by Todd Cohen
“It will take me at least an hour and a half to get there,” I punted.
“I have a better idea. You hop in your car and drive west, and I will drive east and let’s meet halfway in Huntington. We could be chatting together before ten p.m.”
“No problem. Let’s keep in touch.” As I hung up, I thought to myself, so much for my evening of fun and frolic with Ms. Winter. I did not want to get into my old pattern of putting work first over relationships. That got me in trouble in the past. I was hesitant to broach the subject but I had to, and time was of the essence. On the flip side, I was proud and overjoyed by this new opportunity. Cath Lab Director at Columbia would not be too shabby. At least, it would pay the bills.
I knew it was not okay to leave the dinner table without explaining the importance of this meeting and profusely apologizing to Amy. I was very concerned about her reaction, which was one in which she was very understanding. I gave her a big kiss and a hug and thanked her for the dinner. Believe it or not, she had to get back to work as well. She had several briefs to prepare, and I was really hoping she would prepare my “briefs.”
I hopped in my Bimmer—BMW, by the way—and flipped on Sirius XM 67 Real Jazz! David Brubeck’s Quartet, “Take Five.” I just learned that Brubeck had recently died. December 5, to be precise, when I was at Art Miami with Amy. And now his most notable song was “bebopping” on the radio. “Take Five” was one of my favorite upbeat tunes, and how appropriate after all my adventures. I really felt I needed to “take five,” and chill. But when opportunity strikes, you just have to strike back.
Within a half an hour Dr. Braxton and I met a Starbucks right off the LIE. Imagine, deals going down in Starbucks—not Star Boggs. I chuckled. Star Boggs was that chichi place in Westhampton Beach where many a real estate or business deal went down. And there I was with Dr. Braxton, Chief of Cardiology at Columbia, at a dumpy Starbucks, located in a crappy strip mall, just off the highway.
“MD, bring whomever you want: nurses, techs, researchers, the works. I’ll even give you an endowed chair to work on your inventions. We’re planning to be part of the New York Technion Institute in 2017, and I want you on board. I’ll even pay you nearly double what Mount Sinai was offering.”
That was too much to handle, but not too much to say, “Done!” Which was exactly what I did.
With one handshake I asked, “When do I start?”
He responded, “Tomorrow.”
Chapter 101
Tomorrow was only a little over two hours away. But for most big hospital bureaucracies it would take days if not weeks to expedite one’s hospital privileges. Not for me. Braxton worked out temporary medical and cardiology privileges for me immediately. I placed one text to CLG, short for Cath Lab Gene, and by six a.m. was standing next to him, wearing scrubs, in the empty Columbia Cath Lab.
“Gene, we have work to do. No joking around, who do think will come with me?” I picked his brain.
“Like—everyone,” he responded. “You built the best cath lab in New York, and we’ve all had a blast. Everyone, and I mean everyone! We are all with you. Even ‘Ms. Every Patient, Every Procedure’ Ninotchka wants to go. Maybe not Susan Arrowood, but everyone else.”
Sue Arrowood’s dad was chairman of Mount Sinai’s Department of Medicine. And she was a real stick in the mud. Always looking for trouble.
By the next morning, just about the entire Mount Sinai Cath Lab staff had defected to Columbia. “Tough luck, Mr. Anderson,” I thought. And several of the doctors also came with me. By the end of the week, Columbia’s Cath Lab [or Center for Interventional Vascular Therapy] was cranking.
Ah, to be busy and back at work.
I did not have a place to stay as of yet, but was fortunate to have a friend like Alex, and began commuting from Plandome to West Harlem, where Columbia was located. The couch was getting a little stale, but the coffee—or shall I say espresso—was still fresh, and so was our friendship. FYI: he did offer one of several guest rooms, but I always felt that his couch was so inviting and loved crashing on it!
“So, tell me about Amy Winter?” Alex asked as he completed one of his classic espresso pulls. He was kind enough to get up with me at four-thirty in the morning and prepare me some Joe for the road. I filled him in on our relationship, and where I think we were heading.
Alex had helped me with my outside inventions, but with my new appointment at Columbia University, I had the opportunity to bring my inventions in-house. And hire the “Shaw-man” as my New Technologies and Innovations Coordinator!
“Alex, how’d you like to come work with me at Columbia? Gangnam style?”
What I was referring to was PSY’s free-style worldwide hit “Gangnam Style,” and by analogy that he and I would be given the freedom to build, create, invent, and teach. Without the worry of finding startup money!
“Sure,” he replied. “Will I get a window?”
Chapter 102
Now no longer unemployed, I was able to get a studio apartment in the city on Central Park West, on the Upper West Side. The days flew by, with all the heavy work in Columbia’s Cath Lab, and lots of playing on the weekend, some with Amy and some with my kids. I carved out enough time, as much as my kids would permit, to show them that I was there for them and always will be there for them.
Even at their age they understood the meaning of irreconcilable differences. That’s exactly what it was: “irreconcilable.” Shari and I were going our separate ways, but I knew my kids would always be an important part of my life. I have learned a lot from my past performance. Specifically, not to ignore my most important relationships, and they are my family and my kids. I was not going to make that mistake twice.
I did take my son, Jason, to the Barclay Center and saw the Nets beat the Knicks. And I took Bridgette out for Chinese—a big Johns Hopkins celebration. Whew, the pressure was off! My divorce moved forward. Any weekend time I could get, I spent with my kids, and the rest with Amy, either in my NYC studio or back home in my “shed.”
Time flew by—fast, a lot of hoopla about the Fiscal Cliff, one that just sizzled out. And for me, the Parrish Museum position fell into my lap. I was asked to chair the Arts and Exhibition Committee. A responsibility I felt well suited for, especially since my first task was to firm up the spring art show. It was supposed to be called “Ab-Ex Recon!” But what the hell did that mean? Ab-Ex was short for Abstract Expressionism, and who were the main Abstract Expressionists? Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Willem de Kooning, to start with. But what the hell was “Recon?” Was this an army reconnaissance mission? “Recon” was short for “Reconsidered.” But who the hell would figure that out? Did the average Joe in Suffolk County Long Island understand that title? Enough so, that they would take a day drive to the Parrish Museum, and pay the entrance fee to see the show? I doubt it. So, I worked on a catchier title: one that included a big-ticket name right there in the title: “Jackson Pollock and his Friends!”
Any such show needed a couple of big-name draws. Our museum’s director was working hard to secure the art. He got a de Kooning from a Bridgehampton gallery and two Rothkos from one of the museum’s trustees, but had no luck finding a real Pollock drip painting. The problem was not only to find the Pollock, but also make sure it was available in a little over four months. And even if I could find a Pollock, that would bring the show’s insurance budget way out of line for the Parrish to swallow. Most major paintings are allocated to museum shows many, many months in advance—this was just too close for comfort.
I knew that the Board would be disappointed, I had to pull a few strings. So, I picked up the phone to make a call. But to whom?
Chapter 103
Opening night at the Parrish was a spectacle, and tonight was no different. Or was it? More limos, more celebs—big ones—and there was no place to park. At least they had valet service. I pulled up my Bimmer and the valet service opened Amy’s door. She looked magnificent. Long black dress, high heels, and diamond necklace wi
th diamond stud earrings. And that Vera Wang smell!
I was wearing my black tux, with a traditional black bowtie. I held her hand as we walked excitedly into the museum. The museum was decked out as well. I could hear a familiar Steve Winwood tune coming through the entryway, “While You See a Chance.” It sounded Oh, so good, and the title was apropos. Steve Winwood had been one of my favorite groups in college, and fell into a genre somewhere between rock and roll and jazz. The current title was from his classic album Arc of a Diver. As we walked in a little further, I caught a glimpse of the band itself. The lead singer had wavy, longish dark hair, greying on the sides. He wore a dark sport coat with a brown button-down shirt, open at the top. This was not a knockoff of the Steve Winwood band, but the real thing. The lead singer was Steve Winwood, strumming his guitar and finishing his hit song:
“While you see a chance take it
Find romance
While you see a chance take it
Find romance”
“Is he trying to tell me something?” I whispered in Amy’s ear.
When I walked a bit further past the band, there was a bartender pouring Moet & Chandon champagne. Amy’s favorite! I took two glasses and proceeded into the center and main galleries. There it was, like an old bedfellow. Branded in my mind; the centerpiece of the entire show. It was not one of the Rothkos, or the de Kooning. But the one and only Hamptons painting suitable for “Jackson Pollock and His Friends”—and one, that to my knowledge, had not ever been shown in New York, at least not to the public.
No. 5, 1948 by Jackson Pollock
Courtesy of Anonymous (aka Mr. Charley Weisberg)
“Thanks, Charley!” I said to Amy.
“Thanks, MD,” she said to me as we toasted and kissed.
Chapter 104
I went down to the basement of “the shed.” There in the corner was an old five-hundred-pound black-and-gold safe with an old-fashioned combination. It would have been very difficult to break through the five-inch-thick steel wall. The bearings and gears that worked the lock were state of-the-art, that’s at least the way it was in 1942, the year the safe was built.
I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. Still stuffed into the dollar-bill slot was the letter-sized envelope I retrieved before our cross-country adventure—when I ran out of the white truck in front of Ghost. Now, this was a risk I had to take. Not for the food, or my wallet, which might have been enough, in and of itself. No! It was for this envelope. Inside the envelope was the combination to the safe.
I pulled out the envelope and read a series of numbers:
42 four times to the right
13 two times to the left
23 four times to the right again
37 three times to the left again
Then PULL
I followed the instructions very carefully, to a T, and when I pulled on the door handle, the safe opened. I was thinking about what was inside, but I knew. Before my dad died, he had compiled all his important possessions into an eight-inch square box. In the box were some old Morgan silver dollars, a couple of U.S. coin proof sets from the 1960s, a medallion from the Apollo 11 mission which he bought at NASA in 1969, and a small purple-cased velvet jewelry box. I opened the box to find it. I saw it before, many years ago when it resided on my grandmother’s ring finger. It was her engagement ring. I opened the box and saw the sparkling stone, even in the dimly lit basement. It was a two-carat Old European-cut stone resting in a platinum setting.
Someday, maybe I would have a reason to use the ring, I thought.
Epilogue
May 2013
A lot has happened since Sandy. We took down the largest art-forgery network the world has ever known! And in doing so, we rescued my neighbor’s priceless Pollock painting. I was the main suspect in Mrs. Weisberg’s murder, but thanks to all my friends, we found the real killers, and I got out of that one. Whew! My divorce is finalized, and my daughter is at Hopkins. I am now closer than ever before to both of my kids!
I’ve been working long but productive sixty-hour weeks in the Cath Lab at Columbia, and, yes, Dr. Shaw and I completed the MATAL deal with Morgan Capital. Thank you, Frederick Morgan! Alex is working next to my office at Columbia. He has about two thousand square feet of research space, three associates, plus lots of Columbia students. And yes, a little corner of his lab has an industrial-grade Nuova Simonelli espresso machine. It brings me joy to see the sign right outside of his office:
Professor Alexiev Shaw
Director of New Technologies and Cardiac Innovations
And also joy, to know that I don’t have to go far for a great latte!
Sure, all that is important. I am amazed at everything that occurred over the past year! The most important thing that happened to me personally is with Ms. Amy Winters. Amy and I have been together for nearly six months. I wanted to take her to someplace new. I picked her up in my BMW 650i, and the weather was warm enough to put the top down. The fresh air and “Suite No.1 for Flute and Jazz Piano” from Bolling’s Greatest Hits provided the perfect background for this trip. Jean-Pierre Rampal’s flute added the magical rhapsody. Everything had turned green again, and the flowers were in full bloom. We meandered through the local roads and headed north up Country Route 104. I pulled over past the farm on the right, and stopped briefly at the local farm stand, and grabbed a couple of freshly baked apple muffins and two cream sodas.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“My surprise,” I replied.
With one click of a button, I brought my convertible’s top back up, and hit the highway. Montauk Highway that is. We drove down Montauk Highway until it became a one-lane road. Then we snailed along in traffic past Southampton, Bridgehampton, and finally entered the town of East Hampton. We listened to the Claude Bolling Big Band the entire way. In addition to Jean-Pierre Rampal, we heard Pinchas Zuckerman on violin and Yo-Yo Ma on cello.
We eventually hit Springs Fireplace Road. I opened the window further to enjoy the fresh air and heard the birds tweeting. As I did that, my bimmer hit a pothole and the top of my head grazed the soft top. I slowed down, and pulled over to the side of the road, realizing that we were on the same road and near where Jackson Pollock crashed his Oldsmobile!
“Amy you do know where we are?” I said half shaken by the mild graze.
“Haven’t the foggiest, other than East Hampton.”
“We are on Springs Fireplace Road, near where Pollock crashed his car and died!” I was still shaking from the pothole, and proceeded to put the roof back down. I took a deep breath in and replenished myself with the fresh air. The bump, gave me a chance not only to reflect on Pollock, but to reflect on life, and how fragile it is. And then I remembered, my late great Hopkins professor, Doctor Michel Mirowski.
“Amy, it hit me! We are so lucky to be alive. And here we are on the same road where Pollock died. As my mentor Dr. Mirowski’s would say: ‘The bumps in the road are not bumps, they are the road.’ I know what he means by this!”
“I do too, MD. I do too!” She reached for my hand and gave it a gentle caress. My body started to tingle.
I headed slowly and cautiously back up the winding road with a renewed vigor about life. The road led up to an old wooden house near Accabonac Creek in East Hampton.
The sign out front read:
pollock krasner house & studio
The studio was a simple, aged, cedar-shingled building. In fact, the outside resembled my shed in Quiogue. Further down the path, Alex stood on the front steps. And then we all went inside. On the walls were old photos of Jackson Pollock and his wife, Lee Krasner. Some even showed him splashing paint on a canvas on this exact floor. His boots, mostly covered with white splattered paint, were also on display. The actual coffee and paint cans he had used to mix his paints, with their sticks and brushes, were there on a shelf. The wooden floor was the most impressive. The floor contained the same type of splatter as appeared on the painting that I saw on the Weisbergs’ wa
ll.
“Classic Pollock,” I affirmed.
“Just like No. 5!” exclaimed Amy.
“What’s all this about?” asked Alex. Alex thought there might be something unusual happening. When do I drag him all the way out to East Hampton? I needed him for emotional support!
“Amy, there’s something I have to ask you.” I reached into my front-right pants pocket and felt for the small purple-covered jewelry box. My right hand was feeling the velvet covering, and I began to sweat profusely. My breathing quickened, and I became slightly queasy. I was starting to hyperventilate and did not have a brown paper bag to breathe into. I became very lightheaded and fell down to my knees, lowering my head. As I closed my eyes, I visualized breathing slowly into an imaginary bag. My body followed suit. After a few seconds, I started to become more lucid and felt better. My breathing began to slow down. I wiped the sweat off my forehead and then I looked up at her.
“Amy, I love you!” I could barely get the words out.
Then silence! Not a peep!
I gazed deeply into her eyes, and then she gazed back at mine.
“I love you too, MD!”
We were both ecstatic and then we kissed. A long French kiss!
Alex applauded. “Bravo!”
I pulled the velvet box out of my pocket and opened it. The ring shimmered from the sunlight in the distance, but also sparkled from the myriad of splattered colors emanating from the Pollock Krasner studio. The moment was magical. And then I said it!