Where I was concerned, though, I was the golden child, and I could do no wrong. I was her pride and joy, her little miracle, as she would call me, which thankfully subsided when I got to high school. I admit quite freely that not just Mother spoiled me as a child though she was the main culprit and chief spoiler, but my dad, my uncle Jacob, and my aunt Marla spoiled me. Only the best was good enough for me: private tutors, trips to baseball games, toys; you name it, I got it, and I readily admit I enjoyed being number one. My bar mitzvah, as my father likes to remind me, cost him well over five thousand dollars, which, in 1980, was a lot of money. It was quite a party, though.
Mother saw to that. Like everything else, she hijacked it, and to her circle of friends and cronies, Seth’s bar mitzvah was remembered and referred to as “Irma’s most fabulous party ever; wasn’t the boy there too?” I suppose it is understandable that my parents spoiled me. All Jewish mothers love to spoil their kids, and when you are the only child and a son, well, it was inevitable. A direct result of my mother’s affection for me was that I didn’t have many friends growing up. Mother would vet any potential playmates, and it seemed no one was good enough. I did have my buddies from little league though I was never allowed to bring them home. School was the same. I was a bright kid and not unpopular, but after school, friends were not permitted, so I spent my summers and weekends with Mother and Dad and on the odd occasion, my uncle Jacob.
It was always a treat to spend time with my uncle Jacob because he doted on me. He was in the Navy, some sort of officer who dealt with the ship’s radars, and I would anticipate his visits with excitement when he had shore leave. I spent a lot of time with Uncle Jacob. He looked like a movie star, and we would always get free Cokes from waitresses who would often flirt with him. I was devastated when he died a few weeks after my bar mitzvah, as were my mother and my dad. I remember hearing Mother cry for the first time at his funeral, and I still remember her sobbing for days after his funeral. When Dad was busy with the repair shop, Uncle Jacob would sometimes take me to my little league games. I recall it was a great feeling, having him and Mother cheer me from the bleachers and hugging every time I hit or caught the ball.
Another relative who spent a lot of time with me when I was a kid was Aunt Marla. She was the total opposite of her sister. Though she was blessed with the same pretty features, she did not possess the hard-nosed attitude of her younger sibling. In the same way my mother bullied my father, I suspected that my mother bullied Aunt Marla. I always got the feeling that she felt uncomfortable around Mother, and there always seemed to be an underlying tension. When I would spend time in the garage with Dad, I would inevitably end up playing with Aunt Marla. All three of us would sometimes go for Coca-Cola or even to a diner for secret lunches and ice cream sundaes. It was strange, and maybe even a little sad, that my best and fun childhood memories of my parents, when I was growing up, were not of them together.
When I graduated from high school with excellent grades, it was time for me to escape from Mother’s smothering and flee the nest, or so I thought.
Leaving home turned out to be extremely difficult and traumatic—not for me, but for her. I was offered places at several colleges. My preference was Yale and their School of Architecture, and it was their scholarship I took.
Of course, I realize it was my private tutoring, which Mother had insisted on, that enabled me to graduate from high school top of every class and with across the board straight As, and I am grateful that, thanks to her and the extra education she pushed me to take, I was able to follow my chosen career.
To my surprise, Mother offered no resistance to me finding a college two hours and ninety miles away. I felt it was a good compromise. I could travel home on weekends, and in an emergency, Yale was in easy reach of Borough Park. I had a plan, and that plan was to return home every weekend I was able for the first month I was at college, and then gradually reduce my returning to every two weeks, until eventually, I would only return home once or twice every semester. It, therefore, came as a horrendous surprise—no, scratch that, a horrific and abominable shock— when Mother announced she had rented us, meaning her and me, an apartment in downtown New Haven.
I had hoped Dad would talk her out of this ridiculous idea, but my pleading to him was to no avail, and looking back, I realized why. As long as she was with me at Yale, then she was not with him in Borough Park. It gave him peace and a break from her. In a way, he sacrificed me and my fun-filled college years so he could smoke his pipe in peace, watch sports on TV, and enjoy life without Mother, and though initially I resented Dad for it, I understood why he allowed it. I would have done exactly the same if I had been married to Irma Miller.
This horrific and sorry situation was as bad as it sounded. While other kids were able to party and enjoy their first sexual fumbling, I spent my weekday nights with Mother. Some weekends we would drive home to Father, much to his dismay; many was the time we would return on a Friday afternoon, unannounced, to catch Dad smoking his pipe in the den. I missed so much of college life. I was a laughing stock and the butt of many jokes. I never dated; I never had the chance to join a fraternity; I never experienced the joys of spring break, and once again, I found it almost impossible to make friends out of class thanks to Mother’s continual insistence on being with me twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Again, though, like high school, thanks to Mother’s ensuring that I kept out of trouble and concentrated on studying, I did graduate with full honors and top of my course. On graduating, I was headhunted by all the big firms. When Henry Peel offered me a position with his company the day I graduated, I jumped at the opportunity, and I have never looked back.
Fortunately, Mother also knew it was time for her to let me go. It was she who helped me find my first apartment, not the one I am in now, but a smaller place in Turtle Bay. In a way, I supposed that was why I am the man I am today. I missed so much at college that I guess I was making up for it, but with money in my pocket. My relationship with Mother had definitely put me off commitment and marriage, and her championing of me as the great prodigy was why I insisted on being so run-of-the-mill and bland. Maybe what she did for me and the way she treated me as a kid was why, as a man, I had such a great time and why I loved my life. Who would not be enjoying life after spending their first twenty-four years living in close proximity to their mother and then suddenly becoming free of her?
I kept Mother at a distance. I did occasionally visit my parents on a Sunday, but only on special occasions. When I did, she overfed me and asked the same question a million times: “When are you going to find a nice girl and settle down?” and the obligatory “When you going to make me a grandmother?” and the inevitable “Why don’t you visit more, call more, and invite us into the city for lunch sometime?” Anyway, she had her space, and I had mine, and Dad plodded along, trying to keep her happy— which, I suspected, he did to a certain degree. Therefore, I attempted to limit my contact with Mother to phone calls. Usually once a week was more than sufficient, so it wasn’t a shock that she had called. No, it was the events after the call that shocked me.
“Hello, Mother, how are you?”
“Hello, dear, is this a good time? I hope I am not disturbing you.”
“No, Mom, I am really not that busy. How’s Dad? How are you? Is everything ok?”
“Yes, dear, everything is fine.”
“Well, that’s good to know,” I replied whilst reading an incoming e-mail. “You don’t usually call me at the office; are you sure everything is ok?” I inquired, trying to sound at least a little concerned, when in truth, I suspected she was calling to berate me for not calling more often.
“Well, you could call more often. It’s not like its long distance,” she said in her most whiny voice. But something was different. She sounded different; kind of subdued, and I suppose a little muted.
“Listen, honey, I, well, I mean, we, your father and I, need to discuss something with you, something rather deli
cate and personal.”
She often called me “honey,” and I hated it. “Honey” was a term men in the sixties called their wives. I always felt there was something horrifically incestuous about Mother calling me “honey.” When I was at Yale, she would sometimes go grocery shopping without me to allow me the opportunity to study quietly on my own, and on her return from the store, laden with a bag of groceries, she would yell, “Honey, I’m home!” when entering the apartment. It made me cringe just thinking about it. It was like a perverted, incestuous episode of I Love Lucy, her favorite show, which she always insisted I sat through and watch with her, despite the fact that I found it not the least bit amusing. She would refer to me as Ricky and call herself Lucy as she laughed aloud at the crazy antics of the Cuban bandleader and his daffy wife. Believe me, it was the closest thing to Hell I had ever encountered.
“Well, that’s fine, go ahead; I am all ears,” I said with the phone tucked under my chin whilst I inspected a set of plans and drawings sprawled on my desk.
“Not over the phone dear. I, I mean, we, think it would be better if you came over to the house this evening after work, and we could all sit down and discuss it. I don’t like talking on the phone, you know that,” replied Mother, and again her voice sounded muted almost subdued. There was something obviously not right. I could tell. Mother was never this way; she was demanding, obnoxious, loud, and brash.
I must point out that I did not know my mother did not like to talk on the phone. She seemed to be an expert at talking on the phone. Indeed, I had always considered talking on the phone was one of her hobbies, as she did it often, and her comment about not liking to talk on the phone was a veiled attempt to try and cajole me into something we both knew I wouldn’t want to do. Secondly, the mere thought of traveling across the city to visit my parents that evening was out of the question. I was a man of routine, and whilst I did not wish to sound callous, I did have more important things planned, mostly revolving around an evening of watching television, probably having a quick drink at Milligan’s, my local neighborhood bar, and maybe doing some late work at the office. Anything would be better than visiting my parents’ midweek. It was unheard of and quite out of the question. She continued to speak before I had a chance to rebuke her.
“…and anyway, we haven’t seen you in such a long while; it’s been nearly two weeks, and that’s too long, Seth, you know that.”
I didn’t.
“You don’t want to spend any time with your old Mother and Father now that you live in the big city? Don't you have the time for us? You know, I should be a grandmother by now, don’t you? When are you going to meet a sweet girl and bring her over to meet me?” Before I could even muster a response or deliver my objections, she resumed speaking “Good, and then that’s settled. I, I mean, we, will expect you at seven,” and with that, she hung up.
I tried calling her back immediately, but she didn’t answer. That was the power she had. I did not want to go to Brooklyn, and she knew it. I should have been strong enough not to show up, but I knew if I didn’t, I wouldn’t hear the last of it. There was also something bothering me. Whilst the ending of the conversation with the rapid-fire questions leaving no pauses for me to reply to any of them was vintage Mother, her whole demeanor seemed different. I felt compelled to go, against my better judgment, to satisfy my curiosity.
So that was the call that changed my whole life. Not because it was an inconvenience for me to take a cab out to Brooklyn and rearrange my evening, even though I had nothing to rearrange. Not because the last thing I wanted to do on a pleasant Wednesday night in June was break bread and eat chicken adobo, kosher style with my parents. No, that call changed my life because of what was to occur that evening. Oh boy, THAT evening!
CHAPTER
3
FOR ME TO ARRIVE AT my parents’ home by seven o’clock that evening would mean traveling in peak hour New York traffic. A journey which should, in any normal dimension, take about twenty minutes. However, at that time of day, it would probably take at least an hour. I suppose to some people an hour is not a long time, especially if visiting loved ones or relatives, especially elderly parents. But an hour stuck in slow-moving traffic to spend an evening with Mother was simply a disaster. I was not neurotic, as I hope I have already established, however, the mere fact that she had compromised my usual weekday routine made me feel nauseous. My day was ruined.
Repeated attempts to call Mother and postpone my visit were all futile. She was not answering the phone and rather conveniently for her; the answering machine was either broken or not switched on. Therefore, I could not even leave a message explaining my feigned disappointed that something entirely bogus had come up, preventing me from making the trip. I knew she was probably sitting, watching the phone ring, well aware it was I trying to cancel or come up with an excuse as to why I could not travel the twelve miles and one hour to Brooklyn. I gave up after the eighth attempt. My concentration was broken, and my earlier enthusiasm for work tainted, I decided I would stop work and leave early.
Before departing my office, I checked in with Henry and handed him the costing figures I had managed to complete for Project Hyomoko, Henry was good like that; he didn’t demand that his senior architects be chained to their desks nine to five, and, as the senior and probably the best architect he had, I had a lot of leeways when it came to my working practices. Not that I took advantage of Henry’s trust and flexible attitude. I worked just as hard as the rest of his employees, but I rarely over exerted myself.
A visit to my parents warranted a change of clothing. There was no way I was going to spend the rest of the day in a tie, and there was equally no way I was prepared to sit in a cab in the heat of the day dressed that way either. I needed to return to my apartment, shower, and change into my usual attire: the far more relaxed uniform of jeans and a T-shirt.
I arrived at my apartment just before four, leaving plenty of time to change and prepare for the hour-long journey to Brooklyn. Harvey, the apartment building’s doorman, greeted me in the lobby.
“The man is back in the crib,” said Harvey, a broad smile spread on his face. He looked at his watch. “And the man is early.” He slapped my hand, which was his usual greeting. I often messed up our greetings by moving my hand too quickly, but today I got it just right.
“I know. I’ve got dinner in Brooklyn,” I said as I removed my tie in an attempt to look casual and to confirm, probably symbolically, that my working day was over.
“Oh shit, man,” said Harvey concerned. “Your momma? Hell no!”
Harvey and I had a unique relationship. We were near enough the same age, and we had the same interests: sport, mainly baseball, though he was a Braves fan, watching women, and generally, we talked about the same things. Harvey was originally from Atlanta, and he arrived in New York around the same time I did. He took up his position in the apartment block the same day I moved in. As newcomers, we hit it off immediately, kindred spirits in our early battles with the residents association, who weren’t initially too happy to have a single guy in the building. As the majority of the residents were elderly and retired, I was privileged to have secured my apartment. I suspected, though, that the arrival of Harvey coinciding with my arrival might have also played a part. I had a feeling that many of the residents in my apartment building were not too comfortable with Harvey’s appearance. Unfortunately for them, they had no say in who the building’s owners could hire or not hire. Not that there was anything wrong with Harvey, he just looked, well, like a rapper.
The elderly and staid members of the residents association probably wanted me to keep an eye on Harvey for them. That maybe by having me around, I could watch out for them. Being young, they probably thought I could be a friend to Harvey and maybe be their spokesperson in any dealings with him. It was possible that swayed the vote to secure my apartment. Of course, I had no evidence of this; it was my own take on the situation, especially as I rarely saw Harvey converse with any of my ne
ighbors.
Harvey was probably the only African-American some of my neighbors ever spoke to, and I suppose to them he may have looked intimidating, but the truth was that he was studying to be an actor. Harvey had never told anyone apart from me. He rented a small apartment in Harlem with his sister, and his job at the apartment building was just a stopgap, temporary until he got the part that would catapult him to fame.
Though I had no real social dealings with Harvey, we did talk regularly whenever I was in the lobby. Admittedly, Harvey did seem to take a little too close an interest in my comings and goings, so much so that I once joked he should become my personal assistant, as he knew more about me than I did. He would pass knowing glances each time I brought home a girl, which I tried to hide from my dates. It must have been quite discerning for my dates to have a doorman wink at them knowingly and flash a gold-tooth-encrusted smile when they entered my apartment block for the first time. Of course, I never said anything to Harvey. I knew he had my best interests at heart, and I liked him. If I needed a cab, Harvey would be there at the ready with his whistle. I could put up with Harvey and his familiarity because I liked him.
“Yes, my Mother,” I confirmed.
Harvey’s smile seemed to cover his whole face. I often pondered how much his mouth was worth. I wasn’t even sure Mother had as much gold as Harvey did in place of teeth. The man was a walking safety deposited box. I was sure if the Federal Reserve knew there was another Fort Knox walking around Manhattan, then maybe we would all get some tax relief. Gold and diamond-encrusted rings adorned every one of Harvey’s fingers, and I was sure the gold chain he wore around his neck weighed half a ton.
The Reluctant Jesus: A Satirical Dark Comedy Page 2
