Haskell himself, p.5
Haskell Himself, page 5
“I’m using most of it. I love ketchup.”
“It looks like you’re using the whole bottle, and when someone is talking to you, you should answer them, or at least acknowledge what they’re saying to you.”
“What do you want me to say, Mother?”
“Haskell just said he spent hours yesterday practicing his basketball so he can be better at it the next time you want to play with him. All you have to do is say, ‘Thank you.’ It’s not that difficult.”
“Thank you,” she mumbled.
“And talk to him a little bit. Tell him something about your friends.”
“Since you ask, my friends saw Has-skull practicing basketball.”
She pronounced my name as if I were a forty-foot ape who lived on some island besieged by a super race of primitive people.
“And he may have practiced for an hour, who knows? But he kept missing the backboard and the rim. And when he’d miss the ball, he’d run down the street with his feet sticking out. Even Vanessa’s brother—Lucky?—was laughing so hard. He said, ‘Is that your cousin out there? What’s his problem? He’s such a fairy!’ We looked out the window, and not only did he keep missing the basket, but while he chased the ball down the street, he sang, ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow.’ Lucky asked me, ‘When’s your cousin Judy singing at Carnegie Hall?’ I was so embarrassed, you have no idea.”
“I wasn’t singing. I was humming!” I said firmly.
“You were singing like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz! And now all my friends heard you, and they all think you’re a dork. You run like a dork. You talk like a dork. You dribble a basketball like a dork, and you definitely sing like a dork.”
My aunt banged her fist on the table. “That’s just about enough. You apologize right now.”
“You asked me to have a conversation. I’m having one, Mom. He’s an embarrassment. Vanessa feels sorry for me. ‘Your cousin buttons the top button of his shirt? And he can’t skate or play basketball or even ride a bike?’ She says he’s not just a dork, he’s the Duke of Dorkdom!”
“Hope, that is enough!” Uncle rubbed his face and squeezed his temples. “I can’t believe you let your friends talk about Haskell that way. They don’t even know him.”
“Daddy, did you hear the music coming out of his room last night? I’m sure the whole neighborhood heard it. Some lady screaming at the top of her lungs, ‘You Can’t Get a Man with a Gun!’ Has-skull was singing along with her. You’re right. I would love a big brother, but I don’t want that one.” She, of course, pointed directly at me. “I would prefer he pack up all his comic books and record albums and go back to New York where he came from.”
Without wasting a moment, I stood up, threw down my napkin, and said, “Fine! You don’t want me living here? I’d hate to see you or your brilliant friends feel so unhappy. I’ll leave. And by the way, the lady screaming at the top of her lungs happens to be Ethel Merman, whose distinctive voice makes her the undisputed First Lady of the musical comedy stage!”
I wanted to grab Hope by the throat and shake her like a maraca, but instead, I grabbed the portrait Hope made of me and skewered it to one of the silver candlestick holders, turning it into paper shish kabob.
“That’s what I think of your lousy picture.”
Then I don’t know what came over me. I threw a glass of ice water in her face. Some of the ice unfortunately landed on my aunt’s blouse.
Poor Aunt Sheila shrieked as the ice cubes slid down her bra. Truly, Hope had unleashed a maniac inside me.
And then, I figured I had gone this far, why not go all the way? “You want another cousin to take my place? I’m not good enough for you? Well, be my guest. Find another one!”
I shoved her plate forward and, though most of the food landed on her lap, some of the ketchup, coleslaw, and mayonnaise splattered onto her face and into her hair.
Hope slid out of the booth and stood in the aisle, arms dangling, sopping wet, shaking like a cocker spaniel after a bath, her skin spotted with specks of ketchup as if she had come down with a sudden case of measles.
I did not wait around long enough to hear what my aunt or uncle had to say.
Instead, I flew down the corridors, whirled past Sir Lancelot and Lady Marian, out the exit doors and into the parking lot. Is this the dumbest, stupidest, lamest thing I’ve ever done? My intestines ached. I felt like I would throw up. I was so angry, I could hardly breathe. I ran down the sidewalk until I found a bus stop. What would I do? Where would I go? I had no money. My suitcases weren’t with me. Even if I figured out a way to get back to New York, where would I live? How would I support myself?
I sat on a bus bench, my pulse beating in my throat.
What bothered me the most? I had been found out.
Hope had uncovered in a very short period of time what I had been hiding most of my life.
I was a dork. I was a complete and total dork, and I didn’t need Hope reminding me of this fact. I certainly knew I was different, but I didn’t know what kind of different I was. Yes, I didn’t listen to the same music as everyone else. I dressed a bit differently. I wasn’t particularly coordinated. All that could be adjusted in time. Why draw such rapid conclusions based on a couple of days in the Valley? As Madame Scheherazade warned me, I’d have my ups, my downs, my enemies, and my friends. Never give up, she said, and then some nonsense about being true to myself.
I finally stood up and sprinted down Ventura Boulevard. I may not have played basketball. I may not have known any sports. I may have even been uncoordinated. But, with my long spindly legs, I could run like hell.
K__7__L
UNCLE TED MAKES ME WORK
I stopped running when I heard my uncle shouting my name. “Haskell!”
He had been driving his shark-finned Cadillac up and down the boulevard. I had seen him earlier and dodged him by zigzagging in and behind stores and through parking lots until he finally caught me staring in the window of a hobby shop.
I loved battery-powered airplanes. Never owned one, but I would watch other kids in Central Park soar their planes high in the air and carefully land them without crashing into a tree or a duck pond.
“Please get in the car, Hask!”
I had the feeling I could outrun my uncle. I don’t know why I stood there. Maybe I wanted to get caught.
He climbed out of the car and ambled toward me, stopping a few feet away. “Please get inside the car.”
I shook my head. “I can’t go home with you.”
“It will all work out just fine.” He reached out and placed his hands on my shoulders. “I’m not angry at you. You got a little carried away today and so did Hope. We’ll get this all resolved. I promise you. Now get into the car.”
I shook my head. “Aunt Sheila probably thinks I’m some sadistic ice-thrower. Hope hates me. She’s always hated me. I can’t live with you, Uncle Ted. It is impossible. We’ll have to figure out some alternative.”
I took a few steps back. I felt so emotional, nearly dizzy, my mind turning and turning as though a wildness had overtaken me.
My uncle shook his head. “Nothing’s impossible. You know, things may not seem so bright right now. But they will only get better.”
He winked at me, as if a wink would make it all better. A wink meant: Don’t be an idiot—get in the car . . . It could be a lot worse.
I finally dragged myself into the front seat, crossing my arms against my chest. My stomach was doing somersaults. I felt so agitated and confused.
What is wrong with me? I hated myself for what I’d done at the restaurant. I would never live down my tantrum. Why would I throw water in her face and food on her lap? And why would Hope make such a big deal out of my clumsiness? After all, I practiced basketball for nearly two hours, and I improved. I made baskets. What did she expect? I’d miraculously become Sandy Koufax?
Actually, I think he was a baseball player, not a basketball player.
Here was another problem. Not only was I no athlete, I knew nothing about sports. I had won a ping-pong championship playing against kids half my age at camp last summer—my single moment of athletic greatness.
No, I was a total dork. A dweeb. A real yo-yo. I didn’t belong here. These were not my people. This was not a family who would understand me.
I wished I could snap my fingers and instantly relocate to New York City. In the Classics Illustrated comic version of Captains Courageous, this kid is washed overboard from a transatlantic steamship and rescued by fishermen off the Grand Banks of Newfoundland.
Yes, I needed some sea captain or fishermen rescuing me.
Of course, I get carsick when I sit in the backseat for too long. How would I possibly stomach a month at sea? I’d spend most of the time heaving over the deck railing.
“You’re awfully quiet,” my uncle said as we drove down Ventura Boulevard, one of the longest streets in the world. We could be on this boulevard forever.
I plopped my hands hard on the dashboard, figuring I better say something.
“I hate my mom for dumping me here. I really do. This is not what I wanted. I had my life in New York. A recital, a graduation, and a wonderful acting class. Now I’m stuck in a place where I don’t belong. She’s eating Belgian chocolates and sleeping late in Antwerp, and where am I? In the Valley of Ten Thousand Swimming Pools, and I don’t even know how to swim. Uncle Ted, I cannot live here.”
Uncle Ted tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.
“When I was a kid, I was very challenged by my mom.”
Here it comes. The pep talk.
“She drove me crazy. I resented her.”
He trudged through the snow and sleet.
Guess Uncle Ted was trying to make me feel better.
Be a good listener, Haskell.
“My father worked two jobs, leaving every morning before five and sometimes not coming home until nine or ten at night, just in time to read me a book.”
“What would he read?” I asked.
“I loved anything by Jules Verne. One night when we were in the middle of Twenty Thousand Leagues, my mother tore into my room and yelled at my dad. ‘When are you fixing the pipe under the sink?’ she asked my dad in a shrill voice. He replied, ‘When I’m done reading Teddy his story.’ ‘Fine. Teddy gets his story. I get water under the sink.’ Inevitably, my dad would fix whatever was broken. Still, Mom nagged almost every night. Something was always in need of repair, and it couldn’t wait until the weekend. One night, Dad kissed my forehead, told me he wouldn’t return home until the end of the week, and walked out of the house.”
“What did that mean?” I asked.
“He walked out on us. It was horrible. My mother cried and pounded her fists against the wall and tore up every photograph that had my father’s picture in it. It was 1931. Cleveland. Winter. Freezing cold. I begged my mom. ‘Please make up with Dad and bring him home.’” Uncle Ted pulled onto the freeway at Laurel Canyon. We headed south.
“So, what happened?”
“She never spoke to him again. On Friday nights, he’d bring a wonderful brisket over for Shabbat dinner, but my mother pretended he was not in the room. Instead, she’d use us kids as messengers. ‘Ask the gonef how he could afford this brisket?’ ‘Tell the gonef I need an extra two dollars for the plumber.’ ‘Tell your father, the gonef, he should take his shoes off when he enters the house. What a mess he makes!’”
“Why was she so angry at him?” I asked.
Uncle shrugged. “She was humiliated. She knew she had driven him out of our home, and she never could admit it.”
“Did she ever give in and talk with your dad?”
“Hold on a second.” Uncle Ted pulled off at Sunset Boulevard into the parking lot of KCOP, the local television station he worked for, but he kept the motor running so we could enjoy the air conditioning. “Never missed a Friday night, always brought my mother money in a green envelope, and not once in all those years did she acknowledge him.”
“You’d think this would eventually run its course,” I said.
Uncle shook his head. “Seven years later, at my Bar Mitzvah, I’m walking down the aisle, carrying the Torah, when my mom reaches out, clutches my arm, and whispers, ‘Tell the gonef his lady friend is not wanted at the luncheon.’ She pointed at Hermione Goldenblatt, one of the seamstresses at the factory. Nice woman. My father would eventually marry her. A bright spirit who taught me card games, endured Saturday triple features at our Rialto, always showering me with kisses and hugs. But my mother? Sourpuss Fanny? ‘Tell the gonef if she shows up at the luncheon, I will leave the temple. Iz az farshtanen?’ So here I was, holding the Torah tight against my chest, a line of men forming behind me. I stopped. I bent over, cleared my throat, and said softly, ‘Mom, today I am a man. Therefore, I am no longer your messenger boy. If you have a message for dad, he’s right behind me.’”
“What did she say when you said that?” I asked.
Uncle laughed. “Nothing. She stormed out and made a scene, slamming the door so ferociously the wind knocked the yarmulkas off all the men sitting in the back row of the synagogue.”
“Wow. That’s awful.”
Uncle Ted squeezed my shoulder. “Only my mother and my father could have changed their situation. I had no say in the matter.” He leaned over and pinched my cheek. His voice was calm, deep, and safe. “I wish your mother had asked you rather than told you about this move. I’m sure it’s very difficult to leave all your friends, especially at the start of your senior year. Sometimes parents can be rather self-centered. Your mom may have been under a great deal of pressure and thought it best to take some time for herself, but she should have discussed this with you ahead of time.”
“I’m glad you understand.”
“Most definitely. I’ll give Miriam credit for one thing. Want to hear it?”
“No, not really.”
“I’m telling you anyway. Sheila said her sister complained that she had no time for you. The moment she’d come home from work, she’d have to go to sleep, and then, sometimes she’d leave for work before you got up. She knew she was not in any way capable of being the best mom, and so she asked your Aunt Sheila and me if we could pinch hit for her.”
“What does that mean?”
“In baseball, pinch hitters often replace a starting player when the pinch hitter is thought to have a better chance of reaching base or helping other runners score. Your mom thought, for this short period of time, Sheila and I could be substitute parents. And we’re thrilled!” He reached over and squeezed my hand. “I am excited you’re in the family.”
“Don’t you hate me after what I did?”
“You lost your temper. In the future, take some deep breaths when you get angry. Count to ten. I’m sure your aunt is giving Hope the same lecture. We can talk about this later.” My Uncle Ted now signaled for me to follow him. “I have a surprise for you.”
He pointed toward the cement building ahead. Four stories. Windows lined with metal bars. A big gated entrance. On the flat roof were all sorts of instruments and wires. The strange machine above was called a satellite receiver.
“How would you like to do some work for me today?”
“Doing what?” I asked. As punishment for my crimes against Hope, would I be cleaning toilets? Filing papers? Vacuuming? These were all tasks I did occasionally at my mom’s office when she’d bring me in on weekends.
“I’m programming the movies for November and December, and I could use your help. I’m in charge of the Million Dollar Movie. Have you heard of this program?”
I shook my head. I knew Uncle was head of programming for the local TV station. I didn’t know exactly what he did.
“We play the same film at eight p.m. every night for five nights in a row, with limited commercials, and we customize the commercials to fit the film. For example, last week Planters sponsored The Greatest Show on Earth, a circus movie. We brought in an elephant and fed him a bag of Planters peanuts.”
“Did he eat the whole bag?”
“Of course.” Uncle sang this little jingle: “Jumbo loves our nuts as much as people do.”
“What a great line! Did you come up with it?”
“No. We hired a composer and lyricist for that one. And the week before we got the president of Dreyfus Air Conditioning to introduce our movie of the week, The Big Heat, while pouring water over his head . . . Get it? Cool himself down. Quite clever, don’t you think? We’re only a local TV station, so we have to compete creatively with the big networks.”
I was perking up.
My uncle looked at his watch. “A Saturday afternoon is the perfect time for this. Fewer interruptions. I could use some help picking out films to match each advertiser.”
“What about Aunt Sheila and Hope? I’m sure they expect an apology from me.”
“I dropped them off at home before I went hunting for you. Your aunt and Hope will be thrilled to have the rest of the day to themselves, and you and I can spend some quality time together. You’ll apologize later. What do you say?”
Was Uncle Ted inviting me to be the guest programmer? Choose from hundreds of movies? Watch one film after another? Spend a whole afternoon alone with him? Slap my face. Call me Ishmael. From the depths of despair to the heights of bliss in less than a minute, a kid could get the bends coming up so fast.
“Let’s do it.”
My uncle smiled and patted me on the back.
We took a stairway up, turned right on the second floor and entered a sound booth. Reels of movies lined the shelves of this narrow room. “Here’s our list of advertisers. Why don’t you look over the films in our library, see what’s appropriate, and choose a few.”
I had seen many of these films before and did not need to rewatch them. For example, the first film I picked was The Good Earth. It had an incredible scene where locusts eat an entire crop, nearly destroying the lives of Chinese peasants. This would fit perfectly for Terminix, a popular advertiser specializing in destroying termites, bugs, and mosquitoes. I picked The Big Sleep for a mattress company, chose The Pajama Game for the JCPenney store, and, in an odd choice, selected the The Murders in the Rue Morgue for the Los Angeles Zoo, since the film featured a gorilla.
