August 5, 2006--"The Club"--Concluded

The Club--Concluded

In Part Four, Lloyd finally gets to visit the Traub’s Squirrel Hunt and Racquet Club. After a torturous drive battling Labor Day traffic along the notorious Long Island Expressway, where all the other drivers are “sheep,” in the words of Dr. Traub, Lloyd immediately realizes he has seen it before—the Traub’s house back in Brooklyn is a mini-version of The Squirrel, having been designed and built by the same architect, Lorenzo del Pesto. Dicky is instructed by his mother to give Lloyd the grand tour, especially not forgetting to take him to see the men’s locker room. But Dicky, once free of his parents, absconds with Lloyd to the Acorn Bar where, over a quick series of gins and tonic, he tells Lloyd about his girlfriend Betsy Sue Robinson (who is neither Negro nor Catholic) and his dream to become a veterinarian. If only his parents would give him a little encouragement-- and pay his tuition.

In Part Five, the story concludes with . . .

Mrs. Traub waltzed up to me, that is the only honest way to describe it, and took me by the hand, pausing to adjust my clip-on bow tie, and said, “Please escort me to cocktails in the Bridle Lounge. Dicky of course thinks that’s a silly name. But it is spelled with a ‘d-l-e’’ and not with a ‘d-a-l,’ though many a romance began there. And who knows about tonight? After all, you are about to meet Jewel Silvergold. But before that let me take your arm, darling, I want to make a grand entrance. And show you off to everyone.”

I didn’t quite know what this meant or what to do, but she came to my rescue by letting go of my hand, crooking my right arm, and placing her own hand there so that we were transformed into a version of an elegant couple, only familiar to me from certain movies of the period—my only point of reference for what was I was being drawn into. And reflected in a mirror along the bar, where I glanced to check to see how I looked with Mrs. Traub at my side, I also saw Dicky mopping along behind us as if in tow.

We passed behind a waterfall that served as the far wall of the bar (Mrs. Traub said to me, “Isn’t Lorenzo a genius?”) and right there spread before us was a sweeping set of marble steps that descended into what was clearly the Bridle Lounge. Seeming all of it made of crystal.

Most striking was a series of immense chandeliers that traversed the full length of the room, each sparkling with hundreds of bulbs that were not only in the shape of candles but also had special filaments that flickered in imitation of real candlelight. Also the full length of the Lounge, there was a table covered with rose-colored linens down the middle of which was placed a two-foot wide red satin ribbon on which there were centered huge crystal bowls and tureens and platters, all overflowing with what seemed from a distance to be cornucopias of fruit and salads and meats and vegetables and various kinds of bubbling and fizzing and steaming concoctions.

Sensing how struck I was by all this glittering splendor, Mrs. Traub leaned over to whisper, “And don’t forget to notice the crystal Champaign fountains (mind you that’s real Piper Heidsieck flowing, from France) and the ice sculptures—all of animals that are hunted, especially squirrels. Silly, no? And the tapestries,” she gestured toward the wall behind the vast table, “See them? They’re from the Cloisters Museum. They are pictures of Unicorns. White horses with mythical horns. They’re copies of course. Lorenzo had them specially woven in Europe and had the silver frames made so they would go with the rest of the décor. I’m not sure I like them. The frames I mean. It feels a little much, don’t you think? But there is no disagreeing with him. I wasn’t sure about the Aztec headboard either, but he insisted.”

Then I noticed that a group of club members had gathered at the foot of the stairs. “But come, it’s time to meet everyone. And stand up straight. You’re so nice and tall.” Hearing echoes of my father’s voice when he admonished me not to slump (“Shoulders back. Chin in. Chest out”) I attempted to do that while at the same time holding my breath and attempting to be careful not to stumble on the hem of Mrs. Traub’s ball gown that swept the floor. And then step by step, in truth led by her, side-by-side, arm-in-arm, we managed to make quite an impressive entrance, if I may be allowed to say so.

“And of course there waiting for you is Rose. Mrs. Silvergold. I’m sure she’ll also want you to call her ‘Rose.’” But before turning me loose, Mrs. Traub again leaned close to me to whisper, “Isn’t she adorable?” I nodded since she was in her own firmly-rounded way. Not much more than five-feet tall, even in her tiny silk pumps, she was stuffed, not unattractively, into a short pink dress, which went as well with the red table ribbon as her crystal earrings, which emitted a full spectrum of prismatic light, were a perfect fit for the room. And with her silver-streaked hair that was whipped in an airy froth as if for a soufflé, she was the picture of coordination.

Just as we reached the bottom step, in her full bubbling voice, Mrs. Traub announced, “Rose, honey, here he is at last. This is Lloyd. All the way from Columbia.”

And to me, “Lloyd, meet Mrs. Silvergold.” I reached out to shake her hand, but she ignored me for a moment to say to Mrs. Traub, “He’s just like the way you described him. So tall. And even with a good nose.” Mrs. Traub stood aside, beaming proudly, to allow her friend to take my full measure.

I managed to stutter, “I’m so please to meet you, Mrs. Silver . . . . “

“But you must call me ‘Rose,’” she cut in. “I’m only ‘Mrs. Rose’ to the help. Though I try to be a liberal with them.”

“I’ll try to . . . .”

Again as if not hearing me, and I was sure that I was speaking up, Mrs. Silvergold continued, “Trudy can’t stop talking about how well you’re doing at Columbia. Tell me again, you are the pre-med? And on the crew? A wonderful golfer too, Trudy says. But too thin.” She pinched my side below my cummerbund. “I’ll bet you eat like a bird.”

She turned away from me and Mrs. Traub who had drifted off toward one of the Champaign fountains in order to leave me alone with Mrs. Silvergold. “Sid,” she called out, “doesn’t he look as if he eats like a bird?” She directed this toward a small, square man who had his back to us and was talking to Dr. Traub who appeared not to be listening, though he occasionally nodded his head. “So,” she instructed me again, without waiting for Mr. Silvergold to respond, “be sure to eat.

I tried to interrupt her so I could thank her and her husband for letting me use one of their guest passes. “Don’t mention it. We never use them, even though we have to buy them. We never bring anyone here so they would just go to waste. Don’t think about how much they make us pay for them. Just be sure to eat. They have everything here. It’s a buffet. And then they serve you dinner. Prime ribs. But let me tell you something I shouldn’t be saying,” she drew nearer to me, “What they have at the buffet is better than what they give you at dinner. So eat as much as you like. Don’t be shy.

“They stuff you here like a pig. Of course not really like a pig. Sid and I are Kosher you know. But there are all kinds of salads and cold cuts. I like them because everything is very lean. Just like the way Sid and I like it. So eat. They don’t charge us by how much you take. Just enjoy. Look how nice everything is laid out. Such a big table. It must be forty feet long. It’s a wonder it doesn’t collapse considering how much they put on it. So tell me again, Floyd, about Columbia.”

And though I tried to correct her and say something about my courses or the crew, once again she turned toward Mr. Silvergold who did not seem to hear or notice her though her voice carried quite well, “Sid, isn’t it a bigger spread than last year? I see lobster this time. They only had shrimp last year. Of course we don’t eat that. It’s traif you know. But you can eat that too. As much as you want. It’s OK with Sid and me. Whatever you want. But I’m sorry, you were going to tell me about pre-med. But before you do, don’t forget to have the chopped liver. You know with Jews, even though it will kill them, they need to have their chopped liver. And see how it’s shaped? Like a squirrel. Like the club—the Squirrel Club. When we joined I said to Sid what kind of a thing is it to name a club after an animal? But he told me that in England all their exclusive clubs have the same kind of names—the Fox and the Hare, the Elephant and the Castle. Am I right Sid?”

Again, since he did not appear to hear her, Mrs. Silvergold continued, “Tell me then about you. You go to Columbia? You are going to medical school?” I began to say that I hoped to, though in the future; but she interrupted once more, “I know. You’re still a pre-med. But Trudy says you’re doing very well and God willing will go to a good medical school. I know, Trudy tells me, it won’t be the best one but that’s still fine. A doctor’s a doctor. Isn’t that true? Who cares what kind of diploma you have hanging. They’re all in Latin anyway. My gynecologist, Dr. Raab, went to Flower Fifth Avenue. His rich uncle Sam had to pay them money under the table to accept him but he’s now one of the biggest doctors in Brooklyn. He has an office by Grand Army Plaza. You know where that is? It’s where the goyim live. I think he even has antiques in his waiting room. Isn’t that right Trudy?” she hollered across the room to where Trudy had found Larry from the bar. Mrs. Traub didn’t appear to hear her either.

“Dr. Raab has antiques. She knows. Trudy knows everything there is to know about antiques and reproductions too. And about young men.” She was looking toward Mrs. Traub and Larry who again had his arm around her waist. “Forgive me, I don’t mean it that way. I know what everyone at the club thinks, but I mean she knows about young people like Dicky and you. Though I don’t mean to compare the two of you. I know he’s nothing special. If it wasn’t for his father, poor dear, who works so hard he would be out on the street. He has no brains at all. All he cares about is his horse and his hair. Sid told me that when he went to the men’s room last weekend at the club Dicky was there all through dinner looking at himself in the mirror and fixing his hair and patting his pompadour.

“But I know how smart you are and Trudy tells me you’re getting such good grades. So before long you’ll be able to put ‘Doctor’ in front of your name and ‘MD’ at the end. Doctor-doctor, no?” She chuckled at her own joke. I smiled back at her.

And with that she called out, again, “Jewel, my gem, come over here and meet Floyd. Or should I say ‘Dr. Floyd?’”

* * *

And with that Jewel materialized as if from out of nowhere.

“Mom,” she said, “do you have my lipstick?”

I was instantly enchanted. To this day I am not sure if it was her lack of pretense, for surely she knew I had been invited to the club as a potential “good prospect,” and that things had been set in motion for us to meet. And yet the first words she allowed me to hear were about her makeup.

Or was it because she was a cute and sexy version of her mother? Also in a short, tight, strapless, almost matching mother-daughter red silk dress that compressed and exposed just enough of her flesh to make me instantly ache to know more of it.

“Look again in your purse, Jewel. But first you must say hello to Floyd. He’s the pre-med.” Jewel did not look up to acknowledge me, rummaging in her sequined bag in search of her lipstick.

“It’s not here. What am I going to do? Look at me. I knew I shouldn’t have eaten anything. My lips are a disaster. I guess I’ll have to borrow yours though I hate your Fire and Ice.” She was pouting which made her look even more alluring.

At last she noticed me, “So you must be Lloyd. Trudy thinks I’ll like you, though you’re a little tall for me.” She looked me up and down as if considering a purchase. “I prefer boys less than six feet. I’m a midget. We’ll look ridiculous together on the dance floor. With my head in your stomach. I’m glad I at least wore these heels.” And with that she bent over to show them to me, though I must confess I was more interested in her neckline, which was now gaping and bountiful, than her shoes.

“I think,” I stammered, trying to divert my eyes, “that we will be . . .”

“I doubt it. But since Trudy and my mom are just dying for me to like you, they think dating a pre-med is every girl’s dream, for their sake I’ll give it a try. Though to be honest with you, I think pre-meds are boring. All they want to talk about is dissecting frogs and how they want to be dermatologists so they don’t have to be on call nights and weekends.”

“I don’t . . .”

“It’s OK. It’s the end of the summer. All the other boys are creeps. I should know. I dated every one of them. Ugh. So you’ll have to do for tonight.” She smiled at me for the first time.

I was willing to accept that. “We can . . .”

“Look, I know my mother wants to fatten you up. For the kill, so to speak. But I want to dance, OK? We have Tito Puente here every Labor Day. Don’t you just love him? He’s such an amazing drummer. I hope you know the Cha-Cha-Cha.” She began to move her hips. “Did they teach that to you at Columbia? I mean along with frog anatomy?” She was playing with me and I loved it.

“Well, not . . .”

“Let’s go,” she took hold of my hand, “before it gets too crowded and my parents and their friends ask him to play Foxtrots or whatever.” She pulled me along behind her down toward the far end of the lounge, passed the ice sculptures and heaps of cold cuts, dodging waiters who were circulating with trays of hors d’oeuvres, and then off to the side, into another room that was situated between the lounge and the club’s restaurant where, on a platform, Tito Puente himself and his band were positioned. All were wearing tight black pants with satin stripes running down the sides, foot-wide cummerbunds, and pleated shirts with huge puffed sleeves. The music was already throbbing, even though there was no one as yet on the dance floor, and members of the band’s rhythm section were singing to themselves--

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar na na na

Jewel was in immediate motion, dancing her way into the center of the floor. The music rippled through her body as she began to dance, alone. The band picked up on her energy and I could feel them take up the tempo and become connceted with her. Transfixed, I watched her. It looked as if she might dance right out of her dress—it moved one way as her body twisted in the opposite direction. This prospect both thrilled and frightened me. What would I do if that were to happen? Would I . . . ?

As I was having these wicked thoughts, Jewel danced her way to me, reaching out as she moved her torso to Puente’s relentless drumming. I was drawn to her, took her hands, and was led out onto the dance floor.

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar

“There, see, you can do it,” Jewel shouted so I could hear her over the soaring music. “Like that—one-two-three. Cha-cha-cha.” She threw her head back and laughed, “So you did learn something useful at Columbia!”

I couldn’t believe that my feet were moving as if beyond my control and that I was able to keep up with Jewel who, intermittently, danced her way in a circle around me, all the while singing along with the band—

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar na na na

And then she was at my side and stayed there, with our hips touching, moving in unison as if we were one organism. “I’ll be going to Finch College in the fall,” Jewel said, a little breathlessly, never leaving my side. “My mother thinks I need some ‘finishing’ so they’re sending me there. (Right, you’ve got it—one-two-three.) It’s really a school for rich girls who can’t get into a real college, but I want to go there because it’s in the city. That’s where I want to be. I hate Great Neck. (Vamos a bailar) I know I’m not too smart,” I’m embarrassed to admit that I was so concentrating on the dancing and the heat searing my hip that I failed to contradict her. “I may not be smart but I know what I don’t want.” She swept the room with a gesture that was timed perfectly to fit the music. “Grace Slick went to Finch. From Jefferson Airplane. That’s the kind of life I want. Far away from all of this. I’ve had it with this stupid club and all the manipulations to get me married off to some bald-headed proctologist.” I became self-conscious of my prematurely receding hairline and tipped my head to the side to angle it out of Jewel’s line of sight.

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva
Vamos a bailar

“Don’t take it personally. I’m sure you’re very nice and we could probably have fun in the city once I’m there. But if you’re thinking about dating or going steady or anything like that, forget about me.” One breast was about ready to pop out of the top of her dress and I was more focused on it than on what she was saying.

“But if you want to get laid or anything like that,” she paused for a moment, “be sure to look me up.”

And with that she let go of me, tossed her hair, and cha-cha’ed her way over to the band stand where she and Tito Puente and his men finished the number in a great flourish, while I’ll remained out on the floor, no longer dancing, and alone—

Vamos a bailar esta vida nueva

* * *

“Lloyd, darling,” it was Mrs. Traub, “Dinner is about to be served so please take my arm so we can find our table. I see that Jewel is taking very good care of herself.”

I was intoxicated from what she had offered and how I might “look her up,” as she put it; and, as if in a state of rapturous automatic pilot, I was swept along again by Mrs. Traub, away from Jewel, down yet another few steps into the Tack Room Restaurant, which was decorated as if it were a medieval mead hall. The walls were half-timbered and the ceiling, which soared above us, was crisscrossed with deeply carved hammerhead beams whose bosses were illuminated by the light that trickled in through mica glass window fragments set in lead-lined traceries. The coffered, wood-paneled walls were oiled and lined, cheek by jowl, with stuffed animal heads—deer and moose and black bears as well as larger game such as lions and leopards and even two massive elephants.

“Here, Lloyd, this is our table. And this is Mr. Silvergold (‘Call me Sid,’ he said as Mrs. Traub escorted me to my high-backed leather chair), he wants you to sit next to him. He knows you’re about to be a doctor . . .”

“Well, not . . .”

“. . . and since he’s in that business—not a doctor but in the medical business, I’m sure he’ll explain it better than I can—he wants you to sit with him so you can get to know each other. I love Sid,” they exchanged a long look, “He’s so funny, I’m sure you’ll like him too.”

He patted the zebra-skin seat of the chair on his right. “I know you’d probably prefer to sit with Jewel and Dicky but there’s a gang of good-for-nothing boys here she grew up with; and since this is the last weekend before they all go back to school I assume, unfortunately, she’ll want to be with them. But she’s going to college in the city and maybe you’ll be able to get together there in a few weeks.” Especially with Mrs. Traub on my right I was glad to be sitting because the thought of that prospect continued to excite me and thus, in my rented trousers, took visible form.

“So, Floyd, what kind of Sore Bones are you planning to be? Ob-Gyn? They have the most fun,” he was smoking a cigar and choked on the smoke. Mrs. Traub also thought that was funny.

“In truth, Mr. Silvergold . . .”

“Please, my name is ‘Sid.’ My father’s name is ‘Mr. Silvergold.’ Or was, he should rest in peace. He died two years ago. Just went out to get some cigarettes and never came back. Dropped dead right on the corner of Livonia Avenue. In Brooklyn. Do you know Brooklyn? It’s a terrible place to die. Especially right out on the street with all that traffic. He smoked two packs a day since he was sixteen. They killed him. That’s why I only smoke cigars. As long as I don’t inhale. Still a filthy habit. Rose hates for me to smoke. Says it will kill me too. But we live in Great Neck so at least I won’t die in the street.” He laughed at his own joke.

Mrs. Traub said, “Sid, what kind of talk is this? This is a dinner dance. Talk medicine with the boy. You’ll both enjoy that.”

“Sorry,’ he said to me, “do you want a cigar? I have three more of them here.” He reached into his tuxedo jacket, but I shook my head and thanked him.

“And don’t worry about all of these forks and knives and spoons.” He had noticed that I had been staring at the lavish table setting, at all the silverware and pewter beakers and crystal glasses. “If you ask me, it’s all about the prime ribs. The rest will just fill you up. You can pass on the salad and the soup, though the shrimp they tell me are good—I don’t eat them you know.”

“Yes, Mrs. Silvergold told me that . . .”

“Yeah, well,’ he chortled, “with my family history it doesn’t hurt to have God on your side. I told you about my father. And my circulation they tell me is all clogged up. I could pop off right here. Even before they bring the first course.” He patted his expansive stomach which was stuffed into a plaid cummerbund. He exhaled again and this time a belch accompanied the cigar smoke. “I hate these things. They give me gas. I’d love to take it off, but Rose would kill me.” He squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, which was too unyielding to accommodate his shifting bulk, and glanced across the table at Mrs. Silvergold who was laughing at something Dr. Traub had just said to her.

“But that brings me closer to the subject at hand.” Mr. Silvergold shifted nearer to me and draped his arm across the back of my chair.

“Everyone is just waiting around to die.” Some of his cigar ash fell into my lap. “Distracting themselves as best they can while waiting for the inevitable to happen. And also before they die they spend half their time with doctors and in hospitals. That’s where I come in. And you too. We’re in that business. Right?”

I tried to say, “I’m just going to be a sophomore . . .”

“I know, I know. But even you have to think about the future, because the future is just around the corner. And then we know what’s waiting for us.” He chuckled to himself, “So here’s how I look at things—Everyone is going to need Ostomy supplies. Right?”

He saw that I wasn’t following him, “That’s my business—Ostomy supplies. You know, bags for people who have had Colostomies. My sales went up twenty-three percent this year alone because, as I said, everyone nowadays needs them. It’s an epidemic. Problems with the colon, considering the shit, pardon my French, that people eat.”

He turned to the liveried waiter who was just then serving the first course, “Not for me. I’m taking a pass on the salad. Rabbit food if you ask me. But what about you Floyd? Don’t forget what’s coming.”

“Ah, I don’t know . . .”

“Leave him be Sid,” it was Mrs. Silvergold who was now focused on the food, “I told you he eats nothing. So let him eat.”

“You see what I mean? Take the salad,” he whispered to me so his wife wouldn’t hear, “but you don’t have to finish it.” The waiter placed a massive portion before me and from a silver bowl ladled onto it a clotted stream of Thousand Island dressing.

“But as I was saying,” Mr. Silvergold resumed, “colorectal surgeons are cutting out hunks of people’s large intestines and colons as we sit here. Even on Labor Day weekend.” He looked over to me, “How’s the salad Floyd? Do you have enough dressing?” I said that I was fine. “And when they stitch them up and send them home from the hospital, they need what I sell. I’m the largest supplier of Ostomy products on the entire east coast. You wouldn’t believe how much mail order I do. Most people who need these bags are embarrassed to go into the drug store to buy them, so I save them from having to. It works out very well.”

I was beginning to feel full from just the salad and was thinking more about Jewel’s breasts than Colostomies, which in truth I didn’t know too much about. So I let the waiter clear my salad plate and told him I would skip the soup and wait for the prime ribs—well done, if possible. Mrs. Silvergold saw and heard all of this and looked across at me with disappointment. I just shrugged back at her.

“We stock colostomy pouches, ileostomy and urostomy pouches, closed-end pouches, drainable pouches, pouch covers, glue-on wafers, one-piece systems, two-piece systems, skin barriers, irrigation items, ostomy belts, tapes, adhesives and cements, adhesive removers, deodorants, gas vents, and accessories.

“That’s the whole enchilada.” He smiled proudly at me, but I was straining to catch a view of Jewel with her friends.

“Then we have our tagline, right on the mail order catalogue it says:

Silvergold’s Sickroom Supplies--If you gotta buy it somewhere- - how about here? We hope we'll both be glad you did!

“Pretty catchy, don’t you think?” I recall that I just grunted something about liking the alliteration.

“Sit back in your seat Floyd because they’re about to roll out the beef. They serve it from flaming carts so be careful. I don’t want to damage the goods, if you know what I mean.” I think I understood what he meant but was still more interested in looking for Jewel and thought I saw her, through the flickering candle light, on the other side of the hall, sitting and wriggling on the lap of one of her friends.

And with that, before I could be certain, the lights dimmed further and Tito Puente moved over to his largest set of Mambo drums where he began to beat out an intricate Latin rhythm to accompany the appearance of about a dozen stainless steel grills from which flames were shooting so that it looked as though we were celebrating the Fourth of July rather than Labor Day. Each cart was propelled forward in among the tables by waiters who were dressed now in what looked more like blacksmith’s aprons and gloves than riding attire. I was glad that Mr. Silvergold had warned me since, as one of the carts approached us, it belched a geyser of sparks. Some of which landed on our table and burned small holes through the thick brocade cloth.

“Here, sir,” a cinder-stained waiter said, “you asked for it well done so I hope you like it this way.” His tone was a little condescending as he plopped on the wooden slab that served as my dish a triple-thick set of ribs that looked as if they had been incinerated.

“You know,” Mr. Silvergold said, his piece was so rare that blood was still seeping from it, some of it onto the tablecloth since the tortured piece of ancient-looking wood that was his plate was so warped that it couldn’t contain the gravy, “your hunk of meat also reminds my of my business.” I must have given him a skeptical look as I began to hack away at it with my wrought-iron steak knife. “I mean it.” He had already cut off a piece and was chewing and sucking on it as he spoke, “After the surgeon resections the colon, he pulls one end of it through an opening that he cuts in your stomach and staples it in place.” He reached over to illustrate, poking me on the right side of my abdomen. “The piece that they leave sticking out right there,” he jabbed me again, “looks just like your piece of prime ribs.” I stopped slashing at it for a moment. “Not the same size mind you, but the same color and texture.” I put my utensils down and gulped some water.

“And, again, that’s where I come in. I make all the equipment they need to glue the bags to their stomachs and of course manufacture a whole line of the bags themselves. You’d be amazed how quickly people learn how to take care of their own wafers and bags so it all works out very well. We even try to make it fun.”

I had pushed back my chair, feeling the need for a little fresh air; but before I could get up and make my escape, Mr. Silvergold leaned even closer to me. I could smell his breath—it was a mixture of stale cigar smoke and extra rare beef, “And if you play your cards right, son, one day,” he looked out over to the dance floor where he and I saw Jewel with a close friend moving sensuously to a Mambo beat, “all this, Floyd,” he swept his hand in a grand gesture, “will be yours.”

* * *

I bolted from the table and raced back through the Acorn Bar and out onto the terrace. The sun had nearly set but the air had become even more saturated. In spite of that, I took a few deep breaths in an attempt to regain my equilibrium and settle my stomach. I was happy that I hadn’t eaten too much, though that one gin and tonic was still rattling around in my system. Or maybe I just needed to be alone to sort out my raging fantasies and to think about what Jewel’s father seemed to be suggesting. How much of a bargain might I be willing to strike . . . ?

“Oh, there you are Lloyd. I thought I might have to look for you in the men’s room.” It was Mrs. Traub. “What was it that Sid was saying to you that made you so upset?”

“It wasn’t so much that. I don’t know. I guess I just got a little overheated.” She had moved quite close to me so that I was now breathing her perfume as much as the moist air. She took my hand in hers and looked at me, as if asking me to tell her more. I tried to accommodate her, “This has been a very different kind of day for me. I mean, being here at the club.”

“I know Lloyd darling. I do understand. I really do. You see, this life is a very different life for me too.”

“I don’t . . .”

“You know me the way I am now. In my home. Here at the club. How I look.” She held her arms out to the side and turned in a slow pirouette, showing me her dress, her hair, and I thought perhaps even her face and body. “This is who I have become. Mrs. Doctor Traub. Trudy Traub. But before that I was Ida Zimmerman from the Bronx. From two blocks east of the Grand Concourse. No Trudy. No Dr. Traub. No Lorenzo del Pesto house. As a matter of fact, when I came home from school one day, I was in the fourth grade, I found my mother on the street in front of our apartment house, sitting on one of our kitchen chairs. It was out on the street along with all the rest of our hand-me-down furniture. And all our other things were in boxes. On the street. We had been evicted. The year before my father had died in an accident—he worked in the city in a hat factory and had been killed there in an elevator accident. We had no money. My mother had to take in laundry and clean apartments. Our life was quite a cliché. But still there wasn’t enough money to keep us above water. But she never complained or let on how much trouble we were in. She wanted me to still have a childhood and to stay in school and not have to work. But then I found her there, sobbing on the street.” Mrs. Traub stepped back away from me, staring off over the 18th green as if to call up an image of that sad scene in the Bronx.

“I had no idea Mrs. Traub. I’m so sorry to hear that . . .”

She turned back to me. “No need for that because look at me now. Just look at this. At my life. We always dreamed about one day moving those two short blocks to the Concourse. But it was as far away as the moon. But here I am now.”

She paused, and then said, “It’s also what you want. That I also know.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not sure just . . .”

“It’s OK, Lloyd. To want this is normal. Your parents are very fine hard-working people who only wish the best for you. But do you want their life? Do you want to spend your life with us in East Flatbush?” He voice had become husky. “You realize of course that our house is just across the street from yours.” What was she trying to tell me? “So don’t think, in spite of how things appear to you, that this is all of life.”

“I don’t, but you do have . . .”

“You have no idea what I have. More important you do not know what I gave up. To you it looks like I have everything.” She looked around to take in all of the club and its perfect grounds. “I worked in an office typing invoices to put Dr. Traub through dental school. He didn’t have the grades to get into medical school. We met at a dance at a Jewish center in Queens. We both had friends there. I was quite beautiful then. At least I had looks, and he saw what he wanted. He was going to Brooklyn College and was pre-med, so I saw what I wanted. He had already lost most of his hair and he only came up to my nose, which by the way is also a reproduction, but I saw in him a one-way ticket out of the Bronx.” She paused again, and with a self-mocking laugh said, “From the Bronx all the way to Brooklyn!”

She took a handkerchief from her bag and wiped what I assumed was perspiration from below her eyes. She spoke now with a harder edge to her voice, “I know what you and everyone else in the neighborhood think about us. What a war hero Dr. Traub was. I could tell you about that. And such a wonderful professional. There are things I could say about that too. And what an upstanding citizen and sportsman. But I know, Lloyd, that when you were about twelve or thirteen you had a Saturday job at Augie’s barber shop and that you knew about the back room which Sugar Traub visited quite regularly. No one ever talks about that. And other things too, which I will not go into now.

“But I’ve achieved my dream, haven’t I? I’m no longer Ida Zimmerman from East 172nd Street.”

She took both of my hands. She was trembling. We were close enough so that even in the last light of the day I could see that it was not perspiration on her cheeks.

“You know, in my house, on the ‘living floor,’ which I still tell Lorenzo is a ridiculous idea--no matter--that there is the harpsichord? We spoke about it. About the music I love so much? And appreciate and understand. I really do.” Her makeup began to run. “That was the life I should have dreamed about.”

She let go of me and turned away. I think I heard her say, “All I have of that now is the fucking harpsichord. And even it’s a reproduction.”

I thought I should probably go over to her and try to say something like “It’s not too late,” or think of some way to comfort her. Maybe touch her or even take her in my arms since I thought she must by now be crying. But from all the wine and excitement, I desperately needed to pee and said, as I passed by her, “I’ll be right back. I really have to go to the men’s room.”

* * *

I fled back inside and almost ran into a liveried footman assigned to the Acorn Bar who told me the bathrooms were just behind the waterfall. Out of breath and in truth happy again to be alone, I pulled open the hammered bronze door and entered into the half light of the onyx-inlaid men’s room. And though I was hoping for a respite, I realized immediately that something was terribly amiss.

Right at the entrance, on the slate floor was what appeared to be a torn cummerbund and floating in the first of the three black sinks a discarded clip-on bow tie. As I steeped carefully over the cummerbund so as not to disturb it, I saw, also on the floor, by the first toilet stall, an inside-out white tuxedo jacket so twisted and knotted that it looked as if it had been ripped from someone as the result of a fierce struggle. I thought I had come upon a crime scene and began to back away toward the door, thinking I should summon help. But as I was about to, from that stall, I heard, “Can’t get this fucking fly open.”

I tentatively looked in and saw Dr. Traub standing before the toilet and struggling with his suspenders. “Is there something I can do to . . . ?”

“Just stand back will you. Need to drop my pants,” which he finally managed to do. They gathered around his ankles. A weak stream of urine began to dribble into the bowl.

“Ah, that’s better,” he groaned, “Goddamn prostate. Need to piss every half hour. Size of an orange my urologist claims. Wants to slice it out. Turn me into a capon. Rather die than be made into a eunuch. Trudy, ah Mrs. Traub, disagrees. Sure. She’d like to see me with my whole pecker cut off.”

I started to back away but he stopped me, “How’d you like that? With a dick that doesn’t work? Wouldn’t be a lot of fun, eh? Bet yours works pretty good. You’re in your prime. I hope you’re making the most of it. Giving it a good workout.” He snorted. “She thinks that would change things, Trudy does. Get even, if you understand. Fat chance. All she knows is spend, spend, spend. Can’t keep that woman out of my wallet. How she carries on with that Pesto faggot. You have no idea how much he took me for? One hundred fifty grand for that house. And she complains about what I spend on the ponies. Hasn’t worked a day in her life since I graduated from dental school. A man needs a little relaxation every now and again. What’s the harm? You see any harm?”

He didn’t wait for me to respond, for which I was relieved. “One-fifty. You know how many cavities that is? At 35 bucks per? That’s a shit load of drilling. A life sentence to hard labor. On my feet ten hours a day. Most Saturdays too. Just need a little fun. You have any idea what standing on your feet all day does to you? Stand back a little and I’ll show you,” which I was as only too happy to do.

Dr. Traub sat down on the toilet seat and removed his patent leather dress shoes, black silk socks, and garters. He reached down, almost toppling off the toilet, and grabbed hold of his right foot. He took hold of it and lifted it so I could see better. As it was quite dark with the two of us in the stall I needed to bend forward to see it. “Look at that. Ever see anything that beat up and ugly? All corns and bunions and calluses.” I agreed that it was quite a twisted mess of a foot. He let go of it and, from its weight, it slammed down onto the floor.

“And you know something else? What an abscess smells like? I need to deal with them too. Clean ‘em out. When you open them up they smell like this toilet. In fact, more like an open sewer.”

He looked up at me and I looked down at him, “That’s my life.” His eyes were blinking rapidly. He said, “Don’t be fooled by everything you see.”

He held my gaze. “But I shouldn’t be talking to you this way. Especially on such a fine evening, with you just starting out in life.” He rose from the toilet, hoisting his pants at the same time.

He hooked his arms back through his suspenders and winked at me, “I did see you dancing with that Jewel. She quite a hot number. Think you’ll get any? I’ll bet she’ll put out for a Columbia pre-med.”

At last--THE END!