Two Lives, Extra Lean

“Hey, Arnie!” His boss called out. “Would ’ya move your heap o’ crap around the back?”

As usual, Arnie Schoenfeld had run late, so he parked his 1988 Cadillac DeVille in front of the A-1 Auto Parts store even though he knew it would piss off his boss. He intended to watch the clock and feed quarters into the meter. It would also give him a chance to slip outside and grab a smoke.

Although filler and putty could no longer stave off the rust and rot, Arnie still loved his DeVille. He had bought the Caddie for his own birthday back in ’87, just after the new models came out – a metallic-gold two-door coupe with the landau top, tan leather interior and power everything. When he handed over a rubber-banded envelope filled with fifties and hundreds, the sales manager told Arnie that he’d rather have a cashier’s check.

“Hey, waddya want from me? Money is honey. You want the sale or don’t ya?” Arnie replied.

Arnie got into the front seat and popped in the cigarette lighter. He ran his hand over the passenger seat, ignoring the stuffing bursting through slits in the leather. When the lighter popped out, he lit a Winston and took a deep drag. He closed his eyes to enjoy the smoke filling his lungs. He could still remember the DeVille’s new-car smell, the joy of fine-adjusting the power seats, the smooth-operating electric windows, the stereo cassette system, and the long hood with the Cadillac ornament mounted atop. But the ornament was long gone. He figured it was the work of vandals in the parking lot behind the store, although it could have been yanked off anywhere.

Now his boss wanted him to leave his beloved car around the back, where cut-throat neighborhood mechanics did cut-rate oil changes, brake jobs and quickie tune-ups for customers who had just bought their parts.

Money was honey, and it had all been pissed away. The Mets were on a losing streak, and he hated the Yankees so much he refused to bet on them. When he took the underdog Mets to lose, they fooled him and the odds-makers by winning. Now he was into the loan sharks for twenty-five large and he was barely able to cover the vig. The only way he could get even was if the goddam Mets – those goddam supposedly Amazin’ Mets – won twenty straight, and if he bet them the right way. Arnie knew he was on a losing streak, one that had dragged him downhill for the past ten years.

In the good years, Arnie Schoenfeld and his partner, Dave Melnick owned their own auto parts store located a few blocks away. They used to be friendly competitors with A-1 but their clientele was different. Instead of the Hispanics and Haitians and Asians who now bought at A-1, he and his partner dealt with gas stations and collision repair places yod shel yod – hand to hand – in a cash-only business. Arnie and Dave had money rolling in. Nobody asked or cared where the parts came from. Even Max Fleischer, their accountant, couldn’t figure out exactly how they stayed in business, not that he looked too closely. Arnie made sure to keep his second set of books out of sight.

Arnie chose to live his own version of the American dream – a lifestyle in which money was spent as quickly as it came in. “There’s always more. What, me worry?” was his Mad Magazine catchphrase. His wife, Paula, whom he had known since high school, spent her own version of quality time in upscale malls and boutiques, buying clothes that were hung up in the walk-in closet but were rarely worn and – “What d’ya want from me, Arnie?” – never returned. And since Arnie bought a new car for himself every year, he passed down the previous year’s like-new car to his wife. An ’87 Oldsmobile – a Ninety-Eight, and junked long before now – was the last one he gave her when he bought the ’88 DeVille for himself.

But buying things, buying into the maxim “he who dies with the most toys wins,” never gave him the rush of excitement, the nirvana-like happiness, he once expected. He often felt disappointment and despair, and he would have easily settled for simple, plain contentment if he had known where to buy it. Euphoria and elation, joy and jubilation – these were not only out of reach, but out of the realm of possibility. None of his purchases – the Olds and the DeVille, the remodeled house, the poured-concrete swimming pool in the backyard, always with those damn leaves floating on the surface – were enough to make life seem worthwhile. That is, until he discovered gambling on football, baseball and basketball.

To Arnie, only suckers played the lottery, while the ghetto homeboys played the numbers. He considered horse racing a scam run by the state that preyed on the underclass. And when the blue-haired hags and their loser husbands dropped their pension and social security checks at the casinos in Atlantic City, all they would get out of their countdown days to death was a long bus ride, a cheap buffet meal and a walk on the boardwalk.

Arnie figured that with the right research and enough perseverance, he could beat the odds, especially when he won big on the Knicks back at the beginning. He soon upped the ante and started to bet more heavily. If anyone were to ask, he’d reply with the gambler’s mantra, “Sure, I’m a bit ahead,” or “Yeah, I’m breaking even,” as much to impress others as to reassure himself.

When Arnie bet on professional football, he spent Sunday afternoons in front of his 32-inch Sony, scarfing down pretzels and a six-pack or two. When he lost, the Monday night game was his chance to get even. But when Paula realized how devoted Arnie was to this new mistress, she refused to become a football widow. Their two kids, teenagers by then, had their own sets of friends, and were also out doing their own thing. After a while, Arnie didn’t care where his wife went or what she was doing.

Paula also learned to stop asking simple questions like, “How ya doin’, Arnie?” because he took her attempt at sounding interested as prying, as a reproach, as an attack on his manhood. And she stopped caring exactly how he was doing as long as she got hers – her own wad of cash after closing, every Saturday night.

But when Arnie started to bet big and lose big, he got so far behind that he couldn’t get any action with his regular bookie – and he couldn’t lay down any bets until he came up with the cash. Green only. No checks accepted. No more promises. “Whadya kiddin,’ Arnie?” the bookie would ask. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Yet, he always believed down deep – just like any other degenerate gambler genuflecting to the goddess of the odds – that he was just one bet away from getting even, from getting straight.

But by then it had gotten so bad that he started to get threatening and punishing visits at the store: “Ya gotta understand, Arnie. It’s only business,” he’d be reminded as he was being pummeled in the storeroom by a new breed of goombahs reciting old lines from The Godfather.

As Arnie drifted away from his family, Paula saw the handwriting on the wall. She also confided this to Dave, her easy-to-arouse lover, while he lay next to her, smoking an unfiltered Camels. She didn’t have to stray too far from home to get her kind of action. Knowing that Arnie was at the store made being with his partner all the more sweet. Knowing that she was getting back at Arnie made her orgasm even harder. So Paula started to rein in her spending, to hold onto more of the money she got every week, and to squirrel it away in a green metal box she pushed way back in her panty drawer for that rainy day, for the very stormy weather, that she knew would eventually come.

After a particularly strenuous workout at the hands of the goombahs, who were caring enough to dump him out at the emergency room, Arnie’s left leg and right arm ended up in casts. Despite Arnie’s half-hearted protest, the hospital called Paula, Arnie’s next of kin. Her cell phone had the poor timing to chime the Vivaldi’s Four Seasons just as she was beginning her orgasm.

She shouted into the phone, inflamed with frustration and anger. “Yeah? What happened to him?”

“His arm? He broke his arm and his leg? ... He slipped and fell down the stairs?” She turned to Dave and shook her head in disgust.

“Listen, Davie. I’ve got to go. He’s at Queens General.” She pulled up her panties and started to fasten her bra.

“Goddam Arnie. I’m sick of his shit. Sick of the phone calls. Sick of waiting for the knock on the door.” She stepped into her skirt and pulled her sweater over her head.

“I love you, Davie. I want to be with you.” She sat back onto the bed to put on her heels. “I’m tired of sneaking around. And I’m certainly good and tired of him.”

Dave heard the door close and finished his cigarette. Only when he stepped into the shower to wash off the smell of sex and sweat did he realize that Paula had left without freshening herself. He wondered if Arnie would notice.

It took her longer than she expected to find the emergency room entrance. When she saw Arnie on crutches, standing in the vestibule, she thought about driving around the block a few more times to make the bastard wait. But Arnie noticed the car and waved. When she pulled over he limped out and opened the back door to slide the crutches in. Then he eased himself into the passenger seat.

Paula huffed and gave him a dirty look. She shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb.

A few minutes of seething, then: “Arnie, I’ve had it with all your bullshit. When we get home, I’m going to pack up your things and you’re going to find another place to live.”

“What do you care? Your body’s there but you, you bastard, you’re never around.”

He was spent, drained. The pain killers had kicked in and he didn’t have the energy to argue. He had a feeling this was coming. He was surprised it had taken her this long.

Still, “Who’s gonna take care of you? Who’s gonna pay for all the shit you buy?”

“What do you care? When did you ever care?” Arnie could not fail to notice her sly, self-satisfied smile.

In a daze, partly due to the pain killers, Arnie sat in the den staring at the television while Paula stomped upstairs to pack his bag. Shortly after, he heard a car honking outside.

He didn’t want to leave, but he just didn’t give a damn. He wanted to say he was sorry, but he didn’t want to fight. So, like a beaten dog, he struggled to a standing position, grabbed his crutches, and limped to the front door. His bag was waiting for him there but she was not. There was no tearful confrontation. No wistful good byes. Nothing. The last thing he heard was the shower running upstairs as he slammed the door behind him.

Arnie pulled into a visitor’s slot at the Park Haven Manor – “A Luxury Adult Residence.” Yeah, right, he thought. It was a quarter past twelve but he knew his mother would be waiting for him in the lobby, and would have been since breakfast. It gave her status; someone would actually be picking her up and taking her out. Today, she could be envied, unlike the lost souls in wheelchairs who loitered about, or the forgotten others who sat around, waiting for adult children, grandchildren and loved ones – anyone, please – who would never appear.

It was their weekly outing, their chance to be together, to share pleasantries, and to stay in touch. As always, he would take her to Yitzi’s Deli for Sunday lunch. Saturdays were out of the question; the Glatt Kosher delicatessen was closed on shabbos. And Arnie worked the other days, or so he had told his mother.

Arnie walked up to the sliding glass doors, which whooshed open for him. The front of the building and the lobby had recently been renovated. Arnie thought the place looked like a French whore house. He was momentarily enraged about all the money that could have otherwise been spent modernizing the upper floors, but his sudden rush of compassion quickly dissolved. He couldn’t believe his mother was pissing away her life savings on this joint, money that he couldn’t get his hands on until she croaked. That is, if he were still in her will. It was money his older sister Nadine, who controlled her mother’s finances, would never allow him to touch.

Arnie spotted his mother, sitting and waiting, her hands in her lap, the ever-present tissue pushed under the cuff of her faded, floral print dress. Her faint flash of smile quickly disappeared, as if she couldn’t allow him to see her being pleased.

He walked over to her and said, “Hi, Ma. How ’ya doin’?” though not actually expecting an answer.

“Sorry I’m late,” although he didn’t really give a damn. “There was an accident on Queens Boulevard.”

“Ach … what’s the use?” She started to get up and Arnie reflexively reached out to help her, but she brushed his hand away. “I can get up by myself. I don’t need you for that.”

They walked side by side, his mother looking this way and that, prancing like a beauty queen, sashaying if she could have, kvelling – prideful – and joyous from the jealous and resentful stares of the left-behinds.

His mother scowled at the wizened woman in the wheelchair, as much to tell her to mind her own business as to revel in at least having a visitor. Arnie knew that this was probably the main reason his mother went out to lunch with him, for he felt little joy and she had little else in her life to kvell about. But he forced himself to remember that it was a mitzvah, that he was doing the right thing, a good thing.

Arnie opened the car door for her and she slowly eased her way in. He started to reach in to fasten her seatbelt, but then decided he didn’t care enough to make the effort.

After they started off, she asked, “So how’s Paula?” Then, “And the kids?”

“I don’t really know,” meaning, Why do you ask me these fuckin’ questions, Ma, when you know I don’t have the faintest idea and I really don’t give a good goddam. There was a period – end of sentence – end of thought – don’t ask me another goddam question finality – in the way he answered. And, so, they rode the rest of the way, mother and son sitting side by side, but decades apart, in their silence.

At Yitzi’s the woman with a thick Russian accent, about whom his mother always made a comment, handed them two menus and said, “Sit anywhere you want.” The place was almost empty.

His mother led him over to their usual table, a table for four on the far side of the room. She sat down on the aisle seat and he sat diagonally across from her, against the wall.

She opened the menu and carefully examined it and the luncheon insert. He wanted to say, “Ma, it’s always the same. You should know the damn thing by heart,” but he held his tongue. Who needed an argument? Instead, he asked, “You know what you’re having?”

“I want to find out what the specials are.” Their waiter, in a rumpled white shirt under a black vest, came to their table with a plate of sour pickles and a stainless steel bowl filled with cole slaw. Arnie noticed his reddened eyes and the odor of aspirated alcohol not completely masked by aftershave.

The waiter read off a card; it was still too early to have them memorized. Arnie didn’t bother to listen.

“Listen. Can you bring us some cole slaw drained off. I don’t like all that eh...” she waved her hand in the air as if searching for the right word, “...oily dreck in it.”

The waiter gave her a tired look but said, “Sure thing, ma’am.” He picked up the bowl and slipped back to the kitchen.

A few moments later, she asked, in a voice loud enough to be heard by others, “Where is that mamzer?”

Jesus Christ, Arnie thought. She’s already calling the guy a bastard. “What does it matter, Ma? We have all day. He’ll be back in a minute.”

She picked up her menu and looked through it again, now with a sour, disgusted look on her face. Finally, the waiter reappeared with another bowl of cole slaw.

“All right, Arnie. All right.” She lifted up her hands – relenting, placating.

“I think I’ll have some chicken soup with a matzoh ball,” Ida said. “And then a pastrami sandwich. No fat. Extra lean.” As if already threatening to send it back.

The same thing, the same routine every time. Every damn time, Arnie thought, shaking his head. She’ll eat only half of her pastrami sandwich and try to force the other half on me. And then she’ll have them pack up the rest and she’ll take it back with her anyway.

“The number six. The pastrami and corned beef combo. Not extra lean. Lots and lots of fat.” He pronounced it “fet,” to rhyme with “met.” An attempt at humor, mocking his mother’s Yiddish accent, a bit of teasing at his mother’s expense. She didn’t bother to look up, nor to respond.

“Sure thing.” The waiter picked up their menus and said, “I’ll be right back with your soup.”

They glared at each other, and then looked away and around the empty dining room: the three waiters joking quietly among themselves at the serving station, the drooping artificial plants hanging from hooks, the framed black and white photographs of supposedly famous, supposed guests of the restaurant, the price list of cold cuts by the quarter pound over the deli counter, the cashier reading the Daily News, the cars maneuvering in the parking lot outside the restaurant. They did anything to avoid talking, anything to avoid eye contact.

Meanwhile, Arnie had turned his chair so that its back was leaning against the wall. He pulled the cell phone from his belt holster; he wanted to put another hundred on the Mets before the game started.

The waiter returned, quicker this time. He placed Ida’s soup in front of her and a basket of sliced bread between them. Ida sipped soup from her spoon while her son talked on his phone.

Suddenly, he was gesturing, shouting. “Waddya mean? You won’t take my action?” A middle-aged couple, a man and his wife, sitting several tables away, turned their heads, and then quickly looked away.

“You should have some. It’s good for you. Here, have a taste.” She picked up the spoon filled with the too-golden liquid and started to lift it towards him.

Ida slowly shook her head, while Arnie glared at her. Into the phone he screamed “Whatever. Go fuck yourself and your first-born!” and then snapped his cell phone shut.

The waiter soon brought out their sandwiches. Arnie spurted mustard onto the meat and took a bite. His mother slowly picked up the bread on hers and examined the meat.

“Ma’am, I told the counterman what you wanted. It’s extra lean. It’s the best he can do.”

Ida shrugged and looked up at the waiter with a disparaging expression on her face.

Soon, Arnie had finished gulping down his number six combo. He hadn’t bothered to have breakfast, and his stomach still churned from the six-pack of Corona he had gone through the night before.

“Here, Arnie.” She started to hand him half of her sandwich. “I can’t finish it all.”

“I don’t want any of your goddam sandwich, Ma.” I knew it. “If you can’t eat it, have them wrap it up for you and take it back with you.” Just like a fuckin’ script.

“Okay, okay, Arnie.” His mother, easing off, capitulating: a battle out of a maternal sense of obligation she could never win; a guilt-ridden interchange on both sides of the formica table; a pissed-off son sinking lower and lower.

This time, she wouldn’t give him a hard time about his paying the check, but she would drop only a couple of singles on the table. To show that mamzer of a waiter how much she thought he was worth. To show her son that she would do whatever she wanted.

The middle-aged man at the other table remarked to his wife that it looked like an idyllic Sunday afternoon scene: an adoring mother and her gracious son – or was it a gracious mother and her adoring son? – spending a nice time out together, thoroughly enjoying their mid-day meal.

As they rode back, the pre-game show on WFAN filled the void. Ida Schoenfeld gazed out the window, while Arnie Schoenfeld scowled at the traffic and muttered obscenities to himself.

After he dropped her off, after he walked her to the door, after he wouldn’t kiss her good-by, the mother would shuffle, gloating, through the newly renovated lobby carrying, like a prize won at a carnival, the brown bag containing the half-eaten extra-lean sandwich and a couple of extra pickles. And the son would stop off at the Dew Drop Inn on Queens Boulevard to down a pitcher of draft beer and watch the Mets go down to their sixth loss in a row.

Rev 15 / March 27, 2013

Up to the beginning of the story

-- Appeared in Grassroot Reflections Issue 27, May 2013

March, 2013…Copyright © 2013, Lloyd B. Abrams

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