Since the hour was early when I entered Giordano’s, Luigi was able to place me at a table in front near the window that looked out onto the street. From there I could watch for the arrival of someone I had not seen in every bit of twenty years. Actually, Hershel Feldman and I had not seen each other since our high school days, when he had ruled over our relationship in his typical tyrannical fashion. As one of a minority of goyim in a predominantly Jewish high school, I suffered the misfortune of being dragged along behind a tall, handsome, and wildly popular Jew named Hershel Feldman. His mission was to inflict upon me my daily allotment of humiliation, while my function was to assume the role of his punching bag. Being a non-Jew, pudgy, fair of skin, and ordinary looking at best, I had absolutely no defense against Hershel’s abuse, so I simply absorbed it with the best grace I could muster throughout my teen years, until we both graduated and left high school to attend different universities. From that point onward, until this morning at the ghastly hour of three-fifteen, I had heard absolutely nothing out of my teenage tormentor. As far as I knew he had simply dropped off the edge of the earth. The phone’s persistent clamber tore me away from a tantalizing dream and into the realm of the real and, when I picked up, cleared my throat, and croaked, “Hello”, I was shocked even further by a voice with a distant, but otherwise familiar character; a voice that somehow took me back in time but, beyond that, gave me no additional clues about its origin, at least not right away. The voice persisted: “Elvis? Is that you, you goy son of a gun? I had a heck of a time finding your number without knowing your last name. Had to get drunk before I could remember it. Did I wake you?” It seemed to me as if the preterit twenty years melted away as soon as I heard the familiar mutilation of my name. Just as I had done a thousand times before, I corrected the perpetrator: “Hershel, my name is Ellis, not Elvis; you know that. Please don’t call me ‘Elvis’. And, it’s the middle of the night. What’s the matter? Are you in trouble?” “Trouble? Am I in trouble? Why else would I call a goy jerk in the middle of the night, if I wasn’t in trouble? You’re my last resort, Elvis, and I need you to help me out of this mess, and I don’t want any of your measly excuses.” Hershel’s usually sonorous voice had taken on a squeaky character in his distress, whatever that might have been. “Ever since I saw you on TV—this big-shot preacher or evangelist or whatever you are—I started to wonder if you had somehow sopped up some brains from somewhere, and had actually begun to amount to something. Of course, you’d never be smart enough to be a rabbi but, as I always say, ‘You can fool most of the people some of the time.’ So I thought I’d give you a call and maybe give you a try. I figure, what the heck? Everyone else I know has failed me.” I couldn’t resist but had to fall back on our ancient relationship: “The name’s Ellis, not Elvis! How would you like it if I called you ‘Hershey’ or ‘Herbert’ or something else that wasn’t your name?” Completely ignoring my question, Hershel resumed his tirade without skipping a beat: “So, how’s about meeting me somewhere so I can give you all the gory details of the troubles I’m having? You big-time preacher types are always noising about how compassionate you are and all that crap, so now’s your chance to put your money where your mouth is. Meet me tomorrow night at Soonie’s Place over a gin and tonic and I’ll spill my guts to you. How’s nine o’clock sound?” “It sounds impossible to me, Hershel. I don’t show my face in bars these days and nine o’clock is when I go to bed. I’ll meet you at Giordano’s Ristorante at three in the afternoon. Take it or leave it.” I could hardly believe I was standing my ground against Hershel Feldman! It was exhilarating! Hershel agreed to my terms, but very reluctantly, it sounded to me. So there I sat, in Giordano’s, at the window table, nearly four-thirty, and no Hershel. Actually, I wasn’t too concerned about his tardiness. Being late was pretty much Hershel’s modus operandi. My concern was, since he had been ‘four sheets in the wind’ when he called me, that he had forgotten altogether. I resolved to give him until five o’clock and not one second beyond; then, if he didn’t turn up, I’d forget the whole thing and go home. Sure enough, at twenty past five Hershel came walking jauntily around the corner and burst into the restaurant. If I had not been practically Luigi’s high priest, it is doubtful whether or not he would have allowed me to hold his best table hostage for two and a half hours. Even so, he threw me the occasional haughty look, as if to put me in my place. Brushing Luigi aside, Hershel strode over to my table, a big grin plastered across his face. He looked like an Italian crime boss or something, dressed in a five hundred dollar pinstripe suit and sporting Gucci loafers. He had on one of those pastel blue shirts with white collar and cuffs, and his wristwatch looked as if it must have cost thousands. Uttering not the slightest greeting, he merely sat down at my table and began to regale me with his problems as though we had seen each other only the day before. There was not a woman in the place (and there were some really fabulous ladies in attendance) whose head he did not turn. With his rich, dark, and wavy hair, his angular handsome face (nicely tanned), and his tall, athletic figure, Hershel had them all staring. He hardly took notice.
|