New York Echoes (12 page)

The women were apparently mesmerized by
the story he was telling and, despite their age, giggling coquettishly and
hanging on his every word. The man was vaguely familiar, someone from long ago,
etched now by age and infirmity but nevertheless displaying a familiar swagger
that had crossed his path many years ago. Incongruously, he apparently had
taken great care with his clothes and grooming. His shoes were spit-shined and
he wore a suit, very rare in this environment and, more incongruously, a
white-on-white shirt with a colorful tie done in a Windsor knot.

It didn't occur to Max until he was
alone in his room and in his memories that evening. Of course. The epiphany
exploded in Max's mind and memory. It was none other than Sporty Morty. My God,
Sporty Morty, Max exclaimed, suddenly revitalized, as if he had shed ten years
in an instant.

At breakfast in the dining room, he
inspected the man and was even more certain. At the table were four giggling
ladies listening intently to every word. Occasionally a wizened hand would pat
a lady's arm or stroke her cheek, setting off titters of pleasure. And there it
was, the smile, the cleft, the dimples, untrammeled by time. Sporty Morty, with
the luster and magnetism as intact as ever.

After breakfast, the group shuffled into
the main room, and Sporty Morty took his place in the center of the female
group, smiling, patting, winking while the aged ladies fought for his attention.

“Sporty Morty,” Max said. “Remember me?
Max Ruben from the candy store.”

He felt Sporty Morty's inspection as he
struggled for recall with dim eyes. Then came a flash of vague recognition.

“Yeah Max. From the candy store.”

“The same, a little older, but not much
wiser,” Max cracked, hoping for the dimpled smile and nod.

“Yeah,” Sporty Morty said tentatively.
“I think I remember. Was it Max?”

“Max from the candy store.”

The nod was slow but
accelerated as Sporty observed him. He turned to the woman surrounding him.

“Meet my old friend, Max, from the candy
store,” Sporty Morty said, introducing him to all the ladies by name. Max
acknowledged them politely, but it seemed impossible for any of them to tear
their attention away from Sporty Morty.

Max wasn't sure he had been remembered,
but he did look for Sporty Morty after lunch, which was nap time at the home.
He had found Sporty's room number and knocked timorously, hoping he could renew
old acquaintance.

“The door's open,” Sporty Morty said.

There he was, unashamed, smiling his
dimpled smile as he lay sandwiched between two of the ladies Max had seen with
him earlier. All three were under the covers, crammed together on the bed, the
woman resting their heads against Sporty Morty's shoulders, enjoying his
tender, patting embrace.

“It's OK,” Sporty Morty said. “We're
cuddling. It's therapy. Right girls?”

Embarrassed, mumbling excuses, Max
hurried away. Up to his old tricks, he thought, then giggled. Good old Sporty
Morty.

At dinner that night,
he followed Max into the men's room and both men stood side to side in the
urinals, relieving themselves in slow motion.

“Max is it?” Sporty asked.

“From the candy store,” Max reminded.

“Yeah, the candy store. Long time.”

In the long interim Max Ruben pondered
the nagging question.

“How do you do it, Sporty Morty? What is
the secret?”

“Focus, Max, focus,” Sporty Morty said,
nodding after some cogitation. Then looking downward briefly he said: “Good
job, fella. You've been a loyal and faithful friend.”

“Me?” Max asked, confused.

“Not you, Max.” He pointed downward,
this time with his chin. “It,” Sporty Morty said, showing his dimpled smile. He
zipped up, rinsed his hands, patted his hair, turned to Max, winked, and went
out the door.

Lavine was sitting in
his East Side apartment reading the
New York Times
. From time to time he
lifted his eyes to peer out the window, where across the street a glass-walled,
spanking-new condominium was taking shape. His wife, Betsy, was sitting
opposite reading the arts section of the
Times
. Occasionally she would
glance upward and look at her husband.

“We'll just have to
get used it,” she said.

She was, he knew, a
pragmatic woman. She knew how to cope, make do, steer around controversy and,
mostly, how to keep him content. He was, now that he was seventy-five, eager to
find tranquility, a tough chore in today's global environment. The news from
everywhere was awful, a bill of fare of suicide killings, mass murders, car
bombs, ethnic slaughtering, and terrorism fears.

They had been married
twelve years now, and she was twenty years his junior. She was his former
secretary when he was in full-time law practice, having worked for him for
nearly fifteen years. The firm had a mandatory retirement age of sixty-five.

As his secretary,
Betsy was exemplary, efficient, competent, and understanding. Their
relationship was friendly and beyond reproach, even in his widowhood. Neither
would have dared to violate the stringent new politically correct rules
regarding office behavior.

With that stricture
gone with his retirement, she swallowed her pride and approached him with both
trepidation and courage.

“If you ever marry
again, consider me as your perfect choice of wife,” she told him when he
considered his future on the cusp of retirement. “I know all your faults and
virtues. I know your business. I have spent more time with you than anyone you
know. And . . .” She winked at him. “I have always loved you.”

Oddly, he was not
shocked by the boldness of her assertion. He had always felt her special
interest in him, and he harbored a vague attraction for her, even in his
married days. She was, after all, quite attractive, with the kind of full
figure he had always admired and she came to work perfectly groomed and attired
in ways that set off her strong physical points. At times she had even entered
his fantasy world, but he was too ethical, hidebound, and cowardly to open that
window of action.

He did mull over her
offer. With retirement came the loss of his work routine, which enhanced the
loneliness of his widowhood. His two children were grown and lived on the West
Coast and although he was still fit and not without sexual urges, he could no
longer compensate with the ingrained habits and long hours of a fervent legal
career. Nor was he in love with Betsy. Attracted, yes, but not, as he defined
it, in love.

After retirement, they
continued to see each other. She became available to sort his papers and
continue to serve him in a business way. Without the conduct restrictions
mandated by the firm, and the legal barriers imposed, they now socialized in
dating mode, and with the boundaries broadened, they developed a relationship,
meaning they became sexually involved. To him, it was a revelation. She was
remarkably giving, uninhibited, adventurous, and exciting as a sex partner and
it served its purpose as a profound bonding mechanism. Besides, they were
already bonded in the practical ways of domestic cooperation.

At one point in their
new relationship, Betsy suggested in her practical way, that he live with her
for a trial period and see if it worked out. It did and they married. She
smoothly transferred her secretarial skills to their domestic life and
organized and comforted him and, as vanilla ice cream goes with apple pie, she
completely revived his interest in sex. These days that pursuit was achieved
with some pharmaceutical assistance. She interpreted her own healthy sexual
appetite as making up for lost time. He was delighted and the process went a
long way to further bond with her and by the miracle of chemistry and
attraction, he fell in love with her.

Their life in Manhattan was filled with theater going, concerts, opera, lectures, and dinner in
restaurants or with friends. He served on a number of not-for-profit boards,
and she had her opera club and circle of female friends.

“It's not that bad,”
she told him, referring to the glass-walled condominiums. “Better than that
heap of old brick.”

“That heap of old
brick was built in the early thirties,” he said. “Like me. I hated to see it
go.”

 “The new condo is an
improvement to the neighborhood,” she said in her gently persuasive way.

He started to
concentrate on the
Times
again, then looked up at the emerging building.

“What is the dividing
line?” he asked.

“The dividing line?”

“Between the old and
the new. Relevance and irrelevance.”

“I don't get it.”

“That's because you're
transitional.”

Her forehead creased
and her eyes narrowed, which was the way she often expressed skepticism.

“You're fifty-five, a
baby boomer. I preceded you by twenty years. You have a dividing line as well,
but you're not conscious of it.”

He knew he sounded
like he was playing the wise man, a bit pompous and all-knowing, but he felt
the need to illustrate what had started in his mind as a vague concept and was
fast coming into full bloom as an important and essential truth. In an odd way
he felt that the two of them were transported into a
New Yorker
cartoon
waiting for someone to write a caption.

“I was sitting in my
doctor's office last week. Picked up
People
magazine and I didn't know a
single one of the featured people, nor did I care. I can't even name them.”

“Some of them are
foreign to me as well. I do know some, the older ones.”

“At some point the
editors will phase them out. Like for example Eddie Cantor.”  

“Who is that?”

“Who is Eddie Cantor?
You're kidding.”

“No. I'm not.”

“He was the biggest
movie star and comedian in the early thirties. He had a wife named Ida and five
daughters. . . . I think it was five daughters. He was also on radio every
Sunday night along with Jack Benny, Charlie McCarthy, and Fibber Magee and
Molly.”

“Sorry. I don't
remember. I wasn't born until 1949. Who was Fibber Magee?”

He sighed and shook
his head, showing an amused smile.

“My point about the
dividing line. When do memories become irrelevant?”

“You mean when do they
fade out from the collective memory?”

She seemed serious,
but he had the impression she was humoring him.

“There has to be a
dividing line, a point where living memory becomes merely history, where things
have become obliterated and lost except to those whose memory is still alive. A
point where what used to exist, buildings, neighborhoods, once famous actors
and politicians, fade from memory and become merely history. Like my reference
to Eddie Cantor and that old pile of bricks that has disappeared.” He pointed
with his chin to the new condominium rising outside. “People fade away and die
out and with them goes their memory.”

“I will always
remember that pile of bricks that has disappeared,” he muttered. “Not for its
aesthetic value, but for its being there.”

He knew he was groping
for some clear way to express what he was suggesting and searched his mind for
other examples. “Take theaters. The Loews Paramount, the Capital, the Roxy. All
gone. And 52nd Street, Swing Street in my time. Leon and Eddie's, the Downbeat
Club. And 42nd Street. Grant's, where you could get the best hot dogs, and all
those movie theaters where you could go for a quarter and get a double feature.”
He felt himself on a roll. “And Lindy's, the real Lindy's, and Shrafft's, and
the Third Avenue El, and the Fifth Avenue double-decker buses and trolley cars.
The subway was a nickel. Take politics.” He mulled the thought for a moment.

“Who was Harry Truman's
vice president? And Fiorello LaGuardia. He was once a person, yet most people
will remember his name merely as a New York airport.”

“Lots of airports,
high schools, streets, towns, and colleges are named after people that no one
remembers. I don't know where you're going with this.”

“I'm searching for the
dividing line,” he said, somewhat testily. “Like when was the moment when the
curtain went down on the memory of Eddie Cantor and the Roxy and the Paramount and double-decker buses.”

“And Harry Truman's
vice president. I know that one. It was Alben Barkley. I read McCullough.” 

“Not fair. That was
history. He was, by the way, referred to as “The Veep.”

“So how many people
now retain this bit of information as living history.”

“Life goes on,
darling. People who knew Shakespeare and called him Willy or Will or Bill are
long gone. Think of all the things that have disappeared, never mind people. My
mother wore a corset and hung her clothes on the line. My father wore a fedora
and chain-smoked cigarettes. What man wears hats, and only young idiots or
fools smoke cigarettes. And the sun. No one told us you could get cancer from
the sun.”

He nodded, went back
to reading the
Times,
but he couldn't concentrate, and looked up again
at the building going up. But the ideas they were discussing continued to hold
his attention.

“I guess that's why I
love black-and-white movies of the thirties and forties. My time. I love to
look at the details, the backgrounds. The clothes my mother wore, the décor and
furniture, the telephones, the old appliances, the old cars, the slang. Words
like scram and mug and sucker. Laurel and Hardy, the Marx Brothers, the Ritz
Brothers. Jean Harlow. Do you know she died when she was twenty-seven years
old? Imagine.” He felt a lump grow in his throat and unaccountably a sob began
deep inside of him and, for a moment, his eyes teared. I am a sentimental old
fool, he told himself. 

He hadn't realized
that she was watching him.

“Remember, darling. I
watched those with you, mostly for the stories. I love those old stories.”

“And I point out who
those actors are?”

“Yes you do.”

“I do appreciate your
trying to enter my past. I love you for that.”

“Now I know why you
called me transitional. You have twenty years of living memory on me. Some day
my dividing line will come. My range of celebrities and memories will fade away
from the public consciousness just like yours.”

“It's all changed too
damned fast,” he muttered. “You don't even get much of a chance to savor it.
And you don't know how good it was until it's gone.”

“Now you're getting
maudlin,” she admonished.

He ignored her
criticism, knowing she was right.

“I can't keep up,” he
sighed. “Once I thought I was actually computer literate. I could do e-mail,
use word for my writings and briefs. I could read an Excel sheet. Now, just a
handful of years later, all I know is fast becoming obsolete, old hat. I am
falling behind. I feel overwhelmed by change. I find my greatest comfort in
looking backwards.”

They exchanged
glances. Her gaze seemed alarmed. She sees my fear, he told himself. 

“Did it ever occur to
you darling, that things are better than they were. That you're living longer,
that we've grown smarter in some ways, what with all the technological
advances. Did you ever see a computer in those old movies?”

“Maybe I'm just
bitching about the changes that are happening so damned fast and as you grow
older you become more and more irrelevant locked in some place and mindset that
doesn't exist any more.” He rustled his paper and went back to reading the
Times
.
“Look at this. Horror upon horror. Then again, we did have our horrors and
bloodbaths. Of course we didn't have instant reporting back then and the reach
of communications.”

He sensed he was
heading for something more cerebral than emotional now, forcing himself into a
lawyerly mode to justify his premise.

“You're just looking
at the surface of things, darling,” she said after a long silence. In her
pragmatic way, she had been mulling over her own thoughts. “The more things
change the more they remain the same.”

“Tell it to my
mirror,” he chuckled.

“I mean human nature.
The way we are. Our inner core. That never changes. No matter if that pile of
bricks is demolished. External change happens, but through it all we remain the
same. As humans we are constant in our emotions and our behavior. Like
Shakespeare, who I just mentioned. You know why he survived for five hundred
years. He knew the everlasting unchanging immutability of human nature.”

“My my,” he said
chuckling. “You are so profound and eloquent today, my love.”

Suddenly she rose,
left the room, and was back in a moment. She stood before him and opened her
palm in which was a little blue pill, which he recognized, of course.

“Take this,” she
whispered, bending over and kissing him on the lips.

“Finish your paper and
contemplate your lost world over there for the next hour. Then I'll illustrate
how human nature hasn't changed very much at all.”

He took the pill from
her and swallowed it.

It might not be a
complete answer, he thought happily, but she did have a point.

“By the way,” he said
as she started to leave the room again. “Let me tell you who Fibber Magee was.”

She turned, looked at
him, and, putting her hands on her hips, she straightened her posture in a
mocking haughty and indignant manner.