Mort Ziff Is Not Dead

by Cary Fagan

  All of this thinking about my parents brought me back to the thousand dollars. For us, it was a lot of money. I worried that my parents would want me to use it for something practical, like putting a new roof on the house or buying a car that didn’t break down all the time. Or maybe they would want me to put it in the bank to pay for college so that I could become an engineer and design airplanes, like I always talked about. Sure, the money was in my bank account now, but that didn’t mean it was really mine.

  Someone knocked on my door. I knew it wasn’t Marcus and Larry because they never knocked. They just barged in, throwing grapes at me, or aiming squirt guns, or trying to force me to put on a pair of my mom’s nylons. It had to be my parents.

  “Enter laughing,” I said. That was what I always said when my parents knocked on my door. I think it’s the name of a play or movie or something, but it’s just one of the things I say and my parents always come in pretending to laugh. Pretty lame, but we do it anyway.

  My parents came in but they didn’t pretend to laugh. They closed the door and sat on the end of my bed. They had the same serious expressions as the time they told me that we couldn’t have a dog because my father was allergic.

  “Norman,” Dad said.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “About the money you won. We think it’s time to talk about it.”

  “Okay.”

  Mom said, “We’ve decided that we want you alone to choose what to do with the money.”

  I sat up. “Can you say that again?”

  “You heard your mother right, kiddo.”

  “You mean it? I can really decide? Anything I want?”

  “That’s right.” Dad nodded. “And we want you to choose because we know what a smart and level-headed boy you are. Sometimes I think your older brothers could learn a thing or two from you. If they won the money, they’d probably want to spend it on toys or bikes or who knows what. But you wouldn’t.”

  “I wouldn’t?”

  “Not a responsible boy like you. Your brothers aren’t even aware that the house needs a new roof. Or that the car is fifteen years old.”

  “Oh.”

  “And of course there’s your college fund,” Mom said. “That would be a very good place to put any that’s left over. Education is just so important.” She and Dad got up from the bed. “But it’s your decision, Norman. And you take your time. There’s no rush.”

  My parents both smiled at me and then left the room, closing the door behind them. But a second later they opened the door again.

  “We forgot,” Dad said. The two of them pretended to laugh.

  “Ha, ha,” I said back. They closed the door again. “Ha, ha, ha,” I said to nobody, collapsing onto my bed.

  Funny Haircuts

  I spent the next week torturing myself about what to do with the money. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. My thoughts buzzed and hummed like a swarm of bees around my head.

  In school I couldn’t concentrate at all. Inside my history book I snuck the latest catalogue from the Blisto Balsa-Wood Airplane Company, thirty-four pages of amazing kits. I skipped over the advanced kits that until now I had just dreamed about and looked only at the “professional level” kits. The one I liked the best was a 1915 Bristol Scout biplane with a six-foot wingspan, working gas engine and a remote control so that you could make it dive and do figure eights and come down for a perfect landing. Man, was it a beauty. I figured it would take me five or six months to build. It was way too big to fly in the backyard or even the neighborhood park; I’d have to get Dad to drive me out to some farmer’s field. The price was $253.

  But that was less than a third of the money I had won. I had a lot of ideas for spending the rest. Not long ago I’d seen a full drum kit in the shop window of a music store. (I could learn to play, couldn’t I?) Or if I got an Italian racing bike, I’d be able to speed past my brothers for the first time. Or how about a telescope or an ice cream maker for my room?

  It seemed weird to me that with this momentous decision hanging over my head I still had to go to school and do my homework, dry the dishes and take out the garbage. And it seemed just as strange that everybody else was going about their regular routines too. After school, Marcus would go down in the basement and practice his Ping-Pong serves. Marcus was crazy about Ping-Pong. He had saved up for his own top-of-the-line racquet, the Quest 2000, and wouldn’t let me or Larry use it. He had found a book on Ping-Pong in the school library and he took it out once a month to read, over and over again. He invited all the kids on our street to come over and play just so that he could demolish them. Even his backhand was killer. And when there were no kids around, and Larry and I were tired of being beat twenty-one to nothing, he would stay down by himself and practice his serves.

  While Marcus went down to the basement after school, Larry would head for the living room. Then he would turn on the television, sit on the broadloom about three feet from the screen and watch Planet Furball.

  Is there anybody who doesn’t know what Planet Furball is? Maybe if they’re living on a desert island. Planet Furball is this TV show about a planet ruled by talking cats. A long time ago there was a war that poisoned the planet’s air and water, so the cats have to live inside this giant dome. To keep the dome operating, the cats need the help of these super-intelligent rats who are the only other surviving animals and understand stuff like science and engineering. The rats have agreed—on the condition that the cats stop eating meat. The cats have to go along with it, but they aren’t too happy about being vegetarian. So the two species have this uneasy truce, but they don’t trust each other. You can see pretty easily what sort of conflicts might happen.

  Personally, I thought the show was dumb. But Larry, he watched every new episode after school and reruns on the weekend. He read Planet Furball comic books. He belonged to the Planet Furball Fan Club. He even kept a notebook with a page for every character, every episode, and drawings of how the dome worked, farming, costumes, everything. I wasn’t sure if Larry would rather have been a cat or a rat, but I’m absolutely certain that if he could he would have chosen to live on that polluted planet.

  One afternoon when Marcus was down in the basement whacking Ping-Pong balls and Larry was lying in front of the TV soaking up Planet Furball, my mother asked me to help her unpack groceries in the kitchen. A Beatles song came on the radio and she started singing along, with a lot of “love you’s” and “yeah, yeah, yeah’s.”

  Mom really liked the Beatles; in fact, she had cut a picture of them out of the newspaper a year ago and it was still on the fridge. I put a carton of milk in the fridge, closed the door and looked at the grainy picture again. It showed them splashing and goofing around in the ocean. The words underneath said that the Beatles had come to Miami Beach for their second appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show and that they had liked the place so much they decided to stay a week.

  I couldn’t tell which Beatle was which. To me they looked like four funny haircuts. I knew that Miami Beach was in Florida. I had never seen the ocean. The only beach I had ever been on was all stones, on a lake that was ice-cold and slimy on the bottom. I’d never seen a palm tree. Those Beatles sure looked like they were having a great time. They looked like they were in paradise.

  And then I knew.

  I really did. I knew the perfect thing to do with the money. I just didn’t know if my parents would agree with me.

  My Big Announcement

  After school on Thursday, Marcus had his bar mitzvah lesson. He was the first of us to be having his bar mitzvah, and at first Marcus was excited because he was going to “become a man.” But then he found out how much work it was. Naturally, Larry and I, who would be up next, were curious to see what it was about.

  Having a bar mitzvah lesson meant watching Mr. Grossman drive slowly up in his car and park it with two wheels up on the curb. It meant listening to Mr. Grossman sigh heavily as he sat down at the dining room table and opened the Hebrew book. It meant not only re
ading Hebrew aloud, but also singing the words to the proper melody. It meant answering Mr. Grossman’s questions, questions that went like this: “Yes, you know the words. But the meaning! Do you know what the words mean, Marcus? Do you understand how deep they are? Do you see the moral implications?”

  Standing outside the doorway, Larry and I would look at each other and gulp. Becoming a man wasn’t going to be easy.

  At last, Mr. Grossman finished the lesson. As always, he patted Marcus on the head and said, “You’re a good boy, a smart boy, but you don’t study hard enough.” Then he gave Marcus a hard lemon candy, went out the door and pulled his car—bump, bump—off the curb to drive slowly away.

  We sat down for supper. Marcus, who was always hungry after his lesson, picked up the plate of chicken. But Larry leaned halfway over the table and speared a chicken leg with his fork. “Thanks, big brother. Mighty kind of you.”

  “Yeah, and I hope it tastes like dog poop.”

  “There’s no need to make a big stink about it.”

  “That’s enough, you two,” Dad said. “You’re going to spoil our appetites. Let’s have a civilized meal with interesting conversation for once. I’ll start. Today I had this fascinating work problem. You see, whoever put in the original pipes—”

  “Dad, you said interesting,” Marcus groaned. “Like if the pipe turned out to be full of radioactive snakes.”

  “And you had to fight them off with a wrench,” Larry added. “But one of them bit your nose off.”

  “All right, boys,” Mom said, passing the beans. “There’s such a thing as having too much imagination. What about you, Norman? Do you have anything interesting to tell us?”

  “I guess so,” I said, suddenly nervous. “I’ve decided what to do with the money I won.”

  “Let me guess,” Larry said resentfully. “You’re going to buy elevator shoes with real elevators in them.”

  “I know,” Marcus said. “You’re going to hire a movie star to be your friend. She’ll follow you around saying, ‘You’re so smart, Norman. You’re so handsome, Norman.’ ”

  “Ignore your dear brothers,” Mom said. “Tell us all what you’re going to do with the money.”

  She and Dad smiled at each other. I knew what they were thinking: Is it a new roof or a new car? I looked down at my lap and said, “I want us all to go to Miami Beach. At Christmas.”

  “What?” said Dad.

  “Miami Beach!”

  Marcus and Larry jumped out of their chairs. They began dancing around the table, singing, “We’re going to Miami Beach, we’re going to Miami Beach…”

  “Shush, you two,” Mom scolded. “Sit down and eat your dinner. Norman, this is a very big surprise. Can you tell us why?”

  “It’s just that we hardly ever go anywhere. And when we do, we always drive to some campground and then sleep in a tent. I want to stay in a nice hotel. And see the ocean. It’s not just for me—everybody would enjoy it. Couldn’t we all use a real holiday? I know it’s good to be practical. But once in a while you have to have fun too.”

  For once my brothers didn’t speak. It was like they were holding their breath, waiting for my parents to decide.

  “It’s very thoughtful of you to think of us all,” Mom said. “A real vacation would be nice, don’t you think, Phil?”

  “It’s always good to do something together as a family,” Dad answered.

  “You mean we can go?” I asked.

  Dad ruffled my hair. “If your mother agrees, then I do too.”

  “I guess we’re going to Miami Beach,” Mom said.

  “Okay!” I said, grinning. Marcus and Larry jumped out of their chairs again.

  “Now listen, you two,” Mom said. “Thank Norman for wanting to share his good fortune with all of us.”

  Marcus came over to me. He put a hand on my shoulder. Then he smacked the side of my head. “Thanks a lot, dumb-bum!”

  “Yeah, thanks gizwack!” Larry pulled my ear.

  They ran out of the kitchen screaming at the top of their lungs, their hands waving in the air.

  Dad rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose we could leave them at home.”

  The Sky-High Travel Agency

  Now that the decision was made to go to Miami Beach, I started to worry. Since the holiday was my decision, I figured that it was up to me to make all the arrangements. For two nights I lay in bed wondering how an eleven-year-old could buy plane tickets and find a hotel. Finally, I decided to ask my dad for advice.

  I could tell he was trying not to laugh. “Really, Norm,” he said, ruffling my hair. “You’re a kid, remember? You’re not supposed to know how to do these things.”

  I wasn’t? That was a big relief to me. “We’ll go to a travel agency,” he said. “After all, they’re the experts.”

  So Dad and I drove downtown. The first thin layer of snow had quickly melted, but the sky was gray and it was cold. Dad parked in front of a window filled with posters for England, Sweden, Mexico, Australia. I’d never thought much about traveling before—I’d never even been on an airplane. But suddenly the possibility of seeing the world opened up before me.

  I had this idea that the Sky-High Travel Agency would look glamorous inside, but instead I saw a dented metal desk, a flickering fluorescent light overhead and a tired-looking woman eating french fries from a paper bag as she spoke into the telephone.

  “I’m sorry but there’s really nothing that I can do about a hurricane. You’re just going to have to go somewhere else. Why don’t you think about it and call me back.”

  She hung up and gave us what my dad always called a “professional” smile. “May I help you?” she asked.

  Dad gave me a nod. So I said, “We want to go to Miami Beach. At Christmas. Me and my parents and my two brothers.”

  “A very popular choice. That is high tourist season, of course, so it’s more expensive.”

  “I have the money. It’s in a bank vault.”

  “How interesting. Well, I can put you on an Air Canada flight directly to Miami. That’s a hundred and twenty dollars return for each person. What about accommodation? There are some decent motels about an hour from the beach.”

  “No. We want to be right on the beach. And not in a motel. We want a nice hotel. A really nice hotel.”

  “In that case, I recommend the Royal Palm Hotel.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Dad said. “The Royal Palm Hotel is owned by that millionaire, Herbert Spitzer.”

  “That’s right; he lives on the top floor. They say he keeps a refrigerator full of money. And that he wears a suit made out of gold. It’s a beautiful place, made of real coral from the sea, and it’s first-class. The restaurant is divine and the beach is gorgeous. Take a look.”

  Behind her was a wobbly bookshelf heaped with brochures. She searched through them and came up with one that she put on the desk. It had a picture of the hotel on the front. I’d never seen anything so beautiful in my life. It looked like a pink castle. Inside were pictures of the marble lobby, the outdoor swimming pool and the pale sand of the beach against the blue ocean.

  “How much does it cost?” Dad asked.

  “You would need a two-room suite. That’s seventy-five dollars a night.”

  I asked her if I could borrow a pencil and a piece of paper. Five airplane rides would cost $600. Six nights in the hotel added up to $450. That made a total of $1,050.

  “Dad,” I said, “could you lend me fifty dollars?”

  “I think I can donate that amount.”

  I smiled. “That’s where we want to stay,” I said. “The Royal Palm Hotel.”

  “You couldn’t have made a better choice,” the woman said, just as the telephone started to ring. She sighed. “I don’t suppose that you would take me with you.”

  How could I possibly wait two and a half weeks before our holiday started? It snowed and then snowed again and every day the temperature dropped. Across the road, I watched two little kids build a snowman with a c
arrot nose.

  “This trip is going to be amazing,” Marcus said. “I’m going to swim to the bottom of the ocean and find a shipwreck. I’m going to bring up a gold sword.”

  “I’m going to find one too,” Larry said. “And mine will have diamonds and rubies on it.”

  “Yeah, but mine will be really sharp.”

  “Nobody is playing with swords,” Dad said.

  Mom went outside to clear snow off the car. Then we drove to the mall to buy new bathing suits. I was worried that the cost of the bathing suits would come out of the thousand dollars, but Mom said that she and Dad would pay for all the extras, including our meals.

  First we went to the boys’ department, where my brothers and I got identical blue and white striped bathing suits. Dad got a green one. Then we had to go to the women’s department. Mom made Marcus and Larry swear they wouldn’t pretend to talk to the mannequins or make fun of the women’s brassieres.

  She went into the dressing room, and when she came out again Dad said, “If it isn’t Miss Canada 1965. You look great, honey.” But Marcus, Larry and I stared in horror. Our mother in a bikini!

  “Mom, you can’t!” Marcus pleaded.

  “Don’t be mean, sweetheart.”

  “But he’s right,” Larry said. “You’re our mom. You’re old.”

  “I’m thirty-seven. That isn’t old. Norman, what do you think?”

  The truth was that I felt the same way as my brothers. Moms shouldn’t wear bikinis. But I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.

  “I think it looks nice, Mom.”

  Marcus sidled up to me. “Sleep lightly tonight, brother,” he whispered. “Because you’re going to pay for this.”