Mom and the Red Rubber Flip Flops

My mother never throws anything out. She still has the same pair of red rubber flip flops she wore in Far Rockaway 49 years ago when a policeman stopped her on the street and told her to go home and get dressed. 

“I am dressed,” she said, meaning her red flip flops, a two-piece bathing suit, her ponytail clip and her Hunter College class ring. 

“Go home and put on something decent, lady,” the policeman said, going off in the direction of the boardwalk, his nightstick whacking against his thigh. 

We had been headed back to our little rented-for-the-month bungalow, but now we were frozen in place and couldn't take another step. My mother reached for my hand and squeezed it tightly, her long fingernails digging into my palm.“Shit-shit-shitsky” she said, under her breath.

I never heard my mother curse before. I didn't think she even knew the word "shit." I laughed. Then she laughed, too. We both stood there in front of the bargain store, convulsed with laughter. 

My mother said it again, a little bit louder this time. “Shit-shit-shitsky.” I couldn't believe it. Mom was cursing and no one threatened to wash her mouth out with soap. Not even the policeman.

We were gasping now, from laughter, and maybe also from shock. A policeman had just spoken in a way that made it very clear he was not our friend. 

We went home then, running almost, my mother’s red rubber flip flops smacking against the baked sidewalk, my own leather sandals pumping hard to keep up. 

When we reached the screen door of the bungalow she said, “Don’t tell Daddy.” 

And I never did. I never told anybody. It’s our secret, my mother’s and mine.

 No one else will ever know.

The Hula Hoop Queen of Vyse Avenue

When I was a girl I was an absolute sports wiz. A total jock. Practically an Olympian. I could bounce a ball longer than any other kid on the block and balance perfectly on my left leg while I turned my right leg over: A-my-name-is-Alice-and-my-husband’s-name-is-Al-we-come-from-Alaska-and-we-sell-apples all the way to Z-my-name-is-Zara-and-my-husband’s-name-is-Zeke-we-come-from-Zanzibar-and-we-sell-zebras. I  never missed a beat, never stumbled, never faltered.

And then there was jump rope. I could turn fast and hard and I could jump even faster and harder: singles, doubles, double-dutch — count me in. The rope would whip around and I’d jump so fast my feet hardly lifted off the ground. People would stand on the sidelines, grown-ups even, and stare at me in amazement. I could hear them whispering to each other, asking “Doesn’t she ever get tired?” No, I never got tired. Jumping was like breathing for me. My reputation spread around the block like a siren, bouncing off the buildings and careening through the entire neighborhood. I was the kid who could bounce, turn, balance, jump — I was a natural wonder.

And then when hula hoops came around, there was absolutely no one who could match me. Oh, how I hulaed. I had a red-hot hoop and a baby blue one, a yellow one with black racing stripes and a glow-in-the-dark one. I had clear hulas with plastic balls inside them, so when I’d hula there was a racket of clanging objects hula-ing along with me. I practiced on the street corner. I drew such a crowd I could have put a box out on the sidewalk and made a fortune in nickels and dimes. But I was above that. I was no hula beggar.

Okay, I bet you’re feeling pretty jealous now. You’re thinking back on your own childhood and feeling just a tad inadequate in the athletics department, aren’t you? You’ve just been introduced to the Wonder Woman of the Bronx and you are impressed. You’ve got no reason to doubt me, right? Why would I lie to you? 

Why? Who knows why. I just felt like it. 

Come on, did you really think that ever in my life I had a flair for the physical? Did you really fall for that? Shame on you. Have some sense. Look, this is how it really happened:

I practiced bouncing a ball for hours at a time, only I didn’t use a ball.  I stood with my right hand cupped, bouncing an imaginary sphere of pink rubber, down & up endlessly, while my left hand gripped the cool red bricks of the apartment building. Yes, even with no ball I had to hold myself up so I wouldn’t lose my balance. And turning my leg over — oh, please. I’d lift my leg over that imaginary ball and I’d practically fall on my face.

But I was diligent. I worked at it every day. I had the words down perfectly: A-my-name-is —  Let no one ever say I didn’t appreciate the poetry of the street. But the eye/hand/leg coordination? Coordination has never been my middle name. 

A neutral observer might have thought “Hey-you” was my middle name, as in “Hey-you-c’mere-we-need-somebody-to-turn-for-us.” And I went and stood where I was told and turned that rope like my life depended on it, and sometimes I even got the rhythm right. But as for jumping — at jumping, I stunk.

So that brings us back to the hula hoop. And by now, you don’t know what you should believe and what you should wrap up in yesterday’s newspaper. But I’m going to tell it to you straight. I really, truly, kiss my pinky up to heaven and hope to die, was good with the hula hoop. 

No, I was better than that. I was superb-o. 

I owe my success to my hips. I’d wiggle so fast those hoops had no choice but to whirl and spin in a wild merry-go-round of color. I could keep a dozen hoops going at once, and never drop a single one. I could. Okay, three.

But still, that shows some talent doesn’t it? I got a trophy from this. Okay, it’s not a trophy, it’s just a photograph. And it’s not actually of me, it’s of some other girl, but it could have been me, if my father had put film in the camera that day. 

Not everything has to be documented, right? Some things you just know. And this you should know: for one brief summer of innocent obsession, I was the Hula Hoop Queen of Vyse Avenue.   

Each One an Individual: A Story About Goldfish

Let me tell you about my brother Seymour. He was a fish lover. I am not talking flounder. I’m talking gold. 

It started early for him, this strange attraction. Five or six years old. Probably because he was an unhappy child. He had bad habits. People stayed away from him. So he gravitated towards fish. 

Let me tell you about the fish. There were many fish. It would not be an exaggeration to say, even, thousands. We are talking a lot of years. A moderately long life. For Seymour. Not for the fish. Thousands of fish. One at a time. Get the picture? 

In the fish bowl, by his bed, my brother Seymour had, at all times, one fish. When that fish died he replaced it. In this way, over the years, he went from one to many. This is how a life is lived. I, myself, could not see much difference between them. 

Seymour disagreed. “Each one an individual,” he was fond of saying. 

Still, he gave them all the same name. Goldie. My brother was a modest man. He made no claims to an imagination. “Goldie” was good enough for his first fish, so why change mid-stream. That is a little joke he used to like to repeat. As I said, Seymour was a modest man. In terms of wit and talent. If it were not for the fact that I am his sister, I would say he was a moron. But as his sister I will not say that.

Let me tell you a story. One day Seymour got married. Her name was Ruby. She, too, was modest. In terms of intellect and also appearance. Don’t let her name fool you, she did not sparkle. Which is to say, she was exactly the right wife for my brother. Everyone had high hopes for the marriage. That was a mistake. Things went wrong from day one. There was an incident at the wedding itself. Blood was spilled. Not a lot, but some. From there, it went downhill. Until the separation. The entire marriage lasted twelve days. Most people did not take sides. They were equally unsympathetic to Ruby and Seymour. You would be too, if you knew the details. Which you don’t, nor will you, ever. This is just to say, during the duration of the marriage, there lived eight different Goldies. 

The fish, it should be noted, had nothing to do with anything. Not the spilled blood, not even that little problem with Ruby’s brother, Bad Arnold. Which resulted in the brief arrest. All you need to know is, there were eight fish, in and out, while my brother was a married man. In case you find such details interesting.

Let me tell you another story. One day a man from a newspaper came to interview my brother. He had heard about the fish. It’s no mystery where he got his information; his uncle and aunt ran the pet store where Seymour bought the Goldies. They were trying to help their nephew out. Give him a leg up. A head start. A hot tip. 

He came to the door with a sharp new pencil tucked behind his ear. He was eager. All he wanted to do was talk with my brother about the fish. Seymour didn’t let him in the house. There was a little accident on the front stoop. Involving the pencil. Again, some blood was spilled. And that was the end of the big scoop. There wasn’t any. I heard the young man quit the newspaper business soon afterwards and became an orthodontist. Apparently he’s done quite well for himself. Just goes to show, you can never tell how something will turn out.

Let me tell you another story. I knew a way to get under my brother’s skin. This is how I did it. Let’s say I was downstairs and he was upstairs. Or maybe I was in my room and he was in his room. Whatever. I would call him, my brother, I would call him like this: Seeeeee Moooorrrre. And he hated it. I probably shouldn’t have done it. But I did. In fact, I took quite a bit of pleasure in it. Whenever I did this, Seymour felt compelled to slam his door. Hard.

Let me tell you another story. All the Goldies, one by one, were kept in a fish bowl the size of a small pocketbook. The fish bowl, as you already know, was perched on a table beside my brother’s bed. But here is something you don’t know, because I haven’t told you yet. The table was tippy. The fish bowl was not secure. In other words, the Goldies never had a chance. 

I want you to picture something. Picture me calling, as loud as a person can possibly call: Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Now picture this. My brother, in his room, growing redder and redder. In his face. Also under his arms. And behind his knees. And between his toes. As I called, again and again. And again. Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Seeeeee Moooorrrre. Redder and redder. Until finally, my brother slammed his door. And the tippy table toppled. And the fish bowl crashed. And the Goldie, whoever was the Goldie of the moment, fell onto the hard, wood floor. 

Ahhhhgh. That’s the sound of a goldfish, gasping its last breath. Maybe I should have warned you, at the beginning, that this story was full of violence. Well, now you know.

Let me tell you another story. This is the last one. In case you’re in a hurry to go someplace, you can put your coat on now. My brother Seymour, he died. It wasn’t tragic. And I’m not saying that just because he was my brother. Anyone would tell you the same thing. So, he died. Let’s move on. 

After his death I discovered, much to my surprise, that I myself had developed something of an attachment to goldfish. Ironic, isn’t it? Without them, I sensed a certain void. So I filled it. I went to the pet store. Not the same one where Seymour used to shop. The aunt and uncle of the young reporter had retired, years ago. 

I went someplace else. I bought a large tank. With a fancy pump. And a special filter system. I placed that tank on a big, sturdy table and I filled it with water. And I bought a goldfish. I named her Lottie. I fed her. Exactly as much as the instructions on the fish food carton said to feed her. No more, no less. She looked healthy. But not happy. Obviously, Lottie was lonely. I am not much of a conversationalist, despite appearances. 

So I went back to the pet store. I bought another goldfish. I named her Seraphina. Everybody should have a companion. If they want one. Lottie and Seraphina appeared quite content. Until one day. When they made it crystal clear to me, as only goldfish can do, that they would appreciate a few more friends. I was happy to oblige them. I  went back to the pet store and returned with Yetta, Zoey, Felicia and Geraldine. This seemed to liven things up. Couldn’t be better, in fact. 

One day, when I was passing the tank, I saw the fish were having a little birthday celebration. I’m not certain who the birthday fish was. It was probably Zoey, although it could just as easily have been Seraphina. It’s hard to say. Everyone seemed to be having a splendid time. In their own quiet way. Quiet, but festive. I think that’s a good way to describe goldfish.

This never would have happened when Seymour was alive. Joy and rapture in the fish bowl? I don't think so. My brother did not provide a conducive environment. It might not have been, entirely, his fault. There could have been extenuating circumstances. Who can say? I haven’t made a study of it. But this much seems indisputable: no good has ever come from a man who loves fish.

Aunt Birdie, the Baker

My Aunt Birdie worked, at various times in her life, as a juggler, a dental hygienist, a dog-sitter and a paid rabble-rouser. And for a brief period, in the summer of 1965, she was a baker’s assistant. 

Jonah Katz, the owner of Katz’s Bakery on Fordham Road in the Bronx, broke his wrist while swatting a fly. No one was sympathetic. He was not a well-loved man.

Now Jonah was out of commission. His son, Aaron, was a gambler and couldn’t be trusted behind the cash register. His daughter, Dottie, had such long fingernails she was practically an invalid. So Mrs. Katz asked my Aunt Birdie to help out.

Not that Birdie knew the first thing about baking.

“She’ll read baking soda in the recipe, she’ll put in Coca Cola,” my Aunt Trudy predicted.

But Mrs. Katz was a good teacher. In only two days Birdie got the hang of what to do with flour. She uncovered the secrets of yeast. By Friday morning she was cranking out challah like nobody’s business.

So alright, so far, so good. Then trouble walked in the door. 

His name was Doctor Leonard Pinkus. A podiatrist. Aunt Birdie always had a weakness for a professional man. Pinkus spotted her working in the back, flushed from the heat of the ovens, and he was smitten. Never mind that Birdie was a married woman with four children. He had to have her. As for Birdie, what can I tell you? She had the morals of a peanut. 

That night, instead of going home to her family, she went to the movies with Leonard Pinkus.

And it didn’t stop with the movies. They went to restaurants; to the elephant house in the Bronx Zoo. Once they took the subway all the way out to Coney Island, just to watch the waves. 

The whole neighborhood knew about it. Mrs. Katz knew. My parents knew. Even my Uncle Stanley, Aunt Birdie’s husband, he knew too. Everybody. A collective eyebrow was raised, as if to say, “What can you do with a woman like this, she has no sense of shame.”

The only one who didn’t know about Leonard Pinkus was Aunt Birdie’s other boyfriend, Myron Pitt. Also a professional man — a math teacher at the local high school. They had been an item for two years. 

One Friday, late in the afternoon, Myron Pitt comes into Katz’s Bakery to say hello to his girl. Remember: he’s the only person in the Bronx who doesn’t know what’s been going on between Dr. Pinkus and Aunt Birdie. 

Myron takes a little paper number out of the machine, he’s waiting his turn for a loaf of pumpernickel, when in walks Leonard Pinkus for his challah.

The two men don’t notice that everybody else in the bakery is holding their breath. Mrs. Katz, poor woman, all three of her chins are trembling. Aunt Birdie peeks out from behind an oven, sees what's what, and cool as lox on rye, she hatches a plan.

She writes a little note to Myron Pitt. “My little gefilte,” she writes, “meet me tomorrow at the drinking fountain, Crotona Park, two o’clock,” and she pokes the piece of paper deep into the still warm pumpernickel. 

She takes another slip of paper. “Pinky, sweetheart,” she writes,  “tonight,  Bowl-a-Rama, seven o’clock, don’t be late,” and she slips this note into the braids of the Doctor’s challah. 

Then she leaves it to Blinky Fagen, the guy who sweeps up, to bring the two breads up to the counter while she takes herself off to the bathroom to wait things out.

Everything goes according to plan: Myron leaves, he’s pleased with himself. Doctor Pinkus, the same.

Aunt Birdie’s got herself two hot dates, plus a brilliant idea: Jewish Fortune Cookies. 

She took out a patent. But nothing ever came of it. 

Although she did have a six-week fling with the patent lawyer. 

But that was only to be expected.


----
A work of fiction.

The House Of Schlock

I had a next door neighbor once, Mrs. Fortune was her name. She was a collector. She collected thimbles and hankies and thread spools after the thread was used up. She saved pistachio shells and gum wrappers, pennies found on the street, sugar packets from luncheonettes, ticket stubs, glass icicles from chandeliers that were never hers. The drawer under the sink, where normal people keep their forks and such, she filled with old keys, heavy with rust, that didn’t fit any of the locks in her apartment.

Her hall closet was stuffed with baby shoes, piled top to bottom on little wooden shelves she asked Bruno, the super, to put up for her. On the closet floor were bowling balls, maybe 30 of them, each in their own little vinyl or leather bag.

She called her things “forgotten treasures.” I thought of apartment 6H, when I thought of it at all, as “The House of Schlock.”

Mrs. Fortune would invite me in from time to time, to view a new discovery — a plastic hand mysteriously disengaged from a department store mannequin; a monkey doll made out of old socks. She was friendly enough, but I kept my distance. I didn’t want to get sucked in by a mind that was capable of crocheting a little pink sleeping blanket for a soup spoon.

There was that Saturday in February when the boiler broke down, taking six hours to crank back up, and the whole building went Arctic. I called my mother, who of course wanted me to take a taxi up to her apartment, but I said I was okay, I had gloves, I had a down vest, I had 100% wool socks. “I’ll pretend I’m camping,” I told her. “You’re crazy,” my mother said. “Check on Mrs. Fortune,” she added, giving me a good stiff dose of guilt before hanging up.

Mrs. Fortune didn’t have gloves or a vest or woolen socks. She came to her door in a faded chiffon housecoat, her long pale feet crammed into a pair of gold lamé slippers. She looked distraught. “My babies are freezing,” she cried, pulling me by the wrist into her living room, passed the coat rack laden with leftover Christmas ornaments and the green sateen love seat where newspaper clippings were pinned on like so many lopsided doilies. 

She pushed me ahead of her toward the flat metal board that rested above the now-frigid radiator, where she kept avocado pits in jelly jars filled with water. Cocktail toothpicks with red, yellow and blue plastic fringes were plunged into the sides of each pit to keep them from drowning. I could just make out spindly bits of greenery sprouting from some, but others were entirely bare. 

“Lucille is nearly gone,” she said, reaching a trembling finger toward one of the pits, “and how much longer the twins have is anybody’s guess.” She caressed the smooth sides of two others, whispering “Prudence,” and “Philomena.” I tried backing away but she had me by the elbow now. “Felix Divine is in need of mouth-to-mouth, don’t you think?” “No,” I said, “he looks good to me,” but Mrs. Fortune was not convinced. “Gertie is in shock,” she insisted, “Sookie-Mae will need a rest cure after this. Assuming she comes out of it alive.”

I allowed myself to be talked into a rescue operation. We spent the next hour holding the jelly jars up to our mouths and blowing hot air on the pits.  “Don’t blow with your lips closed,” Mrs. Fortune scolded me, “you’re not cooling soup. Go like this — ” and she demonstrated, her mouth open, pushing out moist bursts of breath. “Hunh, hunh, hunh,” she went, with each exhalation. I did what she said. What was I going to do, walk out on her? She was my neighbor. You owe something to a neighbor. That’s the way I was brought up.

Finally, Mrs. Fortune agreed we had done all that we could. With her eyes raised to the grape soda stain on the ceiling she said she was leaving it in God’s hands now. Just before I made my escape, she removed a dirty red shoelace from around her neck and presented it to me with a shaky bow. “This was a Valentine’s  Day gift from Mr. Francis J. Romero,” she confided, “but he’d want you to have it, you’re such a good girl.” 


I knew, from earlier visits, that Mr. Francis J. Romero was the spider who lived in her bathroom. 

199 Things to do in Grass

My friend’s eight-year-old son is writing his first book. It’s called 199 Things To Do In Grass. 

I’m inspired! I decide to come up with my own list. This is what I have so far: lie down in it; sit down on it; search for four-leaf clovers; pull some out and try to make a whistle; listen to the wind; watch birds; look for ants; daydream; read.

That’s only nine things to do. Which leaves 190 more to go but I’ve already given up. Because the only thing I really want to do, in grass or anyplace else, is read. No matter how beautiful the scenery, I’m just not all that interested. I could sit in front of the Taj Mahal and be happy, if I had a good book with me. The great wall of China, the Grand Canyon, the Himalayas — ditto.

I’m not a nature girl.

People who know me tend to be kind about this. They don’t ask if I went sky diving or surf boarding on my vacation. They know that wherever I was, indoors (preferably) or outdoors (if circumstances absolutely demanded it), I had my nose in a book. And these days, what with extreme nearsightedness, that expression is more literally true than ever.

But every once in a while I meet somebody new and then it’s possible that a certain awkwardness will follow. A few days ago a friend came to visit and she brought along a friend of hers. I’ll call that new woman Bobby — because that was her name. I introduced Bobby to my cat, Haiku. “Why did you name her that?” she demanded. I admitted that I make attempts at writing haiku. “Do you use nature images?” this Bobby persisted.

What kind of a question is that? I’ll tell you what kind: the rude kind. Reeks of schoolmarmism. Which is fitting because Bobby is a retired high school English teacher. I’d only known this woman for 54 seconds and already she was making me squirm.

“Sometimes I do,” I said, “and sometimes I don’t.”

I was lying. I never use nature images in my haiku. To use a nature image you have to know something about nature. I don’t.

I write about the relentless hiss of the radiator in winter; my fears of the ceiling fan falling down and decapitating me; the ways in which lemons can be so very disappointing.  

Once I wrote a haiku about visiting a goldfish pond but I made it all up. For a brief moment I succumbed to internalized haiku pressure and tried to sound like the kind of person who knew about goldfish ponds. I deeply regret the subterfuge.

Yes, I’ll admit my world is somewhat limited. But what is the alternative? Nature is . . . dangerous.

I’m not alone in this conviction. My whole family feels the same way.  My cousin Bertie, in Brooklyn, breaks out in hives if she so much as looks at a house plant. And my Aunt Fishy was proud of the fact that she never, in all her life, ate a fresh vegetable. 

“Fresh,” in my family lexicon, is not synonymous with healthy. “Frozen, “ “vacuum packed,” “dried,” — those are our safe words.

Last night when I went out onto my front porch to shut the window shades, I heard a persistent peep peep peep peep. I figured it was a bird, singing its little heart out, somewhere in the tree that grows in front of the house. 

This morning when I went out on the porch to open the window shades, I heard it again: peep peep peep peep peep.

I claim no knowledge of the natural world,  but it seemed odd to me that a bird could sing steadily for ten hours. I looked closely at the tree, squinting at each branch, examining the leaves for motion. I didn’t see a thing. My scientific antennae went on high alert. I began to suspect this sound was not coming from any bird.

I panicked.

Was there some sort of beast trapped in the walls of the house? Or even worse: lurking in a dark, dusty corner, waiting to pounce?

I gathered my courage and made a minute search of the porch. I sniffed. I peered. I got down on my hands and knees and looked under the chair, the table, the book case. Nothing. But still: peep peep peep peep. Peep peep peep.

And then in a flash it came to me. There was only one place where the sound could be coming from: my battery-operated alarm clock. The poor thing had gone berserk. Still, I figured it was relatively harmless, so I picked it up, with only a slight tremor of nerves, and hit it sharply on its head. It immediately stopped peeping.  

In the silence I felt an unexpected loneliness. No bird. But on the other hand: no bird! It’s a half-good/half-bad situation, I told myself. 

Nature is not for everybody. Obviously, it’s not for me. 

199 things to do in grass? I don’t think so. 

199 things to do in the bathtub! Now you’re talking.

Manhattan Dog

I can hear the phone, I’m not deaf, I hear it ringing but I’m not answering. First of all, I don’t want to. Who would be calling me now? Just my sister Trudy, or maybe my cousin Estelle. Bad news, that’s what it will be. Another death, another funeral. The phone rings these days, it’s always another funeral.

But I’ll be honest here, there’s another reason I’m not answering. I can’t find the phone. I can hear it okay, it’s coming from over by the couch. But for the life of me, I can’t find it. Oh, maybe if I looked a little harder, maybe if I moved a couple of things. But I’m not bothered. Other people are bothered, not me. 

Trudy is bothered. She wants to talk to me when she wants to talk to me. Eventually, she’s going to get through, all she needs is a little patience. One day, she’s going to call when I’m standing practically on top of the telephone. It will ring and I’ll jump. If I survive the heart attack, I’ll follow the sound and sooner or later I’ll hit pay dirt. So someone will get lucky. It will either be Trudy or Estelle. 

Last time Trudy got lucky it wasn’t so good for me. “Enid,” she said, “I’m worried about you. I was trying you nearly a week. I told Howard we better get in the car and come see.” 

"You and Howard can stay up there in Yonkers, I’m not dead yet.” 

“Enid,” she said to me, “don’t die. Promise me you won’t die. Promise me I won’t have to get Howard to drive me into Manhattan to find you dead.” 

“Okay, Trudy,” I said. 

“Okay what?” 

“Okay, I won’t die.” 

“Promise me.” 

“I promise you.”

When it’s my cousin Estelle, it’s always the same thing, only different. 

“Enid, how are you?” 

“I’m fine, Estelle. And how are you?” 

She doesn’t pick up on irony. She thinks I care. 

“Enid,” she says to me, “I tried calling you last night, you weren’t home.” 

“I was home.” 

“You were home?” 

“I was home.” 

“But the phone rang and rang.” 

“I know. I heard it.” 

“But you didn’t answer it?” 

“That’s right.” 

“I don't understand. If you heard the phone ring, how come you didn't answer it?” 

The trouble with Estelle is, she thinks with a linear brain. If there’s a question, by her there’s got to be an answer.

“So who died?” I ask her.

She tells me no one’s dead, she just wants to talk to me. She’s worried about me. They’re all worried about me. 

It’s my own fault. I’ve told them too much. I try not to tell them anything but sometimes I end up telling them too much. 

So now Trudy knows I haven’t finished unpacking my boxes yet. I’ve been in this apartment almost a year, it’ll be a year in November. That was a big mistake, telling Trudy about the boxes. It just slipped out. 

She asked me what I thought of Ellen. 

"Who's Ellen?" 

"The girl on TV, the lesbian, the nice one."

"I don't know her."

"You don't know Ellen?"

"I never met her."

"Enid, you’re not keeping up with the shows?” She sounded offended. 

“I am not.”  

“Don’t you want to be informed?”  

“Trudy,” I said, “I lost my television.” 

She hears the word lost and right away she thinks “stolen.” She thinks I’ve been robbed. Or worse, even. I tell her not to get excited, the television is somewhere in the apartment only I can’t find it. And then, one thing led to another, how not only was the television lost, but I still had boxes to unpack. 

Trudy wanted numbers. “How many boxes?”

“I don’t have an exact count for you.” 

“Make an estimate.” 

“I can’t.” 

“More than a dozen?” 

“Yes.” 

“More than a dozen?” 

“Yes. I said yes.” 

“Tell me, Enid,” she insists, “tell me the number.” 

“You don’t want to know.” 

“Yes, I do, I want to know.” 

“No, you don’t."

Eventually, she lets it drop. And she wonders why I don’t want to talk to her. 

I’m happy here in my apartment, even with all my boxes. I don’t miss the television. My telephone, it rings sometimes, so what. Trudy can’t accept that. Estelle also. They think I'm depressed. What do they know?  

I have my own apartment in Manhattan. All my life I wanted an apartment in Manhattan. I did not want to die in the Bronx. On my tombstone, I did not want to see: “Enid Weingarden, born in the Bronx . . . . died in the Bronx.” 

So, I’m in Manhattan now. Not by a lot, I’ll admit that. One more subway stop up the line and it’s the Bronx again. But I was never a stickler for details. I got the zip code I wanted so I’m not complaining. 

Oh, alright, I am complaining. Why did I have to go and misplace that pension check? Why didn’t I ever smoke, so I could sue a tobacco company and get enough money to fix my teeth? Why did I have to catch a cold this summer that left me with such a cough . . . a cough like that, I should have named it already, that’s how intimate we are, like roommates. 

But about the dog that barks from next door, day and night, night and day, about that you won’t hear me complaining. Barking dogs they had plenty in the Bronx, I assure you. But this dog, this is a Manhattan dog. A Manhattan dog I can live with, thank you very much.

Hunh, what a relief, the phone, it stopped ringing. Now I can make a little tea. As soon as I find the kettle, I’ll make me a little tea. I’m in no hurry. Where am I running to?