I’d wait for Laurel to come home in the morning, I decided as I tore open the carton and dug in to the 3 Woos’ new fare. We’d have a conversation, an honest one. We’d talk about where we stood with each other and how we felt. Although I’d never tell her about my night.
In the meantime, I’d eat and then I’d write another scene. It’s interesting, I thought as I made my way through the noodles, I never had trouble sleeping before I met Laurel. Was insomnia a side effect of the fling, I wondered, or of writing?
THE POOL PARTY
CHRISTMAS MORNING. AFTER BREAKFAST. IN THE LIVING ROOM OF APARTMENT 1812
As the camera opens on the dining room area, Slip will come out of his bedroom dressed to kill. He always dressed smart, the narrator will explain. Slacks, a button-down, and a sweater seven days a week until the day he died. But on this day, he looked downright dapper. I remember the shorts because I’d never seen Slip in shorts before. None of us had. They were dotted with captain’s wheels and ships’ anchors. The shoes, too, were another item none of us knew he possessed. A WIDE SHOT will capture Slip, as well as the Melmans staring at him.
“Well, look at you, Slip,” my mother will stop combing Marcy’s hair to comment.
“See, Davy, you weren’t the only one jealous of my shoes,” Estelle will say.
“Dad, you want me to get you a pair of shoes like Ma’s?” my father will ask.
“No thank you.” As Slip straightens himself, he’ll explain that his are boat shoes, not track shoes.
Estelle (also unrecognizable in her Adidas, jeans that she, too, pulled out of God-knows-where, and a Miami Beach T-shirt) will ask, “Are you going sailing?”
“Nope. My grandson and I are simply going to escort these two, beautiful young ladies to a pool party. It’s not every day that I get such an honor.” He’ll wink at Rachel and Marcy and wave all three of us toward the door.
At this point Rachel will raise her brows, and mouth to Marcy and me, “Lucille Garlovsky.” The movie audience may or may not be able to understand her, depending on their ability to read lips, but my mother did. In the movie, she’ll slash her fingertips across her neck, and my sisters will cut it out immediately.
“Keep an eye on him, kids,” my grandma will say. “Don’t let him near Big Sid—or anyone else, for that matter. We don’t need no more trouble around here.”
My grandma was going driving. At breakfast she’d asked if she might come late to the pool party, explaining her excitement to take advantage of the empty Publix lot and her new shoes. Slip, with an uncharacteristic air of enthusiasm, had hit her on the back and said, “Go burn some rubber, baby.”
Now Slip will order us to burn rubber. “Move it,” he’ll say. “Gonna blow the whole goddamn day, you guys are so slow. You’re like old people.”
My mother will walk with us to the elevator, but she’ll head up to the 26th floor to help my Grandma B and Aunt BoBo make Christmas dinner. I guess I’ll give her character a line like: “Time to make the Christmas meatballs with Grandma B,” so the audience will understand. Every year, meatballs and a movie. This year we were slated to watch Saturday Night Fever.
The four of us will ride down to the sixth floor and make our way to the pool deck. Sounds of the season will precede us. The audience will hear holiday music and Eileen’s voice blaring Christmas cheer over the loudspeaker: “Reminder, residents! Only one free hot dog per child and no guests on deck during the party.” Then they’ll see us push through the glass doors to the deck, which was wet with the rain that had fallen the night before, as it would on and off throughout Christmas day. Not enough to deter attendance but sufficient to keep eyes to the sky for lightning, low-flying gulls, and whatever else people came up with as predictors of life-threatening weather.
Looking back through an objective lens, the scene is one of contrasts. Contrasts between the dark clouds and the bright holiday lights, between the Santa statues and the puddles beneath them, of “Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer” bellowing over the loudspeaker and thunder rumbling over the water, of adults huddled in the corner wrapped in towels and kids racing around the deck, back and forth from games to parents, delivering the tickets won in the games. Twenty tickets equaled a free hot dog—a prospect as thrilling to us as winning the Lotto.
For the second day in a row, the narrator will explain, we were alone with Slip, a change in our regular course of business—a change that we were beginning to enjoy. With Slip, as you can gather by now, you never knew what would happen.
Rachel, Marcy, and I will begin to throw our towels down in our usual spot.
“What are you doing?” We’ll look up to see Slip, already past the corner mass of chairs and standing in the middle of the deck. “C’mon with me.” He’ll beckon with his finger and his head. We, like mice following the piper, will scoop up our stuff and scurry after him.
I remember the day clearly. Without hesitation, Slip pulled four lounge chairs from their poolside row and dragged them backwards until they rested against the long cinderblock wall of the pool deck—across from the crowds, the noise, the party. All of this while he puffed his cigar and we stared.
“Don’t just stand there. Take a seat.”
“Why are we sitting all of the way over here?” Marcy asked. Her head turned back in the direction whence we’d come, toward the swarm of yellow chairs, as if we’d just trekked the Continental Divide. We may as well have.
The camera will follow our gaze—a POV shot, as I just learned—so the audience will see the fanfare across the way. They’ll see the party getting underway with Eileen racing about, Big Sid putting final touches on ring toss, Gladys Greenberg standing by his side.
“Are you here ’cause you don’t want to be near Big Sid?” I’ll suggest, channeling my own feelings and remembering my grandma’s orders to stay away from him.
My grandfather will laugh. “You think I give a shit about him?”
“No,” I’ll say, laughing at my suggestion in such an exaggerated way that the audience will grasp that I’d already made a mental note to steer clear of ring toss.
“Then why?” Rachel will ask.
“Because it’s good to mix it up a little,” Slip will explain.
I privately disagreed, as I’ve never been one to stray from my comfort zone. Plus, I’d rather have been near Big Sid than the cinderblock wall. With its staggered cutouts, the wall petrified me. It seemed so flimsy, a sad excuse for a barrier between us and the deep, churning waters of the Intracoastal. Marcy, on the other hand, loved to stick her feet into the holes, climb up, and lean over to see the shadows of fish in the waves or the tops of cars in the parking garage below, which is what she did as Slip sat, Rachel complained, and I felt out of sorts.
I remember looking at the pool and laying eyes on White Lips, the man who swam laps day in and out, his body clad in a Speedo, his lips in zinc oxide. We never heard him speak. In fact, we weren’t sure if he existed outside of the pool. We just knew that if we didn’t bother him in the far lap lane, he wouldn’t bother us. Another POV shot will follow White Lips through my eyes. Then I’ll turn to Slip. “Why do we need to mix it up?”
“You gotta keep life interesting.”
“By changing your seat?” Rachel, who is looking to mix it up with the boys from Long Island who are back in our regular area, will ask. To her, life was interesting as it was.
“Yes, my lady. By changing your seat.” Slip will wink at Rachel. “Trust me. Sit back and relax.” Slip will already be sitting back, relaxing, rolling his cigar in his fingers. “Have a little patience.”
I admit, I was a step behind. Still fixated on White Lips, I mistakenly gathered that this lesson was about perspective, about seeing things differently depending upon how you looked at them. My teacher in school that year had made us change desks every two weeks for this purpose. I felt good about myself for thinking I already had Slip’s lesson under my belt.
Slip’s lesson wasn’t about perspective, but for a mom
ent, while we were busy having some patience, the three of us had a good time appreciating our new one. From where we sat, we could see the shuffleboard matches. We could hear the hum of boats and see the clouds as they passed over our heads instead of watching them roll in, anticipating what was to come. The difference was night and day, literally. Like looking at Amsterdam Avenue on my walk to the gym in the morning versus on my way home from work at night.
Suddenly, Slip elbowed Rachel. “See. What did I tell you?” He laughed and pointed with his cigar at three women and their grandkids heading in our direction. In the movie, the audience will see Lucille leading the pack.
“What’s this all about?” she’ll call to Slip. She’ll smile and clutch her jump rope. I’ll stare at her, just as I did the day before. But this time I’ll notice that her lips are red and her cover-up is green.
“She looks like a Christmas tree,” I’ll whisper to Marcy.
“She means to,” she’ll whisper back, “’cause it’s the Christmas party.”
“Merry Christmas, girls,” my grandfather will say to them.
“You too good for us already?” Lucille will respond. The other two ladies will laugh and give their grandkids, our friends, the okay to go play.
“Nothing of the sort, Mrs. Garlovsky,” Slip will answer as he sifts through his wad of cash for bills small enough for Bozo buckets and offers them to me, Marcy, and friends.
“Then what are you doing all the way over here?”
“I like it all the way over here.” He’ll smile and puff and wink.
Whether or not he offered up further explanation I don’t know, as I went off with my group to study White Lips from the new angle and play games. All I can tell you is that by the time we returned from our exploits, there’d been a migration. Like magnets, most of the folks normally crowded in the corner had moved to our area of the deck.
Folks seemed to be faring well in the new spot. Ida from 27 and Lil Sharp were smoking up a storm, and Rachel was in the thick of it with the Long Island crew. But at the center of attention, no longer seated, was my grandfather—who, we soon learned, had challenged Lucille to a jump rope contest.
Before we plunge into action, let me pause to explain that back in his day, as he’d say, Slip was an acrobat and a vaudeville dancer. We were all aware of his history and agility. The audience will be, too, from the newspaper clippings that will hang in Apartment 1812 showing him and my grandma winning dance contests, along with pictures of him in crazy contortions—on his head on the edge of a diving board, in a handstand in the sand with my grandma balancing on his feet. Slip was the one who taught Marcy to do flips off of the diving board, and thanks to him, we all knew how to Charleston from the age of four.
As Slip and Lucille take their positions, the narrator will explain that Slip’s abilities were well known, so everyone was eager to watch the contest. And a contest it was. It was a show. Lucille in her heels going toe-to-toe with Slip in his boat shoes.
Laurel would call this a Spectacle Scene—though, in class, she stressed that the purpose of a such a scene (she used the piano scene in the movie Big as an example), is to both entertain and show a character change. That Christmas, nobody’s character seemed to want to make a move. So we’re stuck with entertainment.
When the contest starts, the audience will see me pull away from my friends and head to the front row of chairs. I wanted to get a good look but also make sure I could take action if Slip keeled over. I suppose I was still down on myself for having dashed out of the card room on the night of the brawl and had committed, although not consciously, to not letting myself chicken out again.
When I sit, Slip will hand me his cigar. I’ll tell him to be careful. He’ll say there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll smile, but I won’t look convinced.
Lucille will go first. “Because the rope is mine,” she’ll say. “And because I’m used to calling the shots.” She’ll unwrap the rope and grasp the handles as she announces the first trick. “Three jumps, no double jumping.”
“Piece of cake,” Slip will reply when Lucille finishes. “What is this, kindergarten?” He’ll take the rope, and he’ll do it.
“Five jumps, no double jumping,” she’ll declare.
Next, five jumps followed by five high knees. These combinations did not challenge Lucille. I recognized the pattern from her everyday routine. So far, the steps were no big deal for Slip, either.
On and on the game went. With each round, Lucille upped the ante. She incorporated turns. First, half turns. Then a full. Right leg only. Then left.
“Look at the old man move,” Lucille teased.
“You ain’t seen nothing, Ms. Garlovsky,” Slip shot back.
They were both in their element.
In the movie, everyone will cheer and count jumps. The women will root for Lucille. Slip will have the kids on his side. Paparazzi will converge. Phil Berg, the resident photographer who was commissioned to shoot the pool party, will snap pictures of Slip and Lucille with Big Sid and the pool party blurred into the distance, just like they faded further from my mind with each jump.
About halfway through, as a chance to catch his breath, Slip will ask, “Hey Garlovsky, what’s in it for the winner?”
One of the kids will suggest a free hot dog.
“Does everything have to have a payout for you?” a woman will holler back. “Can’t you do anything for the fun of it?”
“I could, but it’s no fun. Always better to have something on the line. Am I right, Lucille?”
“Yes, sir,” she’ll say, giving a full-bodied laugh and adjusting the straps of her suit over her shoulders. Then she’ll finish her combination, the toughest yet, with cross-throughs that require her to take off her heels. Her faction will applaud. Lucille will curtsy and hand the rope to Slip. “Let’s see you do that for fun.”
For the duration of the contest (in reality just a few minutes, but an eternity to me), I didn’t breathe. As I’ve said, I worried that a walk to the elevator might do in my grandparents. To see Slip jumping and panting was more than I could bear. That wear and tear on one’s heart was not necessarily a result of physical strain never crossed my mind.
As Slip completes his combination, resting his hands on his waist and circling Lucille to recover his breath, Lucille will make her declaration. “If Slip wins, he and three of his friends—if he has that many—will be allowed access to the Ladies’ Card Room. If I win, there’ll be a ladies canasta game in the Men’s. How about it?”
The women will scream in amusement. The men will whistle. “We’re rootin’ for Lucille now,” one of them will holler. “The Men’s Card Room could use a little ass.”
Most of the crowd will laugh, but a few women will tell him to shut his mouth with so many kids around. The kids, all lined up against the cinderblock wall, will laugh the hardest.
“C’mon Slip, throw the match,” the same man will yell.
“Sorry boys,” Slip will say, “I can’t let a lady take me down.”
If we perch the movie camera like a gull atop one of the silver light poles—a HIGH ANGLE shot, Laurel says—it will capture the scene. The crowds amid the clouds as they follow the commentary, the kids as they laugh and scream, and then, from nowhere, the biggest cloud of all: Big Sid. I didn’t realize he was watching until he spoke.
“You people can’t make a bet like that. Everyone knows women aren’t allowed in the Men’s Card Room,” he’ll heckle, his brazen voice bringing an instant halt to the fun. “I’m surprised at you, Lucille darlin’, doing business with a shark. I thought you knew better than that.”
This was the first I’d seen of Big Sid up close since the card room, and his presence frightened me. His nose, busted and bruised by my grandfather, upset me some. But the prospect of another fist-fight brought on outright panic.
In the movie, I’ll inch myself closer to Marcy. “Pray there’s not another fight,” I’ll whisper. I worried that Slip was too tired from the jump ropin
g to defend himself this time. I also couldn’t stop my grandmother’s request to keep Slip away from Big Sid from ringing in my head.
“Pray for rain,” Marcy will answer. But the sky was beginning to clear.
While I pray, a shuffleboarder will tell Big Sid to go to hell. That won’t work.
“I’m already in hell,” he’ll answer. “Melman, I hear my sister made you a pretty good offer yesterday. Why don’t you take her up on it and go back to the card room where you belong. That way, I won’t have to look at you out here.”
“He means he won’t have to look at Slip with Lucille,” one of the ladies will say to the others.
“Talk about doing business with a shark,” my grandfather will say. “Making a deal with your sister is the last thing I’d do.” He’ll chuckle in disbelief.
The women will nod in agreement. One of them will say, “He’s got that right. Estelle would sooner die than let Gladys Greenberg onto her kick-line.”
Those not already in the know about the terms of the deal my father and his patients had struck with Gladys Greenberg, including my sisters and me, will react to this remark with gasps of dismay and then chatter.
“Grandma’s gonna flip out when she hears this,” Marcy will say.
“She’s gonna kill Dad,” Rachel will say.
My eyes will follow Slip. “So that’s the deal, is it?” he’ll say. “They threw my wife under a goddamn bus?”
Another murmur will rip through the crowd, an en masse realization that Slip, too, was in the dark. The audience will see me inhale deep in preparation to hold my breath, something I’ve always done when life spirals and I’m not sure what to do about it. They will also watch as I fix my eyes on the ground and wrap my wrists under the plastic straps of the chair, a self-imposed restraint against my urge to get up and run.
Slip will spit on the pavement. “I ain’t interested. My wife ain’t interested. From now on, I’ll hang out here on the pool deck with my new friend Lucille.”
Big Sid will lunge forward into the crowd. “Talk about selling out your wife. Or maybe you’re just too chickenshit to step back into the card room.”
Chuckerman Makes a Movie Page 20