Enter Jason and Matt, theater people from the west side. Entrée through closing I found more in common with them than the thrust of the Security Counsel. They were, an argument could be made, (excluding CJ and me), the happiest couple there. They were, of course… everyday people.

“…We got to live together….”

Sly Stone

Question: How long does a candle burn?
Answer: A whole wick.

No, I didn’t make that up. It’s culled, truth be known, from the pages of Highlights For Children, the mag sold in the day by not only the Brothers Bogart, but by Stuart, Rais, Bobby, Walt, Brooker, and even Baskin (for an hour) and Wieder (for a minute).

The simplest gestures—unsolicited—leave lasting imprints.

—–It’s tucked in the console of my car amid business cards and the stains of long-dried coffee… resting. ‘ Don’t eye it daily, but I know it’s there… always: the orange, white and spiraled wax. A birthday candle, it came years ago from a cupcake born in Margie’s kitchen. Only those who’ve known the pain of estrangement may understand, but the two inches from my 56th birthday symbolize miles of renewal, and love.

—–It’s in the medicine cabinet—second tier—shelves above contacts, Speed Stick and Mambo. Most mornings I see it first, even as I drip from the shower. Paraffin, red on white, shaped as the number “2”, it once crowned cake. Max’s cake. On his birthday. I was in Cleveland the day he blew it out, but it came via Meredith…by mail.

Funny the importance of those candles. I asked for neither but cling to both. I wonder if Harold knows…or Michael even.

—– I walked in the house last Monday, suppertime. “How was your day?” asked Leesa, as she does most nights. “It just got better!” I noted, approaching the kitchen. On my entrance, Carrie, who’d been unpacking groceries, looked up.

“Got a candle for your mother,’ she said. “Friday, right?”
“How did you know?” I inquired.

She just smiled.

Question: How long does a gesture live?
Answer: A lifetime.

My phone rang on a Friday morning in January. It was Jacobson.

“Bogie,” he exclaimed, “We missed you yesterday.” (He was referring to Past Chancellors’ Night, the annual reunion of former lodge leaders).
“Rehearsal,” I noted.
“Well,” my friend went on, “You really disappointed Dr. O…. He said the only reason he came was to see you.”
“Bullshit.”
“I swear. He asked all about you. I told him of Carrie and your grandchildren—“
“I should call him…say hello.”
(I never did).

There was an era—a decade solid, maybe more—when as a young adult, every nuance I felt was shared with Dr. O. More than frat brothers, we were compatriots.

Lodge was prime-time back then. From the mid-70’s to the lean ‘90s I lived, breathed and basked in Thursday night glory. It was all my dad said it would be and more. Lifetime friendships were born, relationships were carved, and yes, even lessons were learned.

Bolstered by the old (my father’s cronies rallying ‘round the flag one more time) and the young (my pals, most of whom didn’t care), two years into knightdom I found elective office. It was an upset win, never really respected by the middle-aged brothers. And yet…

Doc O was one of them, connected not only by age but by lodge politics.

Allen, even so, not only didn’t resent youth, but he gravitated to the blend of tradition and irreverence that dripped from my being. For some odd reason, perhaps sensing the fade of his own youth, Al Oster got a kick out of me. And Jacobson. And the nonsense of Castle Hall.

I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, and feel it as he gave me counsel.  How well I recall the shoulder he’d provide as his contemporaries, trying to keep me in my place, flexed their muscles in the guise of brotherhood.

“Don’t mind Eisen,” he once told me. “He just can’t accept that you won.”
“Yeah, but—“
“He really likes you, but as long as he sees you as ‘Harvey’s boy’ he’ll never make it easy.”                                                   “Yeah, but…”

It’ll be thirty years this June that I held the gavel…Chancellor Commander. The world was changing; fraternal organizations everywhere were declining—and against that backdrop there I was—in my early 30’s—-running the show.

I needed every Al Oster I could get.

We were mavericks trying to change things; it didn’t take.

Rather than go with the usual suspects, I asked Cutler and Widman to run entertainment. In the day, Entertainment Chairs were akin to Secretaries Of State. I wasn’t just pushing the envelope naming the two relative unknowns—indeed, I was opening an Office Max.

Al never broke stride. Al never buckled. Always, he waved the flag.

There was a guy on tv back then called “The Unknown Comic”. He would do his routine with a brown paper bag over his head. Some jokes were good, of course, but some weren’t. Still, the sight of a schmuck doing stand-up with his head covered always drew laughs.

—Until the night when, to generate excitement for the upcoming entertainment calendar—we had Cutler and Widman sit the entire meeting with heads covered.

Only Oster laughed.

—Or the bus trip to Toronto where I went up and down the aisle waking sleeping altacockers, asking each if he preferred beef or turkey sandwiches. Dutifully each responded and diligently I wrote down each order. Problem was, we had no food. I was just having fun. (It took Oster to calm the seas; some people, hungry perhaps, just didn’t think it was cute).

Yet Oster, too, could tell me the truth. Privately. Like when The Jersey Girl was in her ninth month with Stacy. (Might have been the tenth month even). She was being “herself”, let us say—only more so. There I sat with Doc O…at the Theatrical…bitching.

“LISTEN TO ME!” he shouted, semi-shaking my shoulders. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to carry that thing around for nine months…and it’s always there…and every time your wife sits down on the toilet it’s there…do you know how uncomfortable that is….? Give her a break!”

“Yeah, but…”

I was thinking about that today because…I never called Oster. Not in January. Not in February. Not at all.

You see…my phone rang just Monday. And again it was Jacobson.

“Dr. O died,” he told me—there would be no funeral.

“Lost time is never found again.” —-Benjamin Franklin

It probably never occurred to my father that even in the post-mod era of the 70’s his black and yellow plaid polyester sport jacket was loud.

“How loud was it, Johnny?” asked Ed (McMahon).
“So loud even Bruce’s mother could hear it!”
(TYMPANY)

His garb though— that dreaded jacket— had legs. Indeed, when our dad passed on years later it was one of those things I just couldn’t let go. North it came— first to Maidstone, then beyond. From box in the basement to box in the closet, until…finally… generations after its original sales date, it became retro. Ugly, but retro.

With legs!

So much so that with me playing Banjo, (the Jimmy Durante role in “The Man Who Came To Dinner”), it found the Independence stage.

So much so that it found homes on both Murray The Cop (“The Odd Couple”) and Mr. Pinky (“Hairspray”) at The Fine Arts Association.

Whodda thunk it? Certainly not the clerk at Kuppenheimer’s who’d unloaded it.

The best part of it all has been that inevitably each production cast mates inquire about my wardrobe and inevitably each production I get to share about my father.

For the past weeks, playing a frenetic TV director in a show at Gates Mills, I’ve once again thrilled others not so much with performance as wardrobe. Thank you, Dad.

We closed last night and, once again it rests in the closet—that relic which so well explains our Dad’s absence from GQ’s cover. Ah, but now it has friends: the cravat I wore around my neck, (Aunt Helen’s scarf from WWII)…and the long-sleeved, collared, black corduroy shirt that Stacy said “Don’t wear” and Meredith urged I burn. Still it’s all, dare I say, about the jacket: my father’s black and yellow jacket.

It was his coat of arms; it personified his heart; and oh…it had legs!

Dear Mark,

Remember how our parents would preach “time flies”? I never got it back then. Now sometimes, and clearly at moments like this, it seems there’s never enough…time.

Knowing your birthday approached, I’d been thinking perhaps we’d get together when I was in town recently. It didn’t happen, as you know, and even my cemetery stop on what used to be called Old Refugee Road was missed. Still, I figure if my father could survive without my presence (like the word choice?), so could my lifelong friend.

Anyway, I was thinking about you on your recent birthday. Two scenes stood out—one back from high school (relatively trivial), and the other of recent vintage.

Did you know that you were the first person to ever fix me up on a date?  Not Fenton. Not “Groovy”. ‘Twas you! Must have been 11th grade or so ‘cause I was already driving. You were seeing a Sherry K —she lived either on East Antisdale or Grosvenor (in the portion of South Euclid that went to Heights). Anyway, she had this friend—-a nice, somewhat nebbishy girl—the perfect match for a high school me. I mention this so in the event you appear on a quiz show you can spit out the Final Jeopardy answer.

The other memory, distinct in my mind, is from Vegas. We were breakfasting poolside a day into our mini-reunion…you and Bobby were still debating which was the right hotel to stay at…and during a lull in the action you leaned my way:

“Why were you always so insecure?” came your question.

It was a curious question, but such a tender inquiry that I never forgot it. It was the kind of thing only a friend of fifty-some years might ask. I wasn’t embarrassed at all yet frankly, it raised a question in my mind. Did you know
that I’d wondered the same about you? Did you sense (as I have over time), that we were but two sides of the same coin?

Sure, I was on the quiet side and you: less so. And yes, I lived on Bayard and you couldn’t hear me, but on a clear day day… from your house on Linnell I sure heard you.

And the decades dribbled by. When you drove me ‘round Columbus just two years back it was you that had mellowed and me that was heard. With reverence you spoke of your new home town.

I don’t know, Erv, why I was unsettled back then. Years fly by and more and more I see the strength and foundation of childhood friendships. I hope you feel the same. Those you’ve touched, still bound to Cleveland, remember well the smiles they shared with you.
Julie recalls how you pestered John Carroll in class until he stabbed you with his pencil, and how (in the days only “hard guys” had them), you called it your “tattoo”. And he remembers well your—should we say “audible”?— laugh.

You touched Barry too, both at Brush and in Sunday School. Community Temple—I almost forgot. C’mon, Mark. It’s been a half century since our Bar Mitzvahs. (I had no idea, by the way, that your Dad coached Little League).

People remember those things. Even in your absence.

I could tell you too the stories from Bobby and Stuart. I won’t though—you can get those yourself. I will share, however, a tale from Maddy. Goes back to the seventh grade…

You snapped her bra, she swears—from the back—right in the Greenview cafeteria.

She says she was mad at the time. I don’t know. Says you probably told all her friends from the SLAM club. Beats me. What I do know is that anyone who could pull that off couldn’t have been THAT insecure.

(Not that I’m asking).

Happy Birthday, buddy. Hi to Lisa. Come north.

Bruce

c.c. Alan, Stu, Bob, Raisinbrain