Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  “I saw you talking to that dumb shvartz,” he said, blowing his stinky breath in my face.

  Per Harry’s instructions, I tried not to argue with customers, even when they acted like morons.

  “You mean Wonderman, the guy who delivers bread?”

  “I mean wondershvartz, or should I say wondernigger?”

  I clenched my fists but kept them at my sides, knowing I’d never hit the prick because he might retaliate, and I hated pain.

  “So?” I said. I wasn’t much for verbal fights either.

  “So? So? What are you, a niggerlover?”

  “Huh? I don’t even know what that means.”

  Yes, the meaning was well-established, maybe even self-evident, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “It means you suck nigger cock.”

  To the dipshit’s credit, he lowered his voice when he said this, which didn’t keep me from wanting to punch him in the nose despite the risk this would pose. But there were customers in the store and Harry was around. So I merely said, “Why don’t you finish your shopping and go home to mommy.”

  Even this weak blow must have rocked him a little because he merely glared at me instead of responding. At last he squeezed out another “niggerlover” and retreated.

  Afterward I got to wondering. If Jews considered blacks dummies—and Jake wasn’t the only one who thought so—what must they think of Ernie Schwartz, who couldn’t spell the letter “A,” let alone use the word “rectify” correctly. Or, for that matter, what must other Jews think of Jake, who behaved like a retard half the time.

  I had another thought. If it’s true that children inherit their parents’ attitudes, I was lucky. With all their faults, my mom and dad never disparaged Negroes, and in fact spoke highly of Jackie Robinson, Nat King Cole and Martin Luther King. On the other hand, they wouldn’t want a black daughter-in-law any more than a gentile one.

  What all that added up to was, my parents respected Negroes but would oppose my dating Amanda Fontaine. Which, ironically, would put them in her corner.

  Chapter 15

  About a week after Amanda and I parted ways I was pacing the storage-room floor when Harry waddled in and stank the place up. On top of that, he waved the stink’s source under my nose.

  “There’s a shvartz out there to see you,” he informed me. “Good looking, nice tits. But if she doesn’t wanna buy anything, take her outside.” He pointed the cigar at me to stress his next point. “And make it quick. I don’t pay you to talk to no shvartz.”

  I strolled out front as casually as possible and saw her waiting near the cash register. My heart did a drum solo but I managed to smile, kind of, and lead her outside. We stood on the sidewalk in front of the large front window, on which crudely painted letters announced a one-time sale that would last all year.

  Amanda wore a white spring dress and clutched a black felt handbag. I was tempted to clutch her but mumbled a greeting instead.

  “You must be wondering why I’m here,” she said.

  “Yes, but mainly I’m glad to see you.”

  Her eyes turned cloudy, then quickly cleared up. “I didn’t care for how we parted last week, so sudden-like.”

  “No, me neither.”

  “I wanted to tell you I do like you, and I’m sorry we can’t, you know, be together.”

  “But we can,” I blurted out.

  “No, we can’t.”

  “Why not? We could at least go on a date, and I promise not to have sex with you in the back seat of my car.” Unless, of course, you insist.

  Her gaze traveled across the street where, with flawless timing, a middle-aged white couple had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to stare at us. They shook their heads, either to clear them or express disapproval. Pick one.

  Amanda chose the second possibility. “That’s what we’d get wherever we went. Or worse. Some people turn ugly, they see a mixed couple.” She paused, as if trying to remember something. “Friend of mine, she went out with this white quarterback, played for Cooley High. Big, strong blond guy. You know the type. Three Caucasian boys jumped them while they were getting in his car, dragged the two of them out and beat them real bad. Football hero never played again ” Her eyes drilled into mine. “You want that for us?”

  “I—”

  “And like I said, white folks’re only half of it. Black man see a sister with a white guy, you don’t wanna be that guy.” Her eyes went soft. “And when I say you, I mean you.”

  I wanted to tell her I’d be willing to risk injury, or hellfire and damnation, just to be with her, but I didn’t get the chance. Or take it.

  “I’m sorry,” Amanda said. “I didn’t come here to argue. I just wanted you to know how much I liked you and how I wished things could be different. I wanted to leave you with that.”

  She squeezed my hand and offered me one of her sad little smiles. “Maybe in another lifetime.”

  And off she went, out of my life, the only one I expected to have.

  I was watching her drive away when I heard a rap on the window. I turned to see Harry shaking his head and motioning me inside.

  What a putz.

  Chapter 16

  Sheldon and I sat in a red-leather booth at Randy’s Ice Cream and Candy, each of us consuming his favorite confection, Sheldon a banana split and I a hot fudge sundae. Actually, that’s not quite accurate. Sheldon was inhaling his banana split while I was ignoring my sundae. Both concoctions were gratis, since Sheldon’s father owned the place, which happened to be the only ice cream parlor on Twelfth Street.

  It was late Saturday afternoon, that twilight zone between lunch and dinner when business trickled in before the evening flood. The only other people in Randy’s were a pair of athletic-looking guys who sat at the counter drinking malteds and admiring themselves in the mirror. A large wooden plaque on the wall above the mirror reminded them where they were, in case they forgot.

  The two probably had no idea who Randy was, and I wouldn’t have known either if the owner’s son wasn’t my best friend. “Randy” obviously couldn’t be Mr. Feinberg, whose first name was Sherman, so I’d asked Sheldon who the hell the store’s namesake was. At first he’d said no one in particular, but when I probed further, inquiring why his father didn’t just call the place Sherman’s or Feinberg’s, he revealed the truth. Mr. Feinberg had sacrificed his name for the sake of mnemonics.

  Randy. Candy.

  Rhyming, Sheldon explained, made it easier to remember things, like a store or product, which is why advertisers often used jingles, a current example being “See the USA in your Chevrolet. I could see his point, since I’d discovered in English class that rhyming poems were a hell of a lot easier to memorize than free verse.

  Anyway, while Sheldon scoffed up his banana split and I snubbed my sundae I told him about Amanda Fontaine. To my surprise I finished my account with, “I think, I don’t know, maybe I love her.”

  To which Sheldon responded, “You’re an idiot.”

  True enough, but he didn’t have to point it out, especially when he could see how much pain I was in. I’ll give him tone thing, though. He at least took the time to explain why I was an idiot.

  I loved a shvartz of all people. I loved her without having screwed her. And if I had screwed her, I’d have contracted some sort of disease. He also pointed out, needlessly, that I still hadn’t screwed anyone.

  How this last failing was relevant to my love of Amanda I couldn’t say, nor was I about to ask. But being an idiot, I tried to clarify her appeal. “The thing is, she’s sexy and beautiful and intelligent and—”

  “Intelligent? What’s that got to do with anything?’

  I studied his face to see if he was serious, since I often couldn’t tell with Sheldon. His punem betrayed nothing, so I took a stab. “Very funny.”

  With that, his expression turned earnest. “Who’s joking? Look, shtupping is shtupping and chess-playing is chess-playing. Don’t confuse the two. Screwing has n
othing to do with intelligence. Besides, you wanna shtup intelligence, screw Madam Curie. At least she’s white.”

  And dead, but I didn’t press the point. Instead I said, “I wouldn’t care if Amanda were blue, green or yellow, I’d still want to be with her.”

  Sheldon ran a hand through his unruly mop. “Have I told you lately you’re an idiot?”

  “A minute ago. I see you haven’t changed your mind since then.”

  Besides his comment regarding Madam Curie being white, as if that in itself were a virtue, what bothered me most about Sheldon’s remark was his use of the word “screw.” I had nothing against the verb, but it didn’t fit my intentions toward Amanda. I did not want to screw her. You screwed a whore or a stripper or maybe a shikseh, but you did something else with a girl like Amanda Fontaine. Yes, you had sex with her—God, or whoever, willing—but that’s not all. I wasn’t sure what else you had with such a girl, so I let that ride too.

  I was about to move on to another subject when Sheldon’s father appeared and saved me the trouble. “You boys need anything else?” he asked.

  “No thanks, Pop.”

  Mr. Feinberg, who matched his son’s girth but not his height, leaned past him with a grunt and snuffed out his cigarette in the ashtray next to the cream and sugar. He promptly lit another and turned to me. “How about you, young man?” He glanced at my melted sundae. “No good?”

  “Oh, it’s good, Mr. Feinberg. Very good. I guess I’m just not in the mood. Sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I wish my son and I had your willpower.”

  He left to settle up with the jocks, who after one last glance in the mirror now stood at the cash register.

  Meanwhile, Sheldon stared at the puddle in my dish. “What a waste.”

  I was forming a response when a girl in a light summer dress walked in, sauntered over to the candy bins next to the soda fountain and examined her choices. She was pretty in an ordinary way, and as a rule I’d have mentally undressed her, but now I had no appetite even for that.

  The girl did not remain unattended for long. Mr. Feinberg hurried over, bowing, scraping and all but genuflecting, as men, regardless of their age or marital status, often do in the presence of an attractive female. The girl said something and pointed to one of the bins. Mr. Feinberg smiled, trying not to expose a missing upper front tooth. He scooped some jellybeans into a white paper bag, weighed them on a nearby scale and wrote on the bag with a grease pencil. The girl paid him, grabbed the bag and headed for the exit.

  My eyes remained on the door after she’d gone. When I finally turned back, Sheldon asked, “You like?” He accompanied the question with a lopsided grin.

  I stared at him, puzzled. “Like what?”

  He pointed with his chin. “Her, the broad you were eyeballing.”

  “She was okay.”

  “Okay? Tell me you’d kick her out of bed for eating crackers.”

  “I guess.”

  “I see. Now that you’ve met what’s-her-face you have these high standards.” Sheldon’s brow creased, signaling he was thinking. “She must be a knockout for a colored girl.”

  “For any girl.”

  “Well, forget her.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can and you better.”

  He was right, which really annoyed me. My desire for Amanda was bound to go unfulfilled, so why was I still thinking about her? Why was I even discussing her with Sheldon?

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  “I’m gonna have another.” He pointed at his empty dish.

  “Okay, but I’m leaving.”

  “It’s Saturday afternoon, where you gonna go?”

  “I don’t know. Somewhere other than here.”

  “You’re getting weird on me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And stop apologizing all the time. It’s irritating.”

  “I know. I’m sor …”

  Clearly I was hopeless. Sheldon thought I was irritating? He should live with me like I had to.

  I slid out of the booth and wove toward the door, looking, I imagined, like Uncle Marvin with a snootful. Mr. Feinberg waved and I waved back halfheartedly.

  After walking home I locked myself in my room, threw on “Don’t Be Cruel” and stretched out on the bed. What would The King do in my situation? Certainly not what I was doing, which was nothing. Unless you counted moping.

  Truthfully, I’d grown tired of me.

  Maybe someday I’d change roommates.

  Chapter 17

  Wonderman leaned in so close I could count the pores on his nose. “You still got it.”

  I backed away. What the hell was he talking about?

  I asked.

  “You still got it,” he repeated.

  “What? I still have what?”

  “Yo thing. You know, yo Mary Sheeno.”

  “Mary … I still don’t get it.”

  “Man, I gotta spell everythin out for yo white ass.”

  We were standing in the storeroom at Harry’s, where I’d taken a break after Wonderman finished distributing his wondrous bread. Stacks of cartons containing everything from canned food to laundry detergent surrounded us.

  I stared at my friend until the dawn finally broke. “You mean maraschino. Mar-ah-skee-no.”

  “Thass what I said, Mary Sheeno.”

  Moving right along. “What about my cherry?”

  “Like I said, you still got it.”

  He was staring at my forehead, probably at the garish pimple that had popped up overnight.

  “Plus they’s other signs you ain’t got no pussy yet.”

  “Like?”

  “You still squinchy.” He caricatured a frown. “You get you some, you be more relaxed.”

  That was a new argument on behalf of sex, or at least one I hadn’t heard before. Not that I needed further incentive to continue my pursuit of it.

  What I could use at the moment, though, was a cigarette, a poor substitute but my only alternative under the circumstances. So I removed a pack of Luckys and book of matches from my shirt pocket and lit up.

  “Since when you start smokin?” Wonderman asked.

  “Since”—I counted on my fingers—“five days ago.”

  I’d turned eighteen last week and figured it was time. So I mooched a cigarette off a coworker, and though I hacked a lot smoking it I bought my own pack the next day. By quitting time, I was hack-free and a confirmed smoker.

  “A cigarette be good after doin it,” Wonderman said. “Or anytime, ifn someone offer you one.”

  I took the hint and held out the pack. He extracted a Lucky and lit it with mine. I pointed at a stack of cartons marked “Tide” and we wrestled two of them to the floor and sat.

  Wonderman inhaled a lungful, then said, “So what’s goin on, man? You look jumpy as a brotha at a Klan rally.”

  Apparently the cigarette hadn’t settled my nerves, maybe because I was thinking about Amanda Fontaine and wondering if I should tell Wonderman about her. After all, he was the one who’d suggested I go to bed, or wherever, with a “sister.” And yet I hadn’t done it with this sister, which left me open to more ridicule, or at least to teasing.

  Oh, what the hell.

  I told Wonderman about Amanda and my feelings for her, careful not to use the word “love” lest he pull a Sheldon and call me something I wouldn’t like.

  “You kiddin” was his reaction.

  “No, sorry, I’m not.”

  He shook his head.

  “What’s that mean?” I mimicked the headshake.

  “I’ll tell you what it mean. It mean it’s bad enuff you dint take advantage while you could of, but to love—”

  “I didn’t say that. I purposely didn’t say that.”

  “No, cuz you like hip-hoppin round things, but thass what you meant.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  This response was reflexive, maybe a little defensive. I hated getting caught in my own evasi
ons.

  “I’s so sure cuz I can read y’all like a book,” Wonderman said. “No use you sayin I ain’t right, neither.” I didn’t, so he continued. “You lovin a Negro gal? Thass juss plain crazy, man.”

  “Why? Why’s it crazy?”

  I didn’t disagree with him, so why was I arguing? Maybe I’d become a Talmudic scholar; then I could argue all day every day except on Shabbos. Of course, debating Jewish law undoubtedly required a belief in the Judge, so that left me out.

  “Ifn I gotta tell you why it’s crazy …” Wonderman began.

  And went no further. Apparently he expected me to fill in the blank, but I refused. “Yeah,” I said, “you gotta tell me why it’s crazy to, uh, care for a black woman. You’re not one a them crackers, is you?”

  That at least got a laugh, but unfortunately a scowl soon followed. “I said to do it with a colored woman, not to love one. You done the reverse.”

  “So?”

  “So they’s a difference tween doin it and lovin the gal you doin it wit, or in yo case ain’t doin it wit. A white boy gettin cozy wit a black gal, he askin for a whole mess a trouble.”

  This refrain sounded familiar. Would Wonderman beat the tar out of Amanda and me if he found us together? I decided he wouldn’t, though he might talk us to death.

  While my friend expounded on his theory of mixed relationships, which closely resembled Amanda’s, I tried blowing smoke rings. Mel Lansky had it down to an art form, creating perfect rings that lasted for seconds. I blew shapeless clouds that vanished immediately, and today was no exception. Frustrated about that too, I ground my cigarette underfoot.

  “Hey,” Wonderman said, “don’ feel so bad. I’s in the same leaky boat. Ifn I even looked at a white woman … in that way? … honkies’d chop my dick off. And ifn I put it in one, they’d get theirselves a rope, specially in Mississip where I come from.”