Martin J. Kleinman's Blog, page 9

Ruminations on Zoom Seder #2

“How very unlike seders past.”

That is all I could think about during last night’s Zoom seder, our family’s second. We came together dutifully, but “gallery view” revealed the truth: we were broken.

We will soon mark the first yahrzeit of my mother-in-law’s death, from Covid-19. She was the matriarch of the family. Seders were “produced, directed, and starring” Mimi. Her gatherings were a tour de force. The food was delectable and the timing impeccable. The family would tease her, and moan about her rigid ways, but she was the family mortar (forget haroset).

As fate would have it, my son and his girlfriend are also marking a first yahrzeit: their beloved friend Nicole. Dead from Covid-19 at 33. She was a rock star from the midwest who lit up a room, and who participated in family seders at my sister-in-law’s house. My SIL was passed the seder torch from Mimi when it became too daunting for her to handle. My son and his gf are grieving and I could see the pain etched in their gallant faces, as the couple sat on their Brooklyn couch for the Zoom session. My heart breaks for them.

My brother-in-law’s mother died of a horrible degenerative disease in late 2019, just months before Zoom seder #1 last year. Last night, the typically untethered guy, known for his Tourette-like outbursts of ribaldry, was strangely subdued. Diminished. Was it a passive-aggressive ploy? One could make the case, but I think not. I think he’s shot.

In fact, I think we all presented as “shot”, to varying degrees. We’ve soldiered on, but it’s been tough. Do I have to spell it out? Human loss. Job loss. Social loss. Health instability. In music theory terms, the last year+ has been a minor second. Sharp, unsettling, horror-movie stuff.

We went through the motions, a cursory blast through the Haggadah. Then, instead of a tipsy meal of arguing (what that family considers “normal conversation”), we quickly hit our red “leave meeting” buttons and went about our individual activities. My son and his gf would digitally meet with friends to mourn.

No groaning board covered with haroset, gefilte fish and nostril-searing horseradish, brisket, asparagus, kugel, flourless chocolate cake, etc. etc.

My SIL made salmon.

My wife and I made a half brisket using Mimi’s recipe, earlier in the day. Hers is a garlicky, tomato sauce-based affair. The thing is this: Mimi would always braise it to collagen-laden succulence, then refrigerate it. The next day, she would remove the congealed fat, slice it, and gently reheat it with the sauce, all timed to the reading of the Haggadah with the grand dame’s precision.

So we didn’t eat the brisket last night. It’s on the docket for today’s early dinner. Along with asparagus. Today — a rainy, chilly day. A minor-second of a day.

Why was last night different from any other night? Now, you know.

Next year, ANYWHERE but on Zoom, s’il vous plait!

Parksville

Sometimes I have nothing. Sometimes, the memories flood my mind, a tsunami of tsouris. Like today, when my Facebook feed had a three-year old post about Parksville.

Parksville, NY — the memories flooded my mind this morning.

Parksville is in upstate New York, in the rounded hills called the Catskills maybe 90 miles north of New York City. Maybe a bit more. It’s down in the dumps now. But it wasn’t always that way.

My great-uncle Sam lived in Parksville. To me, a Bronx street urchin, that side of the family — my paternal grandmother’s side — was rich. That is, they did not live in the Bronx. They lived in Queens, which was hoo-hah compared to our down-at-the-heels NYC quadrant. “Francis Lewis Boulevard” conjured images of tony private houses, garden apartments, kids who got braces, foo-foo dropkick dogs.

Sam had a house in Parksville. Not just any house. An old house on a secluded gravel road with a 360-degree porch, gables, turrets, interior staircases, and land, Katie Scarlett, LAND!

Out back was a barn, with an old hayloft, that he converted to a garage. One of his cars — he had several — was a metallic grey Sedan de Ville Cadillac. A/C. Power windows. Red leather seats. Uncle Sam let me sit in that car, with the a/c on, when us po’ relations came a-visiting.

There, I played in the fresh air, with my cousins Dory and Betty. Dory was older than me. Betty and I were about the same age. Where are they now? I have no clue, another family mystery. Why didn’t my parents keep the relationship going? Hell, why did they do anything that they did?

Sam was a WWI aviator. One of the guys in the Snoopy outfits in those single-engined planes with the machine gun synched with the propeller to rain fire at the enemy. He seemed to be a kindly old gent without the accent of his generation, with a cool house, “rich” kids and grandkids, and an awesome Caddy. That’s how the eight-year old me saw him.

But that house! One day, me, Dory and Betty went exploring in the woods beyond the yard. We found a little trail, and carefully side-stepped the poison ivy. There was deer poop, salamanders, thorny ferns. We weren’t in Kansas anymore. Heck, I wasn’t on University Avenue anymore!

In the distance, the sound of gently running water. What could it be? Dory was brave. “Shhh, follow me!” she said. And we did.

Like Indian scouts, we advanced, careful not to snap a single twig. The water got louder. Finally, there it was. A rushing stream, with darting fish, frogs, lichen lined rocks.

Beside the stream, on a rusted metal bridge chair sat an old man in stained white dress shirt, worn black pants, black leather shoes, wearing tsitsis and a yarmulke. He turned his gray stubbly face to us kids, and smiled.

Then he offered us a water glass. “Taste,” he said. “Taste the vasser.” Betty and I checked with Dory. She shrugged.

“OK,” I said. And the old man dipped the glass into the stream and filled it with Parksville water. Dory took a sip and passed the glass to me. I drank, and passed it to Betty.

We all smiled at the old man. It was the coldest, sweetest, most delicious water I’d ever tasted. It was fresh. It was pure. It was our secret elixir.

We kept that secret from the grownups. We never told anyone about the old man of the stream, and his holy water.

I never saw him again. By the time I was ten, I never saw Dory, Betty, Sam — that entire side of the family — again. I started to hatch my escape scheme even then, for I yearned for more episodes of life beyond my Bronx, beyond Sam’s Parksville yard, deep into the woods, with mysterious people who held life secrets.

Thanks to Maxene Spindell, who runs the Catskills Facebook group that ran this Parksville post. It was a writing prompt that unlocked a precious memory and, for that, I am grateful.

Yankee Stadium – Opening Day

I last posted this story from “Home Front – The Collection” six years ago. It’s called “Yankee Stadium — Opening Day” and it’s about renewal.

Soon many of us will be vaccinated. Soon the clocks will be moved to provide an hour more of sunlight. Soon Yankee Stadium will be open again, albeit with greatly limited capacity.

We are tired and yearn for some semblance of normalcy. Spring training is underway. A new season will begin.

Humans are hardwired with an optimism bias. Hope springs eternal. Enjoy my story and “like” it and/or share it with your friends.

Yankee Stadium—Opening Day

The new Yankee baseball season marks the mental closeof another hard winter. Daytime temperatures stayed stuck in the thirties, andstayed there until well past St. Paddy’s Day. The sooty old snow that lined ourcity’s sidewalks is far from gone.

This new season lies ahead like a kid’s summer, fullof promise, adventure, and so much time—unlike the summers of adult life thatflick by like casual swipe-right.  A newbaseball season means renewal.

The Yankee home openers of my youth were alwaysmidweek day games against Detroit. The Opener was an event. The entire neighborhood would make plansto play hooky from work or school. We’d take the number four train down to 161stStreet and run down the “el” stairs and down River Avenue to get on the ticketline for our non-reserved upper deck nosebleed seats.

Leader of the pack was Big Larry. Larry, our buildingsuperintendant so long ago, died at eighty-nine. He mumbled when he spoke: myname is Marty—he would call me “Moh.” I think back and remember him swabbingour hallways on Sunday mornings, his hair and white tee-shirt drenched withsweat. I remember the tattoos on his forearms, of faded blue-green anchors.

He fought in the Pacific in the Big One, double-yadouble-ya two. My dad had it tough in the European Theater but even he admitsthat the guys in the Pacific had it even tougher with malaria, booby traps and kamikazes.

Big Larry’s kids were our best friends. His son, Lawrence,was my buddy. We called him Larry. His sister, Janet, was best friends with mysister. The baby of their family, Colleen, was the hapless tag-along.

I loved their basement apartment, and I was there atleast as often as I was in my own joyless home, upstairs. There in Lawrence’splace, we played mindlessly, and dreamed of the larger world and of a time whenwe’d have it all. Money! Girls! Corvettes! We ate sandwiches on the Formicatable withoutplates, weate spaghetti until our stomachs burst—not boring old pot roast like my momserved us at our home.

We talked sports, we talked about the Yankees and, intime, we talked about girls. Ensconced in Lawrence’s bedroom, we’d worship theposter of Sophia Loren in Boy on a Dolphin, which he taped to the wall.

Time stretched before us and every spring Big Larrywould take us all to the Big Ballpark in the Bronx. We were kings high up inthe upper deck, surveying the subway, the Bronx County Courthouse, theConcourse Plaza Hotel (which wouldn’t let black ballplayer Elston Howard in, myfather would always remind me). In our hands were pennants, pretzels and hotdogs. The grownups tossed back cups of Ballantine beer. We kids looked forwardto the day when we, too, could call the beer guy and order a round.

Big Larry was hardly rich—he probably couldn’t afford to take a gang to the new Stadium these days—but he was always generous. Wherever that family went, I was invited along. Peach Lake, Jones Beach, Yankees opening day, I was always invited. I felt proud, and loved, when—finally one year—he knew I was strong enough to help push-start his cars, which were always fifty-dollar clunkers.

My friend Lawrence would shrink in shame as we pushedhis dad’s bombs down Webb Avenue until we built up enough speed for Big Larryto pop the clutch and turn the ignition key. When the engine caught, plumes ofthick black exhaust smoke spiraled up to the Bronx heavens.

Once underway, Big Larry would push the buttons of theradio until he found a song he could snap his fingers to. “Toe-tappers,” he’dcall them. He’d lean back, and say to his wife, “Annie…light me up a Lucky.”Annie, my surrogate mother, would light up two in her mouth and pass one upfront to her husband. Cool.

Annie passed away just weeks after Big Larry.

Big Larry always worked hard, and he knew how to enjoyhis money, when he had it. He’d spend a fortune on Christmas presents for thekids. For Easter, they all had spiffy new outfits.

When their relatives came over, the party was on. BigLarry would play Eddie Albert or other popular country crooners on his hi-fi.Everyone would dance and dance, shouting and drinking until early in themorning. I marveled at the magic of good cheer, as before my very eyes casesand cases of Rheingold would disappear as afternoon turned to evening.

The real magic, however, was how my sullen demeanorwould brighten once I went down to their place, from my joyless, top floorapartment. No matter that theirs was a dark, dank basement flat. I’d join inthe merriment with Big Larry, Annie, Lawrence, Janet, Colleen and the rest oftheir clan. We kids would watch the grownups dance and drink in a swirl ofcigarette smoke and raucous laughter, hard-working, plain-spoken people blowingoff steam. One time, Lawrence’s Aunt Agnes got really drunk and, glass in hand,slowly bent to sit on her chair, only she missed it by a good two feet andplopped down hard on the bare wood floor. We all laughed right along with her.Who cared if she laughed so hard she peed herself, right there on the parquet—whichmade us all laugh even more.

Renewal.  The newYankee season is about to begin. Winter is finally over. The clock has beenturned ahead, extending daylight by a precious hour.

I recall how my mom would yell at me for tramping mudthrough our old top floor apartment after coming home from the ball fields inearly spring. Lawrence’s mom, Annie? She never yelled. She’d just laugh at us, all caked in filthfrom head to toe, dripping with little kid sweat and grinning from our pleasantexertion. She’d smile, call us jerks, get a broom and a dust pan, and ask us toleave our muddy sneakers out in the foyer. Together, we cleaned up our mess.

Goodbye, Big Larry. Goodbye, Annie. I miss you. Restin peace.

Love,

Moh

Not For Sissies. Not At All.

Bette Davis was right: old age is not for sissies.

Bette Davis was right: old age ain’t for sissies. Hell, LIFE ain’t for sissies. She would have gladly taken the vaccine.

It’s the dead of winter. Emphasis on the “dead”. ‘Rona roams free. All of a sudden, it’s no longer a hoax. The country’s vaccine distribution system — a losing lottery of woe — is haphazard, at best. Yet, through persistence, high-speed Internet access, and the ability to arise at 5 a.m., I was able to score shots for me and the wife four weeks ago, and a second round for tomorrow, Valentine’s Day. “Happy Valentine’s Day, doll, let’s go get jabbed.”

Age. Co-morbidities. The aches and pains of a thousand pick-up basketball games, little league catcher’s crouches, pulling-guard groans, hockey flops on frozen Van Cortlandt Park lake.

I take two Advils and one ibuprofen after breakfast — a pro tip my dentist taught me. As good as any controlled pain meds. Not as fun, but it’ll have to do, given temps in the twenties, bleak snowy skies, and biting winds — weather that makes my arthritic knee and back scream.

Can’t go to the movies. Can’t visit friends. Can’t wander about the mall. Can’t linger over dinner at Patricia’s.

Can’t linger over dinner at Patricia’s with the demon child. Not yet, anyway.

Too cold to play outside. Can’t travel. Not even domestically, given the wet noodle resolve of our countrymen. LA is a mess. Florida is a mess. A big, steaming shit show, from C- to shining C. “C”, for Covid-19.

Age is closing in. Disease is closing in. Financial peril? The wolf is right outside the door. “I’ll huff. And I’ll puff….”

The wolf is at the door.

There’s a big birthday dead-ahead. Funny choice of words, eh? Big whoop! I just loaded up with more work assignments. More classes. More story writing. More piano practice.

What’s the metaphor? Whistling pass the graveyard? Close, but more like: put the burlap bag over the horse’s head and lead him out of the burning barn. “Easy, there, big fella. Whoa, now!”

Look around: who are the “snowflakes” now? Who are the brave ones? It’s not a time for sissies. Not. At. All.

Covid deniers deciding who’s first to get the vaccine.

All Our Dads Were Pricks

All our dads were pricks.

Willie the Cop beat his kid, my friend Billy, in public. Jamesy’s dad tore him a new one at least once a week. Big Larry would scream unintelligibly at his kids. Big Mort, my dad, would scream “No sudden outbursts!” or “Goddamit to hell!” and chase my sister and I until we dove under a bed for safety. Trent and his dad came to blows. Fistfights!

And it wasn’t just us kids in the working class sections of the Bronx. Out in the leafy ‘burbs, my wife’s dad beat her and one time pushed her down the stairs. It didn’t stop after she kicked him in the nuts. It only stopped after his wife threatened to leave.

Her friend’s dad locked his sons out of the house, and told his eldest, after some infraction, “I wouldn’t give you the sweat off my balls!” Nice talk.

I bring this to you after watching “Falling”, an award-winning new film produced, directed, written, and starring Viggo Mortensen.

It’s a movie that will stir memories. The stern father, an upstate New York farmer, doles out just enough kindness to keep his kids close. For the most part, though, he’s a prick. To his wife. To his daughter. To his son. To his grandkids.

At one point, a throwaway line of dialogue; he admits his dad was rotten to him as well. Pricks beget pricks.

As I watched the movie, I marveled at the restraint of the adult Viggo character, and his adult sister, played with nuance (as always) by the fabulous Laura Linney. They take his abuse, hurled even in front of their own kids — the prick’s grandkids — and all you see as they absorb his acid is a little twitch of the eye, the cheek.

Me? I wanted to reach into the bloody TV monitor and rip the guy’s throat open with my bare hands.

Afterward, I wondered. Was I a prick to my son? Probably, at times. Maybe I was a hybrid prick, one who doesn’t just act with oblivious, pricky intent, but who felt guilt when I lost control, and the Big Mort-esque anger within me proved too big a wave to manage. But I did lose it, from time to time, and of this I’m not proud. I tried to make it right, after the rage relented. Too little, too late? Maybe.

One thing though. Later in life, after absorbing my parents’ vitriol with only a Viggo/Laura Linney twitch to signal my pain, I blew up at them. Big time. No, I mean BIG TIME. I ripped them a new one, I screamed at them, cursed them, all the bile hurtling forth like molten lava.

Now, the pain and the anger it created have dissipated. OK, once in awhile my volcano releases some steam. But mostly, it’s released through my stories (buy it today: “A Shoebox Full of Money” on Amazon. Operators are standing by.)

Buy your copy of my latest molten lava stories now. Operators are standing by.

Dad is long dead, and when he died, I felt free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty I was free at last.

And mom? We’re estranged. Which is a nice was of saying I no longer allow myself to get wound up over her brand of narcissistic personality disorder that tied my guts in knots for decades.

Mom? We don’t talk. And, in fact? I wouldn’t give her the, well, you know.

The Voices In My Head Won’t Stop

My new short story collection, “A Shoebox Full of Money”, is out and my Zoom readings have begun. In the Q&A part of my evenings, I am asked “where do the stories come from?”

Where do the stories come from? I take dictation for the voices in my head.

And my answer is: “From the voices in my head. I take dictation for the voices in my head.”

It’s not that I WANT to write these stories. It’s that I HAVE to write them. The voices within grow insistent, until I am forced to open a new MS Word document and begin. Only then does the pressure subside. Only then are the voices quieted.

For awhile.

And then, once the story is written, the cacophony begins anew. It builds, the cross-talk, the internal arguing — “NO, that’s not how it was!” or “NO, you can’t say THAT in public!” — the psychic pain.

I am my own neurosurgeon, drilling little holes in my head, to let the steam out. So much tension, so much anger, fuels my stories. I want others to know hurt, betrayal, fear, like I do. Why suffer alone?

Increasingly, my stories slant towards aging and death and, perhaps, this is how it should be in this Age of ‘Rona. My dreams are swirls of sadness, mixed in with poison, a toxic Ben & Jerry’s cocktail of doom: “Manic Marty Madness”. The death tallies mount every day, in my stories, as in real life, as we are told that the count from Covid might reach 450,000…500,000…600,000. It’s like a Cheyenne livestock auction: “do I hear A MILLION? A MILLION FIVE!”

The story I am working on now is about a couple dealing with Covid. This afternoon, I will see four Zoom one-act plays about Covid. The front page is filled with Covid. A response I wrote minutes ago to a NYT article about airline travel during the pandemic, and unruly passengers, just got 50 likes in the blink of an eye. Now, it’s up to 110.

It stalks us. It hunts us. It infiltrates our waking hours and our dreams. There is no escape. It is war. A medical war. We are all untrained soldiers, fighting an unseen foe with pitchforks, baseball bats, and slipping facemasks.

Life during wartime: Death toys with us.

The voices in my head scream in deadly earnest. WRITE THIS DOWN! BEAR WITNESS TO THIS TRAGEDY!

I don’t want to write it. But I have to write it. The voices are far to loud to ignore.

Even though I want them, really want them, to shut the hell up. Even though I want, really want, to just let it go.

I Want 2021 To Be Like My Miele Dishwasher

My hope for this New Year, 2021, is for it to be just like my Miele dishwasher. It is a mid-line model, not the flashiest, not the most expensive. It just does what it’s supposed to do, unlike the inefficient, leaky machine — a noisy antique — it replaced.

It is virtually silent, this Miele of mine. Many is the time I ask my wife, “is this feckin thing ON?” You can’t hear it. Yet, soon enough, little electronic beeps and boops go off, and the dishes, flatware and glassware are spotlessly clean. They look like restaurant-quality utensils. At least, from what I remember about restaurants, since I haven’t set foot in one since early March.

For 2021, I want a year that uses my Miele as a role model. I want leaders with energy and skill and good intentions to right the ship of state. We have a long list of “must-haves” : a national plan for vaccine distribution, jobs, economic support for people and their employers. Efficiency. Expertise. Compassion. These are things I think we can muster.

At least from what I remember about past administrations.

What I shout every day since early 2016– in the direction of Washington, D.C.by way of my TV — is “cut the rebop”, in my best Marlon Brando-as-Stanley imitation.

Last year was the worst, a maraschino cherry atop a pile of manure. It has been the year of Erik Satie. Let me explain: I’ve been taking piano lessons with a musical genius for almost three years now. Every couple of months, when I have a piece pretty much (ok, “somewhat”) nailed down, we discuss the next challenge.

This past November, without prompting, I asked if we could try Erik Satie’s Gymnopedie Number 1. Boomers will recognize this piece as the opening cut on the second Blood Sweat & Tears album. Yes, this is the one that foisted David Clayton-Thomas and his marzipan-style of singing (a little goes a long way) upon us more blues-oriented Al Kooper-Danny Kalb BS&T/”Child Is Father To The Man” fans.

The Satie piece I selected is dark and brooding. It conjures a wistful moment, a cold rainy day when hope has gone absent. The score indicates “lent et douloureux” and Satie, he ain’t kiddin’ bro: it takes you to the town called “despair” and stops just, and I mean JUST, short of dread.

My piano instructor said the piece would be difficult for me, because of the left hand jumps. It would be a stretch, but I wanted to try. And he agreed, being a reverent admirer of Satie, and of Debussy. I think he is bemused by my bullheadedness. He relented and gave me this color commentary:

“Have you ever been to Paris in winter,” my maestro asked. No, I had not. Only in summer and fall. “Winter is bleak. Everyone dresses in black, or dark grey; no one is smiling,” he said, recalling his upbringing there and his days at The Sorbonne (for Ph.D #1). “It is cold. It is dreary. It is relentless.”

And, I thought, “well, no wonder I picked that particular piece.” My subconscious knew: It was the perfect soundtrack to 2020. Torrents of bad news that begat bad news. It was Death in “The Seventh Seal”, leaning over the chessboard, while we were all Gene Wilder, in The Producers, snot-sobbing “no…way…out….no….way….out….”

It has taken six weeks, but I am getting the better of this Satie Gymnopedie Number 1. I am mastering the jumps. I am playing it to tempo. OK, “almost” to tempo (but it’s supposed to be very slow, I tell myself).

I am going to master this mofo. Just like I am going to make it through the months ahead, despite the pain, the loss, the tears of the previous year.

No more Gene Wilder gifs for 2021. Next month, pitchers and catchers report; a clean slate of a baseball season. No, for the New Year, I’m thinking more along the lines of Gloria Gaynor’s disco anthem, “I Will Survive”. Hey, 2020: “Go on now, go, walk out the door, just turn around now, ’cause you’re not welcome anymore.”

My Juilliard and Sorbonne trained piano teacher may not go for it, the disco tune, but that’s alright. For 2021, I’m using my Miele as my role model. Not the flashiest. But quietly, I’m going to get the job done, do what I have to do, to the very best of my ability.

What about you? Are you with me on this?

Calendar Daze

I was caught up short by the entries in my “week at a glance” calendars from 2019 and 2020. Yes, as usual I made a post-Christmas Staples run and got my new paper calendars, and no judgement — please — on the fact that I still use analog scheduling tools.

That’s right, I use old-skool paper calendars to keep track of life. Don’t like it? So, sue me!

This morning I started making the switch, inserting the new calendar leaves into my ancient leather-bound (no vegan vinyl for me!). I peaked through the entries from 2019 and 2020.

My heart sank. There were entries for birthday parties, business meetings. Piano lessons at Juilliard. Wine and cheese karaoke gatherings. Religious services. A Florida winter vacation. Paris vacation planning (and cancellation). Opera performances. Restaurant reservations. In-person readings of my work.

There were reminders of the Kahlo exhibit at the Brooklyn Museum. Dinner party plans. Visits to Yankee Stadium. Library book return reminders. Dinner at Yonkers Raceway (don’t ask!). Pick up dry cleaning!!! CAR INSPECTION DUE!!!

Nothing super big. Nothing super fancy. Just the social and cultural glue of a New Yorker, middle-class life. I kept turning pages, memories of a recent past. But then came December of 2019.

Life got worse. Travel plans to Pikesville (the funeral for my BIL’s mother, who was an integral part of the clan). Trips to the Atria for my MIL. Doctor appointments for MIL. She fell, again. A trip to the hospital, in the midst of a pandemic. A positive test.

Hospice reminders for my MIL. FaceTime goodbyes. Funeral arrangements for my MIL.

May to November: where was I? What did we do? I can’t remember, even reading reminders from a long-term sleepwalk. Cancellations for Thanksgiving and Hanukkah. When was the last time I saw my son? Really? I don’t remember.

Today, the suspended animation of a once-vibrant life. It’s Sunday? It’s December?

In ancient times, mankind hovered in the dark of their caves, built fires, and prayed that they’d survive to the light of day.

What, if anything, has changed?

All we can do is wait it out, and hold each other tight.

—

Buy This Book!

You’re gonna love it. It’s “A Shoebox Full of Money” — my second collection of short stories that take place in, and around, New York City. (OK, one story takes place in Heathrow Airport. So, sue me.)

The perfect stocking-stuffer for that Real New Yorker in your life. C’mon, you know you want it….

You’ll meet gamblers, weird little kids, handball champions, old ladies and their burned-out, adult children, Vietnam vets, IT experts, a Miss America winner, Jaco Pastorius, The Beatles, Tolentine parishioners, a flight attendant for Emirates, a Carlyle club singer, schoolyard b-ballers, even a Brooklyn-based, Beaufort-born, sorceress.

Twenty stories, some set back then — and some set right now. If you like The Real New Yorkers, you’ll be right at home with “A Shoebox Full of Money”.

But don’t take my word for it. Listen to these folks, and then click on the link below:

“Martin Kleinman weaves powerful stories in distinctly diverse New York accents and ring true to this New Yorker. I enjoyed, and will treasure, every one of them.”

–Fernando Ferrer, former Borough President of The Bronx, and two-time New York City mayoral candidate

“Kleinman’s latest collection gently rocks between essay and fiction, and will show you how a New York Tuesday is different than any other Tuesday. With tales full of wit and nostalgia, Kleinman opens up the doors to his home, his museums, his bodegas, his street corners. If there ever was a time when one could use a “Shoebox Full of Money”, it is now.”

–Kate Hill Cantrill, Author of Walk Back From Monkey School

“Martin Kleinman’s short story collection is a treasure trove of riches. It’s all perfect – not a false note anywhere. By the time you’ve finished the book, you will have gone through a sea-change yourself, into a fuller consciousness. Not to be missed!”

–Ron Kolm, editor of Sensitive Skin and author of Swimming in the Shallow End

“Reading Martin Kleinman’s A Shoebox Full of Money is like slow-dancing to a love song by La Lupe. His poignant stories are remembrances of life, love, and loss.”

–Angel Franco, Pulitzer Prize-winning photojournalist

“A Shoebox Full of Money is real city life itself, with all its sights, sounds, complexities, pain, and glory. You will recognize your friends, your relatives, your nabe, and most of all, yourself.”

–Gary Axelbank, host of BronxTalk and the Bronx Buzz on BronxNet, and publisher of thisistheBronX

Winter’s Grind

A New York City winter unlike any other is upon us.

The sky is grey, the temperature is below freezing, the dirty snow streets are dotted with dog pee.

Welcome to another New York City winter!

But this one is unlike any other in my memory. We hunker down, captured by Covid, and tune into our information silos, run by content masters intent on retaining viewers via non-stop infuriation. The pressure builds until we explode/implode. We write a venomous social media post, down another pour of booze, eat another batch of cookies.

Death stalks us, walks amongst us, hides in the shadows, flicks our earlobes for attention.

Forget “The Queen’s Gambit” — this Covid shit is for real, bro!

Four decades ago, Christmas Eve meant a frantic call from Long Island. My father in law was taken to the hospital, where he died of a heart attack at 70. Three packs a day will do that. Well, to be fair, three packs plus a sedentary lifestyle, plus the impact of his young son’s tragic death two years earlier.

I remember racing to the hospital from Jackson Heights. I remember the crying. I remember seeing his lifeless body on a gurney with a white sheet over him. I remember being asked to call my sister in law to tell her the news.

The relationship between this man and my wife, his older daughter, was complicated. On the plus side: they shared intellectual curiosity and an accrued wealth of knowledge. On the negative side: he delivered decades of mental and physical abuse.

My late father-in-law, with his three kids.

Forty years is a long time. So long that my wife forgot to light a memorial candle for her long-dead dad this year. Another 2020 “first”.

The yahrzeit candle for her dad would flicker on our apartment walls at holiday time, in cruel mimicry of a Channel 11 Yule Log. But not this year. This year, we mourn other, more recent, deaths. My MIL, taken in April by Covid. My BIL’s mom, taken a year ago. My son’s bestie, taken at 33 last March by Covid. On deck: my mother, with late-stage cancer and a positive test.

I’m told it might rain this Christmas, which I suppose would be only fitting for this shit-show of a year. What else could possibly go wrong? A bungled vaccine distribution? Holiday-fueled super-spreader events that hasten our demise? Imposition of martial law? A Russian hack of our electrical grid? Sure, bring it on. Why not?

Top of the world, ma!

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