Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  “Keep your shoes on, Pakooz, I already have a pair with holes in them,” Kagan laughed aloud.

  Pakooz, what a crazy guy, and Fran thinks he can help me. Pakooz the cut-rate shrink — the all-hours shrink, like an all-night drugstore on the fourth floor of a West Side walkup. Pakooz had office hours from six in the morning until midnight. For an early appointment at five to six, Pakooz would drop his keys down from the fourth floor, and Kagan, sleep weighing down his bleary eyes, would tilt his head up and try to find the falling object against a dawning sky. More often than not, he stuck out a hand at the last moment to make an unexpected catch. It was a good thing, too. The sound of those keys hitting the pavement at six in the morning was clangorous and unsettling. “It’s a transference problem. We’ll have to talk about it,” Pakooz said. At a midnight session, Kagan would lock up on his way out.

  My God, Kagan mused. He’s probably the only shrink in the world who has a crazier schedule than I do. Still, Pakooz only charged twelve dollars an hour when everyone else wanted at least twenty-five. Pakooz was an old socialist who didn’t want to rip off anybody who couldn’t afford it. The trouble was those who could afford it didn’t want any part of Pakooz so the would-be psychosocialist had to rely on extrapsychological techniques. His therapy seemed to be as good as the high-priced Park Avenue practitioners’ — practically worthless. “For twelve dollars an hour,” he told Kagan, “you can’t expect miracles.” Well, it certainly wasn’t any worse and it was twelve dollars.

  Fran liked him since Pakooz said that Kagan was playing games with Fran’s head. Huh, snorted Kagan in disbelief. The night he told me that, he had me assist him in a felony. As Kagan arrived at midnight, a security guard stepped out of the shadows and whispered, “Tell the doctor I’m downstairs.” Kagan was about to get on the couch when he relayed the message. “C’mon, Kagan, hurry, he’s got to get back fast.” Kagan carried up four loads of bricks. “They make a beautiful bookcase, Kagan. You’ll see,” Pakooz explained as if that would make it all worthwhile. “Yeah,” Kagan answered, “I come here to get my head together and I wind up with a hernia.”

  A look of sincere hurt clouded Pakooz’s indefatigable brow. Kagan’s was covered with sweat.

  “Kagan, that’s not fair. You know I give value. Take a look at these ties. They’re something special.”

  Pakooz reached under the couch and pulled out a large, heavy black sample case. At one time or another, he had offered Kagan almost everything: ties out of suitcases, shirts out of cartons, apples by the bushel. Once Kagan lay on the couch steeped in the aroma of garlic rising from a large restaurant-sized tray of lasagne. “I can’t offer you any, Kagan. I promised the friend who bought it that it would feed fifteen people. There’s enough there for fifteen, isn’t there? What do you think?”

  Sometimes it took Kagan half an hour just to make it to the couch. It was like having analysis on Orchard Street. Kagan half expected to free associate in Yiddish. Indeed, it was difficult to free associate about anything other than what was under the couch. Pakooz, for his part, encouraged Kagan, “Don’t blame yourself, Kagan; it’s hard to keep bargains like that off your mind.”

  What was hard to keep off his mind was why Pakooz had corrupted the guard. A poor shlepper like that could wind up in jail while Pakooz enjoyed his new bookcase.

  “Look, Kagan, I know you’re not a student of politics, but I didn’t corrupt him. The system did.”

  “And the system will put his tuchis in jail and not yours.”

  “Kagan, life involves risk.”

  That’s great! Kagan recalled with outrage. Every day except Shabbes I put my life on some horse’s nose only to get kicked in the ass (there must be a routine there somewhere) — and he tells me life involves risk! What the hell does Pakooz know about risk? The only thing he knows about risk is what I taught him. He was pretty good about that, Kagan admitted grudgingly. I still must owe him three hundred dollars. Yeah, about that he was all right. He never hounded me, not once. I guess those ties weren’t all that bad. Everybody was wearing them and Pakooz did manage to sell every one of them before our next session. Ozzie thought they were a bargain and encouraged me to buy a couple. No, Pakooz’s taste wasn’t bad; the bookcase would have looked pretty good if you didn’t see one like it in every West Side apartment.

  Still, Kagan didn’t totally trust Ozzie’s opinion of Pakooz. He couldn’t, because he had never told Pakooz about Ozzie. Not that Kagan was ashamed of Ozzie; on the contrary, he felt honored to have an angel, even such an unlikely one as Ozzie. But Kagan couldn’t reveal Ozzie’s existence to Pakooz. He would think that it went far beyond transference. Pakooz would think I’m crazy, and then I would never get any help. Poor Pakooz can’t even help me when he believes I’m only neurotic. And if he thinks I’m crazy, he’ll never let me say “no” to his merchandise.

  No, you can’t tell anybody these days about angels. Devils, maybe; angels, no. How could I explain Ozzie, anyway? I don’t even understand him myself. If I play games with Fran’s head, what does that angel do to mine? Ozzie should pay Pakooz a visit, Kagan said to himself with passion. I’m always the bad guy; I always take the rap. Just let Pakooz get a hold of that horny little angel for one forty-five-minute hour. (The old socialist had converted successfully to psychotherapeutic standard time.) He would never know what hit him. And I have to put up with it day and night. Except for Yom Kippur, Kagan added, with a surge of honesty. I can take it. What the hell does Pakooz know about that? I can take it.

  Kagan glanced at his pickle-green watch to discover that it was almost midnight. Where did the evening go?

  Kagan looked around. He was at Seventy-eighth and Broadway. He quickly crossed the street and moved in the direction of the place where it had all begun earlier in the day.

  He approached the darkened mikveh building. Who would be up at this hour? Kagan wanted to find out, but how could he go around waking people up at midnight after Kol Nidre?

  I’m always late, mourned Kagan. He stood and stared at the dark building. A few cars passed, a few people. After a while, he imagined that one of the windows wasn’t as dark as the others. Maybe someone was awake.

  This is crazy, he thought. If you look at something long enough you can see anything. And yet, there does seem to be a little light. If I could get up to the window, I could tell for sure.

  Kagan looked around. The street was quiet. He climbed up the five steps to the doorway and looked over to the window ledge that was four feet away. The ledge itself was wide, white stone. Once there, he could look into the window easily and climbing down afterwards wouldn’t be a problem. He could lower himself and then jump, landing on his sturdy old sneakers. No wonder those kids wear this kind of shoes. The problem was getting to the ledge. Kagan suddenly noticed the heavy wrought-iron bracket that held the lantern light fixture. It was midway between the door and the window. He pulled up his pants leg and lifted one foot up on the metal banister. By gripping some of the heavy masonry curlicues that framed the doorway, he hauled himself up onto the railing.

  Once up, he surveyed the distance to the iron bracket that jutted from the wall somewhat higher than the level of his head. He reached for it slowly and grasped it. He had hoped to test it first before putting too much weight on it, but he leaned in that direction, putting all his weight on it as he lay spread-eagled against the building. Kagan held his breath. The bracket held. He transferred his other hand to it and then with careful concentration lifted his right foot off the banister and began working it over to the window ledge. Once his foot was on the ledge, he pushed off with his left foot and brought that one over also. Then he reached for the window casement with his right hand and pulled his upper body over to the window. On the ledge, he shuffled carefully to the center and stared inside.

  It was completely dark. The only illumination came from the street light above Kagan. That light reflected off the window pane, making it difficult to see anything. To reduce the glare, Kagan pressed
his face against the window, cupping his hand as a blinder between the glass and his eyes.

  As he was staring into the quiet, motionless room, he was interrupted by a sarcastic voice from the sidewalk below.

  “See anything interesting?”

  Kagan, peering intently into the serene darkness, wasn’t surprised to hear a voice and answered in a natural tone of voice.

  “No, I guess they went to bed.”

  “Isn’t that too bad?” the voice commiserated.

  “Yes,” Kagan answered.

  “Okay, peeping Tom, let’s come on down!” the voice said harshly.

  Kagan, startled by the command, straightened up and almost fell backwards. He grabbed the casement in a jerky reflex action. Once steadied, he looked over his shoulder only to be met by the blinding beam of a powerful flashlight. Kagan blinked and turned away but not before he caught a glimpse of the police car standing in the middle of the street.

  “Now!” the voice insisted.

  Kagan crouched, placing his hands on the ledge.

  In a less than natural voice, Kagan apologized for the delay in his descent.

  “I’m afraid I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”

  “I’ll say,” the policeman growled in agreement.

  “It’s not the way it looks,” Kagan protested unconvincingly.

  “It never is,” said the policeman in a calmer tone.

  Kagan managed to lower himself from the ledge and jumped the rest of the way to the ground as he had originally planned to do. Encouraged by this feat, he began to regain his confidence.

  “Look,” he said, “this is a mistake.”

  Now that Kagan was on the ground, he could see with whom he was dealing. The sarcastic officer held a billy club in one hand and a flashlight in the other. His companion held a pistol that pointed in Kagan’s direction. The sight of the gun made Kagan very uncomfortable and he realized that it might be more difficult than he had anticipated to explain his actions.

  “Up against the car,” the sarcastic one said, prodding Kagan with his nightstick.

  “Please, I think...,” but before Kagan could finish, he felt a hand pushing him toward the patrol car.

  “Lean over, hands apart on the trunk, feet apart, no monkey business,” the policeman commanded.

  Feeling foolish, frightened, and uncomfortable, Kagan complied.

  “Feet further back!” the voice commanded.

  Still leaning on the car’s trunk, Kagan took a step backwards. In doing so, more of his weight came onto his hands and he lowered his head. Not more than a foot from his face, he saw the identifying numbers 5734 painted on the trunk.

  My God, thought Kagan, a shiver of recognition shaking his entire body.

  “Stand still!” the policeman commanded.

  Kagan stared at the numbers in disbelief and barely felt the trained, strong hands frisk him.

  He didn’t hear one policeman call to the other, “He’s clean. Not even a wallet.”

  The numbers seemed to be staring out at him from the trunk, mocking him.

  You win, Kagan wanted to say, but what did they win? Why did they win? Who are you, he wanted to ask. Why are you doing this to me?

  “Hands behind your back!” the officer repeated.

  “What?” Kagan asked.

  “Hands behind your back if you don’t want the club!”

  Kagan leaned against the trunk and put his hands behind his back. He felt the policeman pulling his hands together and he felt something cool on his wrists, but not until the first sudden click did he realize that he was being handcuffed.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” Kagan protested.

  “What’s the problem?” the sarcastic officer asked as he yanked Kagan to his feet by the collar of his only suit.

  “I know it looks strange, but I can explain what I was doing.”

  The police relaxed now that their suspect was safely subdued. The quiet one returned his pistol to his holster.

  “I suppose,” the conversational one with the flashlight said, “your TV is broken and you were just looking for a place to watch your favorite show.”

  Screw you, Kagan thought. But he did not waste his energy disparaging the policeman. He was in a jam and wasn’t sure that he had the strength to get out of it. Confused, Kagan wondered, what the hell was I doing? How can I explain it? The police in this town must hear some pretty weird stories, but if I tell them mine, they’ll send me to Bellevue mental. Mikvehs, angels, superfectas, changing finish lines — these won’t play very well in the Twentieth Precinct. Even if they did believe all that, they would still ask me what I was doing on the window ledge. Sure, officer, that’s easy. I wanted to see the little bony-skulled refugee who runs the ritual bathhouse because I’m curious about the concentration-camp numbers on his arm. You see, I believe that they’re the same numbers as those on your patrol car, which are the same as the Jewish New Year, and which would have won the superfecta at Yonkers Raceway this evening except that a missing man in a Ping-Pong-pool-table suit moved the finish line in the ladies’ section of my local synagogue.

  “Officer,” Kagan said with great sincerity, “this is a Jewish bathhouse used for ritual purposes and I think I lost my wallet here when I came to bathe earlier in the afternoon. I thought it might have dropped to the floor when I was getting dressed. It was right before Yom Kippur and I was in a rush to get home and prepare for the fast day.”

  The police looked suspicious but uncertain whether Kagan might be telling the truth.

  “Why didn’t you ring the bell and ask if they found your wallet?” the quiet one asked.

  “Well, it really doesn’t make much difference right now because we are Orthodox Jews and we don’t handle or carry money on the Sabbath or Yom Kippur and we don’t ring doorbells either,” Kagan answered.

  The police looked as if they might believe him.

  “As far as my climbing up to the window ledge,” Kagan began with an embarrassed shrug, “that was a silly thing to do. I don’t really know why I did it. I couldn’t sleep tonight so I thought maybe I would find out whether or not my wallet is here. It was dumb. I’m sure I must have looked like a criminal.”

  “Uh-huh,” the quiet policeman agreed. “I think we’d better ring the bell after all.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Kagan said.

  The sarcastic cop climbed up the steps and rang the bell. The three of them heard the bell ringing inside. There was no response. He pressed the bell again. No one came to the door. The policeman came back down the steps. All three stood in the street not quite certain what to do next. The sarcastic policeman looked to the quiet one for a decision.

  “Technically,” the quiet one said, “we shouldn’t let you go without some identification. Is there anyone who could identify you?”

  Before Kagan could even think about that, a voice from the sidewalk called, “Excuse me, officer, but I can tell you who dat fella is. He’s one of mine customers from the Jewish bathhouse. A fine fella.”

  Kagan and the policemen looked up to see the small, bald mikveh attendant wearing a white linen shroud that reached almost to the sidewalk and a small white satin yarmulke perched on his hairless head. On his feet, of course, he wore white tennis shoes.

  Kagan, although delighted to see the mikveh man, was amazed to see him running in the middle of the night through the streets of New York in a kittel. Good God, Kagan thought of his rescuer, he looks like the oldest living member of the Vienna Boys Choir.

  “Good evening, rabbi,” the conversational policeman said. “I guess that solves the problem.”

  He looked at his quiet partner for confirmation. His partner nodded and pointed to Kagan’s handcuffs.

  “Oh, yeah, I almost forgot,” he said, “I may need these again tonight.”

  He unlocked them and Kagan rubbed his wrists.

  “Sorry,” the quiet one said.

  “That’s all right, boys,” Kagan said magnanimously.

&n
bsp; “You were just doing your job.”

  Seated in their police car, the garrulous one behind the wheel leaned out.

  “Have a good holiday, rabbi,” he called.

  “Thank you, officer,” the mikveh attendant answered.

  Almost as an afterthought, the policeman stuck his head out again. “I hope you find your wallet, pal.”

  Kagan winced but called back, “Thanks.”

  The police car moved slowly towards Broadway.

  “You lost your wallet this afternoon?”

  “No,” Kagan said with embarrassment. “I didn’t lose my wallet. I told them that because I didn’t know what to tell them. Listen, I just wanted to talk to you. I couldn’t sleep so I walked over. I didn’t want to wake you. I didn’t know whether you were home or not so I climbed up onto the window ledge to take a look.”

  “And that’s when the coppers arrived,” the little man finished the story.

  “Yeah.”

  “What can I do for you?”

  “What?” asked Kagan, not wanting to ask his real question.

  “What can I do for you?” the little man repeated.

  What can I do? thought Kagan. I can’t ask this little man about the numbers on his arm. Look at that head; only the ovens of Auschwitz could have baked the skin so tight. Look at that arm. He became a mikveh man in the hope that the water would wash off the numbers, but water can’t wash off those numbers. Some things no bath can wash off. Those numbers, Kagan suddenly realized, don’t have to be washed away. They are beyond Ivory soap and Brut cologne, beyond appearance. They are not of water, but of fire.

  Kagan felt tears in his eyes.

  “I came,” Kagan said softly, “to wish you a good decree. May you be sealed in the Book of Life.”

  “Thank you. I wish you a chasima tova also.”

  “Thank you,” said Kagan.

  They stood for a moment before the mikveh man spoke.

  “That’s all? Are you sure that you’re not forgetting something from yesterday?”