14th Street Gold - Fall 2004: Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th Street Y

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NY Writers Coalition Press

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14 Street Gold Writing by Retired Adults from the 14th Street Y Fall 2004

NY Writers Coalition Press 3

Copyright © 2004 NY Writers Coalition Inc. Upon publication, copyright to individual works returns to the authors.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED Editor: Deborah Clearman Layout: Deborah Clearman, Aaron Zimmerman Photos: Harry M. Mahn, 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 Sol Goldman YM-YWHA 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 Sol Goldman YMYWHA, a vital part of the Educational Alliance, provides Lower Manhattan with a Jewish Community Center that offers programs for the whole community.

The Sol Goldman YM-YWHA 344 East 14th Street New York, NY 10003 (212) 780-0800 www.edalliance.org

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Dedicated to Ruth Jacobson 1927-2004 Beloved member of the writing workshop

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CONTENTS THE WONDER IS NOW Lorraine Theordor....………..9 HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ME? Katy Morgan………9 RITUAL INTERRUPTED Ed Goldsmith……………..10 F_ _ _ Lorraine Theordor………………………………14 THE TIGHTROPE Muriel Gray………………………15 LETTER TO A TEACHER Syd Lazarus……………..16 HAVE YOUR FORGOTTEN ME? Myra Baum……..18 LOSING TOOLS Harry M. Mahn…………………….20 LOVE Sherwood Jacobson…………………………….26 BAND-AID Raye Walker……………………………..32 THE MESSAGE Deborah Clearman…………………..34 ENVY Syd Lazarus……………………………………36 IN MY ‘HOOD Ruth Heisler……………………….....36 ENVY Katy Morgan…………………………………...38 ON 14TH STREET Lorraine Theordor………………..40 A TRUE STORY Muriel Gray………………………...42 AT THE SARATOGA RACETRACK Raye Walker....44

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INTRODUCTION In the nearly two years since this workshop first met, we’ve been through a lot: changing leaders and participants; disagreements, confrontations, a workshop going on without the leader (stuck in traffic); the thrills of reading our work to the public—both in person and onair on WNYC’s Brian Lehrer Show—triumphs and celebrations big and small; many bags of cookies; and many, many hours of writing together. Through our writing we have come to know one another in a way no one else, not even our closest family members, know us.

We’ve listened to each other’s voices. We’ve bonded.

A week without our writing workshop doesn’t seem complete. Some from our group have moved on; others have joined us, bringing fresh energy. All have contributed to the weekly magic of the workshop.

Our second issue of 14TH STREET GOLD brings you new writing from our workshop for retired adults held at the Sol Goldman YM-YWHA in partnership with NY Writers Coalition, which offers free and low-cost creative writing workshops to people from groups that have been historically deprived of voice in our society.

Thanks go to Camille Diamond, coordinator of senior adult programs at the Y, and to Aaron Zimmerman, Executive Director of NY Writers Coalition. Most of all, thanks to the lively, outspoken, curmudgeonly, erudite, thoughtful, down-to-earth, funny, mournful, profound, and ever-creative writers I’ve been fortunate to work with for the past eighteen months.

Deborah Clearman, Workshop Leader November, 2004 7

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THE WONDER IS NOW Lorraine Theordor We have this wondrous place of earth and sky Brilliant in its complexity Amazing in its simplicity Magnificent in all its beauty No need to embellish with mystery and fantasy Generosity of spirit is the nourishment we need The wonder is now The angels can wait

HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ME? Katy Morgan I remember But you have forgotten How once we lay and kissed as if The world would go on forever.

The world Has forgotten how The light fell across an afternoon When there was time, and time again.

Now how far And how long To remember the world we knew, And yes, I have forgotten you.

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RITUAL INTERRUPTED Ed Goldsmith I was sitting on my gomden, a Tibetan meditation cushion, popularized by Chogyam Trungpa, the deceased artistic and alcoholic Rinpoche who had spread Tibetan meditation through the West, according to his publicity people anyway, if you can believe them. And I was inhaling the aroma of an exotic Tibetan incense stick, observing the flow of my thoughts, as my legs started turning to stone: my usual ritual.

Somewhere along the way my "monkey mind" rebelled somewhat, questioning why I was subjecting myself to this torture, but, Buddha-like, I merely exhaled and continued blissfully on, meditating my ass off.

Someone rang my bell from downstairs, but as I, recluse that I had become, was not expecting anyone, I ignored the buzzer, religiously maintaining my perch above the gomden. It was probably some miscellaneous creep, trying to gain entrance to the building by ringing several bells, and assuming that if one rings enough bells, one careless and curious fool would, unthinkingly, buzz him in the lobby door.

And, unfortunately, with the idiots that have recently moved into my building, this happens more often than 10

not.

I returned to my deep state of consciousness.

My phone would have rung, but I had switched off the bell especially for this meditation session. However the caller held on, got to my answering machine, and then his unwelcome voice was audible. It was some Mediterranean sounding collection agent for a loan shark--rough trade--saying, "Look, you creep deadbeat, I don't like waiting for the money. If you value your kneecaps, you will pay up the three grand immediately. You hear me, you Jew prick?"

Now, I had never borrowed any money from any loan shark. Only a desperate fool would do that.

Surely, it was a wrong number. Yet I was no longer sure what was going on.

The voice continued: "Big Angie, he give me your account, and I'm on my way over to your apartment to collect, one way or another, the three grand or your f***in' kneecaps. Don't try running out of town, or you'll make me really mad. There's worse things can happen than broken kneecaps, you know. If you're smart, you'll be home when I get there. Capish?" And he hung up.

Back to my meditation. I never get off the cushion. Probably a wrong number. Yeah, that’s what it was, I hoped. Here I was, trying to achieve relaxation, and at the same time my nightmare was getting worse. Meditation is effective in reducing 11

anxiety, but when it is interrupted by a barrage of threats, the prognosis is less certain, to say the least.

Just follow the breath. At least, that was what the Tibetan guru had counseled.

Five minutes later there was a banging on my apartment door. I tried to ignore it, but the incense burning on my altar was a dead give away, that I was in.

"Open up, you Jew prick! I know you're in there. If you don't answer me right now, I'll do something you won't like!"

A nightmare! The big bad wolf at my door.

The son of a bitch was hinting that he would blow my house down. Surely some two bit collection schmuck had gotten his data mixed up, and now this mean son of a bitch was at my door, not knowing me from a hole in the wall, determined to collect $3,000, or to break my kneecaps. And if I didn't open the door, he would embark on who knows what other viciousness.

Unbelievable!

And I had a mezuzah on my door. Oh, maybe the Jewish God was pissed off at me for burning Tibetan incense, and meditating on a gomden, instead of praying to Him in a synagogue with a minyan? So He unleashed this dimwitted collector maniac on me?

Oh well, time would tell the tale. What did I do? I decided to negotiate with the goon through a locked door, which isn't easy, but he really gave me no 12

good reason to unlock it!

"Look, let's talk this over."

"No talking. Big Angie, he said to collect or get rough, if you get my drift."

"Look, I'm sure this Big Angie of yours, whoever he is, has made a mistake, either in the address, or the name or the phone number, because I never heard of him. Look, instead of calling the cops, I'm slipping you forty dollars of my own money for your troubles, to go back to your boss, and tell him to double check his records. " "Why don't you open the door and face me like a man?"

"Because you promised to break my kneecaps.

Isn't that a good reason?" There was silence. I slipped two twenty dollar bills under the door, and noticed that they were even pulled out of my grasp, a good sign.

And the silence continued, an even better sign!

Really not wanting to meet this collector, I waited at least three minutes before I opened the door, and looked down the hall. Nobody was there. After kissing the mezuzah with joy and gratitude, I closed my apartment door.

The next day I got my ass into the synagogue and prayed up a storm, with a minyan, of course, and, happy to say, it's been two months since that incident, and, thank God, I haven't heard from the collector since.

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F_ _ _ Lorraine Theordor Never liked the word can’t say it can hardly write it I heard it said in the ugliest way when I was too young to escape the harshness of life Now I hear it from the young and from some who need a leg up I’m a free spirit of many years who cannot abide the shaded wasted words when there are the glorious colors of life to choose from I can escape the ugly now

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THE TIGHTROPE Muriel Gray The tightrope dancer was the prettiest member of the traveling circus. Golden curls covered in silver glitter twirled about her head as she performed without a net.

Her elegant long limbs and pointed toes were a marvel to the earthbound audience as they gazed up at her. Dancing high over the sawdust, near the top of the tent at county fairs, she seemed an angel of light and grace.

Dressed in a pink tutu trimmed in silver spangles, her tights and slippers were a perfect match Above this magical effect, she held a fringed silver umbrella to give balance to her fanciful moves.

One fateful day, the umbrella flew out of her hand as she executed a difficult turn. Miraculously, she continued without a misstep. The umbrella was not so fortunate. It lay mangled on the floor of the tent, a harbinger of what could happen to her beauty should she collapse as well. A clown with a broom swept away the broken pieces as though part of the act.

We all walk the tightrope every day. A precarious future lies in wait for those no longer able to stay on their toes.

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LETTER TO A TEACHER Parlez vous Français?

Syd Lazarus My apologies to those French experts that may be reading this.

J’entre de la sale de classe. Je regarde au tour du moi. Je vois les eleves et le professeur. Bonjour au professeur. Je pronde ma place.

Translation: I enter the classroom. I look around me. I see the students and the teacher. Good morning teacher. I take my seat.

These were the first lines in French you made us learn, and as you can see, I remember them still.

From then on it was downhill. You made fun of my pronunciation every chance you got. You even said you would help tutor me for the Regents exam if I promised to drop French the next term. I did and you did and I got a C+ and that was the end of French for me in school. Well, Msier. Etienne, I thought you should know that many years later I went to work for a French company in New York opening a new hotel.

They hired me in spite of having fractured French and I stayed with them nine years. The company I worked for also gave us French lessons, and I must admit I didn’t do much better with that tutor. But I went to Paris many times in those nine years and can read a French menu. I can truly say this was the best job I ever had, no thanks to you. I thought you would like to know what happened to one of your students in spite of what you said. That is why I am writing this letter.

In conclusion, au revoir Msier. Etienne. Bon chance.

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HAVE YOU FORGOTTEN ME? Myra Krinsky Baum Carol, have you forgotten me?

I have so much to say to you.

We went to P.S. 16 together.

Played stoop ball on your stoop.

Borrowed books from the library-How we loved to read!

Summer, ten books to keep Until summer’s end.

Taking them with us To bungalows in the Catskills.

We walked along Broadway Examining store windows Shopping in Woolworth’s For our first lipstick.

We treated ourselves To charlotte russes Thick with sweet whipped cream Bought from a bakery outdoor counter Eating and chatting along Broadway.

Saturday—movie day Commodore or Marcy Children filling every seat In children’s section Matron in uniform With flashlight Keeping kids in line.

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A day’s entertainment Two feature films, Newsreel, cartoon Fortified by sandwiches Made-by-mother Plus candy and soda Bought right there.

Outgrowing Saturday movies Replaced by Orthodontist’s visits Downtown Brooklyn Shopping at Martins and A&S Lunch always Chow Mein sandwiches At Kressge.

In Manhattan Shopping at Macy’s Lunched right next door At Nedicks.

Carol, do these visions Light a spark in you?

Make you smile?

Or have damaged cells of memory Stolen pictures of the past.

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LOSING TOOLS Harry M. Mahn Jimmy, one of the new guys in the maintenance department, a young man of twenty-four, rang the bell at Apartment 18 M. Mrs. Kravitz had approached him yesterday afternoon to fix the faucet in her bathroom.

“I’d love to help, Mrs. Kravitz, but you’ve got to put your request in at the manager’s office,” Jimmy had told her.

“Yes, yes, I know. But whenever I needed something done, they’d always schedule me for a time that wasn’t any good. Look,” she continued, “I’ve got a really busy schedule. If you could fix the faucet before you officially punch in tomorrow, I’d be more than happy to pay you for your time.”

As Jimmy was wondering if this would get him into trouble, Mrs. Kravitz pushed a fiver into his strong, young hand and said, “Here, this is for making time for me. I’ll pay you the rest when the work is finished. Is eight o’clock too early?”

Jimmy glanced at the bill, before putting it in his pocket. “Eight tomorrow will be fine,” he said.

The next morning, Jimmy got to Mrs. Kravitz’s a few minutes early. He rang the bell. He heard her padding to the door. The lock turned and the door was opened just a crack. Seeing it was Jimmy, she opened the door wide and invited him in. “I’m so glad you’re 20

here,” she said, glancing at him sideways.

Jimmy was getting a bad feeling. He had expected Mrs. Kravitz to be dressed and ready to take off for her job after he had finished with the faucet. Instead, she was in bare feet, wearing nothing but a short, sheer negligee.

“It’s right this way,” she said, running her hand lightly up his arm. Something was clearly not right.

He set down his tool box which was getting heavy. But even as he put the box on the floor, Mrs. Kravitz was nudging him in direction that he knew led to no faucet.

Jimmy guessed Mrs. Kravits to be in her late forties. She had beautiful long, blond hair. And, although she was considerably older than him, he could see she had a terrifically well shaped body. But this wasn’t where he wanted to go. Then, suddenly his attention was drawn to a movement behind her drapes.

Where the drapes met the rug, Jimmy now saw a foot.

He went over, pulled the drape aside, and found himself staring at a naked man gripping his erection.

“What da fuck?” muttered Jimmy. He backed off, turned and ran past Mrs.Kravitz, and out the door.

He was still trying to catch his breath when he tumbled into my office. I was the building manager.

“Hey, Paul, I need your help.” And, he proceeded to share with me what had just happened.

“So, what’s the problem? Nothing happened.

Did it? I mean that’s what you said, isn’t it?” I asked.

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“Absolutely. Nothing happened. Nothing,” pleaded Jimmy. “But, Paul, I left my tools in her apartment. What do I do? Do I knock on her door and ask her to give `em back?”

Not an entirely unreasonable idea, I thought, as he weighed the options. Still, I could see the problem Jimmy might be in if Mrs. Kravitz were to claim that Jimmy had initiated some sort of improper advance.

That would bring it down to a he-said-she-said situation. The only thing known for certain was that Jimmy’s tools were in the Kravitz apartment. It would be impossible for him to deny he had entered her apartment. And, even if she admitted asking Jimmy to fix the faucet, if the management found out he was going to do it without first getting their authorization, Jimmy could still lose his job. True, guys did it all the time, but rules were rules. As for the guy jerking off behind the curtain, forget it. Jimmy’d never be able to prove it. And, if he were to bring it up, you could be sure the Kravitzs would counter attack. No, far better he never made mention of it.

“Jimmy,” I said, “this is a bit of a pickle. I’m not exactly sure what’s best. Let’s call in John and see what he thinks.”

John was the shop steward. He was burly negotiator who, in his youth, had worked to unionize crewmen on American merchant ships. Although he had gotten too old for that work, he was still plenty tough.

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John listened quietly as I outlined Jimmy’s situation. I then suggested we just go up with Jimmy to ask for his tool box back. If Mrs. Kravitz wanted to make trouble, we’d try to reason with her and her husband.

“Look, Paul,” said John, looking at me, “you’re new to this. Here’s what we’re going to do. I’m going up with Jimmy. If you want, you can follow, and watch. But don’t get involved.”

John, Jimmy, and I got to the door of Apartment 18 M. Okay, I thought, let’s see how John handles this.

Suddenly, John raises his arm and pounds on the door with a force that echoes down the hall.

“I know you’re in there,” he roars. “Open this door, and open it now! We want the tool box. You’ve got just one minute. After that, I’m callin’ the police and chargin’ you with solicitin’ prostitution. You hearin’ me Mrs. Kravitz?”

He had just begun giving the door another beating, when the lock turned. The door opened, and Jimmy’s tool box was shoved out. The door was then quickly shut again.

“There you go Jimmy. Try not losin’ it again.

Okay?” said John. Then, looking at me, he asked, “Well did you learn anything today?”

It was a rhetorical question. We both knew I had.

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LOVE Sherwood Jacobson I Which memory will come?

The ocean where my mother held my hand and led me into the water as a child.

I still remember the sands and the shells between my toes.

Death has taken my mother.

It made her slither away day by day without warning me to hold to the moments.

I loved so many people.

Why were my hands so weakened not to hold love forever?

Why am I so mistaken that the moment will last for an eternity?

What is love?

Something shared and shared in a world of infinite changes.

Love me, love me.

Somewhere, there must be an unknown time that will carry the embers to start the fire to warm this cold world that does not understand my pain.

The ephemeral state of love made up by patterns of neurons and neurotransmitters in the brain controlled by infinite stasis and changes in internal and external milieu.

It is not to hold in your hand.

The sharing of love is adding to the complexity.

The trigger is somewhere there 26

in the young for procreation and after menopause, a difficult caring of loneliness.

There is a difference in the aging of these participants.

Do we explain the state by cultures or express by statements of opera, books, music, and dance, the internal feelings of love, the opposite of loneliness.

Five thousand miles of ocean at my feet that is incomprehensible.

There is more than can be felt with hand or mind, creatures reaching along the liquid touching the sand, which is reality.

How does one feel for the meanings?

How many brawls of pseudo-reality or is it reality with any variation in color or shape?

Think of the colors beyond imagination, brightest of all possibilities, moving quickly before the eye that catches them and flickers forward around and back away from another dark melody.

Does it reach them, which is death, which exists too quickly to hold both our belief in the multitude of what may and may not exist in our vanishing world.

This is where it starts, which way is love going.

I cannot leave it behind.

There is nothing that will reach into the future.

I can give from my life nothing in the forward time.

It is so tenuous in taking into the future.

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Where are the old straits?

A few tremulous trivial words to reach back and sometime into the future and the gamble of times and times that gamble and cares only for blood and flesh from the great galaxies around us.

Can we find love and life there together and every day for what reason and pain, with Charon roaring across the river Styx.

Love sliding through to my being and telling lies or truths of lies.

Where was I when she died?

She took so long to die, cold, cold, cold, tears, tears, tears, end, end, end.

II Anger is the sword of the soul and carriage to the depths of one’s life to bring to the surface up to night.

The hurtful, which catches the loss and never was, and never will be.

The person you wanted to touch and cannot, the person that reaches out in tears or flesh.

The person who is responsible for your well-being and fails because of neglect or apathy, or wishes to set their anger into your brain, to empty theirs because of the lack that they have and wish to have.

To settle their missed chance on your back.

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The Fortuna of now is against your fate and not due to anything, but the events and the mysteries of time of good times or bad time that slipped through your fingers like sand and cannot be held by the years and months of time.

Time and Fortuna, all the world together have such strengths that controlled galaxies and universes beyond all comprehension of the infinite, beyond our vision and thought.

A phase beyond phase gathering in a further sight.

Time is the most precious thing, fantastic in its mysteries, unseen and untouched.

Time loosely goes through the universe, carries all in its grasp, relentlessly without direction except forward and forward.

It cannot be found or lost.

It has no special space.

It is everywhere.

There are no walls to block it or paths for it to follow.

It does not grow or wither.

It does not have birth or death in all our bodies and brains this time.

It has no pain or joy.

It only ends.

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You are the one that I am lit for.

A calmness of demeanor that is soothing toward a pleasure.

There is much easing that this world needs and you add to this.

A woman’s voice carries pleasures and a music that men do not have.

Movements of the hand will catch the breath like static, the masculine appendages do not have.

They lumber through life backing into furniture and knocking down the lamps.

It is like having a true, but poorly mannered chimpanzee.

A woman glides and slides into the room, putting objects in proper aesthetic arrangements.

The men flapping toward upholstered chairs while they bellow at each other in barely comprehensible words and for the most part, one is fortunate that one does not understand the chatter.

Best of all, women’s smell like all the gardens of Allah.

Indescribable, exquisite expression of beautiful flowers and plants of this world in that world.

The old whalers of Nantucket would catch the occasional ambergris, which added to the fragrance of the world and when I say oath, the world over.

I would walk behind the beautiful young woman being thrilled about the breeze that the sun and her perfume bring.

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This is one of the powerful reasons for continuing life.

It is a bare time with new ones slipping by, hard to grasp these bitter events that are faster than the speed of light.

How is one to turn quickly enough to know that this is the right direction or is there a right direction in this universe?

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BAND-AID Raye Walker

Is it a “Band-Aid” effect That I’m in need of now?

Things are so in flux It seems I took a vow— Or did I? I’m not so sure A drastic change is imminent.

My thoughts, are they so pure?

Let’s state the facts; Let’s write them down.

Be honest No need to fret or frown.

You’re headed for a foreign land, A place you will call home.

Will you be able to do your “thing” Even write a poem?

We live in times of great upheaval, It doesn’t matter where.

The world’s a Global Village; So there! So there! So there!

You’ve taken many a risk You can count them by the score.

So this is one more challenge; No need to shut the door.

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Back and forth your streets I trod Oh Jerusalem, for days on end.

The toxic fumes of the thundering buses Was I back in the Big Apple With all its mayhem, then?

I’ll pack my bag, Just what it can hold; And leave behind what can’t be sold, And worry not what will unfold.

Each day, they say, holds moments of gold.

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THE MESSAGE Deborah Clearman “Chocolate kisses are better than none,” Emma said, peeling off the silver foil. She was drinking latte at an outdoor café on University Place with her old college roommate, who was quite obviously well along into her ninth month. Emma popped the Hershey’s into her mouth and closed her eyes, sucking with histrionic pleasure. She gave a lugubrious sigh. “At least I don’t have to worry about the calories. I’ve given up on men.”

“Buck up and have more chocolate therapy,” Nicole told her, handing Emma another kiss and unwrapping her own. Nicole didn’t have to worry. She was under doctor’s orders to consume thousands of calories a day in fruit and dairy products. The tiny kiss was nothing compared to the gigantic smoothie she was slurping down. “This is just a dry spell. You’ll find someone better than Alex. He was a creep.”

Emma tossed her sleek shoulder-length hair, newly a defiant shade of red. “Nope. No more men.

I’ve replaced Alex with my new iBook. There’s nothing it can’t do for me. And makes no demands. I love it. I sleep with it.”

“Isn’t your biological clock ticking?” Nicole was wearing a spandex top that stretched almost to bursting over her enormous belly, proclaiming to the world her pregnant chic.

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“Better that than a grenade,” Emma snapped.

As if the word was a cue, a body came sailing over the line of parked cars and landed with a decisive crash on the sidewalk by their table. Emma shrieked and jumped up. “Call 911. He’s got to be dead.”

She crouched down beside the lanky young man in jeans, orange tee shirt, and silver torpedo-shaped helmet, sprawled out on the pavement. Afraid to touch him, but thinking perhaps she should feel for a pulse, she reached hesitantly toward him. Before she could make contact, he sat up.

“Oh shit. I’ve only got nine minutes. Where’s my bag?”

In the shock of the moment, Emma hadn’t noticed the arrival of a second missile. Now she saw it, at her side, the messenger bag. The data entered her hard drive and clicked into place. Here was a bicycle messenger: blond, wild-eyed, alive. She handed him the bag. He checked inside it.

“Thanks.” He was up, on his feet, with turbocharged speed.

“Wait,” Emma said. “You can’t just go. There might be internal injuries.”

But already he had darted between the cars to rescue his bike. He wheeled it to the sidewalk, gave the wheels a spin. They turned with a drunken wobble.

“Shit,” he said again. Then he grinned at Emma. “Gotta make this last delivery. Don’t move. Give me twenty minutes. I’ll be back.”

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ENVY Syd Lazarus I’ve never been an envious person, but once in a while I might feel a little twinge of what might be construed as envy—why them, and not me? I never wanted the limos, mansions, and lifestyles of movie stars, but sometimes had a passing thought of why some notalent people got it all. I’m never envious of the guy that wins the lottery. Sure it would be nice to have a few dollars more, but I don’t begrudge them their win.

What brings out my green-eyed monster I guess can be called “New York envy.” The size of their apartment.

I would kill for a bedroom. Having lived in a studio so many years, one would think that I would have become adjusted by now and by and large I have. But when I visit someone in the city that has a bedroom, I get the urge to kill them, do away with their body, and take over the apartment. Of course I never do. The price for staying in Manhattan. I wonder if people in other cities feel this way. Of course not—they all have bedrooms, and I envy them!

IN MY ‘HOOD Ruth A. Heisler Living on 20th Street affords me the choice of walking to the two great shopping streets of my neighborhood. Sometimes my destination is 23rd Street, 36

where the proliferation of thrift shops produces that hope of finding a jewel amongst the dross. A trip along 14th Street can be full of surprises: demonstrations at Union Square Park, the latest bestsellers at Barnes & Noble, the newest chockafrappochino at Starbucks, a noonday lunch under the trees, or a great sale at newly opened Filenes Basement (incongruously on the second floor). Filenes is the only department store on 14th Street—once an area of many legendary department stores, especially Kleins and Ohrbachs.

I remember, as a child, my mother taking me to th 14 Street to buy galoshes. Although there were numerous stores on the street, we always went to Nortons for galoshes. We shopped Miles for school shoes, AS Beck for party shoes, and Ohrbachs for special items.

We never went to Hearns on Fifth Avenue. It was too far, too chilly, and too neat—no messy tables to plunge into for that elusive bargain. Kleins was the big magnet, a trove of magic. I once fought for (and won) an exquisite pair of sandals—not in my size, never worn. I still have them.

And then of course, there was the pretzel lady who sat at the northeast corner of 14th Street in front of Kleins. The myth about her was that she was a millionairess, and at the end of the day, under cover of darkness, a chauffeured limousine would arrive and take her back to her mansion.

Just as a child tries to stay up late to see if there really is a Santa, I never caught her getting into her limo.

The pretzel lady is gone—and so is Kleins.

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ENVY Katy Morgan Here’s what I envy the most about my friend Eleanor: Her house is always spotless.

My house looks like the proverbial tornado hit it. That’s on good days. I used to pay Mrs. Martinez to come in once a week and clean. The house always looked neater when she was through, and for a few days you could walk across the living room floor without crunching grit underfoot. But you’d better not look behind or under anything. And she washed dishes on the principle, if she couldn’t see any dirt on the dish it was clean, and she’d put it away. As she got into her 70s, she saw less and less dirt. And when I found her using the can of roach spray to dust with, I retired her.

So now I clean my own house. Yeah, sure.

Well, I wash some dishes whenever I run out of clean ones. And if company is coming, I try to mop the kitchen and vacuum the living room, but I don’t always get the time, and a lot of my guests have had to live with it. My most recent guest, Yumi, from Tokyo, washed all my dishes every time she went to the kitchen. Finally, after several days, she asked my permission to clean the kitchen. Sure, I said, make yourself at home. The next morning I was blinded by stove, refrigerator, cupboards—the whole kitchen was the cleanest it’s ever been.

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But Yumi’s gone now, and things are rapidly returning to normal. Eleanor’s house, on the other hand, never shows any signs of needing to be cleaned.

It’s true, she spends half her life scrubbing, sweeping, dusting, washing and polishing. And she never seems to have time to do anything fun when I want her to go with me to a concert, play, class, rehearsal, or just for a walk in the park.

Still, I really do wish my house were as clean all the time as Eleanor’s.

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ON 14TH STREET Lorraine Theordor She sits on a bench most days in Union Square Park with a world of history in her eyes. I wondered about her past—is there family? Well, a few days ago I asked her her name. “Elizabeth Victoria,” she answered rather pensively. A queenly name, I thought. And I wondered, am I the only one to show interest in her as a person? Surely someone, somewhere must have cared.

We spoke for a while and were interrupted now and then by someone giving her coins, which she thanked them for. As she turned her gaze back to me, I saw bewilderment in her light colored eyes, and then surprise to see me standing and waiting for her. Slowly and softly Elizabeth started to tell me of her dancing days.

She came from a small town in Arkansas where nothing ever happened, she said. She thought New York City was the place to be and where she was going to make it big. Elizabeth did get a job in the chorus of the top show in town. She loved the city and the city loved her. “I was quite the thing,” she said. “Ginger Rogers had nothing on me. The audience loved me and the men spoiled me. Then I met Frank. He told me to stick with him, that he would give me the world. Frank was so handsome and powerful, it seemed like the world 40

was his to give—where money came easily and, I guess, too quickly. I was thrilled when he took me along with him.”

After a long pause with eyes that seemed to burn, she said, “I loved that man. We were dynamite together. But you know something lady? We were going too fast. We crashed. And when I looked around, Frank was no longer there, and I just couldn’t get back on track…But I’ll make it some day.”

She got up to walk away. Suddenly she turned and with the most beguiling smile she said, “Lady, come back, ‘cause I’ve got stuff to tell that will knock your socks off.”

I’ll be back, because if this lady wants to talk, I’ll be listening.

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A TRUE STORY Muriel Gray Annie loved to laugh. She saved the covers and cartoons of the New Yorker magazines that were appropriate to her friends’ careers and mailed them to their offices. Still, there were many of these that she collected in a separate shopping bag that never left the closet.

One cold and snowy winter day she decided to clean out her closets. Clothing that had not been worn for several years and yellowing books from high school that cost only fifty cents, all received a fond farewell.

A local charity that had nearby thrift shops could benefit from this largess.

An overnight case belonging to her recently deceased mother appeared. Annie had not fully emptied it of some mementos that she had hastily stuffed inside while clearing out her mother’s apartment that fall.

The scarves and tea towels her mother kept in tissues emerged with doilies and other small linens. The key to the case was missing, but the last object to fall out was a heart-shaped gold-colored key chain. On one side it said “shalom”—Hebrew for hello and goodbye.

Just as she surprised her friends with letters of cheer, she too was amazed. Was it a message from the great beyond? The loss would always be there, but the talisman might help the pain

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AT THE SARATOGA RACETRACK Raye Walker We called him Boney Bottom, The jockey, not the mare.

His knees were on the saddle, His butt was in the air.

It was early in the morning, As he rode around the track To exercise the racer, And then he rode her back.

In tight white pants He held his pose— A camera caught his eye.

Spectators were enchanted As Boney Bottom cantered by.

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$5.00

Myra Baum Deborah Clearman Ed Goldsmith Muriel Gray Ruth A. Heisler Sherwood Jacobson Syd Lazarus Harry M. Mahn Katy Morgan Lorraine Beyer Theordor Raye Walker 48