Berto's World_Stories

by R. A. Comunale M. D.

  I fell asleep, book on my chest.

  I dreamed of Titus Londell.

  In every neighborhood, rich or poor, mansions or tenements, there is always the oddball who stands well apart from the rest in how he thinks, speaks, acts, or behaves.

  Titus Londell belonged exclusively to our little luxury enclave of soot and dirt.

  Tom Seidlitz’s mother had gone crazy with grief over the loss of her son in the Great War. Titus Londell was just … well… crazy.

  The Korean War had unofficially ended at Panmunjom in stalemate. President Truman had left the White House to President Eisenhower. And I was finishing eighth grade and looking forward to attending Concepción High School.

  It also was the last year the four of us—Angie, Tomas, Sal, and I—would be in the same class. We sat in the little soda shop and ordered something new—Vanilla Coke—though none of us would have been there if Dr. Agnelli hadn’t given me a buck as his way of celebrating my acceptance to that special high school. I think he would have come with us, if someone else could have spelled him at the busy free clinic.

  I hated to admit it to the guys but, even after going out with other girls, I still missed Bernice. The only one I shared my feelings with was Sal and, muscle-bound ape that he was, he understood. He was becoming more and more a surrogate for the brother I never had.

  We finished our soda pop and headed down the street along the river. As we passed Mr. Ruddy’s, we heard a wrapping on the window that made us stop and veer into his shoe-repair shop.

  The last two Old Guys were sitting there, as usual polishing off some Rheingolds. Mr. Huff had never been the same since Mr. Brown died, but he always came by Mr. Ruddy’s place. It was his substitute for church, I guess.

  What surprised me was the third person in the room, doing a good job of keeping up with the other two in downing beers: Thomas the Barber.

  Thomas Putchenkov was almost seventy-eight then, old enough to be the father of the Old Guys. He didn’t look it, and he certainly didn’t act like it either—he behaved like the youngest one in the room.

  “Hello, Berto! Congrats!”

  Mr. Ruddy’s brilliant blue eyes flashed above his smile. I never ceased to be amazed at what he would say. For a man who left for war at eighteen and came back a legless torso, his depth of understanding and knowledge on just about anything, from philosophy to history to girls, was encyclopedic.

  Now, how did he know about Concepción?

  “Why didn’t you slackers make it like Berto?"

  Mr. Huff looked at Sal, Tomas, and Angie and, for the first time that I could recall, he smiled.

  “Aww … we just didn’t brown-nose the teachers like ol’ Berto here. Hell, he probably dated every nun in the convent just to get good grades.”

  Sal stuck his tongue out at me and flashed that lopsided, shit-eating grin that was his trademark.

  I miss you, Sal.

  Angie joined the chorus.

  “Yeah, didn’t I see you kissin’ ol’ prune-face Sister Dominic last week? Didn’t think we saw ya, did ya?”

  Angie pursed his lips and smacked them in an exaggerated kiss.

  Tomas nodded.

  “Yeah, good thing they shipped out old Mercy Grace. She’d probably want ya ta cop a feel.”

  The whole room rocked with laughter—even from me.

  Thomas belched and offered me a swig of his Rheingold. I admit I was tempted, but Mr. Ruddy put a stop to it.

  “Come on, you old Bolshevik, it was your idea. Go get it.”

  “Me not Bolshevik. Maybe Menshevik, maybe even anarchist, but no matter. Here, Berto.”

  He went to Mr. Ruddy’s little refrigerator, probably the only other one in the neighborhood besides the one in Dr. Agnelli’s clinic, and took out … a cold Moxie! He handed it to me after flipping off the cap on the opener screwed to the wall.

  Sal just gawked.

  “Don’t we get any?”

  Mr. Huff moved his head from side to side in a broad no then smiled and got out three more. Ten minutes later we four school chums were belching in time with the barber and the Old Guys, when Sal pointed out the window at the building across the street.

  “Hey, looka that! Crazy Titus is at it again!”

  It was weird. Picture a disjointed marionette of a man marching up and down in a goosestep that would have done old Adolph’s brown shirts proud. Every other step his right arm would jerk up in that hated, Sieg Heil salute that had thrown much of the world into hellish chaos only a decade before.

  It was pathetic—sad, actually—and in its own perverse way funny.

  Remember the Three Stooges? They did a wonderful takeoff of the Axis leaders goose-stepping, each kicking the butt of the one in front, while singing a comedic takeoff song. I can still hear it:

  “When Der Fuhrer says, ‘Ve ist der master race,’ ve heil! Heil! right in Der Fuhrer’s face.”

  Or was that a Spike Jones song?

  Damned memory!

  That was Titus Londell.

  Harold Ruddy stared at the scene, and for a moment I thought he was going to cry.

  “Mr. Ruddy, why is he like that?”

  Both he and Mr. Huff got that faraway look … the same one that appeared on both men when they talked about Tom Seidlitz.

  “He was the fifth guy,” Mr. Huff whispered.

  Mr. Ruddy nodded.

  “It was Tommy, me, George, Tim, and Titus. Four of us came back … or maybe I should say three and a half.”

  He looked down at what was no longer there.

  Mr. Huff took up the story.

  “Harry and Tim were in the hospital for a long time. I wasn’t right, either … still ain’t … but I could work. Tim’s lungs were shot to hell from that damned gas. It seemed like only Titus had come back in one piece.

  “Now, you four young fellas gotta understand and maybe learn from our mistakes.”

  He turned to Putchenkov.

  “Hey, Poochy, you did your share of sewing some wild oats, didn’t you?”

  Thomas also got that faraway look.

  “You, betcha! I got more oats out there than lot of you!”

  He grinned at me.

  “Berto, I tell you story of girl in Africa?”

  Many times since I had hit puberty, but I just nodded.

  “You guys want I tell on others?”

  Four kids and two Old Guys shook their heads emphatically.

  “Hokay, but you no know what you miss.”

  He popped the top off another Rheingold and swigged it down then pitched the empty bottle into the big garbage can resting alongside the shoe-grinding equipment.

  Mr. Ruddy took up the line again.

  “Titus was the luckiest guy around. He came back … no wounds, no crazy dreams … and his girl actually waited for him.”

  Mr. Huff nodded.

  “Well, old Titus, he ups and marries his gal, opens up a new-fangled thing called a gas station, and seemed to be sitting pretty. For fifteen years, even through the Depression, everything he touched turned to gold. Then … well … as the saying goes, the poop hit the fan.”

  Mr. Huff took over again.

  “His wife noticed it first. He just wasn’t quite right in … uh … bed, if you get my drift. Then he started to forget things and would laugh for no reason at all. He didn’t remember things well.

  “He was the smartest of us. Kinda reminds me of you, Berto,” he said—just what I needed to hear.

  Mr. Ruddy played tag-team again.

  “See, guys, we weren’t the quietest Yanks over in France. Hell, we voolay-vooed every skirt we could. I told you a while back that I caught the clap, and the only thing that cured me was that damned artillery shell. I don’t recommend the treatment but, as you can see, I don’t have the clap now.”

  Putchenkov interjected.

  “Clap? That all? I ever tell you about girl with big teeth and big bazookas?”

  “Yes!” came the unanimous vote.

  “H
okay, I no tell you, but Thomas hurt long time after…”

  The shoemaker laughed then grew pensive, as Mr. Ruddy continued.

  “Titus was just as wild as the rest of us, maybe more so. Intelligence has no monopoly on common sense. Understand, Berto?”

  I gulped and nodded.

  “Anyway, Londell’s wife took him from doctor to doctor, and finally one sharp guy figured it out. Poor old Titus had contracted syphilis in ‘18, and it took over fifteen for it to start rotting his brain. There was no penicillin back then, and the treatments they used were no better than shaking a rattle while dancing around a fire.”

  My next comment only guys will understand. You know what happens when you jump into cold swimming pool? Right. Things shrivel up and disappear. I think the four of us experienced that sensation after Harold Ruddy finished speaking. I know I did.

  We all turned to stare out at the contorted little man performing his grotesque dance across the street. Then Angie let out an “oh shit!” even though no crashing aircraft was in the vicinity.

  Another unanimous sentiment.

  Samuel Welch Sr., the corrupt police officer and a true pig by anyone’s definition—including those of his hardworking, honest fellow officers—was doing his peacock strut down the street. He swung his heavy wooden billy club by its leather cord, and it was fairly obvious what was about to take place.

  It seemed to happen in slow motion. Welch walked up behind Titus and swung that damned club as hard as he could against the back of the man’s knees. Titus fell to the ground and began crying like an injured dog. Welch then proceeded to club him about the shoulders and chest. I noted that he carefully avoided hitting his victim’s face.

  I couldn’t believe how fast Mr. Ruddy grabbed two, ski-pole-like sticks and began propelling his swivel chair out the door. Mr. Huff and Thomas ran after him.

  The four of us brought up the rear.

  Harold Ruddy seemed to glide across the street, heedless of the traffic. Those massive arms holding those sticks reminded me of some strange mushroom creature skiing down a slope. He reached Titus just as Welch was about to hit him in the groin. He jammed one pole into Welch’s gut. As the bastard started to fall, Thomas came up behind him and with his own massive arms lifted the cop off the ground.

  Welch tried to draw his gun, but Mr. Huff snatched it from his right hand, flipped the cylinder open, and emptied the bullets onto the ground. Welch was braying at the top of his lungs about assaulting a police officer and that we were all under arrest and would spend the rest of our lives in jail.

  Mr. Ruddy nodded, and Thomas put the red-faced cop down but retained hold of his arms. The shoemaker pushed his swivel chair right up to Welch and reached forward with his left hand. He grabbed the cop’s shirt and pulled him down to eye level.

  “Welch, I know you. I knew your daddy, too. He was over there with us and, in case you’re interested, he was the biggest coward I’ve ever seen. Tommy Seidlitz had to save his neck so many times because he tried to run. You … you’re a chip off the old block, ain’t you? Seems to me you even weaseled your way out of serving in ‘41, didn’t you? You goddamned chicken hawk!”

  Mr. Huff bent over and picked up Titus, and as he held him in his arms, the little man bawled like a child.

  Mr. Ruddy glared at Welch, who threatened to arrest us all once more.

  “Listen up, boy. Chief Conmer was our sarge back then. He even called your father a piss-faced coward. So, George and I are going to have a little talk with him about you.”

  With that, he motioned for Sal to hand him up the cop’s billy club. He took it and held in front of Welch’s face.

  “If you ever touch Titus again—or anyone else around here, for that matter—you’re gonna look like this.”

  Those two elephant leg arms held up the club, and my pals and I gasped as it snapped in two like a matchstick.

  Putchenkov let Welch loose, and he ran down the street. George picked up the gun.

  “Whadda we gonna do with this?”

  “We’ll return it to the chief. After all, we’re good citizens.”

  Thomas took the whimpering Titus in his arms and carried him across the street, while Mr. Huff pushed Mr. Ruddy and his chair. We stayed behind and just stared at one another.

  Angie broke the silence.

  “I can’t believe what just happened.”

  But it was true—the broken billy club lay on the ground as silent testimony to an amazing event.

  Shortly afterward Samuel Welch Sr. was let go from the police force. No surprise, he joined the local mob as an enforcer. I would not realize the long-term consequences of that action until years later.

  Need I say, another story?

  Titus Londell died in a mental institution my third year of medical school.

  Strange, he outlived all my friends.

  What could God have had in mind with that latter-day Job’s suffering?

  The Jew

  I died one Saturday afternoon.

  You read it right. I really did die. I was deader than Marley’s ghost.

  It was one of those rare weekends. I was totally caught up with my med-school assignments, springtime was in full bloom in Richmond, and the sun’s warmth added to the torpidity of the tobacco-scented, breezeless air.

  My roommate Dave was off wooing his inamorata Connie, aka the Teacher, and good ol’ Country Boy was in heat more often than an unneutered tomcat. He was taking full advantage of the fact that Connie’s two apartment mates, Peggy and my girlfriend June, had gone to Virginia Beach until Sunday evening.

  I, on the other hand, had been left in the lurch when June, aka the Model, decided to accompany Peggy.

  It’s a good thing June and I shared a relationship that didn’t involve shenanigans such as those engaged in by Connie and Dave. Yeah, right.

  So there I sat, dorm door wide open, in my boxers and pretending to read a pathology book, when the kid next door knocked on the blond-stained, open portal.

  “Hey, Galen, wanna help me out?”

  Pat Tilden stood there, his face a vision of innocence. Slender, not quite five-feet, eight-inches tall and still not shaving, he was the third generation of his family to attend dental school. Fairly sharp-witted for a dental student, too.

  Note: This is an inside joke among medical, dental, and graduate students. By definition medical students are academic drudges, while dental students are a bit more carefree—maybe because of the anesthetic gases they use. As for graduate students, well, enough said.

  “I can’t lend you any money. I don’t have any.”

  I held up an empty wallet.

  “I know. Everyone in the building knows. What I need is someone to practice on.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck started to rise. The last time I heard that expression, it was Dave wanting to practice DREs. We were studying the urogenital tract—kidneys, bladder, prostate, and reproductive organs—and we were supposed to use each other as guinea pigs. In med school the cheapest lab animals available are students. Even the professors used and abused us.

  Digital rectal exams. I did get even, though.

  Another story but maybe best left untold.

  I felt relatively secure with Tilden. After all, what harm could a dental student do? He waited while I slipped on pants, tee shirt, and shoes, then he escorted me to the dental building several blocks away. I felt good in the unseasonably warm air, though I would have felt better if June hadn’t been out of town.

  We entered the granite-faced building that was, at the time, the newest on campus. I heard strange, and unsettling, whirring noises coming from a room—of course, that’s where we were headed.

  The space was large and open, with rows of tilt-back armchairs. It looked surreal, as though I had entered the largest barbershop in the world. The chairs were half-filled with patients draped and lying in various recumbent positions, while dental students shoved assorted devices in their mouths. I was about to crack a joke about that,
when Tilden took my arm and led me to an open chair.

  “Sit here, Galen, I’ll be right back. I need to get a professor.”

  I should have left then.

  Tilden returned shortly, now wearing a white smock, and following a gray-haired, blue-eyed, old man in knee-length lab coat. The man turned to Tilden, one eyebrow raised, and said, “Are you sure you want to work on him?”

  He reached forward, grabbed my chin, pushed it down, and shined a flashlight inside my mouth. As he came near I could smell a mixture of alcohol and tobacco on the breath emanating from his stubbled face. He really needed a shave and some strong mouthwash.

  “Mr. Tilden, look at those molars!”

  Pat had to stand on his toes to peer into my oral cavity.

  “Jeez, what a mouthful!”

  Professor Sommerfield, per his name tag, nodded.

  “What’s your name, boy?”

  “Robert Galen, sir.”

  Tilden interjected. “He’s a second-year medical student.”

  “Mr. Galen, your wisdom teeth are a disgrace. They need to come out.”

  Wisdom teeth? What an oxymoron. If I had been wise I would have thanked them for their attention and refused their offer. Instead I reached up and felt the inside of my mouth. Yes, my hind molars, upper and lower, were starting to jut sideways into my cheeks.

  “Mr. Tilden, let’s numb up this young man and get started.”

  Pat looked at me, guilt written all over his face.

  “Uh … Galen … what we’re gonna do is put some numbing medicine in your gums so nothing will hurt. Then we’ll just pop out those bad old molars. Okay?”

  “You’re sure this isn’t gonna hurt?”

  “Naw, we do this all the time.”

  The professor returned with a covered, stainless-steel tray. He set it on the chair’s side shelf and examined my mouth once more. The alcohol on his breath had been replenished.

  “Mr. Tilden, where are you going to inject?”

  Pat spouted certain anatomical locations in the mouth. I was familiar with them—but only from books and gross-anatomy-lab dissection. Then he put on sterile gloves and a disposable face mask. He told me to open wide, grabbed my right cheek, took a cotton swab dipped in some unidentifiable, orange-colored cleansing liquid, and wiped the insides of my upper and lower gums. Then he started to bobble the inside of my cheek back and forth. As he did, the professor handed him the most godawful large glass syringe attached to a four-inch needle. I saw him grinning behind the mask, as he jammed that damned needle into my right upper gum and then my lower gum. I started to rise out of the chair but the professor pushed me back down. In two seconds, the entire right side of my face sagged.