October 9, 2017--Cousin Elaine

Cousin Elaine, who died peacefully on Saturday, became part of the family more than 70 years ago.

That family was my mother's--the Mooneys. 

My father's side, the Zwerlings, were not that family-minded but it included a wide range of characters from my chain-smoking, poker-playing grandmother who was the only elderly Jewish woman I knew who could not cook--actually, had no interest whatsoever in household matters--as well as a number of uncles and cousins who were mobbed-up. Uncle Herman, for example, owner of gin mills in New Jersey and Brownsville, always packed a pistol. Family lore has it that he not only carried one but on occasion was known to use it. And there was his brother Louie, who every summer went to Saratoga Springs to follow the ponies, always accompanied by a bottle-blonde or two. Needless to say, none of them his wife. 

As a kid, I loved that transgressive excitement.

But it was the Mooneys who made me feel secure and loved. Very much including Murray Dinerstein--the oldest of our generation of cousins--who was and is 15 years older than I--and who was Cousin Elaine's husband.

More than 70 years ago, Elaine Goldfarb was the first person I knew who married into the family. Others, of course, had done so previously and were assimilated Mooneys by the time I was aware enough to notice, but up to then all who had joined the Mooney clan were around when I was born and so Elaine was the first person I knew who was about to marry in.

I remember vividly the first time I met her. It was after the end of the Second World War, about 1945, shortly after Cousin Murray, resplendent in his uniform, was on leave from the Air Force and during that time brought Elaine around to meet the family which was gathered at my parents' apartment in East Flatbush. Actually, where my mother and her four sisters were gathered. The men took no part in these rituals. 

Though I was not included in the family chatter about the purpose of this encounter, I was aware enough to figure out that Elaine was Murray's potential fiancee. I say "potential" because there was a sense that he was seeking his aunts' approval before proceeding with nuptial plans.

They were seated around the kitchen table with one chair reserved for Elaine. I snuggled up close to my mother. Murray ushered her in and my mother, with a welcoming smile, motioned for her to sit. She did and Murray retreated to the living room sofa, where he waited to be summoned.

I do not remember all that was asked or said, but I do have a vivid recollection that the sisters were encouraging and that they were most interested in learning about Elaine's family. 

As she spoke about them in their own way they seemed as interesting as the Zwerlings in that they too appeared to lead unconventional lives, but on the right side of the law. Among other things it seemed that her two Goldfarb uncles were very successful businessmen, one of whom, Sid, was building a major art collection and lived in Malibu and the other, Phil (Fishel), had an expansive apartment in the Sherry Netherland Hotel in Manhattan and in his early years was teamed up with Danny Kaye who, at that time was a popular Borscht Belt entertainer. 

And, Elaine reported, her father was a dentist. A professional. Up to that time there were none of these in either the Mooney or Zwerling family.

My mother and aunts also were visibly impressed by the fact that Doc Goldfarb, Elaine's father and her mother, Ida, owned a one-family, house on the best stretch of Brooklyn's spacious Kings Highway. No one in the family up to that time owned much less lived in a one-family house. A brick one, no less!

Of course, later in life I was excited to learn that Doc Goldfarb had among his patients a few members of the Murder Incorporated gang. I became aware of this from Cousin Murray who one night told the story about how when Elaine's father's office was broken into by thieves who stole his dental gold, it took just a few days for it to be returned through the assistance of some of his, shall we say. "well-connected" patients.

Not surprisingly, Murray's aunts unanimously welcomed Elaine into their close-knit family. And soon Elaine and Murray expanded the family with their two sons, Harvey and Matthew.

Over the years I got to know Elaine as a talented artist who had excellent, very classy taste. The renovations of the house in Lawrence and the apartment in the Imperial House in Manhattan were both directed by her and were among the most beautiful of Mooney family environments and housed her collection of Chinese porcelains. Both included spacious dining rooms, which Elaine used liberally to host memorable family occasions. Including the after-burial gathering when my father died.

She also, with Murray, made the family feel welcome at their summer home in Bantam Lake, CT, where over the decades, as an annual summer treat, we indulged in dozens of ears of fresh corn from a local farm.

Also, as time went by, as the 15-year gap that separated Murray and me became less important, as we grew older together, Rona and I, frequently with cousins Chuck and Esther, the six Mooney descendants who still lived in New York City, in Manhattan, would meet for long dinners at a wide range of ethnic restaurants where we spent hours together talking about everything from family history, to politics, movies, books, plans for upcoming trips (Elaine and Murray especially were frequent global travelers), and just to bask in the feelings that only intimacy and love can bring.

As I think back now over Cousin Elaine's decades in our family, these are among the happiest memories of my lifetime, and I take pleasure in recalling how she played a never-to-be-forgotten part in them. 

August 14, 2107--Fallout Shelters

I was reading about how people who live on Guam received information about what to do if North Korea launches missiles their way.

They were warned not to look directly at the arriving missiles as they will be glowing from the heat of reentry and possibly exploding and thus it will not be safe to ones' eyes to look directly at them. People were also told not to shampoo their hair as radioactive fallout can cling to it. And residents and visitors were urged to seek shelter, to look for below-ground spaces to huddle in.

Then, in Friday's New York Times there was an article about Cold-War-era fallout shelters. I remember them quite vividly. Pretty much every apartment house in the city was deemed a shelter and some even stocked supplies of water and canned food.

The Times article included a picture of a building in downtown Manhattan where the sign designating it as a fallout shelter was still quite visible.

Scrutinizing it, Rona said, "This looks familiar. See what you think."

I stared at it and said, "I recognize it as well."

"Well, you should, she said, "It's our building in the city! The Randall House."

Randall House Service Entrance

"I think some people up here in Maine are stocking up on bottled water and canned goods."

"True," I said, "Saturday, in Hannifords, there was no water left on the shelves."

"But then again," Rona said, "it's Old Bristol Days here and the busiest weekend of the season."

"I wonder if in Manhattan there's any water and canned tuna fish stashed in our basement."

March 16, 2017--In Line at Trader Joe's

There was a panicky run on food supplies and bottled water as the Blizzard of 2017 approached Manhattan. After Hurricane Sandy, no one wanted to take anything for granted. So Rona and I joined the hunt for things to stock our larder with in case there was two-feet of blowing snow and widespread power outages.

We had recently "discovered" Trader Joe's on 14th Street and, though we didn't think much of TJ's in Delray Beach, we gave the one in the city a try a couple of months ago and liked their selection and prices.

In truth, we especially liked their house brand of Belgian chocolate pudding. Two or three tubs of that could get us through another Sandy. With that who needs bottled water!

When about half a block away it looked like chaos at the entrance to Joe's. "I wonder what's going on," I said. "Maybe a sale?"

"I doubt that but I think it may be a line."

"Out onto the street? That doesn't seem possible. The way they line up people in the store itself who are ready to check out amazes me. Sometimes the lines, two of them, snake all the way from the fruit and vegetable area all the way along the refrigerated chests to the front of the store where there are 20, 25 cashiers. It moves pretty quickly, but a line out the door and halfway up the block, even in a pre-storm buying frenzy?"

"There is in fact in line and it looks like it would take an hour to get to a cashier. So, I'm thinking, I can get through a week--even if we're snowed in--without chocolate pudding."

"Really?" Rona said skeptically, knowing my guilty habits and obsessions better than anyone else.

"And notice, rather the the usual young crowd that shops here most of the people on line are decidedly middle-age."

"That is interesting. The prices in general are pretty good compared to what else is available around here from Agata & Valentina and Whole Foods. So that could be part of the explanation."

"I wonder how many are on line."

"Why don't we count them," Rona said.

As so we did. As unobtrusively as possible so as not to make anyone feel under surveillance. Anticipating the storm was producing enough anxiety.

About halfway to the checkout counters we decided to bail out. It was so crowded that threading our way parallel to those pushing their shopping baskets along was arduous and it began to feel as if we were spying on otherwise stressed-out people.

We stopped the count at 217. "Amazing," I said, and simlutaneously noticed they had already sold out of many things, including my nighttime treat.

A women, who looked to be about 60 overheard what we were saying, pushed her walker toward us and, with edginess, said, "What are we specimens or something?"

"No," I stammered, "We were only looking for my chocolate pudding and . . ."

"And staring at us as if we were on display."

"Sorry to give you that impression," I said weakly, "We're just trying to stock up before . . ."

"So where's your basket, your cart with water and bread and other stuff?"

She had us there. I didn't know what to say. Rona was pulling on the sleeve of my coat.

"You live 'round here?" the woman said. "I can tell by your coat that you do." She pointed to Rona's furry white coat.

"Well, we . . ."

"Fancy people just as I suspected, looking down on the poor folks." She inched her shopping basket along, pushing it with her foot.

"I bought it, the coat, in K-Mart," Rona said almost inaudibly. "It was on sale."

"Speak up, will yuh," she hollered, tapping her ears, "I'm a little hard of hearing."  Rona didn't repeat what she had begun to say. "But, like I said, I'm from around here too." She hadn't mentioned that. "So it's my Manhattan too. I have rent control. Not everyone lives in fancy condos or coops." She was about to poke me in the chest so I recoiled as far as the overflowing aisles would allow.

"We're not that . . ." Rona said, "It's only that . . ."

"Only that you have money and I live on Social Security and Medicare."

"We . . . "

"I have to shop here while you two can go to Whole Foods or Dean & DeLucas and not have to stand out on the street in line, shivering for an hour just to save a few dollars."

"Is that how long you've been in line?"

"I'm exaggerating to make a point. But yes, at least half an hour on the street. But it's worth it. They take food stamps and don't give you attitude."

"We shop here a lot," I lied.

"There are these two Manhattans--yours and mine. I'm not a socialist mind you, though I voted for Bernie. I'm just pointing out the truth. I love living here. In my parents' old apartment. May they rest in peace. I go to a museum most every week. Just saw the new show at the Whitney."

"The Biannual," I said, "Was it any good?" I was glad to change the subject, "Half the time they're terrible. Too much about political correctness, not enough about the art."

"This time the art is very diverse but it's all pretty much of high quality. You should go. I have a pass so I don't have to pay but it shouldn't be a problem for you." Again she looked at Rona's coat.

"I think it costs at least 30 dollars. Not the coat, admission."

"That's a problem for you? If it is I don't see why you're living here. To go to the Whitney or the Met is the reason to be in the city." She again pushed her basket to close the gap in the line.

"We're trying to do more of that," I said.

"And while you're at it, look around at all your neighbors. New York is not just about money and museums. We don't bite." With that she chuckled and coughed at the same time.

14th Street Trader Joe's

May 5, 2015--Brooklyn Battery Tunnel

The traffic was heavy heading out to Brooklyn earlier in the day and now, returning hours later, was still moving at a crawl.

"Let's take the tunnel, "Rona said, "I'm exhausted and the traffic heading to the Manhattan Bridge is stop-and-go."

"But, you know I've become cheap," I said--Rona rolled her eyes, "And the tunnel costs $8.00. So . . ."

"Not if you have E-ZPass. Look at the sign. Then it's only $5.54."

"Still expensive," I said, "But I'm tired too so, OK, let's take it. Let's splurge. Though how they came up with that 54 cents I'll never know."

Ignoring that, Rona said, "Let's try to get into the extreme right lane. We keep forgetting to do that. If we do, we can take Trinity Place north, right onto Sixth Avenue, which is the most direct route to the garage. That way we can avoid the usual snarl on the Westside Highway. And," she added with a wink, "since it's shorter, save money on gas."

"That's how to do it," I pointed.

"Do what?"

"Get into the extreme right lane. There, where the sign says 'All Trucks Use this Lane.'"

"Trucks only?"

"No, look. It doesn't say trucks only which to me means it's also OK for cars. If not, there's no way to get into the tunnel lane we want."

"But why is that policeman waving his arms at us?"

"Strange," I said, "I'm not speeding or anything." I slowed down even more and crept forward toward the stop sign. It was there, another sign said, so that trucks could pull over to be inspected.

"Post-9/11," Rona said. "I get it. But watch out!" She put her hand on my chest as so to restrain me. "That cop just ran onto the road. Right in front of us. up there by the stop sign."

"He looks all agitated," I said, "I have no idea what's going on." I came to a halt well before the stop sign. By then he was racing toward us. It was a warm day and so I thought I'd be nice and creep forward to cut down on the distance he had to run.

"Roll down your window," Rona said, "And be sure to be polite."

"I'm always polite."

"Half the time you're curmudgeony."

Before I could say anything else the officer, panting and sweating, leaned in my window. Holding on to the door as if to support himself.

"Didn't you see that sign?" He was pointing back to where I had entered the extreme righthand lane.

"I did. Is there a problem?" I tried to sound as calm and innocent as possible though, as always in these situations, my heart was racing.

"Didn't you see the sign?" he repeated, this time much louder. Shouting at me.

"If you mean about the trucks, yes I did." Rona placed her hand on my arm since my voice too was raised.

"Well, that was your first violation."

"First violation?" I snapped. Rona whispered to me to calm down.

"It's for trucks, not cars."

"The sign didn't say 'trucks only' and so I thought the lane was for trucks that needed to be inspected and for cars too since there's no other way to get to that righthand unless . . ." I pointed to the tunnel lane we wanted to enter.

"And your second violation," he cut me off, "was that you didn't come to a full stop."

"Full stop?"

"Yeah, here. At this stop sign." He slapped it, right up where I had come to a halt.

"I slowed down to almost a stop, well before the stop sign, when I saw you waving at me. And when you began to run toward us I thought I'd creep forward to the stop sign--the one right here--to make it easier for you."

"License and insurance card." Rona was already fishing for the insurance card in the glove compartment. "And step out of the car please."

"For what?"

"Step out please." His voice turned to ice though his face was beet red and throbbing. Rona poked me in the back. Slowly, with my hands showing, I got out of the car.

"That's a good boy," he said to me with a snarl.

I handed over my driver's license and insurance information. He took his time scrutinizing both, turning them slowly, holding them up to the sunlight, and squinting at them.  "Zwerling, eh? What kind a name is that?"

"It's mine," I said, admittedly with attitude.

Sweat was pouring off him dripping onto the road. Cars were racing by and two trucks by then had come up behind me and the drivers were beginning to tap on their horns. He glared over at them and they stopped.

He finally finished looking over my papers and threw them contemptuously through the window onto the driver's seat. "Get back in the car," he snapped, "and get the fuck outta here." He slapped his hand on the hood.

"Next time--if there is a next time--stay out of my lane or I'll write you so many tickets they'll take away your friggin license. Though how you got one in the first place is a mystery to me. But across the river there in Manhattan I suppose anything goes." He began to sputter and, finally finished with me, swinging his nightstick, started to head toward the first truck in line.

Back in the car, now also sweating, I pulled away at no more than 3 MPH.

As we entered the tunnel in the lane that would let us to Trinity Place, Rona said, "That was unbelievable. And scary. He's so full of rage." She was struggling with her thoughts then said, "Am I ever glad we're not black."

July 30, 2014--POW/MIA

El Bohio, our favorite place in Florida for a Cuban breakfast, is right across the road from the Lantana post office.

Sipping my cortadito, I noticed that right below the American flag, the post office was flying the POW/MIA flag.

"Is that legal?" I asked, pointing.

"I'm not sure about the legality," Rona said, "The post office is no longer an official part of the federal government and so I don't know what rules they have to follow regarding flags."

"I don't know exactly why I'm saying this, but it gives me the creeps. Look at the image--a silhouette in black of a prisoner with his head bowed and behind him a guard tower and a string of barbwire."

"It gives you the creeps?"

"That's how I feel. I mean, I think this flag was designed and first flown during the Vietnam War when the North Vietnamese held many prisoners and certainly there were bodies of soldiers that hadn't been discovered or their remains expatriated. But . . ."

"That was, what, 40 years ago and you still see lots of these flags all over. What's that about?"

"I don't know, but I know it's not flying in downtown Manhattan,"

"You hardly see American flags there. Somehow any show of overt patriotism to some--I hate to admit it, liberals and progressives--is considered suspect. Too pro-America. Minimally not cool."

"Remember how when Barack Obama was first running for president he was criticized for not wearing a lapel flag?"

"Or covering his heart when reciting the Pledge of Allegiance?"

"Or," I added, "excoriated by rightwing extremists for not saying 'under God' during the Pledge."

"Crazy. Since there are lots of videos of him saying just that."

"So that's in part why the POW/MIA flag agitates me."

"And what's the other part?"

I thought for a moment. "You know, I don't know."

April 15, 2104--NY,NY: Stick-Figure Children

During our second day heading north on I-95, bored by the unchanging landscape and relentless traffic,  after running out of interest in making a list of out-of-state license plates (amazingly, we saw Alaska and Hawaii within 20 miles south of Richmond), we turned to anxieties about all the things that likely changed in Manhattan while we were snowbirding.

"I know you're worried that your Danon yogurt will cost $2.00."

"You bet I am," I confessed. "For me it's a litmus test for the cost of things more generally. Like how much maintenance we have to pay for our apartment and how much it will cost to park in our old garage. Probably $700 a month," I intentionally exaggerated.

"Forget how much they be charging for a double espresso at Balthazar."

"Remember," Rona reminded me, "we doing more eating at home and when we do go out for coffee we've been going to The Smile and . . ."

"Where my cortados will probably be $7.50."

"Can we change the subject?"

"Good idea," I said, cursing the car from Ontario that cut me off. "Those Canadian drivers," I sputtered. "They shouldn't let them in the country."

"It helps our balance of trade," Rona said, showing off that she has an MBA.

Reading my mind, she smiled. "While we're being driven off the road check out that bumper sticker."

I squinted into the glare. "What does it say? I can't read it."

"Our Children Are Not Stick-Figures."

"Huh?"

"That's what it says. Though I have no idea what it means."

"I think I know. I think . . ." I cut myself off. I'm trying to stop repeating everything.

"I'm totally puzzled."

"You remember those Baby On Board signs?"

"I do. Every car in suburbia seemed to have one."

"And remember how that morphed into things like Poodle On Board?"

"Or Mother-In-Law On Board."

"I remember you hated them. You can be such a curmudgeon."

"I cultivate my inner curmudgeon. It's one of the things that helps keep me centered when so much seems like it's spinning out of control or getting stupider."

"So what's with the stick-figure business?"

"Haven't you noticed that affixed to the rear windows of half the SUVs on the road . . .  I hate those too."

"SUVs?"

"For the life of me I can't understand the fetish about them. With gas creeping again toward $4.00 a gallon people are still buying them even though they get 15 miles to the gallon."

"I guess they make people feel safe."

"Maybe they're getting ready for the infrastructure to collapse and the oceans to rise."

"My, you make it so pleasant to drive 1,200 miles together."

"Sorry. I can be such a grump. But people put stick-figure decals on their SUV rear windows, one for each member of their families."

"What?"

"You heard me. Look, check it out, look at that SUV from Quebec that nearly drove us off the road. It has them." I pulled closer, tailgating, so we could take a closer look.

"I see," Rona said, "But be careful. I don't want us to get killed while looking at stick-figures. But, you're right, there appears to be a mommy stick-figure decal and a daddy and . . ."

"And it looks to me like a little girl, an adolescent boy, and . . ."

"And could that be a dog stick-figure?"

"They're members of the family too, aren't they? Dogs, I mean."

"I suppose so."

"To keep us from falling asleep in this traffic let's see if we can spot a two-daddy family."

"Or a family with a stick-figure anaconda. They're becoming more and more popular as pets." Rona was finally getting into it.

I made a face.

Finally, back in Manhattan, after unpacking and making a round of obligatory phone calls, we went through a week's worth of newspapers we had shlepped with us from Florida.

"Look at this," Rona said, all excited. She passed last Thursday's New York Times Style section to me. "More of the same."

"More of the same what?" I was still racing through Wednesday's paper.

"Like the stick-figure business."

"'Three-Seat Strollers'? That's the story you want me to read?"

"Yes, about how there's an increasing number of affluent families with three children."

"So?"

"So according to the article, on the Upper East Side in the year 2000, 49 percent of the richest families had two or more children but now the percentage is up to 59 percent, with a decided edge to three children."

"And, what's the big deal?"

"Some are claiming, if you'd read this, that the third child is a 'status child.'"

"I'm not following this."

"With two kids you might be able to get away with a two-bedroom apartment; but with three you need at least three. This shows you have the money to buy a place that size. You know what a fortune it is. Especially Downtown and on the East Side."

"You mean it's no longer enough to have a second home in the Hamptons?"

"Everyone has a house out there."

"Or a Range Rover?"

"Ditto. Two or three from New York nearly ran over you an hour ago when you were dawdling in the passing lane."

"I was going 80."

"What can I tell you, they wanted to go 90."

"So now when we go to the Met or Modern uptown we'll get run off the sidewalk by a three-seat stroller?"

"Now you're getting the picture."

"Do you think my yogurt will really be $2.00?"

April 10, 2014--Snowbirding: Half-and-Half

Parking at Walmart in Delray is more likely to get Rona and me spatting than even my tentative approach to left turns.

For example, yesterday--

"You park like you're an old man."

"I'm just trying to be cautious. With people backing in and out and others pushing shopping carts all over the place in the roadway, I think it's smart to be extra careful."

"I think the way you park is the way old men drive."

That would be enough to get us not talking to each other and leave me on my own--as I then was--to creep up and down the aisles looking for a space that I could squeeze into that wasn't filled with abandoned shopping carts.

And yesterday, making matters worse, there was a truly old man in the road in which I was waiting to pounce on an empty space, attempting wobbly to navigate a motorized wheelchair in the basket of which was stashed a folded walker.

"I wonder what he's doing," I said, knowing Rona was ignoring me and I was in effect talking to myself. "I can't believe he's looking for a car. From the looks of him they shouldn't even let him drive one of these electric scooters." I was aggravated and not feeling compassionate.

"He's probably . . . can't . . . This makes me . . . I don't know." That was Rona sputtering to herself.

"What did you say?" I was hoping to break the ice by having us talk about someone with even more driving issues than I.

"He's probably a Silver Alert person." Puzzled, I looked toward Rona. "You know, someone who has Alzheimer's, or something, who wandered off and the police and his family are looking for him. This makes me crazy. I think of myself as understanding and empathetic but this is . . ."

"You are. You are." I thought if I said it emphatically Rona would believe me and we could resume being civil to each other.

"Look. He found his car. Can you believe it? He's trying to get into it. He can't drive a scooter, but a car?"

I sighed in agreement.

"You know I love being here and I love you, but I'm glad we're heading north at the end of the week. I need a dose of New York. And I know--you don't have to say it--after three weeks I'll want to leave Manhattan and hide out in Maine."

"Let's make a quick hit here." I had finally eased into a parking space. "All we need is some bottled water and laundry detergent. We could have avoided Walmart and gone to Publix, but we were in the neighborhood and so I thought . . ."

"That's OK, love," Rona was at last smiling, "I can handle one more trip to Walmarts. Ordinarily I really like them. But it's just so hot, I didn't sleep well last night, and I guess in spite of myself I'm having some separation anxiety. It won't be easy to leave your mother. She's not doing as well as she was back in January and at nearly 106 you never . . ."

"I know. I know," I sighed.

"Let's get this over with quickly and head home. I think we both could use a nap."

"Deal." We exchanged high-fives.

Once inside we quickly rounded up the water and detergent. "Can you believe it, this laundry soap is less than $4.00. At Publix it would be twice that. I suppose that's why we're here like millions of others."

"Billions," I corrected her.

"It is a little funny," Rona said, "to be here on Equal Pay Day. Walmart's a case in point about why we need that--more equal pay regulations."

"Indeed, indeed." I noticed I was repeating everything. Another sign of aging that annoyed Rona. This time thankfully she let it pass.

"I almost forgot."

"What's that?"

"We need a small container of half-and-half. We have three more breakfasts before we leave and I ran out this morning. I don't remember where they keep it. We never buy it here."

"I think over there where they have the orange juice. Sometimes we get our Tropicana here. The prices again are . . ."

"Yes. I see the refrigerator chest over there by the wall." Rona cut me off, clearly having had enough talk about comparison-shopping. We were soon to be back in about the most expensive place in the world, New York, where my yogurts are by now probably $2.00 rather than the 72 cents we paid for them last week at Publix. Rona understandably, before the fact, didn't want to make the sticker-shock worse that it inevitably will be.

I pushed the shopping cart toward the juice and cream chest and stopped a few paces away. "Where do they hide the half-and-half," I muttered, scanning the shelves. "It must be near here somewhere. Ah, I think it's over there right by the whipping cream."

"I see," Rona said, "But what's going on over there?"

"I don't know."

"There," she pointed, "There's an old man holding onto the door handle of the other refrigerator. It looks like he's having a seizure or heart attack or something."

Concerned but not knowing what to do, I asked, "What do you mean? He looks like . . ."

"Like he's holding himself up by clinging to the handle."

"Maybe I should tell someone who works here that . . ."

"Before you do, let's see if we can help him."

By then we were within five or six feet of where he was obviously struggling with something. Maybe Rona is right, I thought, that he's experiencing some kind medical incident.

"Do you hear that?" Rona whispered. She had stopped and held onto the cart so I wouldn't push it any closer.

"Shouldn't we . . . ?"

"Quiet. I want to listen."

"Listen to what? He looks like he's in trouble."

"I forget you can barely hear anything. But I think he's OK. He's talking. He must be using a cell phone. Like in New York, you remember, all the people walking in the streets who appear to be talking to themselves but are on their iPhones."

I did remember that. In fact I hate it. But how unusual, I thought, that someone who looks as if he's at least 90 should be doing the same thing that twenty-somethings do so routinely.

But I did hear him talking. Actually, it sounded as if he was having an argument.

"If I told you once, I told you a thousand times," he yelled, hunched for privacy close to the refrigerator door, "leave her be." He was gesturing with his free hand. "You don't need this. No more. Enough."

"I think . . ." I said.

"Quiet. I don't want us to disturb him. And also, I want . . ."

"I know, to listen."

"Like I told you," he continued, still agitated, "she's no good. No good. What did she ever do for you except make your life miserable? Miserable. You did this; you did that. Always thinking about her. Her good-for-nothing husband. Her children who never raised a finger to help. You, always you. Always you." His shoulders were heaving and it looked as if he was about to cry.

Rona moved us half a step closer and held a finger up to her lips to shush me.

"Remember when she came home from the hospital. After her hipso-memory operation. Who took her in? Who took care of her? Nursed her? Bathed her? Took her back and forth to the doctor?" His whole upper body throbbed. "You. You. You. No one else. You. Who gave up your bed for her and slept on the sofa? And for how long? Days? Weeks? No, months. Months."

I noticed, like me, he too was repeating himself.

"For days and days after she was strong enough to go home. If I didn't put my foot down she would still be living with us. Even though she's dead, she'd still be living with us. Wanting you to take care of her. To do her every bidding." I heard the beginning of a sob.

"And now? What now?"

By then there was someone else standing next to us who apparently needed some orange juice, But she too didn't advance further and stood patiently next to me.

"Gone. Everything is gone. Everyone gone. Over. Nothing is left. Fartik. Turned to scheisse. Scheisse. Shit!"

With that he let go of the handle, turned, and, trembling with tears, shuffled unsteadily toward the front of the store.

Rona stroked his back as he passed close to her. I looked the other way at the woman who was loading a quart of juice into her cart.

There was no cell phone.

January 31, 2014--Sneaks

Near where we live in downtown Manhattan, on Lafayette Place, there are a couple of stores that sell athletic shoes.

A few times a year when we are walking south to get to Balthazar or the Smile for morning coffee, we see lined up on the sidewalk at those shops hundreds of young people, kids really--some in tents since they have been living on the street for a couple of days--camped out in all weather, which is frequently nasty, waiting, they tell us, to be among the first to get the newest edition of Air Jordans or some such.

List price, especially if they are in their original wrapper and box--these J's are not for use in schoolyard games, but collectors' items--they are as coveted by these kids as is an Andy Warhol to hedge fund managers that is up for auction at Sotheby's--at the store, the Jordans these days go for up to $150.

And then one can find them offered on eBay the next day for at least twice that. Again, if they are in the original, unblemished box.

Some of the kids on line tell us that they are really placeholders or agents for others. They've been promised a couple hundred bucks to wait out in the rain by someone willing to pay them $500 for a pair. Again, if and only if they are in a pristine box.

Not bad. Five hundred bucks to sit out in the rain or snow for a couple of days.

"Hey, can anybody here find a straight job?"

"Not me, man. I'm livin' again with my Mom."

There are enough models to make your head spin and like any other commodity (that, ultimately is what the Jordans are) there's a lot of inside knowledge and background any investor or collector needs to know in order to get good value and upside asset potential.

Like the Air Jordan XIII's, for example, which . . .

. . . were released in 1997. This model was known for its cushioning along the feet, designed by Hatfield. The black panther was the inspiration for the Air Jordan XIII, the sole resembles the pads on a panther's paw. But also the panther is the hologram on the back of the shoe which imitates a panther's eyes in the dark when light is shined on them. They were rereleased in 2005, which coincided with the release of the Air Jordan 8s shoe. 

In the movie He Got Game, the Air Jordan XIII was worn by Jake Shuttlesworth (Denzel Washington). Ray Allen, who played Jake's son Jesus in the film, wore them when he broke Reggie Millers's all-time record for made three-point shots during a game against the Lakers in Boston during the 2011 season. The Jordan brand re-released the Air Jordan XIII at the end of 2010, which included the French Blue/Flint Grey, White/Red-Black, 'Playoff' color way and the Black/Altitude Green color way. 

The Air Jordan XIII was originally released from 1997 to 1998. It was retroed in 2004, 2005, 2008, 2010, 2011, and 2013.

Got that? You better if you're even thinking about investing.

I was reminded about this glimpse of the underground economy by a story the other day in the Times about P.J. Tucker of the Phoenix Suns basketball team and his sneaker collection.

That's what they are--sneakers--not "athletic shoes." Athletic shoes are for over-weight, over-pampered kids from uptown prep schools.

Tucker has more than 2,000 pairs in his collection. 2000! Not all Jordans but a lot of those nonetheless.

And he's not alone. Many NBA and MLB stars not only cash in through sneaker endorsements but have huge collections of their own.

Evan Tucker, the Philadelphia 76ers point guard also has at least 2,000 in his. He confesses that he gorged on 57 pairs recently in a single afternoon of shopping at Sole Control. No sleeping on Lafayette for him.

He stashes them all over the place but mainly in four big closets in his basement, while waiting to figure out a permeant place to display them.

Learning that Jeremy Guthrie of the Kansas City Royals has a special vault for his kicks, Turner says, "I want to do something dope like that for mine."

December 6, 2013--Breakfast

For 30 years Rona and I, almost every morning, have gone out for breakfast. Let me correct that--not almost every morning but every morning.

It was less about the coffee and food than the people. At Balthazar, in Manhattan's SoHo, for nearly 15 of those 30 years, until last year, every day, at table 85 in the bar area, we would join friends who, like us, were seeking community and companionship.

Some days those friends could number more than a dozen and we would push tables together to accommodate all of us. Since the group included people from a variety of backgrounds, interests, and professional life--filmmakers, interior designers, book publishers, performance artists, Wall Street lawyers, anthropologists, novelists, chefs, actors, carpenters, opera directors--with breakfasters from such a wide range of callings, discussions ranged from the serious (what to do in the Middle East and the results of friends' colonoscopies) to the sly (gossip about who else was in the room--"Is that Yoko?").

It was sweet and stimulating, which, like other evanescent realities, succumbed to time and changing circumstances. For one, Balthazar became a go-to place for breakfast and brunch and it was no longer possible to hold so many tables because Jonathan Miller or Nigella Lawson had just arrived from London and might pop in to join us.

Then also, as with Rona and me, work realities shifted, schedules needed to be adjusted, and some of us were no longer so much in town. In our case, we essentially moved to Maine and Florida and retained just a loving, periodic connection to Manhattan and Balth.

In Maine there is the Bristol Diner, a perfect place for a simple breakfast and a gathering place, like Balthazar in its own way, for an even more diverse group of local and seasonable residents--from lobstermen to orthopedic surgeons to federal judges to telephone linemen. So, when there, we can be found almost every morning in one of  the Bristol's five booths, sometimes ensconced for two or three hours as friends drift in and out.

And in Delray Beach, we have a similar reality at the Green Owl. Breakfast in both places for us is an ideal way to emerge to full morning consciousness among people we care about and with whom each day we eagerly look forward to spending time and exchanging stories--some real, much made up.

But then, in New York, all of this has suddenly changed--we are having breakfast at home.

And loving it.

The other morning Rona said, "After nearly 30 years of going out for breakfast, which is very luxurious, having breakfast in my pajamas with the newspaper delivered to our door, feels really luxurious."

"And," I agreed, "we're saving a lot of money."

"That's true, but not really what's important to me. We're doing what we want to do. No pressure to get up and out. That's what's important."

"True. But still I like the idea that we're saving at least $15 a day. That really adds up."

Rona turned her attention to the Style section.

"Really," I said, "Add it up. What did we have this morning? You had an egg (which since it was organic cost about 30 cents and was cooked in maybe a nickel's worth of butter) and pumpkin bread toast (about 50 cents worth) and English breakfast tea (say, 25 cents for the teabag). And I had a--"

"Do we really have to do this? I was having such a sweet time and all you can think about is how much butter I used."

"We don't have to do this, but I'm only trying to make a point."

"Go on then. But please, make it brief."

"I had a croissant with jam (I think we paid $2.75 for that at Dean and Deluca) and a mug of Medaglia D'Oro instant espresso (which cost maybe 20 cents, plus about a dime's worth of warmed half-and-half)." Smiling at Rona, I said, "I'm done."

"How much was the jam and what about the gas and electricity we used to defrost the croissant and cook the egg? Did you figure that in?"

Not realizing she was making fun of me, I thought, "Maybe 15 cents for the jam--it's from France--and we'll see about the gas and electric when we get the next Con Ed bill. But don't forget we don't have to pay tax at home--what is it, about 9 percent?--or leave a tip. I think you leave at least $5.00 every morning." Rona nodded.

"So let me do a quick calculation." I went to get paper and a pen. "At Balth my double espresso is, what, seven dollars and the croissant $4.50. And your egg and toast would be at least $5.00, plus your tea would be $2.00 more."

"Two-fifty. And half a grapefruit, if you're crazy enough to order it, is $10. Ten freaking dollars!" Rona said under her breath.

"So at Balth the same breakfasts plus tax and tip would go for about $25; whereas here it cost us only about $4.00, not including utilities." Self-satsified, I smiled toward Rona who by then was buried in the crossword puzzle.

"I mean, in addition to being delicious and nice and so schmoozy to have breakfast in pajamas, we saved at least $20, which means, if we did this only five days a week (and at the moment we're pretty much eating in every day) we'd save more than $100 a week. Which adds up to real money."

"Agreed," Rona admitted without looking up.

"So what about tomorrow? What are you in the mood for?

"Must we? I'm just trying to enjoy this morning."

"Let's see, we have eggs of course and can make wonderful French toast from Agata & Valentina's pumpkin bread. Or have some of those terrific Bay's English muffins; or waffles--we have Eggos for old-times sake but also the ones we bought the other day at Fairway in Red Hook that are made in France; and we also have various kinds of bagels--you like bagels sometimes; and your McCann's steel cut oatmeal, which you've been serving with brown sugar and sliced up dried figs; and granola; even oat scones from the Balthazar bakery and--"

"Enough! I just ate and already you're talking about eating."

"I only . . ."

September 30, 2013--The 99th Percentilers

As the Occupy Wall Street protesters reminded us last year, there is the one percent and then the rest of us who make up the 99 percent.

Also in New York--in Manhattan--there is another 99 percent. Actually, 99 percentilers: those 4-and 5-year-olds who score in the 99th percentile on the exam that determines whether or not (mainly not) one's toddler is admitted to the city's most competitive and prestigious private schools. Places such as Dalton, Trinity, and Horace Mann. Schools that from this early age significantly determine if junior 12 years later will be admitted to Harvard, Yale, or Princeton. And after that, who knows, the Supreme Court, Wall Street, and even the White House.

New York is the town that Lake Wobegon envied--where every kid is not just above average but way, way above average. Some are even 99 percentile scorers on the Early Childhood Admission Assessment exam that up to now has been the filter that separates the anointed from the just OK.

And if your child is among the anointed, that of course means you are as well. Nothing is more affirming than that--it means you passed along your superior DNA and all the tutoring and chauffeuring from chess lessons to French lessons, from peewee soccer to peewee field hockey paid off. One's foundational work is done and all that remains is resume-building for college applications.

And bragging.

According to a report in the New York Times, here's how it feels among the wealthy in Manhattan if your child does not score in the 99th percentile--

Justine Oddo is just such a mother whose twins got into "only" the 95s. She opined, "It seemed like everyone got 99s. It was demoralizing. It made me think my kids are not as smart as the rest of the kids."

Maybe yes; maybe no. It could be that Ms. Oddo did not shell out the $200 an hour it costs to have one's child tutored for the private school admissions test.

Well aware of all the coaching and prepping, the Independent Schools Admissions Association recommended to its 140 members that they no longer use these exam scores. What to do with applicants is another story--using numbers and percentiles makes life easier than having to rely on interviews and letters of recommendation.

Yes, they do require these letters, though what a recommender would write about a youngster just out of diapers is hard to fathom.

"He's a good eater."

"She knows how to use a smart phone."

"He knows his alphabet and can count to 100."

"She can take off and put on her own snowsuit."

In the meantime, the parental celebrating continues. One couple whose daughter is a 99 percentiler threw a big catered bash for her and her dozens of best friends at their Hamptons cottage.

One guest wondered what they will do for an encore when she gets into "their school of choice."

Maybe a long weekend in Paris?

September 10, 2013--The $289,500 Hot Dog

One of my favorite big city guilty pleasures is slipping out once in awhile for a hot dog and Coke. A Sabrett's dog from a street-corner vendor. They come piping hot on a roll smothered in ballpark mustard and sauerkraut. Though they may not have any nutritional value, and are likely take years off one's life, once or twice a year it doesn't get any better than to sit out on a park bench and munch away on two or three.

And you can't beat the price. Depending on the where, Sabrett's cost about $2.00 each with the soda just a buck. In a neighborhood luncheonette, by contrast, a tuna on whole wheat and a fountain Coke is at least $12.00.

Down in my neighborhood--the West Village, at carts surrounding Washington Square Park--they go for a bargain dollar-fify each while up at Central Park they cost $2.00 or more.

Now I know why there is this price difference.

According to the New York Times, city authorities charge vendors an annual fee to set up in a specific location because about 10 years ago they needed to step in to regulate the situation as vendors were at war with each other. Literally.

Pushing their carts, they would show up before daybreak to stake out a favored loaction and then squat there, fending off others who had been set up there the day or week before. There was much pushing, shoving, and cursing; occasional serious fisticuffs; sometimes stabbings and even gunshots. No surprise, there were also allegations that the Mafia was involved.

Now, every five years, the best spots are auctioned off. There are 20 locations around Central Park and licenses there go for anything from $125,170 a year at the Harlem end of the park to a staggering $289,500 by the entrance to the zoo.

That means, to break even, with dogs at $2.00 each, a vendor who paid this fortune to be set up near the sea lions and monkey house has to sell nearly 150,000 to just break even. If one adds the costs of ingredients, that number is much higher.

With this annual cost of doing business how can any of these guys turn a profit? Some vendors report that they can gross $2,000 on a summer Sunday but take in virtually nothing when it rains or during the winter.  Maybe all the profit comes from selling bottled water at $2.00 a pop

Somehow it must pay.

Or is this yet another example of Big Apple real estate, where everything is inflated beyond normal reality? Where apartments that sold 10 years ago for $400,000 are now worth $2.0 million. Or more.

Location, location, location is the name of the game in Manhattan real estate and it must also be true when it comes to Sabrett's carts. A lot of people after all do come to the Central Park zoo to see the polar bears.

April 30, 2013--Holland Tunnel

I worried that we were headed toward sticker-shock territory when we approached the Hudson River and the toll for the Holland Tunnel was $13.

"That's a lot to enter Manhattan," I said, concerned, as usual, about the cost of things in the Big Apple after months of lower-cost living in Florida. "I remember when it was 50 cents."

"That was 100 years ago," Rona shot back, eager as she aways is to get to the sanctuary of our apartment.

"I know I'm old, but not that old. And I don't think the Holland Tunnel existed that long ago."

"I wasn't being literal. I was just making a point. We've talked about this for weeks. If we want a base in New York City we have to stop thinking about the cost of things. Fortunately we can afford to spend time there."

"Even if it costs $13 dollars for the tunnel?"

"Yes, and even if your yogurt casts two dollars."

Thats been one of my litmus tests--to compare how much a cup of Dannon costs in Gristedes in New York versus Publix in Florida.

So after unloading the car and stashing it in the garage (where the monthly rate had risen to more than $400), we went to Gristedes to do some stocking up.

First stop for me was the dairy chest where yogurt was $1.50 a cup. "The last time we bought any in Florida," I said, "it was only 79 cents. So you see what I mean?" Rona ignored me.

"And Pellegrino water is $1.99. What was it in Florida? $1.25?" Rona ignored me. "And look, a small jar of Hellmann's is $2.50. I don't know what we're going to do. I can eat my tuna fish dry. I actually like it that way. With a splash of olive oil."

While opining, I noticed Rona over by the ice cream chest. "Wait, what are you doing?"

She was putting my favorite, some Edy's Slow Churned chocolate into our shopping cart. I raced over. "How much is it? I could lose a few pounds so why don't we forget it until we get to Maine, where it's only . . ."

"For your information, it's about the same price here as it was in Publix." Rona distinctly was not looking in my direction.

"Really, I could lose five pounds. It would be good not to have anything fattening around for the next few weeks.

"I know you. Tonight, after Japanese food you'll be looking for your ice cream."

"You may be right," I confessed. "But I have an idea. Look. The bananas are only 79 cents a pound. How about getting a few and I can have a banana with just a little ice cream. Sort of like using it as a topping for the banana. It's healthier that way and a quart will last a whole month. And so . . ."

"You're impossible. Maybe we should stay in Florida all year so you can wind up the richest person in the cemetery."

"I just want to be smart about things," I said. "I know you're right. I'm being ridiculous. Though, look at that," I pointed at a stack of lemons. "Two for $1.99."

"I'll grant you they're much cheaper in Florida. After all, they grow them there."

"So maybe no fresh lemonade? I don't really like it."

"You think you'll be OK going out to breakfast tomorrow? If you plan to make a scene, let's buy some English muffins and instant coffee."

"That's one thing I refuse to do--drink instant coffee. If coffee is $10 a cup, to pay for it, we can always get a reverse mortgage on our apartment."

At this, finally, Rona smiled.

At the Smile the next morning I was pleased to see that my scone was still $3.00 and cortados $3.50. That brought a smile to my face. And it didn't hurt that at the next table, also having a cortado, was Katie Holmes.

Back on the street, Rona asked, "So are you still thinking $13 dollars is too much to charge to get from New Jersey to New York City?"

"I'm even willing to pay $15. The price of a movie ticket. Speaking of that, what's the new movie Katie is in town promoting."

"You've been in New York less than 48 hours and already she's Katie?"