Max

by Peter Berczeller

  Random thoughts in between grieving for Eva. Ours was a 19th century kind of affair; all talk, very little action. Mostly sitting around, holding hands in candlelit cafés on MacDougal Street. Lingually deprived, dry-as-blotter-paper kisses, the length of the elevator trip (too short, why didn’t she live in the Empire State Building?) to her family’s apartment on the third floor. No consummation, not even memories of some passionate, fumbling touche-pipi. My twenty-year-old self’s feelings arrested in time, like a dried-out flower in a glass case.

  CHAPTER THREE

  MY CBD

  1948

  My apartment looks like the Junior Assistant storeroom at Barnes & Noble. Dark even on bright days. The only touch of color: at night you can just about see the red Pepsi-Cola sign flashing from across the river. Lots of industrial shelving loaded with books, the rest piled up on the floor and even in the kitchen cabinets. (I’ve never counted how many there are; must be at least two thousand.) It’s gotten so bad, my landlord is trying to evict me. Somebody told him I was a bookworm, so he thought he’d put two and two together. There are some insect problems in the apartment beneath mine, so (if you ever met him, you’d agree he doesn’t look like much of a reader) he’s convinced my books are spawning the worms which then work their way downstairs. We have a date in Housing Court in a couple of months.

  For a long time now, I’ve suffered from a sickness having to do with books. My parents were the rare Austrian Jews who were allowed to take their entire library with them when the Nazis forced them out of the country. Three cookbooks (one of them devoted entirely to 19th century logistics in the production of Apfelstrudel) and a volume of the collected Max und Moritz stories (sort of The Katzenjammer Kids, but in German.) Even those small pickings were kept on a shelf I couldn’t reach. The phonebook was handier – they kept it with the galoshes in the hall closet.

  This need to read led to unexpected consequences when I was around seven or eight. I found myself going over the weekly limit at the lending library. Also filching magazines from Ye Tobacconist around the corner from our house. Meanwhile ordering free comeon copies of the Book of the Month Club under an assumed name. Hoodwinking my parents by going under covers with my flashlight, reading into the early mornings.

  Pretty soon, my mother noticed I was getting thinner, and began to pay what I thought was extraordinary attention to the sheets on my bed. When people are desperate, they turn – a lot of the time misguidedly – to their doctors. A quick fix is what they hope for. What to eat, what not to eat; not enough vitamins, too many; is the tap water filled with toxins? My mother presented me to Dr Gardner, our family doctor. Talking as if I wasn’t there, she kept coming back to this one word. To me, it sounded like “anonymous.” (I realized only afterwards, it was onanism they were talking about.) Holy shit, I thought, the Book of the Month Club finally got wise to me; maybe I wasn’t so anonymous after all.

  When the kindly old doc took me into his examining room and asked me to drop my pants, that really scared me. I was convinced the Club was about to take revenge for the way I tricked it for freebies. Just as I was ready to confess and offer a deal – I’d give back all their books, plus a few of my own to sweeten the pot – the doctor checked what I had down there. That took all of thirty seconds. “The ground is pretty bare. Just a little maple sapling, but right now it’s too fragile to reach to the sky. Don’t expect any syrup to come out of there for quite a while,” he told my mother. All the magazines in his waiting room had something to do with the preservation of our precious forests.

  You`d think my mother would give up after the reassuring visit with Dr Gardner. But she wouldn’t, so we ended up seeing Dr Kleban, a child psychiatrist. When I first saw him, I thought there must be some mistake. Pediatricians oftentimes look like kids. Short, with that about-to-be-spanked-any-minute look. So, it was just one step further for my child psychiatrist to remind me of a disturbed kid. Couldn’t sit still, his oversized tortoise-shell glasses bobbing up and down from his blinking eyes to his flaring nostrils. Still, he was good at getting me to kvetch about what was bothering me. So I let my pants down (figuratively this time around) and explained about this need of mine to beg, borrow or steal books.

  It turned out my sickness has a name. “Compulsive Bibliophilia Disorder” (CBD for short) is what he called it. In my experience, patients don’t give a shit about diagnosis. It’s the prognosis they’re after: is the boo-boo about to go away, are they going to live to tell the tale? In my case, there was (and still is) no treatment. You don’t die from it, but it doesn’t go away either. And it’s not just about reading. That’s a big part of it for sure. But just holding and sniffing the book before I buy it (sometimes I have to pinch one if there’s no other way to make it mine) and then carrying it home like some precious conquest, is as much of a kick as setting my eyes on what’s inside. Besides, there’s the flavor of the books themselves. I like to roll my tongue over the bindings, and taste what they have to offer. Something like running wine over your palate. The combo of glue and stiff paper unique for each one. Not exactly the “taste in books” the literati get off on; just my way of snuggling up even closer to what I can’t resist in the first place.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ARLENE I

  August 1981

  Not that I turned into a wallflower after I broke up with Eva. Jewish boys who are about to become doctors are objects of intense interest to both mothers and daughters. A kind of jungle tom-tom announced my arrival on this particular scene. Distant relatives who had not been heard from for practically forever, and fellow parishioners of my parents at Temple Israel in Fort Lee, all clamored to fix me up with their particular recommendation. Who, according to them, was invariably “beautiful,” “a wonderful human being,” and whose parents “aren’t exactly poor, you catch my drift?” It wasn’t for lack of trying. I followed up on every lead, but over the years the experience was like picking my way through a buffet. A taste here, a taste there. Nobody pretending it’s a real meal, but it does fill you up; for the time being at least. All I ended up with were souvenir cocktail napkins and multicolored toothpicks. A waste of time all around. No wonder the amateur marriage brokers gave up on me.

  By then, I was like the guy who’s always the last to leave the party. Hoping to snare the girl who’d had no takers all evening. This freelance mooning around was no more successful than my dealings with the candidates from the Temple Israel connection. I was at a dead end. If life wasn’t totally passing me by, it wasn’t giving me a promising pat on the back either.

  New York streets in August give you that special feeling, like it’s carnival time in Rio. The smell, to start out with. Dog shit, gas fumes, hot rubber on about-to-melt asphalt, reheated uncollected garbage, and the vapor (what’s it made of anyway?) that’s belched up by the storm drains. Also the sweat, the wet stickiness of your pants reminding you of the good old days when it was OK to piss in them. Walk around like that long enough, and a primitive part of your brain gets called front and center. The one that doesn’t turn up its nose at putrid smells or slippery-slidey skin. Watch it skillfully shake all the ingredients I just mentioned into an erotic cocktail. Just before serving, add anybody, anybody at all (a complete stranger usually works best), and you have the perfect concoction for one hot night.

  Which is exactly what happened to me. It came out of nowhere, but turned out to make a big difference in my life. Late one evening, I was walking back to my house from the County Hospital. We’d spent a few hours removing blood clots and pieces of bone from the brains of three ex-friends. They’d been aiming a baseball bat at each other’s heads, in a struggle over a bottle of rum. I was tired, but there was no way I could miss a group of about ten or fifteen girls standing around in front of the building across from where I live. There was a hum coming from their general direction, the kind of background choral music made by women in groups. “Hey guys, we’re having a fine time without you, thankyouverymuch. But if you can’t stand t
o stay away, just follow your ears.”

  Once in a while, looking out of my window, I’d seen one or two going in and out of what looked like a dormitory. But this was the first time I saw them in a bunch. They turned out to be student social workers from a college in upstate New York. They were here, learning how to find a place to live for ninety-year-olds dumped by their families, or who to contact about getting work for amputees with five kids to feed. That’s the kind of practice they get in their three months at the County, before going back to their college for more coursework. One man chatting up fifteen women has it made. Fifteen men chatting up one woman – watch out, I don’t have to tell you. Still, a lone male is automatically a mascot, he’s not considered dangerous. At least while he’s taking his time figuring out which of the ladies he’s about to rip away from the pack. As far as I was concerned, there were four or five standing there who made my shortlist right away. Trouble was, I couldn’t tell them apart. Denim shorts, halter tops. Very sexy in my opinion, because since they’re evidently not wearing anything underneath those, could that be true for the shorts also? The latter possibility being even more outstandingly sexy in my opinion. Besides, they all had kinky, curly hair.

  It was like trying to choose a pup at a kennel. What I really wanted was to take them all home with me. Just a passing thought, as gymnastic and mathematical possibilities rose up before my eyes. I had to choose – but quick – before they all scurried away thinking collectively I’d rejected each of them individually. A last-resort look gave me my out. Kinky-haired they all were, but one of them was special in that department. Her shiny, wet ringlets reminded me of a sketch I once saw of Louis XIV’s wig after a thorough rinsing. Complimented her on the coiffure, using the Sun King as a personal reference. That did the trick. In time, the others went on their way like chorus girls after a nothing-doing tryout. Somebody with my history can’t afford to burn bridges. Before they took off, I came up with an emergency party favor.

  A blanket invitation to watch a real live brain operation – as my special guests – someday very soon.

  That’s how I first met Arlene I. Unforgettable, that’s what she was. Starting with that night, I never stopped discovering novel things about her. For instance, how she managed to keep her palms dry, though her fingers felt like they had just been lightly dipped in something creamy. Also, there were the ringlets pouring down her neck, which somehow stayed at a respectful distance from her forehead. In other words, none of that annoying, don’t see how she can see straight, all the time pursing her lips to blow her hair upward, sheepdog look. Also, contact lenses in place. So, no embarrassing optometric faux pas – my frames or yours? Things got even better when she helped me unravel something that was always a puzzle for me: the inner workings of a halter top.

  But these were only preliminaries to the main event. That’s when I first smelled that scent. A bouquet rather; equal parts lilac and tie dye, rising up from a triangular area – roughly halfway between the knees and the belly button – covered by her slightly moist denim shorts. Move over Marcel, this wasn’t just a question of nostalgia for long-ago madeleines. Also, no connection whatsoever with the shellfish, kelp, and wet rocks pussyfooting around engaged in by authorities on female smells. No, what made it so alluring was the outcome of the chemical reaction between the denim and the dampness. For all I know, old Levi Strauss packed some aphrodisiac or other into his pants which requires the addition of a special fluid (provided by the consumer) to come up to speed.

  It was like experimenting with airplane glue or cocaine. Never tried the stuff myself. But “Where has this been all my life,” and “When and where can I get more of it,” that’s what I kept thinking after my very first exposure to Arlene I’s fumes. I wasn’t eady hooked.

  In science, you learn to check and recheck, make sure you got it right the first time. That’s why I put the bulletin from my nose to the test with the other four senses. No need to go into detail about touching and looking and tasting. But hearing? Every time I rubbed the denim, degree of sprinkle already discussed, gently over her pubic bone – that’s the one belly dancers throw out at you like a satellite launch at Cape Canaveral – there was kind of a ripply sound. Like when you’re smoothing out a velvet curtain after it’s been caught in the rain. Anyway, all my five senses agreed. This was something special. After a few nightly shuttles over to my place, Arlene I and I ended up with an amitié amoureuse. The ties of a loving friendship without the noose of an affair.

  By the time September came around, Arlene I invited the other ones, the chorus line rejects, up to my apartment. They still looked a lot alike to me. Maybe not their faces, but their frizzy hair and those denims they wore like a uniform. By that time of year, it was either long skirts – the nostalgic, peasant look – or jeans.

  Why the frizzy hair? Early on, I did what’s called a controlled study. Frizzy hair, no denim – none of the usual effect. The other way around, same thing. No question the two went together. But how? Could frizzy-haired social workers have a specific chemical circulating in their blood that works as a catalyst – a fixer – which puts the denim-moistness connection over the top?

  As I was sitting there looking around at Arlene I and the others, I saw the future, bright and clear. After the girls left, I had a talk with Arlene I. Her tour of duty at the County was almost over, and she was due to go back upstate in a few days. Neither of us had brought up the subject of if – or when – we were going to see each other again. Going cold turkey, so early in my addiction, would have been bad news. That’s why I felt it was OK to pop the question about transition arrangements for Max.

  I never expected her to be anything other than a sexual democrat. I’m not talking politics, just equal opportunity for all. Think of it: she agreed to pick out her successor for the shuttle! A candidate from the chorus line, Arlene II. Same basic equipment in the curls and denim department. Also, her exhalations turned out to be identical to Arlene I’s. But in other ways the two girls were a lot different. Arlene I would slink across the street late at night with a babushka hiding her face. Very secretive. Didn’t want the doormen and security guards on either end to do a positive ID on her. Arlene II liked the daytime. She’d come over first thing in the morning, naked under a trench coat made of – you guessed it – denim. Every once in a while, she’d even come to the lab in the same getup. I know some women like to walk around without panties in place. But nothing on at all? What if there was a sudden windstorm, or she was hit by a car? Arlene II used to tell me that walking around naked, being the only one to know, with the chance of exposure at any minute, that’s what turned her on.

  When Arlene II left, she appointed her successor. And that’s how it went on. More Arlenes, not to speak of Eileens, Ilenes, Ellens, Elenas. The whole scheme worked out just fine.

  I look at myself as a faithful guy. Maybe not in the same way as men who spend all their life with just one woman. They’re more in the category of marathon runners, with that spent, pained, exhausted look as they come up to the finish line. I’m more of a sprinter. Giving it everything I’ve got over short distances, one race at a time.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  HOW FIDO TEITELBAUM

  CHANGED MY LIFE

  February 1984

  I’m walking on the way from my lab at the County to the weekly meeting of the Department at the Schultz. It used to be called University Hospital, but in the Seventies a mogul called Schultz offered three million bucks to plaster his name all over the pile of grayish brick. Cheaper than buying a basketball team, he must have thought. Wrong! With a team – even if it’s a loser – there’s a win once in a while. But hospitals? War zones all of them, nonstop. No peace, no victory, not even a truce – ever. The combatants lying there, slowly decomposing in the heat exhaled by those whirring, beeping, scintillating robots keeping tabs on when – they couldn’t care less why, or where it is we all end up – everybody’s going to die. Also, a pipeline runs through every one of them, pushin
g along a dark, smelly liquid. It’s shit, the universal lubricant, collected and delivered from top to bottom and from side to side. All the time, no let-up. Too bad you can’t run cars on it. Otherwise we’d have the energy crisis fixed in a jiffy. So, was this a fitting memorial for Schultz?

  It was a heist. Schultz never paid a dime. Something about unexpected losses at his boutique junkyards. What could they do about it, the too trusting Trustees? Not much. Schultz (University) Hospital it was going to stay. Except there’s no way you can hear a parenthesis. So now it’s going to sound forever like Schultz has a university too, not just a hospital.

  As I walk, the East River is rushing by on my right. On some days, when it’s misty enough, the tugboats turn into war canoes defending the coast of Long Island City, across the way. An Optical Joke. To my left, a fenced-in playing field with a dust storm for a floor. Inside, the little inmates from the County Psycho getting their daily airing, the pills they’re fed like mother’s milk making their movements herky-jerky, like puppets.

  Three years before – on the 4th of July – I was making my way in the opposite direction, from the Schultz to the County. All the other adults had gone off to their weekend houses in St Bart’s, or even on a quick visit to a fancy resort in the Indian Ocean. I was on call for the entire neurosurgery service, which meant I was the one available in case one of our patients ran into trouble. I was about to cross through the Schultz Emergency Room to get to the back door, which leads to a shortcut to the County, down the road. As I walked into the ER, I heard yelling and screaming coming from one of the cubicles. So far, nothing unusual. Patients and/or relatives, refusing to believe you can be fine one minute and down the drain the next. Which is like arguing with a cop over a ticket.