“Let’s just drop it. I’m not interested in your opinion. Furthermore, I like who I am.”
Stickers couldn’t get Madonna a record contract at the time, but just six months later, Madge broke big because of the musical arranger, Jellybean Benitez.
I sound as if I’m stargazing or bragging, so I’ll quit with the Page Six stuff. The mainstays at these brunches were mostly men with whom I’d shared my life. One was Donny Hall, a former high school All American, who disappointed as a player in Division One hoops and yet was still good enough to be the point guard on a Top Ten team. When Donny graduated college, he went into legit theater and became famous as an actor. Donny was a friend of mine for years but then started drinking. I tried to help him with his problem and with his lost career, but I failed. Donny got pissed off at me for failing, and we split because sometimes you just can’t put the pieces back together no matter how hard you try. Morty Lefko, The Colonel, was one of our gang. He was a graduate of Morris Evening High School. The Colonel worked his entire life. He started out selling bottles of cheap perfume, and, by the time he was on my rooftop for bagels and lox, he was putting together deals for helicopters and jets. The Colonel took a bath every morning from ten to noon. “Sylvia!” he’d yell out to his wife, “Can I please have a fresh cigar while I’m taking my bath.” And later in the day, “Sylvia, these ashtrays need to be cleaned out.” Whenever I mentioned Leslie’s powers, The Colonel would immediately start chewing his Havana. “I understand what you’re tryin’ to tell me, David,” he’d say, and begin grumbling about his wife of thirty-plus years. The Colonel bellowed a great deal, but we all knew he was good-hearted and harmless. We chuckled at his élan. So did Sylvia.
Early this morning, I woke up with a splitting headache. I knew that if I went to my typewriter and began writing whatever came out would be psychobabble. I wanted to prevent that, so I tried thinking of my twenty years with Elizabeth. I couldn’t. I kept leaking and spilling and confusing this present life of mine with the previous one. Sometimes they merge. Sometimes, like when I’m taking a business trip to get some buried dollars, this happens. It also happens when I see women that remind me of other women, women that were in my life, women that are probably now deceased, but still as alive in my mind as the ones I’m seeing right now. I guess this is psychobabble, what I’m doing. It’s exactly what I want to avoid.
I begged Solomon’s wife to put a phone next to his ear on Thanksgiving, 1989. Solomon was much too weak to talk by then. I told him how much I loved him, despite himself, and how much he had meant to me. I’ll always be thankful to Mrs. Lepidus for allowing me that moment.
Everyone’s best friend died in his own bed, with only his wife, his children, Stickers, Amy Cho, and me at his side. Amy stifled a sob. “I loved Solomon so much. He was always earthy and friendly, strong and generous. He was simultaneously calculating and unknowable...like you are, David!” Amy hesitated. “Solomon would look at me and I knew what he was thinking, and, yet, I knew he would never betray you.”
I learned so much from Solomon Lepidus, things hopefully, that my son will never have to learn. As for Solomon’s wife, she had to sell off whatever assets she had, relinquish the Fifth Avenue condo in bankruptcy proceedings, move to Florida, survive day-to-day.
Not Solomon. He lives in my mind as large as ever.
They were beaten. They were maimed. Those suckers who took proposition bets from Nathan Rubin. Rubin thought of me as “choir boy.” A cantor’s son. A “sonny boy” with potential. I went from $25 on a game my first-year handicapping to the fourth year of my roll. That was the year that Nathan Rubin partnered with me. He knew I had something, if not the right formula, at least something the others did not have.
Is that me or is the man I am now me? The answer could be as simple as, “I’m both.” Yet, that’s too fuckin’ simple! Two sides, three sides, maybe even four or five. Not many of us are intact. When Rubin died—he must’ve been eighty-nine at the time—his last words were, “I’m satisfied...” Solomon’s last words were, “Don’t feel sorry for me, Davey boy. I’ve lived seven hundred years in my seventy-plus.”
What will be mine? I think about that a lot.
What will be mine?
Hi Liam:
When I went to the bathroom this morning to brush my teeth, the first thing that I noticed was a photograph of me with two of my business partners: Nathan Rubin and Solomon Lepidus. Both men died before you were born, Liam. I think of them every day. And today, I’ve been regretting that they never had a chance to meet you or Mommy. They would’ve liked the both of you. On second thought, maybe not you. Like me, they would’ve wanted to talk baseball, baskets, and boxing. They weren’t football or soccer guys and could never have even imagined that soccer would become an American sport as nowadays. But if I told them that you were the kind of boy you are, they would’ve paid attention. Nathan Rubin would’ve called you “a sucker.” Solomon would’ve grinned and, Liam, Solomon Lepidus had the widest grin and the broadest face of any man I ever knew. Solomon was the man who tried to buy the Yankees, Liam, for $8 million when $8 million was a lot of money. He lost out to George Steinbrenner and, truthfully, because of his nefarious deeds. He was a man who carried with him a whole lot of baggage and, in this case for sure, his reputation preceded him. With his hunger for power, more power and still more power, he would now be scheming to buy Facebook or Amazon.
Yesterday, Liam, I missed you a great deal. So, at two in the morning, I moved my butt into your empty room and slept in your bed for a couple of hours. It did the job. I felt you were with me, and I felt better. I told that to Mommy, and she’s doing the same thing right now. I hope that it works for her as well.
Love you, Squirt.
Elizabeth has been going to war. She’s become a Flying Tiger, like that WWII fighter plane. Liz is making a supreme effort to lay down the law. The new edict is no milkshakes! No ice cream! No pasta! No butter! No bread! No pastries! No! No! No! My wife has demanded that I lose twenty-seven pounds. I am following orders. Feel blessed that she cares. My life is a prayer come true. I’m getting up there. When did the bull in the China shop disappear? How is it that I’m ending up exactly as Leslie Kore would have wanted me to start out?
* * *
I cleaned out a desk drawer. I found this letter.
Dear Ba:
I know it seems like I really don’t care. Ma probably thinks I’m just writing this because she told me to. I would hope that you of all people can tell the difference.
What you have given me is unique. Thank you for showing me that there is more than money and power and grades and exams and school. I am just beginning to realize how fortunate I am. That I am responsible to help those less fortunate. Again, as I get older, I realize how rare this knowledge is. I always thought these truths were just part of me. I was sure you thought so, too. But now I know they were born out of the perspective you gave me. A perspective that is almost always lacking in the money class I was born into. I sincerely hope you never feel you haven’t made your mark on me. Father’s Day is for appreciation, and I hope this letter at least shows that. However, I wish I could thank you more for all you have done, but I know this pursuit is pointless. So, I’ll just close by saying I love you, Ba.
Liam will be visiting this weekend. When he arrives, I’ll insist on hugs, and, when I kiss my son on top of his head, I’ll be getting a whiff of his long curly blonde hair. I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than hold my wife’s hand, get a whiff of my son’s beautiful hair.
I’m coming at this from a million angles. I’m trying to throw out as full a picture of my life as I can. Get to the gist of what went on. Focus on the essentials. At my age, it’s so much easier to throw out a loaf of bread and try to gobble up the crumbs. Like the way my father fed those Riverside Drive pigeons. He’d tear off a large chunk of bread, break it up into tiny pieces, and toss those pieces all ove
r the place. The pigeons didn’t complain. They flew right over, even perched on his shoulders. Started gobbling.
The year I quit handicapping, 2006, I won over seventy-four percent of the games I wagered on, one of my best seasons ever. But I was still ready to walk away. And I did. Today I’m surer than ever that it was the correct decision. I was such a big winner because I took every dollar seriously. Managed them as if I were at war with Adolph. Remembered Nathan Rubin’s suggestions.
“Ya see, kid, before making a large wager, I found it helpful to place on my desk the amount I was betting. It sobers you up. Pukes out whatever gambling furies are still inside of you. And always remember, kid, home courts and shorts will keep you in the game.”
Sometimes I lose my train of thought. Eighty isn’t thirty or forty or even seventy. I jump from both sides of the mountain at the same time. I just don’t have the kind of focus I had all those years ago. I’ve gone to most of the places I’ve had to go. Looking back rather than ahead is weird, but there is a whole lot more sail in my past than in my future. I’m trying to cut away the lard. Or as Elizabeth says, “My husband doesn’t like to talk, but he never stops talking.”
How often I feel my life has been a waste of time. Of course, not this last cycle with Elizabeth and Liam. Liam is the best of times. Our communication has evolved.
“Liam, I had my first girlfriend when I was just a bit older than you are now. I think I told you about Sheila Tronn. What I didn’t tell you is that there was a rule I had to follow. My hands never went under her shirt or past her waist.”
Elizabeth has been a lifesaver. But the rest of it, I would never tell anyone that they should think of me as an example of how to live their life. I’m not despairing. I still have a good time.
I take Metro-North to Croton Falls. From there, I take a taxi to our home in North Salem. When I tell Elizabeth that Champ Holden has died, I spell out the details. “Champ had a stroke. He was improving, following the program set out for him. Gaining strength. Praying daily with his lady friend. Then he steps into the shower. Steps out. Puts on a pair of jockey shorts, wraps a silk bathrobe around his shoulders. Starts jabbering to his lady. Gets up, walks into the study, and collapses. Eighty-seven-year-old Champ Holden is gone. Not a chance to say goodbye to his lady.”
“That’s too bad, dear,” Elizabeth says and then races to change the subject. “David, the deer have been eating the hostas, ruining the hydrangeas, devouring the arborvitae.”
And then, soberly, we discuss Liam’s boarding school problems. “What do you think, David? Should Liam remain in honors math—he’s really struggling—or should he...”
There was a time when I would stand on a street corner until two in the morning arguing with friends about issues that matter. But how many of us really care any longer? No one is bringing the sides together. We’re being surgically separated like conjoined twins. Further polarized and pushed further apart (“You’re wrong, David; Liam must stay in honors math. How else will he get into the right college?”) than ever before.
I’m with Elizabeth in North Salem ten minutes from consecrated horse and orchard turf. This evening, we’re going to Purdy’s, an upscale one percenter eatery, where most of the diners are more concerned with the menu or their next leather saddle purchase than having frank discussions on political atrocities or income disparities or whatever else is the significant obscenity of the day. World suffering...gun control...healthcare...the rising cost of rubbers...rape—you name it, these folks, not unlike me (“Elizabeth, remember, tomorrow morning, to remind me to drive over to Harvest Moon. I want to get those rooster sculptures for my rooftop.”) are right there with uni-dimensional, axe-to-grind toxic answers.
It’s not that different from when my Central Park South neighbor told me, “Did you know that Mrs. Stein has cancer?”
Most of us just go on with our day. I’ve done that for years. Now, add to this palette the many other issues that I’ve been ignoring, disremembering, and I’ve complicated the picture of my life that I’m trying to paint. Now I hear my dead father, “Have compassion for your fellow man, David. Never forget to forgive.”
I’m not the right one to preach. I’m not digging up my illegal handicapping lucre that is buried deep in Westchester County earth to distribute among the poor and the starving nor did I ever pay an honest amount in taxes nor did I provide the D.A.’s office with a correct accounting nor do I ever talk to anyone, including my wife, damn hardly even myself, about the elephant in the room: Evan Strome. I’m rambling on about my criminal exploits, trying to get a better idea of the kind of Steppenwolf I am. The Steppenwolf I forget in my life with Elizabeth and Liam. Until she demanded to know about Evan Strome. I recognize my self-deception. I know it can’t go on forever. Still, so often it’s easier to ignore my past.
Out of nowhere, I say to Elizabeth, “Debbie Turner had brown hair down to her shoulders when we first met. Now she’s as bald as a watermelon and still thinks that Tennessee Williams’ ‘kindness of strangers’ line is the greatest ever written.”
“What’s your favorite line?”
“I’d have to think on that one, Liz. I guess I’m partial to the one in Cinderella Man. ‘You’re the champion of my heart, James J. Braddock.’ It’s not only the line. It’s the way his wife looks at Braddock while she’s saying it. I really believed that James J. Braddock was the luckiest man on the planet because of the way his wife loved him.”
“I always tell you you’re a softie.”
Every morning Elizabeth tests my memory. She insists that it’s a good way for elderly people to start the day. I welcome the test. I still have a pretty good memory, I think.
“Tell me the starting line-ups for the Philadelphia Athletics and the Boston Red Sox, vintage 1950.”
“Connie Mack was the owner and the manager of the Athletics. In those days, Mr. Mack still wore a straw hat. Sat on the bench in a three-piece suit. Looked like Uncle Sam. He must have been eighty-eight years old by then, and I think by the time Mr. Mack left baseball, he had been in the game for sixty-six years. Quite a man, Cornelius McGillicuddy.”
“David, stop being a jerk. Name the Philadelphia players.”
“I think Joe Astroth was the catcher. At first base, there was Ferris Fain. A really good ball player and just about as skilled as Keith Hernandez when it came to charging bunts. Second base was Pete Suder. Shortstop, Eddie Joost. At third base was Hank Majeski. In left field was one of my all-time favorites, Elmer Valo. Center field was Chapman—don’t remember his first name, maybe Sam—and in right field was another tremendous hitter, Barney McCosky. On the mound was a classy left-hander, Alex Kellner. I once saw Mickey Mantle blast a ball over the 457-foot sign in Yankee Stadium off Kellner. In those days, no one did things like that outside of the Mick. The Athletics also had two other left-handed starters. One of them had had a devastating injury during WWII. He pitched with part of his leg blown off for his entire career!”
“What was his name?”
“His name...his name...Lou...Lou Brissie, that’s it! The third was a little left-hander, Bobby Shantz. One of the best pitchers in the game for a while.”
“You’re doing great. Now, see what you can do with the Boston Red Sox team of 1950.”
“The Red Sox were a great club in 1949 and again in 1950. I think Birdie Tebbetts hit .303, and he was the weakest hitter on the team. Birdie was the backstop. At first was Walter Dropo. He was the Rookie of the Year in 1950. I don’t remember why the Red Sox traded Dropo to Detroit a few years later, but I do remember that Moose once had twelve hits in a row for the Tigers, which I’m almost certain is still a Major League record. Bobby Doerr played second. He’s in the Hall of Fame. The shortstop was Vern Stephens. I think he hit forty-four home runs that year and knocked in 149 runs. And, of course, they had Ted Williams. To this day, the greatest hitter I ever saw.”
“Okay, Smarty Pant
s! That’s enough for today. You certainly still have your memory!”
I’m remembering the transcendent gift the day I turned eighty.
The three of us—Liam, Elizabeth and I—were returning from Ridgefield, Connecticut where we had had a splendid French dinner at Bernard’s. I use the word splendid as Ridgefield is not New York City. The people here seem more polite than everyday New Yorkers. Could just be me getting older. I can appreciate fine demeanors a lot more now than I could in my earlier days. Elizabeth was driving our Mercedes Benz. I was next to her, marveling at the fresh snow flakes on the grounds, in the woods, clinging to the tree bark, the scarce leaves, the drifts of white on both sides of the country road, and then Elizabeth made a sharp right turn onto Barclay Lane, which registers for the three of us. We would reach our security gate in a few minutes. Liam was getting jumpy. An NCAA game, powerful Duke would be playing his favorite lower seed. Elizabeth was also distracted. It had been a very long day. We’d been welcoming me to the Octogenarian Club since well before dawn. And then, out of the snow-covered woods, crossing the road aren’t one, two or even three white-tailed deer—there was a whole herd. I’d never seen anything more magnificent in my life. For a moment, all these white-tails froze. I stepped out of the car. Liam followed. We stood in the middle of the North Salem gravel-speckled road, speechless, as these beautiful creatures slowly walked, one following the other, into the deeper cover. Feeling safe, they stopped at a distance. I embraced this as a blessing, and for another four or five minutes, I was able to enjoy
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