by Sidney Hart
“He’s gone.” Abe Melman’s deep and sorrowful voice carried the message to all listening. “I saw him carry his suitcase out early this morning.”
“Sonofabitch. If I ever get my hands on him there won’t be enough left to mail home in an envelope with a three cent stamp on it.” Harlan entered our room wearing a pair of blue boxer shorts, a towel draped over his head, his dop kit under one arm. Droplets of water glistened on his torso. He went straight to the dresser under the window and set the kit down, then sat on his cot and began drying his hair with the towel. Ron looked at him and sneered.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Looks like I’ve been in the shower Ronald, wouldn’t you say?” Harlan said good naturedly without a trace of defensiveness or irritation in his voice. Before Ron could speak Moe Braverman lurched into the room.
“White, weren’t you with Gelman last night?” he asked suspiciously. My heart leapt up into my throat.
“I had some drinks with him,” I said struggling to keep my voice below the strangled falsetto range, “that’s all.”
“Do you know what he did after that? Do you?” His voice swelled with outrage and he glowered at me from the side of my bed, his face level with mine. Dear God, I prayed, strike Belle dead, please.
“The little shit, he pasted Z’s over the L’s in Lionism. Now the sign says ‘Jack Whitman for Better Zionism.’ Putz! Shmuck! Trumbenik! Bastard! They’ll never come back here now.” He reeled over to Harlan’s side of the room and turned back towards me. “Are you sure you don’t know nothing about this?” He had just given me my freedom. I hadn’t even been asked but knowing I was one of the upstanding White brothers Moe had granted me amnesty.
“No, honestly,” I lied, “I didn’t know.” I had lied honestly only once before, in grade school. My friend Malcolm and I had been belching to The Star Spangled Banner while our sixth grade classmates earnestly sang it when Mrs.Castleman, our music teacher, located our eructations and confronted us. Malcolm had a reputation as a trouble maker and a wise guy but I was the class spelling champion and all around goody-goody. “No, it wasn’t me, honest,” I had lied, turning a deep crimson, and Malcolm, accustomed to making the trip to the principal’s office, didn’t rat me out. “It was my fault,” he said. Later that day, the war in Korea in progress and the recently ended world war shaping our play and our language, he said, “Forget it. When the grenade landed in our foxhole I jumped on it. Why should you die too?”
“If any of you ever see him around I want to know, got that?” Moe commanded, and he stormed out of the room. As soon as the door to the waiters’ quarters slammed shut Ron burst into laughter. I exhaled with relief and couldn’t wait to tell Malcolm, who was working on the social staff at Brown’s Hotel, about my participation in the joke, but he’d be the only one in the Catskill mountains that I’d tell.
“So, Melvin, you have some balls after all,” Ron said, but I just rolled over and faced the wall.
“And as for you, Hawthorne, I’m not fooled by you for one minute. Shower my ass.” But Harlan kept his towel in motion across his body and said nothing in response. When Ron left the room for the shower I jumped down from my bed and collected my towel and dop kit.
“You were up pretty early Harlan,” I said.
“Early is the best time of day,” he said. “Just before daylight it’s very peaceful. The crickets have quieted down and the birds have yet to begin chirping and the sky has the palest pale blue color, almost like slate. There are some stars still visible in the sky and the dew on the grass glistens and twinkles like little jewels spilled at your feet. It’s a magical fairyland. I like that quiet time. I walk the grounds, I stare into the lake and begin the day in a state of calm.” His voice was indeed very calm, almost dreamy, nothing at all like Ron’s, and it struck me then how odd this living arrangement was. We’d been lumped together without rhyme or reason like discards in a thrift shop. While there were commonalities I shared with each of them, there seemed to be nothing Ron and Harlan could call common ground. It was at that point on that morning I decided I was going to apprentice myself to Harlan and learn how to be in the world in his way.
“You should try it some time,” he said abruptly, as if coming back to the reality of Braverman’s.
“Sure, I’ll do that,” I said, politely. I’d have said yes to almost anything he might have asked of me just then; I was enthralled by his physical grace and verbal elegance. He was everything I had always wished to be.
Breakfast was quiet and easy. Harold had not attempted to introduce the Lions to the dietary delights of urban Jewry so there were no appetizing appetizers: no smoked white fish, no smoked Nova Scotia salmon, no pickled herring or lox. No Matjes herring, no herring in wine sauce, no herring with onions in cream sauce, no baked or fried herring. No Scotch kippers, no pickled salmon, no sardines, no anchovies. This would have been fine except there was also no bacon, no sausages, no ham. Bagels, like toy truck tires, sat piled in the bread baskets while busboys kept the bakers busy making white toast by the loaf. A grim silence took possession of the dining room. It was like study hail, only the occasional cough or shifting of chairs assured you that there was life there. The rest of Saturday’s meals passed in similar waves of awkward unfamiliarity and painfully felt politeness. We knew there would be a thin crowd for Sunday breakfast and wondered what kind of tips we’d harvest. Since it was an experiment of sorts no one was too hopeful that the Lions would shower us with generosity. We were more or less resigned, too, to being the scapegoats for Harold’s misguided efforts to attract the upstate gentiles, and for Bob Gelman’s (and my) assault on Jack Whitman’s signboard.
Still, by noon I had collected $12 in singles, two plastic ballpoint pens, a clip-on tie with a Lion’s insignia, and a brief note wishing me success with my college quest. One man, it may even have been Jack Whitman himself, winked, pumped my hand while slipping me two dollars, and said, “Good luck with the distaff physiognomy.” I borrowed a dictionary from Sammy to translate the message and was surprised to learn that it was about the female anatomy. Jack Whitman was definitely my candidate for the Lions’ presidency, but was Utica up to his vision?
4.
Steve and Jerry drove up to Braverman’s Tuesday of that first week. Neither had called to tell me they were coming and I’d begun to imagine the Studebaker really was to be a surprise graduation gift from them and my parents. It was already five years old and not especially sleek as cars went in the mid-nineteen fifties so it didn’t seem unreasonable to dream that I might be the beneficiary of the consumerism that was promoting cachet over utility to the new generation of prosperous Americans, but that Studebaker was not destined to be mine.
My brothers had gone directly to the kitchen upon their arrival and were talking to Rudy and Sammy when I appeared for lunch. My injured surprise was an opportunity for them to make jokes with their former compatriots.
“Look who’s here, always the late comer.”
“Still haven’t gotten your timing down right I see.” Private laughter was then shared among the four of them.
“Stop it, Jerry, you know how sensitive Melvin is about being late. So, little brother, did Rudy drag you into the meat locker yet?” They all laughed again in a knowing, insider way, like fraternity brothers with a newly recruited pledge.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming up?” I asked, trying not to sound hurt and whiny.
“We wanted to surprise you. Sammy got us seats at his station and we were hoping that you wouldn’t know we were here until you came into the dining room for lunch. We were going to tip you Mel, I swear, the whole three dollars for just one meal,” Jerry said. Laughter again, and back slapping as well among the initiated.
“Well, it’s good to see you anyway,” I said grudgingly.
“Never start a sentence with ‘well’ Melvin, don’t you remember anything Mrs. Friedman taught you?” Steve chimed in.
“You know, I’m glad you two su
rprised me because sometimes I forget what a pain in the ass you can be,” I said, grabbing a plate from the pile in front of the sous chef.
“Come on Melvin you haven’t got all day to stand around here and chit chat. Eat your lunch and get set up.” Sammy said. “If you waste my time I’ll see to it that the only person you’ll be fit to be working for is judge Crater, and ghosts are lousy tippers.”
While filling my plate on the food line I heard their laughter and the sound of their voices at play with Sammy’s and once again experienced the vast space separating us, whatever it was comprised of; years, tastes, temperament, it had always been there, this vast chasm of differences. Often I thought it would always be there but, then, I’d assure myself I was being overly sensitive and revert to the hopeful admiration of my big brothers. As much as I liked watching them in action and admired and looked up to them, their remoteness always seemed like some kind of reproach, one I could not comprehend. It felt like something other than the big difference in our ages. But right then and there I knew I could no longer deny that the unbridgeable gap was real, and their sarcasm and insults, like the casual cruelty of some children, were meant as much to distance as to tease. Immediately, without effort, like a reflex, I thought of Harlan’s friendliness, a welcoming full of promise. I could learn a great deal from him, his manner and style, his comfort and ease, his self-containment. He didn’t seem to need anything from anybody. That would be just perfect, I thought, the antidote to my hero worship, unmindful I was simply replacing one idol with another.
At lunch some old timers among the staff welcomed Steve and Jerry with enthusiastic shoulder punches and handshakes (hugs had yet to become fashionable among men) some feinting, dodging, and dancing as if in a boxing ring, and a torrent of questions about how they were doing in school and what they were doing for ass. Steve did most of the talking, always the more voluble of the two, while Jerry looked wistfully around the dining room, the dreamy smile of reverie on his face.
“Heard any good jokes, Jerry?” Sammy asked, always looking to extend his repertoire.
“As a matter of fact I heard a great one just yesterday but I don’t know if you’d be able to understand it.”
“Oy veh! Listen to this wise guy. So where’s your drummer?” We all laughed because we knew the drummer was the comic’s audible punctuation mark following a punchline. They ate lunch and did indeed insist upon my accepting a five dollar bill from them. Before they left Steve walked around the Studebaker with great ceremony, inspecting the fenders and doors, kicking the tires, peering at specks on the hood and running his fingers over the sideview mirror before smiling and nodding at me.
“You did very well. It’ll only cost you five dollars for the wear and tear on the car,” he said, smiling and lifting the five Jerry had tucked into my shirt pocket. I thought it was just a joke, but he drove away without giving me back the money. That was my brother Steve for you.
When I went back into the dining room I asked Sammy why there was so much joking about judge Crater. I’d never heard him mentioned in relation to Braverman’s by anyone in my family and my brothers hadn’t prepared me for the constant reference so it was a surprise his name kept coming up.
“It’s an inside joke, Melvin. We keep it amongst ourselves.”
“But why judge Crater, why not Kilroy or Harvey, the giant invisible rabbit?”
“The judge did like to come here during prohibition, they say, but that was before my time so I don’t know if it’s true or not, but what difference does it make? He’s gone and we’re not causing him any harm it’s just a joke. Look, if we want to choose him as our ghost that’s our business and that’s all there is to it. Why are you so upset about the judge anyway?”
“Our ghost? Do we need a ghost? Who decided we need a ghost at Braverman’s?”
“Melvin, it’s just a joke, relax. You know what I think, I think you are much too serious for a young man. Why get so upset by a silly joke? Why take it so much to heart? This is going to be a long summer with plenty of heat and plenty of hard work and everybody needs a good joke to make the time pass in good spirits. It’s something like a mascot just amongst our selves. Judge Crater is our mascot, our joke. Why, you believe in ghosts? You’re afraid maybe he’ll come after you in your bed at night? What is the problem, what is wrong with a little fooling around?” He was getting edgy.
“Sammy it’s a question, not a problem. Jesus, talk about getting carried away.”
“Let’s have some respect here, Melvin, remember you’re working for me.”
“Understood, “ I said, with a smile and touching the finger tips of my right hand to my forehead, lips and chest in sequence I bowed a low bow topped off with a flourish, relieved when Sammy laughed heartily.
Chapter Two
The summer season’s regular guests began arriving towards the end of that first week, vacationers hopeful of avoiding the usual crush that took place on Sundays. Traveling up route 17, the long arduous path from New York City, most made their way into the country on Sunday afternoon each car a link in a steel chain that dragged slowly towards liberty, and Liberty, the last of the many towns they were headed for, the birthplace of the Jewish vacation resorts.
The road was a two lane affair that passed through the Shawangunk mountains before reaching the Catskills. The most daunting part of the ride involved negotiating the long and steep hill at Wurtshoro, a hill that was the vacationer’s equivalent of the dragon that had to be slain in order to rescue a distressed damsel imprisoned in a tower. Radiators boiled over, geysers of steam erupted into the air, traffic stal1ed, horns blared, tempers exploded in competition with the radiators, cars were pushed on to the road’s narrow shoulders, but the chain continued its slow, steady crawl languid as a snake in the sun. And when they arrived, the sodden vacationers, dripping with a hot perspiration, entered the broad drive and reception area of Braverman’s with the exhausted relief of a desert caravan reaching an oasis.
Bernie Abramowitz, the resident tummler and social director, organizer of volley ball games and Simple Simon Says calesthenics, caromed from one newly arrived family to the next in a frenzy of welcoming.
“Bernie Abramowitz,” he shouted, while slapping backs, pumping hands and pinching cheeks, “Abramowitz, everything from A to Z!” The returning old timers knew the joke, but the perplexed newcomers had to have it explained.
“A—bramowit.—Z. get it?” Bernie had made a stab at being a comic in the manner of Danny Kaye but he lacked Kaye’s good looks, intelligence, charm and comic brilliance. That aside, he couldn’t comprehend why he’d had a problem establishing himself in the firmament of comedy. In the first weeks of the summer season each of us in the dining room would be taken aside individually to hear how antisemitism had destroyed his career in show business. That Kaye, Eddie Cantor, Milton Berle, Jack Benny. Sid Caesar, Alan King and dozens of others had succeeded, because of or in spite of their Jewishness, was of no concern to Bernie. “It must have been my material,” he’d lament, “but who knew someone could hate gabardine that much. No, but seriously, and like all comics I’m basically a serious person, it was my Holy Family routine that was too much ahead of its time. Have I ever told you the routine?” I smiled and shook my head no for what would prove to be only the first of a thousand tellings. He was so pathetic in his eagerness to charm and amuse it was painful to be with him for any length of time.
“Hey! Look at me! I’m Joseph the forgotten man. What’s with this ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph.’ I’m the goddamn Zeppo Marx of the Holy Family! Try to put yourself in my place. You marry this good looking girl, Mary, a kid but great tits, and the next thing you know, every time you try to lay a hand on her you get a headache like you wouldn’t believe. What’s this, I say to myself, am I the husband or am I the wife? Nobody told me what I was getting myself into. Nobody said, Hey Joe, God needs a beard, you want the job? Nobody said that. Look, I was a good lookin’ fella, a punim like a movie star. I’d had more women
than the Egyptians had locusts. Did I need this?” His monologue always ended there. I never knew if it was because he hadn’t written more or if it was at that point he had to run for his life to get away from an irate mob. Lenny Bruce himself wouldn’t have dared that routine in the 1950’s.
After unloading their luggage, the bellhops escorted the families to the registration desk, chatting up the wives and children, assessing the nubility of the teenaged daughters and the flirtatiousness of the married women in the process. Tired and bedraggled as they were, it heartened the bellhops to see these women revive with a little flattery and attention. Their whiny brats were always the cutest, their teenagers were assured of the great athletic program, and their husbands were completely ignored. While some of the bellhops were college students, most were hustlers who were looking for a buck anyway they could make it. They hung around the card room and fetched drinks and cigars for the gin rummy, pinochle and poker players compensating for crummy tips by short-changing the obviously timid and snaring any bills or change that landed accidentally on the carpeted floor. The women canasta players got little attention because women were lousy tippers. “Thank you dolling, and a pinch on the cheek is nothing to take to the bank,” they’d complain.
Table assignments in the dining room followed room assignments at the hotel. Stuart Stein, the Maitre d’ who called himself “Sandy” in the summers, dispersed the guests according to a plan he had designed years before. The young singles were clustered to the rear of the dining room but dispersed among three different teams of waiters and busboys. The singles were notoriously cheap and often skipped out without tipping. The “young marrieds”, as they were called, couples without children, sat towards the front across the aisle from Sammy’s station. The waiter assigned to them was usually a basketball player, often an All-American like Ivan Goldman, who was admired by the husbands and swooned over by the wives. Sammy, who was tolerant but cool towards these jocks, his celebrity being confined by place while theirs extended far beyond such local borders, was assigned the Braverman regulars, repeat vacationers who requested Sammy’s station and were rewarded for their generous tips with seats by the windows overlooking the pool. The less generous or more querulous were given to Abe who rarely complained and accepted his lot stoically. Abe’s tables abutted ours along the wall just down from the windows. Stuart took pride in his distributions, rewarding the more compliant and cooperative waiters with new guests who drove fancy cars, information the bell boys supplied, and punishing the trouble makers by assigning them the families that arrived in old wrecks loaded with children and grandparents, large families with little likelihood of proferring munificent gestures of appreciation. I wondered what kind of group Harlan would harvest. His station was located at the rear of the dining room diagonally across from me and from all the windows. Most likely he’d get the newer and less aggressive vacationers, perhaps newlyweds who only had eyes for each other anyway and couldn’t care less about views.