by Cary Fagan
I guess there are a few moments in a person’s lifetime that he’s sure he’ll never forget. That’s what it felt like to me, standing on the beach and looking at the ocean for the first time.
It wasn’t just blue, like I expected it to be. It wasn’t any single color. It was a whole range of blues, and blue-green, even purple, and it got darker as it stretched out to the horizon. And when a wave broke and rolled up onto the beach, the water was as clear as glass.
The beach was a long, long curve of sand, as far as I could see. It looked white from farther away but was actually very pale, exactly what people meant when they said something was sandy-colored. It was warm and fine and felt good when I picked it up in my hand and let it run through my fingers, or when it slipped between my toes.
Little kids with plastic buckets picked up shells. Other kids were building sandcastles with moats that they kept filling up with seawater. Big striped umbrellas dotted the beach, with lawn chairs underneath. Fathers slept with newspapers on their faces. Mothers slathered suntan lotion on kids who were trying to get away from them. Girls in bikinis lay on their stomachs listening to transistor radios. Young guys threw footballs in the shallows.
We found an umbrella and a couple of lounge chairs for my parents, while my brothers and I set down our towels. I waited until I was really hot before running down to the water and wading in. The water was cool and lovely, and underfoot was only soft sand. I watched a wave rise toward me and held my breath as it swept me up, swirling me about before carrying me back to the beach. I came up laughing. I tasted salt on my lips.
After that I floated, or dived under, or lay in the shallows as the end of a wave washed over me. It was a while before I even noticed Marcus and Larry. They kept running into the water and throwing themselves into the oncoming wave. That looked like fun so I joined them. The three of us went under and came up again. We washed up on the beach. We chased each other and did headstands and picked up shells and I would have stayed in for a lot longer if my Mom hadn’t called us out so as not to get sunburned like the taxi driver said. We came out and put on T-shirts and baseball caps and proceeded to bury Dad in the sand. Then we got out the Instamatic camera to take pictures of each of us beside him, Marcus holding up his arms to show off the big muscles he didn’t have.
I didn’t think it would be possible to get enough of the ocean and beach. But in the late afternoon we walked back up to the high pink wall that surrounded the back of the hotel. We went through the gate with the Guests Only sign to the wide deck around the swimming pool. There was a narrow bar, and waiters in black jackets bustled back and forth, carrying trays of tall, cool drinks and plates of sandwiches and bowls of ice cream. Around the outside of the deck were tables, each with an umbrella, where women and men played bridge and smoked cigars and drank glasses of beer. People were constantly jumping or diving into the pool, sending up sprays. Parents held their toddlers on the stairs, letting them splash about.
We found some lounges and Dad ordered us all sodas. When they came we lay back, sipping through straws.
“You know, Norman,” Mom said. “I could get used to this. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome,” I said. Looking around, I noticed a man who didn’t seem to fit in with the scene. He was old and small and thin, with hunched shoulders. Stringy gray hair from one side of his head was plastered over the top to hide his bald spot. But what made him stand out was his suit. It was black. So were his shoes and his tie. He looked like an undertaker at a party.
He also held a miniature poodle under his arm.
The man picked up a small glass and drank it down. I said out loud, “I wonder why that man isn’t wearing a bathing suit.”
“Who?” Dad asked, opening his eyes. He squinted toward the bar. “Holy smokes. Is that really him?”
“Who?”
“Why, I thought he was dead. I thought he died a long time ago. He must be really, really old. But that’s him. That’s Mort Ziff.”
“Mort Ziff?”
“You’ve never heard of him? I guess you’re too young. Mort Ziff was a famous comedian. He played all the big nightclubs. He had his own radio show, back before there was television. And then when television came, he used to be a guest on The Milton Berle Show. I remember that he moved out here—they used to call him the Mayor of Miami Beach. But I haven’t heard about him in years.”
“Was he funny?” I asked.
“I thought so at the time. He had this peculiar style. He would make a joke, pause, make another joke, pause again. Never smiled. The jokes had nothing to do with one another. But times change. He’d probably be considered old-fashioned now. I suppose he’s retired. You’re seeing a real celebrity, Norman, comic royalty. That’s pretty neat.”
I stared at Mort Ziff and his little dog. He didn’t look like a comedian. He didn’t look funny at all. I took a sip of my soda and when I looked up again he was gone.
“Cannonball!” Marcus shouted, rising from his lounge and hurling himself at the pool.
“You shouldn’t run,” Mom said without looking up from her magazine.
“You’re right, Mom,” Larry said. Then he shouted, “Belly flop!” and ran after Marcus.
I got up and walked to the pool, slipping from the stairs into the warm water. An elderly woman wearing a rubber bathing cap floated by on an air mattress. A little kid rode on his dad’s shoulders. I held my breath and slipped under. Opening my eyes, I saw legs waving around me. When I spotted my brothers I swam toward them and came up again.
“I have a good idea,” Marcus said. “Let’s all hold our breath underwater until one of us passes out.”
“I don’t think that’s possible,” I said.
Marcus just made a face and went down. Larry pinched his nose and followed. All I could do was go under too, although I had no intention of passing out. Underwater, Marcus’s hair floated like seaweed. With his cheeks puffed with air, he looked like a squirrel. Larry waggled his ears. I turned around and let myself sway in the deliciously warm water, listening to the strange muffled sounds, like in a dream. It felt weirdly peaceful.
And then suddenly three other faces appeared. Three faces with dark waving hair like seaweed floating around their oval swim masks.
Marcus, Larry and I bobbed up, gasping for air. A moment later the three faces came up too. Three hands pushed back the masks to reveal three girls. They looked like sisters, about the same ages as us.
The oldest girl said, “This is our pool.”
“What do you mean ‘our’?” Marcus asked.
“We got here before you,” said the middle one. “We got here yesterday.”
“Yeah?” Larry said. “Well, you’re ugly.”
“And you’re stupid.”
“You better stay out of our way,” said the oldest girl. “Or else.”
“Or else what?” asked Marcus.
“You don’t want to find out.”
“Yeah,” said the middle one. “We’re from New Jersey.”
The oldest one looked at her sisters and put on her mask. The others did the same and then they sank under the water and were gone. Only the youngest hadn’t said anything.
“Who are they?” Larry asked.
“I don’t know,” Marcus growled, “but those girls don’t know who they’re messing with.”
Horvath, Horvath and Horvath
Even on holiday, parents could be completely illogical. My mother insisted that we all take showers before dinner, even though we’d just spent about four hours submerged in water.
And then, to make matters worse, she made us put on our matching blazers, clip-on ties, beige pants and brown leather shoes.
“The dining room is very fancy-schmancy, as your uncle Shlomo would say. They won’t let you in without a jacket and tie. But you all look so handsome.”
“I look handsome,” Marcus said. “They look like nerds.”
“It’ll be worth it,” Dad said. “The food is supposed to be great.”
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br /> Personally, I didn’t see how you could enjoy eating if you were choking to death from a buttoned-up shirt. Mom put on her favorite earrings and then we filed out of the room and waited for the elevator. When it opened, I was surprised to see the girls from the swimming pool with their parents. They wore pale blue dresses and looked as uncomfortable as we were. The adults said hello and the father of the girls asked if this was our first night.
“You’re going to love the food,” the other dad said. “The portions are huge. Yesterday I had a steak bigger than the plate it was on.”
“We’re the Horvaths,” said the mom. “These are our girls, Gloria, Danielle and Amy.”
“How nice,” Mom said. “And these are our boys, Marcus, Larry and Norman.”
The elevator doors opened and we all piled out. Gloria, the oldest girl, and Marcus hissed at each other.
The Royal Palm Dining Room was the biggest restaurant I had ever seen. It was like a glittering cave, everything dark except for the chandeliers sparkling overhead. The tables all had white cloths and vases of roses on them.
“I can see those Horvath girls across the room,” Marcus whispered to us. “Horvath, Horvath and Horvath. Do they ever look stupid in those dresses.”
“They might be saying the same thing about us,” I ventured.
When our dinners came, the portions were as enormous as Mr. Horvath had said. My brothers and I had all ordered spaghetti. “These meatballs are as big as my head!” Marcus said happily.
“The one on the right kind of looks like you,” Larry said seriously.
“It does. Look, I’m going to eat my own face!”
Just then the chandeliers dimmed. A spotlight lit up a microphone stand and a stool on a small stage at the end of the room. The recorded sound of an orchestra began and then a voice boomed over hidden speakers.
“Ladies and gentlemen! The Royal Palm Dining Room is proud to present a legend in his own time. He’s the king of comics, the maestro of merriment, the sultan of sarcasm. Please welcome the unofficial mayor of Miami Beach…Mort Ziff!”
Everyone in the dining room looked at the microphone. Into the spotlight shuffled the man I had seen at the pool. He wore the same black suit and, just as at the pool, he held his little dog.
“Look at that guy!” Marcus laughed. “He’s got a comb-over. What a schmo.”
“Ssh,” I hissed. “He’s comic royalty.”
Mort Ziff went up to the microphone. He looked out at the audience without smiling.
“What an ugly crowd. The last time I saw a crowd this ugly was at my family reunion.”
People laughed. Mort Ziff still didn’t smile. He leaned toward the mic.
“The first time I came into this place I said, ‘Waiter, do you serve crabs here?’ He said, ‘We serve anyone. Sit down.’ ”
“I went to my doctor and said, ‘Doctor, my hair is starting to fall out. Can you give me something to keep it in?’ He said, ‘Well, I have an old shoebox.’ ”
“Maybe you’re surprised to see me with a dog. Actually, she’s a guard dog. In fact, the other day a gang of hoodlums surrounded me and asked for all my money. This dog saved my life. She used her sharp teeth to pull the wallet out of my pocket and give it to the hoodlums.”
“You know, I wasn’t always a comedian. In fact, I once had a job in a store. But I had to leave it because of illness. My boss got sick of me.”
“Do you know who’s the owner of this magnificent hotel? Herbert Spitzer. That’s right, the reclusive millionaire. Herbert Spitzer sees nobody, not even me. But I’ll tell you how he got so rich—by counting his pennies. In fact, the other day he was out for a walk when he saw a little boy crying. He asked, ‘Why are you crying?’ The little boy answered, ‘Because I had two quarters and a bigger boy came by and took one of them.’ Herbert Spitzer said, ‘Did you call out for help?’ and the little boy said, ‘Just like this’ and demonstrated. The millionaire said, ‘Is that as loud as you can shout?’ ‘Yes it is,’ said the boy. So Herbert Spitzer took his other quarter.”
Mort Ziff went on for half an hour, making one joke after another. Dad leaned over to me and said, “I remember that he used to be funnier.” But I thought he was funny. It wasn’t just what he said, it was the way he never smiled or raised his voice. Even at the end when we applauded he looked sour, like he’d just eaten a lemon. Then he shuffled off the way he had come on.
For dessert I had a giant wedge of cheesecake covered with strawberry sauce. Finished at last, we all struggled to get up.
“I ate enough for three,” Dad said.
“Me too,” Larry agreed. “And I can’t wait to do it again tomorrow.”
As it turned out, the Horvaths got up at the same time as us. Our parents talked about how full they were. Behind them walked the six of us, me and my brothers on one side and the sisters on the other.
“So tell me,” Marcus said, “are you up for a challenge?”
“What sort of challenge?” asked Gloria.
Marcus tried not to grin. “Ping-Pong. In the games room tomorrow after breakfast. I’ll play any of you. Unless you’re too scared.”
“Don’t make me laugh,” said Gloria. “I’ll play you.”
“What are you kids talking about back there?” asked Mrs. Horvath.
“Oh, we’re just making plans to play Ping-Pong,” sang Gloria in an innocent voice.
“Aren’t holidays wonderful for making friends?” said Mom.
We rode up in the elevator together. The Horvaths were a floor above us, so we got out first. As I stepped out I looked back and saw the youngest sister—Amy—looking at me.
She winked.
Our first day in Miami Beach seemed a week long. I lay in my luxurious bed with its fluffy pillows and satiny sheets and listened to my brothers sleeping in their own beds. Marcus made a sort of hiccup sound, while Larry was a nose whistler. I didn’t mind; I was used to them. I wondered if I made a noise when I slept too. Maybe like a donkey or a lawn mower starting. I remembered the joke that Mort Ziff made about the kid and the quarter and it made me laugh again. And I thought of Herbert Spitzer, owner of the Royal Palm Hotel. Somebody in the lobby had said that the floor of his penthouse was studded with jewels and that he ate on silver plates.
Now I was feeling drowsy. I wondered why Amy Horvath had winked at me. Probably it was a trick. She was trying to lure me into a trap. That was my last thought as I drifted off to sleep.
The Quest 3000
I awoke to the chatter of birds, strange sounds that I’d never heard before. My brothers were still asleep so I got up and went to the big, open windows. There were wisps of cloud in the sky. The day was already getting warm. I could smell the ocean. Was it really freezing back home, with snowdrifts piled high? I could hardly believe it. Winter already seemed far away.
Marcus and Larry got up and stood beside me in their pajamas. We looked at the long, deserted beach and the waves coming in. I waited for them to notice how amazing the weather was here.
Marcus said, “Gloria Horvath is going to wish she’d never played Ping-Pong in her life.”
The ground floor of the hotel was divided into two halves, with the lobby in the middle. On one side was the dining room and also some meeting rooms and ballrooms for weddings and stuff like that. On the other side was everything else—gift shop, hair salon, the games room and a coffee shop.
As well as a Ping-Pong table, the games room had a row of pinball machines that you didn’t have to pay to use, a foosball table and three shelves of board games. As we walked in there were only a couple of younger kids playing pinball. Marcus immediately took a ruler out of his pocket and began measuring the Ping-Pong net to make sure it was regulation height. Then he sprinkled talcum powder on his hands. He took his racquet out of its case and made some practice strokes in the air. He put it down to stretch.
Gloria came in, followed by Danielle and Amy. Like us, they wore T-shirts and shorts and sneakers. Gloria was carrying her own ra
cquet. When Marcus saw it his jaw dropped.
“Is that a Quest 2000?” he asked.
“Actually,” Gloria said, “it’s the new model, the 3000. So how are we going to play? One game, first to get twenty-one points?”
“That suits me fine,” Marcus said. “Let’s volley for serve.”
A player can only win points when he’s serving, and Marcus won the first serve, which made him strut around with glee. Now things got serious as the two players took their positions, feet apart, bent over, racquets at the ready. Marcus smacked the ball over the net, right on the corner, but Gloria reached back to return it. It went back and forth three times before Gloria drilled it so hard that it bounced right at Marcus and smacked him in the chest.
“Yes!” cried Danielle.
Now Gloria had the serve. She scored two easy points; Marcus was clearly rattled. Then the volleys got longer, but each time Marcus tried to nail a shot he either hit the net or went past the end of the table. Soon it was six nothing for Gloria.
But she got caught too far back when Marcus tapped the ball over the net. Now it was his turn to serve. Marcus was warmed up now and he cracked that ball over the net so fast that Gloria never had a chance. He won four points in a row just on his serve before she finally managed to hit one back. They both leapt from one side of the table to the other as the ball went back and forth. Marcus used topspin and Gloria flailed hopelessly as it went by.
“That’s seven to six for me!” Marcus cried. He spun his racquet on the tip of his finger, something he had spent hours practicing back home.
“That would be useful if you were in the circus,” Gloria snarled. She got ready for his serve, and this time she hit it right back, catching him by surprise. Now she was serving again.
And so it went, back and forth, with the rest of us calling out encouragement. They leapt and twirled, crouched and jumped. In Ping-Pong you have to win by two points, but now the score was tied at twenty each. Gloria got a point, then Marcus tied it up again, then he lost the serve to Gloria. Twice he was a point ahead and then hit the net. Now Gloria was one point up and only needed one more to win. She delivered a clean serve and Marcus returned it, but he was too slow moving back toward the center of the table. Gloria beamed the ball over the net so that it hit Marcus’s side of the table and bounced right over his head.
