14th St Gold - Spring 2008: Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th St Y by NY Writers Coalition

14th Street Gold Handwork 1

14 Street Gold Handwork Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th Street Y Spring 2008

NY Writers Coalition Press 3

Copyright © 2008 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor/ layout: Deborah Clearman 14th Street Gold contains writing by the members of a creative writing workshop for retired adults conducted by NY Writers Coalition Inc. at the 14th Street YMYWHA at 344 East 14th Street. NY Writers Coalition Inc. is a not-for-profit organization that provides free creative writing workshops throughout New York City for people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society. For more information about NY Writers Coalition Inc.: NY Writers Coalition Inc. 80 Hanson Place #603 Brooklyn, NY 11217 (718) 398-2883 info@nywriterscoalition.org www.nywriterscoalition.org

The Educational Alliance, founded in 1889, is a communal institution dedicated to the strength and vigor of the Lower East Side, the Jewish community and all its neighbors. Through its programs and services, the Alliance serves all people regardless of religion, color or national origin—the old and the young, the sick and the poor, the disabled and the homeless—and provides support for the enhancement and continuity of the Jewish community. The 14th Street YMYWHA, a vital part of the Educational Alliance, provides Lower Manhattan with a Jewish Community Center that offers programs for the whole community. The 14th Street YM-YWHA 344 East 14th Street New York, NY 10003 (212) 780-0800 www.edalliance.org

CONTENTS A LOVE AFFAIR Syd Lazarus…………...………...……...……9 OVERHEARD AT GRAND CENTRAL STATION Bob Rosen………………………….10 WHITE NIGHTGOWNS Muriel Gray…………..……………...13 NEWS OF THE DAY Myra Baum………….…......……………14 OH, SO COOL Lorraine Beyer Theordor.…………….…….…..16 THE LOVE LOTTERY Eileen D. Kelly…………….….……….18 COMING TO AMERICA Carole C. Deeb…………...……...….20 SWEET BIT Deborah Clearman…………………...….………...22 TAKE HEART Audrey Wyler……………...………….…….….24 ALEXANDER—WAVE OF JOY Suzanne Lapka…….……..…26 STRANGE FRUIT Lorraine Beyer Theordor……………….…..28 BUSINESS NOT AS USUAL Syd Lazarus……………………..30 MORRIS AND CYNTHIA ON THE ROAD TO RUIN Allan Yashin………………………...31 WALKING DOGS Eileen D. Kelly………………………...…...38 LADY CAN YOU SPARE A DOLLAR? Mary P. Blas…....…..41 “WHO SAVES ONE PERSON SAVES A WORLD” MurieGray…………………………..44 A CLASSICAL SUMMER Bob Rosen……………………….…45 THE ILLUSION OF DREAMS Carole C. Deeb………………...49 BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN Lorraine Beyer Theordor.…...50

INTRODUCTION This fifth issue of 14th STREET GOLD celebrates the handwork of the workshop for retired adults at the 14th Street Y. The idea for the theme came out of a writing prompt in which we traced our hands, and then wrote. When we were done, and had read our pieces aloud in our usual circle, someone said, hey! These tracings can be the illustrations in our next book. The hand works as a metaphor for creative writing. No machine could come up with the poetry and prose you will find in these pages. Each piece is as unique and personal as the hand of its creator. To our meditations, our humor, our yearnings, our imaginations and experiences, each of us sets our hand. Literally! And like all things made by hand, the writing in this book was created by toil and with joy. Thanks go to Camille Diamond, Chanda Rule, and the staff at the Y, without whose support we couldn’t thrive, to Aaron Zimmerman, Executive Director of NY Writers Coalition, and to all the members of this wonderful workshop—those who have been with us since the beginning five years ago, and those who have joined us like a breath of fresh air—who make my week go round. Deborah Clearman, Workshop Leader March, 2008

A LOVE AFFAIR Syd Lazarus I was born in New York City. The day I was born I think the city became a part of my head, heart, and psyche. I believed that I would stay there forever. Life intervened; it was not to be. I started moving. Different places, different schools, different people. I was a good student but a troubled child. Pretty little girl, awkward teen, wild young adult. Wanted to go back to New York City and finally did. Started working in advertising. At night would frequent jazz clubs and gay clubs in Greenwich Village—new circle of friends. Changed careers from advertising to travel industry, which morphed into hotels. Always in New York City. That was my base, but started traveling— Europe, Asia, Caribbean, Mexico, the US, South Africa, South America—so many places, but always returned to New York. I became well known and well regarded in my industry as an expert. Things have changed in my life and the city, but have also remained the same. We are both older, but I am still the little girl who knew where she belonged.

OVERHEARD AT GRAND CENTRAL STATION Bob Rosen Junior, put your mother on the phone Well, go get her What? She’s feeding the cat Good try, now give her the phone Hon, do me a favor and open the bottom drawer in my desk The combination, don’t bother, just yank it hard and it will open OK It’s open, good; now take out the brown envelope There are ten twenty-dollar bills in there, take out Eighty bucks and leave it on my desk What? The envelope is white, no matter, just leave the money Hundreds, hundreds! Twenty hundreds! Boy I must have been really loaded coming Home from the office Christmas bonus party Last month Well, leave a hundred on the desk, I’m going to be home Late tonight and George is coming home with me Don’t wait up, I’m taking him out for a late dinner and Some heavy boozing We’re leaving early tomorrow to catch the right tide 10

The fishing is always better early Walter, Walter who? Walter my boss George has been my boss for almost five years now You’re going to have to pay attention when I talk To you about my work My golf clubs are in the Chevy, my golf clubs! Why would I need golf clubs when I’m going fishing And it’s a Honda not a Chevy Yes I know, only men give a damn what kind of SUV They drive Am I smoking again? No why? My voice sounds hoarse Well, maybe it’s from yelling at your stupid sister and Her redecorating our den Well maybe your brother had a sex change operation Stop confusing me What is that noise? A SST flying over the house! It’s landing at JFK Excuse me, is this 914-791-4555? Sorry Miss, I must have dialed the wrong number

WHITE NIGHTGOWNS Muriel Gray The purity of white nightgowns Suitable for ladies from birth to the grave. Tiny and lace-trimmed for newborns Growing larger with succeeding years, Complimenting the teenagerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s changing status. Perfect for the bridal night Milk stained for a new mother. Utilitarian as a shroud Resurrected in clouds for harp-strumming angels.

NEWS OF THE DAY Myra Baum Just a child Tuned to Philco Heard News Bulletin Ran down Two flights To street Told everyone Girls jumping rope Boys running bases Mothers sitting On folding chairs In front of Apartment houses F.D.R. is dead

OH, SO COOL Lorraine Beyer Theordor Where has it gone? Mrs. Robinson… the hair that framed and gave my face a look of beauty. Some men are not strangers to balding scalps. They don’t need to be pretty and they seem to have the power to overcome. But for me, a dreamy thought… to put a curl here and there. It’s not as though I’m thinking ponytail and tattoos but just to soften the blow of old age. The crowning glory that gave my face another dimension… oh, that I had some now.

THE LOVE LOTTERY Eileen D. Kelly I took a chance and enrolled in the “Get Lucky in Love Lottery,” and put my faith in a roll of the dice. No profiles, photos, essays or lies. All I knew about my date was that he was over sixty, heterosexual, not married, and his name, Harry. He could have been anything: aesthetically challenged, or paralyzed, or even comatose. Or he could have been six feet tall, handsome, bright, and willing to take a chance like me! Would a guy like that sign up for a deal like this? Maybe, for a hoot. The lottery people said we were to meet near the clock at Grand Central Station on February 14th at six PM, and we would know each other by the red carnations each of us would carry. Wearing my best New York black turtleneck, coat and slacks, gold heart -shaped pin and earrings, freshly-dyed red hair, and new Borghese makeup, I arrived at Grand Central at 5:55 PM. I even wore my newly transplanted eyelashes. These are hairs they plucked from the back of my scalp, trimmed them, and sewed them to my eyelids. They look great. The only problem is, they keep growing and have to be cut periodically or they’ll grow all the way down my face.

Grand Central was crowded with rush-hour commuters, and a lot of panic-stricken men and women, all carrying red carnations! Oh my gosh, how will I ever find Harry? There was much calling out, like the Antarctic penguins on the ice, seeking their chicks, and just as disorganized-looking. “Harry! Har-ry!” I cried, really crying now. After all the hype, it comes to this? Several men turned around to look at me. One said, “Shirley?” Another, “Clare?” And still another, “Hester?” No to each. Everyone continued milling about. Then the National Guardsmen showed up, as they often do at Grand Central, with their bombsniffing German-shepherd dogs. The dogs looked at this weird crowd of people calling out names and walking past each other, and snorted. Two circles had formed around the information booth in the center, one going clockwise, and the other counter-clockwise, so no one could get in to ask the clerk questions about their trains. Chaos was imminent. “Harry! Har-ry!” I kept calling. “Eileen! Eileen!” he called. “There you are!” he said. We ran towards each other, being careful not to trip over the German-shepherds, and kissed under the clock. The crowd cheered. Hundreds of red carnations flew through the air and landed at our feet. This alarmed the bomb-sniffing dogs, and they came after 19

us. We had to make a run for it. Hand in hand, Harry and I slid down the banister to the subway, and shoved our way into a downtown Number Six train, to continue our love-game of chance.

COMING TO AMERICA Carole C. Deeb Stretching back to the Fifties—the day we arrived in America and my five-year-old chubby feet walked into the living room of our new home. Sitting in the corner was a box. Someone turned a round button and little people appeared in the box. It was so strange—the noise they made. It wasn’t language I knew—English, I later was told…Then I saw a cake on the screen and I knelt down and tried to reach under the box to get to the cake. Years later, I realized my child’s mind believed little people climbed in from the bottom of the box. My first TV—my eyes looked into it and for 20

the next fourteen years never turned away. Mesmerized, I learned English from the little people. I learned my sense of humor from a woman named Lucy; my romantic side bloomed under the tutelage of Million Dollar Movie; most of all, I was frozen at commercial times—telling us to eat this, play with this, read this, and ask Mom for this! My magic corner where my private genie-in-abox would tell me all, especially about Love. Ah, Love—always had a happy ending, and the cherry on my unreachable cake was the Kiss. At any moment I was away from my magical corner, a family member would yell, “Carole, The Kiss Is Coming!” And my little legs ran into the room for the Kiss. At time of impact I let out a deep sigh— believing life would always have a happy ending as my magic box kept promising.

SWEET BIT Deborah Clearman I never liked raisinets. This has nothing to do with the fact they were my ex’s favorite movie treat. I didn’t like them before he was an ex, back when he was a true sweetheart. I’ve never tasted raisinets. I don’t need to not to like them. It isn’t the actual raisinet I object to. Rather the concept: coating a raisin in chocolate. Coating a raisin in chocolate is an atrocity to me like pulling the wings off a fly, or burning babies. Or perhaps, (since those two analogies suck) like mixing metaphors. If chocolate is a metaphor for love sweet and bitter, heady and sensual, earthy and divine, then what’s a raisin a metaphor for— a shriveled grape?

A raisin is dry and pungent, like a vagina after menopause. Thus a raisinet is the cruel heart of romance, the end of love, hidden inside each beginning.

TAKE HEART Audrey Wyler Take heart. Today is Valentine’s Day. So here’s a kiss. Love makes the world go ‘round. There’s love of life, love of man, love of self, love with a proper stranger. Love boats, love songs, love poems, love triangles, love potions. Lost love, unrequited love, love & marriage, and love between friends. It was rainy and grey out. There were two homeless people on the street. They were grungy, smelly and boozy—two bodies sprawled out on a filthy blanket, slumped like dirty rag dolls side-by-side against a brick wall. I instinctively pulled myself in to avoid being touched by their energy. One yelled out to a man passing a few yards ahead of me, “Hey, you got a cigarette?” The man handed him one and hurried on. I overhear the lucky recipient in his raspy, slurred whisky voice say to the other, “Hey man, he gave me one!” And even slower and more gravelly, with great effort— “You can…have…some…too. We’re both gonna have…a smoke…’cause you’re my new friend… 24

and…my momma said friends share stuff, …right?” He clumsily lit up, but with care, gently passed it to the other. I had to stop and breathe. Below an ugly surface was a certain kind of love; one of friendship. Turns up when you least expect it, doesn’t it? Today is Valentine’s Day. So take heart. Here’s a kiss.

ALEXANDER—WAVE OF JOY Suzanne Lapka I’m rushing to your side. Enveloped in a concrete fog. White knuckles grip the steering wheel. Inhale. Listen to the sound of other cars. Damn, the wipers are useless in this downpour. Seven hours. Finally, new home with new joy. Dripping wet. Carrying luggage and shopping bags. Aviva and Rebecca run into my arms, hugging me. Partly because they love me, and partly because I bring the best gifts. Chapter books, two watercolor sets and paper, two dresses, two dolls, chocolate, games, and four gold dollars. Rebecca pulls out a hand held massager meant for Donald. She’s jumping all around. “I saw this. I always wanted one,” she cries out. So many people. Please turn down the volume. There’s a child dancing. Children are bouncing off the walls. Rebecca is massaging Aviva. This kid is pushing a smaller child. Where are the parents? Alexander is swallowed up in this chaos. Purell hand sanitizer is the only sign that my eight-day-old great nephew is present. Aviva cradles her baby brother as carefully as a six-year-old can. She’s holding court for this show and tell presentation. “This is Alexander Paul,” she instructs. “He was born January 4, 2008 on a Friday.” She trips on 26

the word caesarean. “He weighed seven pounds three ounces.” Now her friend, not so carefully, takes Alexander. He’s their life size doll. Now it’s my turn. At last. A joyous marvel. Your green eyes stare knowingly into mine. You are aware of all things around you. My shoulders relax—a wave of warmth and love covers my body. Your perfect wee mouth puckers. How fragile. A smile; it’s mine. Come into another space, less vibrating. Good move. Noise and chaos are in soft focus. Jason runs over with un-Purelled hands. “There are cupcakes in the kitchen.” On cue he exits. Alone. So difficult coming into the world, Alexander. Magically you are healthy, wrapped in beauty. I want to hold you forever. You nestle perfectly in my arms. Your left arm escapes the swaddling. Amazing, your fingers delicately touch my face. Velvet angel child, I’ll shield you to ward off ugliness. I’ll create soft armor so that you can protect yourself. When you go out in the world, our love will follow. Beautiful baby boy. I dance to your heartbeat. Feather floats. So relaxed. Nowhere is there such a special child. Outerworld angel flown to earth. Shed your wings. Stay forever. Wind and stars in our eyes. Elevate your spirit. Open your soul. My love will support you, but take hold 27

yourself. Strength begets strength. Your soft grip around my finger. I will live my dream through you. Your beaming face begins to laugh. You legs bobbing. So extraordinary. You stop. You feel safe. Look, your eyes flicker. Close your weary eyes. Sleep pretty one. Warm sweet wonder. I wish I could stay with you forever. Your pure fragrance. Your lyrical sounds. I will carry you back in my mindâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s picture. Your face Alexander will open the morning. Your smile will follow me to sleep. You wave of joy complete. â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;Night, my wonder.

STRANGE FRUIT Lorraine Beyer Theordor Poets and painters can create masterpieces of this plump, petite fruit. I wonder at the unconscionable act of nature, that of a hard pit, lurking in the body of this luscious fruit, ready to pounce on the unwary, as I can attest to, with my broken tooth. The cherry reminds me of the last drop of blood, or the dot at the end of a perfect sentence.

BUSINESS NOT AS USUAL Syd Lazarus I’ve always said, and you can quote me on this, “If I ever start my own business, I’m going to sell CLUES, since so few people have one.” I think it would be a hard sell at first, since no one would recognize one, but slowly it would catch on, I think. I guarantee that I wouldn’t have much competition. Maybe I could customize clues for people. No, best that I start slowly with just a basic clue and basic marketing plan. I would start marketing to people in New York. Just think of all the people walking around this city without one. It’s a wonder some of them survive. Slowly I could expand my business. Perhaps the West Coast around Lost Angeles and Hollywood. Those people have lots of money but no clue. I think my most successful area for sales but my hardest sell would be Washington, DC. God knows, from the top down they all need a clue, but have no idea that they need one. It’s about time someone told them. I definitely feel my business would be successful. just imagine what a world it would be if everyone had a clue!

MORRIS AND CYNTHIA ON THE ROAD TO RUIN Allan Yashin It was three oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;clock in the morning and Morris unplugged the vacuum cleaner cord and tapped the little lever that sent the cord whooshing back into its hiding place in the vacuum. Morris always loved that sound because it represented the completion of a somewhat disagreeable, but necessary, job. Morris thought that it was quite fitting that his career with Gazinta, Flyburton, and Sprawl should end with that whoosh. He looked at the pile of cardboard packing boxes stacked up in the doorway of his office waiting to be removed. The files of thirty-five years of legal work notated in his own scrupulous handwriting: from his first case out of law school to the very last judicial triumph achieved only last week. He surveyed the blank walls and remembered the placement of each diploma or picture of his beloved Cynthia that had graced his walls until only a few hours ago. Morris sat on the chair behind his desk and, for the last time in his life, propelled himself over to the window in his office and looked out at his view above Tenth Avenue. He stared at the huge storage warehouse that nestled up to the West Side Highway and pictured the trunk in his locker that contained the dead body of 31

his dreaded first wife, Glenda. But before you get a completely false impression of Morris, let it be said that the trunk containing the body of Glenda existed only in Morris’ imagination. An image fueled each month when he made out the alimony check to pay his ransom for the escape from her treacherous domain. So, it’s no surprise that Morris has framed in his bathroom at home the very handkerchief he soaked with tears of joy twenty-five years ago when the brave but foolish Robert Tishmutter wed his ex-wife and ended his “alimonioum obligatorum.” He peered out towards New Jersey and from his perch on the twenty-third floor on this clear, moonlit night he could almost see the swamps of the Meadowlands. If his schedule kept true to time, Cynthia and he would be there in less than an hour. Then the celebration would begin. Morris’ attention was brought back to his office when he swiveled to see Pepito holding two boxes of files in his arms. Though it would be more accurate to say that he only saw the boxes, which towered over Pepito’s head. Pepito had come to work for G, F and S after twenty years as a losing jockey riding the chuchifrito circuit in Mexico. Men of Pepito’s stature were all too common around a racetrack, but his size, or rather lack of it, gave him a decided advantage in the freight elevator racket in 32

New York City. The Gazinta Building had a small and rickety freight elevator typical of those in industrial buildings built in the 1890’s. Because of their minimal weights, young children were often employed to operate these elevators. But when the child labor laws were passed, diminutive men were sought after to keep them moving safely within the weigh limits imposed on each elevator. Thus, when Pepito Marachito arrived in New York City, legally I might add, and was sent by the New York State Department of Employment to take a job in the G, F and S mailroom, it was discovered that he lacked the stature to reach the higher mailbox cubbyholes, and he was immediately promoted to the valuable role of service elevator operator. Morris heard Pepito’s voice coming from behind the boxes that covered his face. “Mr. Morris, I will come back for the others after I bring these down to your car.” “That’s wonderful, Pepito. My wife is waiting downstairs. She’ll be expecting you.” “Oh yes. I know Mrs. Cynthia. She is a very nice lady.” “Now, don’t be trying any of your little tricks on her. You don’t want to make Mrs. Flyburton jealous, do you?” Morris heard a muffled chuckle coming from 33

behind his boxes of files and then Pepito walked backwards out of the room towards the freight elevator. Morris chuckled also when he recalled the day that the Mrs. Flyburton mystery was solved. But for you, dear reader, this matter shall remain a mystery for just a little while longer. When Pepito returned from his trip downstairs, Morris remembered that he wanted to reward Pepito for the years of cordial service that was a good cut above the norm. “Here, Pepito, I want you to take this. It doesn’t even begin to show how appreciated you’ve been over the years.” “Oh, Mr. Morris, you know it has always been my honor to be of service to a caballero like you. So no, I cannot take your money. But perhaps, for old time’s sake, as you Americans say,…maybe you could for this one last time….” “Of course, I could. Jump on!” Moris bent over slightly and Pepito clamored onto his back. He straightened up and raced down the hallway with Pepito clinging to his back and crying out “YahHah, YahHah!” Morris stopped running when he reached the freight elevator. “Who won, Pepito?” “You won, Mr. Morris. You won like always!” Pepito jumped down to the floor and Morris shook his hand. “I couldn’t have done it without you, 34

Pepito. You know that. We’re a team. I just wish I had known you when you were racing in Mexico. I would’ve put my money on your horse every time.” “And anywhere, anytime you need Pepito, just call. You know that. Now I take down the rest of your files to Mrs. Cynthia.” Eventually, all the boxes had been brought downstairs and Morris stood with his hand on the light switch in the doorway to his office. Leave the lights on? Shut them off? Which will have the greatest impact in the morning? His office stripped bare without warning after thirty-five years of service to Gazinta, Flyburton and Sprawl. Or was it servitude? How similar the two words, yet how different a reality or mindset they reveal. Considering the handsome compensation that Morris received each year, taken with all the miseries that befall the multitude of poor unfortunates in the world, Cynthia always reminded him that it would be in the poorest of taste to consider his career as servitude. So thirty-five years of service it was. Now ended with the blink of the light switch and the partners of G, F and S wondering what in the world could have made Morris slip out in the night like this. Morris imagined the messages they would leave on his answering machine at home. “Morris, is this some kind of bad joke?” 35

“Morris, whatever it was, we can make it up to you, we promise!” “Morris, if money is the issue, we can talk. Just call us.” “Morris, if you’re going to a competitor, we will litigate; you realize that, don’t you?” And then perhaps finally, “Morris, we’re moving Swineburne into your old office next Monday. This is your last chance to come back!” But Morris would not return their calls, for, bless this day, he had moved on with his life.

WALKING DOGS Eileen D. Kelly I should never have been there on that street corner. It’s a known gathering place for Labradors, black ones and chocolate ones. They started meeting there a few years ago when they had a dog-walker, an anorexic-looking young fellow who ended up fired because he was eating all the dogs’ food and having serious fights with the Labs. So the dogs continued their walks without the young man, trailing their leashes behind them. They became good friends and elected a big chocolate male Lab, Alex, as the leader of the pack. They were almost like a family, male and female, all neutered, so there was no fighting over mating privileges. They had some odd memories of something sexual, but even with all the sniffing of each others’ genitals, they never quite remembered what it was they used to do. It was just as well for the sake of peace in their ranks. Each day Alex would greet all the other dogs as they arrived, with a gentle snort, like saying, “Hi, how are ya.” The other dog would emit a quiet “ruff” to greet him back. Alex would then line them up according to shoulder height, and explain the day’s mission, such as sniffing some fresh squirrel pee he 38

heard about in Washington Square Park. He’d tell them to continue doing the usual pigeon-chasing. Alex always reminded them to leave little kids alone and “Don’t trust them to pet you; they’re just as likely to stick a finger in your eye.” As soon as all ten had arrived, Alex led them forth. They marched in formation with shoulders and feet bouncing along, looking left and right to see if there were any mutts were around, looking for trouble. These, they would simply snub. They were not worthy of the slightest bark or sniff. I knew I shouldn’t have been there. As the town dog-catcher, I was really supposed to nab the beasts, but I couldn’t. They were having so much fun, and so was I. Like the hungry dog-walker, I’ll probably lose my job.

LADY, CAN YOU SPARE A DOLLAR? Mary P. Blas The woman stood alone at the bus stop. She was later than usual and she contemplated her morning’s chores as she awaited the arrival of the M9 bus. She must have just missed one—damn! The stop was empty, but for her. As she turned her head, she caught the eye of a large ashy-skinned man. He was somewhat unkempt and his jacket frayed at the cuffs. “Lady, can you spare a dollar?” the man asked. “I’m homeless, and I’m hungry.” The woman had many dollars in her handbag. Giving the man a dollar would assuage her guilt for the many greedy moments of her existence—make her feel virtuous before embarking on the next shopping spree. But would it really help this man? Life had taught her that it is better to earn rather than to be given. So she took a dollar from her purse, but before releasing it into the man’s outstretched hand, she named her condition. “You can have this dollar, but you must do something for me.” Perplexed, the man listened on. Most people could not wait for him to leave—to take the money and get the hell away—but he needed a cup of coffee badly, 41

so he stayed. “Say a prayer for me,” the woman demanded. The man was even more surprised, but he agreed. Turning from the woman, he walked along the avenue. He was suddenly enlivened—he had a mission, small though it was. What should he say? What did the woman need? And, why had she made such a strange request? As the man walked on, he noticed the church. It was a lovely Spanish-style church that he had seen many times as he walked past the bus stop seeking handouts. He decided to go into the church—it was getting nippy and he suddenly wanted to sit in the warmth of this lovely sanctuary. He slipped into a seat in the back pew. A service was in progress and the scents of burning candles and cut flowers refreshed him. The joyful singing of the Filipino congregation filled the man with a deep sense of well being. A curious calm came over him. He was at peace. Then, he remembered his mission. He needed to say a prayer for the bus stop lady. “Bless the woman, God,” he prayed with bowed head. It had been so long since he had prayed. He could think of no other words. When the man looked up, the faithful were passing down the center aisle—the service was over. 42

He noticed in the distance a young priest who trailed the exiting crowd. When the priest reached the pew where the homeless man was kneeling, he stopped. He was so clean—so clean he seemed to glow. Looking at the homeless man with clear, kind eyes, he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Brother, are you hungry?” he asked. “Yes, Father,” the man replied. “I have been hungry for a long, long time.” “Then, follow me,” the priest said. And the man did.

â&#x20AC;&#x153;WHO SAVES ONE PERSON SAVES A WORLDâ&#x20AC;? Muriel Gray The title above is a quote from Scriptures by a rabbi at the funeral service for the professor gunned down by a madman at Virginia Tech University. Apparently the 75-year-old Holocaust survivor understood immediately that if he guarded the door to his classroom his students could jump out of the windows. All survived except the professor, and countless others not so fortunate around the campus. Did the Lord spare him as a teenager while millions were massacred during World War II so he could perform this heroic deed? Such a selfless act on the part of someone whose youth was so different from the ones he saved. Perhaps those who perpetrate such horrors could stop and contemplate the world they are planning to destroy. How many saviors of future souls will cease to exist through misguided terrorism?

A CLASSICAL SUMMER Bob Rosen By the first week in June I was already beginning to regret not having a job booked for the summer season, when Harry Metzger called. Usually by then he had me set to play drums with some group in the Berkshire Mountains at a resort, backing up some of his clients. They would be introduced as stars from the Broadway stage, but where or which Broadway was it? Harryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s office was in the Brill Building on Broadway, the real one, near FortySeventh Street. It was right out of a Woody Allen movie set, the pictures of his clients lining the smokecovered walls and his ever-present cigar clamped in his mouth. He had gotten a call from the manager of a resort who had hired a local band, only to discover that they could barely read sheet music, no less the scores punctuated with shortcuts and cues from the acts they would have to accompany. Harry had gotten together four college friends, serious musicians who were willing to take a stab at the definitely unserious side of the music industry. The reed man and the trumpet player were students from the Eastman School of Music in Rochester; the bass player, from NYU; and Peter, the pianist, a dedicated piano student on a 45

scholarship at Julliard. I on the other hand was a graduate of the Sam Goody School of Music and Retail Instrument Sales on West Forty-Eighth Street. Peter was the most committed of our group, his aim being to prepare himself for a debut concert in the future at Carnegie Hall. When we first played together, I saw that they couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t improvise or fake a melody without a score to read. However, what was most important to the performers was our ability to read every note and tempo on their arrangements. Peter seemed to be uncomfortable, feeling that he was betraying the composers he valued the most, namely Ravel and Debussy, whose music he hoped to perform at his future breakout concert. The songs of Gershwin or Irving Berlin held no magic for him, but he gave his all and together we made the music work. The piano in the performance hall wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t available during the day, so Peter would practice on an old derelict, slightly out-of-tune, upright. It had many keys missing their ivory covers, and several middle octave piano hammers were slow to respond to his touch. Nevertheless, when he played, he seemed to bring that instrument back to life. The room he rehearsed in, a small foyer actually, was off the main kitchen, and as he played, the cooks, waiters, and even the dishwashers, would gather around, transfixed by the melodies pouring out. Word of his artistry reached 46

many of the resort’s guests, who made it a point to keep within earshot whenever he worked on his interpretation of his favorite pieces. The rest of our group spent time on the ball courts or down by the lakefront, and of course, having so much free time during the day, we fraternized with the ladies. Peter had absolutely no interest in anything that took him away from the keyboard. Many of the guests were professionals: doctors, lawyers, and educators. During the afternoons they would gather around Peter, making sure to keep out of the way of the head cook, who said that he too was inspired by the music. The summer came to an end and our group disbanded. I promised to keep in touch with them. I knew I wouldn’t, and realized that this was going to be my last as a summertime drummer. I kept up with the world of musicians by reading through the trade publication Variety. Several years later I read a notice that Peter had given his concert. It wasn’t in Carnegie Hall, but in Town Hall. The reviews were good, not great. I could imagine Peter’s feelings, knowing the amount of work he must have put into his career. He was always such a gently kind-hearted young man, but although he was accomplished, to the critics he was just another talented piano player. Then, several years later, I read that he had been named the principal 47

pianist at Carnegie Hall, accompanying many solo performers. I was happy for him, only to read, some years later, that he had died of AIDS. Back when I first met Peter, he was barely twenty. No one had even heard of AIDS and the closet that the gay community would have to come out of hadnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t even been built yet.

THE ILLUSION OF DREAMS Carole C. Deeb Is life not just our visiting each Others’ dreams And believing it’s reality? As I watch my countrymen die I realize this is not my reality I convince my heart it is but a dream Another’s dream—that I visit I know that when I lie down My eyes will close and the Curtains of my life will rise To permit my vision of my true life Onto its stage Is my reality not the life I carry within And hide as a treasure From the eyes of others visiting my dreams?

BETWEEN DUSK AND DAWN Lorraine Beyer Theordor I love the late hours of the evening, flowing into the early hours of the morning. No wonder it’s been written in song… while the whole wide world is fast asleep. This time belongs to me, to burrow in, deeply, any way that I wish. I can dream and write and not be put upon. No giving of time to doctors’ instructions, no shrill cry of the phone, just the dark quiet and romance of the night, these hours are all mine.

Myra Baum Mary Blas Deborah Clearman Carole Deeb Muriel Gray Eileen Kelly Suzanne Lapka Syd Lazarus Bob Rosen Lorraine Theordor Audrey Wyler Allan Yashin

NY Writers Coalition Press

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