The Verse That Could Happen

I’ll exclude news items from today’s blog and focus on a pair of creators, one of them me. There are two Iras with whom I schmooze regularly. One, a retired tailor, loves books on the occult and fashion; the other, a retired city worker, has a passion for creating quips. Today the latter handed me a copy of a poem he composed. The title is The Verse That Could Happen (with apologies to Johnny Maestro & the Brooklyn Bridge). Here it is exactly as he laid it out, minus the hand corrected errors:
“Buddhists spread across the world. Buddhist men, Buddhists girls, we all love the Buddhist breed, spiritual souls after what we need….British Yiddish recite a Kadish say shalom to the homeless bum…rabbi does a briss..throw your wife a kiss…why is it like this? hit and miss…piano lessons, true confessions, peanuts, popcorn, ballpark concessions. synagogues, Lincoln logs, weather forecast, heavy fog..I thrive on creativity…I ask Stevie Wonder oh say can you see??….hi and bye…oh my.” Thanks for sharing, sir.

It was one of those sessions where the floating book shop resembled a real business. My thanks to the kind folks who bought and donated books. Here’s what sold: six novels and a CD in Russian, three Spanish instructionals; Sphere by Michael Crichton; Big Bad Wolf by James Patterson; Guilt by Jonathan Kellerman; Chasing the Night by Iris Johansen; Genesis by Robin Cook; Reversal by Michael Connelly; The Janson Equation by Douglas Corleone; Suspect by Robert Crais; The Last Juror by John Grisham; Body of Evidence by Patricia Cornwell; and Killing by yours truly.

When Andy F-Bomb and his wife Lulu, Polish immigrants, asked which of my books I think is the best, I said Killing, the story of a Brooklyn Italian-American family just entering a very rough stretch, beginning with the son’s participation in the first Iraq war. Here’s an excerpt, most of Chapter 2, a few minutes read:
The ground floor of the two story house, whose exterior had been modernized in brick and wood, was dark except for the light emanating from a large television screen situated in the modest living room. Although it was February, the Christmas decorations had yet to be taken down.
“Danny?” a woman called, entering the front door, which led, through a small foyer, to the living room. “Why’re you sittin’ in the dark?”
She switched on a lamp. The interior had been modernized beautifully. Dante, slumped on a couch, squinted.
“It jus’ started,” he said somberly, staring at the screen.
Tension rose to his wife’s thin face as she poised herself against the recliner, eyes focused on the newscaster. Dressed conservatively, dark hair cut short, she imparted a maturity and seriousness that contrasted with the youthfulness of her features. No one ever guessed she was 41, which was both a source of pride and pain to her husband, who, although by no means obese, had the thickness of middle age and receding hairline to match.
“Does your mother know?” she said.
“I doubt it. My father don’t watch the news no more. He says they’re a buncha lib’ral sfacheem.”
She pursed her lips, apparently stifling a response. “I’ll go up and tell her.”
“Let ’em eat first. Why spoil their dinner?”
She looked at him. He kept his eyes on the screen, reluctant to meet an accusing gaze.
“Where’s Jo Jo?”
He shrugged lifelessly. “She wasn’t here when I came in.”
“I’ll make you some soup. You can’t fast the whole war.” She took a step toward the kitchen, which was at the rear, and paused. “I hope you’re satisfied.”
He hadn’t the resolve to respond. Besides, what might he say — that someone’s children had to stand up to the thugs of the world? This was no time for arguing. He was as distressed as she. He would rather have Junior home, too, despite the fact that his country needed him. For the first time, his son had been apart from the family at Christmas. Now they feared he would never again be home for the holidays.
The kitchen door swung open. Rays of light cut into the living room. Eyes covered, he looked toward the silhouette of his wife in the doorway.
“When’re you gonna take down the decorations?” she said, annoyed. “You always have ’em down the day after the Epiphany. People must think we’re giamoaks.”
He’d been wondering when she would mention it. She was not one to let anything, however trivial, slide. Apparently her thoughts had been elsewhere.
“I ain’t takin’ ’em down ’til Junior comes home.”
She turned away. Light left the doorway. He realized he’d left the decorations up to test her as well.
His thoughts were interrupted by hurried footsteps pounding the porch. The door burst open.
“Daddy…” said a teenage girl breathlessly.
“We know, mommy,” he said, patting the space beside him.
She flopped onto the sofa and leaned against him heavily. As he put his arm around her, he smelled tobacco. He hadn’t the will to scold her. He hoped it was her friends and not she who indulged. He’d been a smoker himself. He’d begun in Vietnam and eventually passed the habit on to his wife, who’d only recently quit herself. His daughter was now 18. It was time she made her own decisions, even foolish ones. He would mention it another time. At present it was trivial in light of what his son was facing.
“There’s nothin’ to worry about yet,” he said, kissing her forehead. “Looks like we’re gonna bomb ’em roun’ the clock hopin’ they’ll wise up an’ get lost.”
“You were right all along.”
“I wish I wasn’t. He gave us no choice, though. Now he’s gotta be squashed before he gets even more dangerous.”
The family, Dante’s parents included, sat huddled around the television late into the evening. The women were the first to retire, leaving father and son alone.
“Let’s see if they botch this like they did your war,” said the elder, cane poised between his knees.
“We won’t. If anything, it’ll make us try harda to get it right.” Did he really believe that or was he trying to fool himself? he wondered. “Bush’s been there. He knows what it’s like. He won’t tie the gen’rals’ hands.”
“We’ll see. You can’t trust politicians. They’re always up to no good, sittin’ nice an’ cozy in Washin’ton while the little guys’re dyin’. Roosevelt let the Japs bomb Pearl Harbor to get us atta the depression. ‘New Deal,’ my ass, the socialis’ bastid.”
Dante made a face. “That’s crazy, Pa. No president’d let all those people get killed jus’ to get the country goin’. This ain’t Russia. Now you soun’ like all the conspiracy nuts you hate so much. An’ where would you be wit’out Social Security an’ Medicare, which the lib’rals got you?”
“I’d’ve had more money to put in the bank.”
Dante was about to say the money would have been squandered on broads and booze. He restrained himself. After all, this was his father. “It wouldn’ta been enough. You’re comin’ out way ahead.”
“Shows you what saps they are. Why should the little guy work hard or save? Then again, they don’t really give a crap ‘bout the little guy. It’s jus’ their way’a buyin’ votes.”
To Dante, it did seem foolish of the government to bail out someone like his father. And he feared there were many like him. He did not know if those in need should be deprived because of the bums, however. Trouble was, it seemed the government was making it easy for too many citizens to be bums.
“You always said you were for the war, anyway.”
“Sure I was, jerko. We shoulda hit first, that’s all. Everybody an’ ‘is mother knew we were gonna get it sooner or later. We shoulda got in soon as Hitler made ‘is first move. The Japs were up to no good all along in China. An idiot coulda seen what was up. We let ’em get off to a quick start an’ it cost us big time.”
“We don’t hit first. That ain’t what this country’s about.”
“That’s why it’s in the shape it’s in. We shoulda knocked the Russkies all the way back to Mosco’ too, or threatened to nuke ’em if they didn’ get back where they belonged. They saw what the bomb did to the Japs. There never woulda been a cold war, no Korea or Vietnam to make mistakes in.”
“You see everything twenty-twenty.”
“I can still see that dumb hick’s face. He wasn’t wit’ us a week. I told ‘im to put ‘is pack in fronta the little slot in the bunker. He wouldn’t listen. Sure enough a piece’a shrapnel got in an’ got ‘im. I was lucky a piece didn’ get me too, the stupit bastid.”
Dante grew cold with fear as he realized there wouldn’t be many combat veterans on the scene to show his son the ropes, the little tidbits that increased the chances of survival. When had America last fought in a desert — World War II? He hoped there would be Israelis on hand to lend expertise. In Vietnam he’d been taken under the wing of a Californian whose parents had been raised in Brooklyn. The others in the unit, all seasoned, several into a second tour of duty, were cold to him at first, as they were to subsequent replacements, until he proved himself, “broke his cherry,” as they said. Still, he would never forget the sense of panic he experienced the day his mentor’s orders came through. He’d never felt such isolation. He adjusted quickly, however. He had no choice. He wondered what had happened to that guy.
“That kid an’ thousands like ‘im’d still be alive if we’d’a hit firs’,” said his father emotionlessly. “The war woulda been over way before then. It only had a few months to go as it was.”
“You can’t look at it like that. There’s always gonna be mistakes. It ain’t ‘two an’ two.’”
His father dismissed the comment with a wave. “Whatta you know? You’re a dope. I’m goin’ up to bed.”
Dante chuckled, then recalled the gravity of the situation and regretted the levity, as if it were an affront to the war effort.

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