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John Meyer

~ Memoirist, Novelist and Songwriter

John Meyer

Monthly Archives: October 2011

Grampa Leo: his Women

24 Monday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Family

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My grandfather, Leo, engineered an escape from his nursing home, Mary Manning Walsh on East 72nd street. He walked out the entrance in his bathrobe and slippers, hailed a cab and returned to our apartment at Park Avenue and 84th street, which had been his home until four months ago, when my father convinced Marjorie he really needed to be in a home.   With no wallet -or any other possessions- he had to borrow the cabfare from our doorman. He went up in the elevator, found no-one home, went into the kitchen, grabbed one of my father’s chef’s knives, and retired to his old bedroom…where, hours later, we found him peacefully sleeping,   the knife clutched in his fingers. “I was going to end it,” he said, when we questioned him, “but I guess I fell asleep.” Well, this gave my mother pause. If her father had so despised the nursing home, had actually contemplated killing himself, then maybe he should be allowed -at age eighty-seven- to return and stay uptown with us. Days later, I was sitting alone at the kitchen table when Leo came in, still in his bathrobe and slippers. “Muh huh” he said, which was his way of greeting you. He sat down to join me. “I was counting ’em up last night,” he said, “the women I’ve slept with, and you know, Johnny, I think, over my lifetime, I must’ve had oh…a hundred women.” I couldn’t help but be impressed, while marveling at his need to unburden himself of this -and to me. Well, obviously, he couldn’t tell his daughter, and he sensed Pop wouldn’t be interested.  “Wow, Leo,” I said, “that’s terrific; good for you.” This was in the day of Hugh Hefner, and of course, in his mind, way before that, when those notches on your belt were a source of pride. But the next day, Leo was back, sitting at the kitchen table again. “You know, Johnny,” he said (he forgot he’d told me) I was counting ’em up last night, and I think, all told, I believe I’ve slept with seventy-five women.” And I thought, What happened to the other twenty-five?  

Hey everybody: I’m going to London to arrange a reading of my new comedy, Zazou.  I’ll try and post from the UK -stay with me, there’ll be fresh material every Monday.

Mini-drama @ Citarella’s

16 Sunday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Food and Wine, Wine Experiences

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Citarella

I’m in the queue at Citarella, inching towards the register, my shopping basket filled with a tuna steak (Sushi-grade), a pint of broccoli rabe, three Bartlett pears and a Lindt chocolate bar. Total cost will be somewhere around fifty-five dollars. I’m part of the affluent, Upper West Side consumer scene, idly wondering whether to do the tuna w/Teriyaki sauce or au poivre. In front of me, a thirty-something mom and her daughter, perhaps six years old. The little girl gives a sudden coo of excitement. “Mommy, look!” She bends down and plucks a dime from the floor, rising proudly to display her discovery in the palm of her hand.  “Oh, Tiffany, aren’t you observant! Good for you!” says Mommy, showering the child with Positive Re-enforcement. But then she says: “Somebody must have lost it. It belongs to someone. We’ll give it to the lady at the register.” Well, the kid’s face drops a mile and she starts blinking rapidly. “But Mommy, I found it…” “Yes, honey, but we don’t keep other people’s things. It’s not honest.” The child looks sadly at the floor, not wanting to accept this verdict. I feel a tide of fury rise within me. Of all the unjust, unfair, pain-in-the-ass, Politically Correct-Montessori Method bullshit! I tap her on the shoulder and she turns. To my chagrin I see she is a striking red-head in a cashmere sweater. “Didn’t you ever hear of Finders Keepers?” I ask her. The kid looks up at me hopefully. Has she found an ally? Can mommy’s decision possibly be reversed? The mommy gives me the tightest of smiles. The look in her eye is close to murderous. She’s obviously restraining herself from lashing out violently in a very unfriendly response. Her eyes,  I notice, are tastefully made up, just a hint of pencil and a subtle brush of violet shadow. A flash fantasy drops into my head: this is the beginning of the hottest romance I’ll ever know in my life. Yes, here, with this hostile lady. Oh sure, we’ll argue all the way through checkout (at adjoining registers) about the morality of how to dispose of the kid’s found coin, taking the heated, unfriendly (but hot) clash all the way outside and into the street, during which I’ll learn that the kid’s father is no longer around (killed in a car crash) and that she’s a Broadway performer in need of an original song for her cabaret act and then (jump-cut) I see us in bed, she’s riding me, my hips are thrusting upwards, her eyes are closed in ecstasy, her thrilling, low voice a sensual moan and I’m about to lose control…Except, Oops, the line’s moving forward. I’m hurtled out of my dream, I’m back in Citarella’s, and her turn’s been called (“Next–“). She’s pulling Tiffany along but she throws a parting shot at me over her shoulder, and it’s nasty: “When I want your opinion on how to raise my child, I’ll let you know.”

Oh well. Such is the life of a dreamer-fantasist.

Taking Jewish War Widows to Expo ’67

09 Sunday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Celebrity Encounters, Uncategorized

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Expo 67
MONTREAL TRIP 1967 EXPO

Ricky was a fly-by-night tour operator, a real cutter of corners. I worked for him in the late 1960’s, he hired me as a Tour Guide. I took a gaggle of high-school girls to Washington, I took another class to Williamsburg, Virginia. All by bus. Then West Point, had to improvise about the Gatling Gun and Hannibal’s elephants. Ricky didn’t care. He was paying me seventy five dollars per trip.

My most harrowing job for Ricky was to chaperone sixty-two widows to the Expo in Montreal (1967). These were the widows of the Veterans of Foreign Wars, the VFW, and the average age here was seventy-two.  What a bunch of yentas! The trouble began as they were boarding the bus.

Montreal Expo 1967“I’m sorry, I had the window seat. I put my purse down, I reserved it.”
“There’s no reserving here, you can’t save seats.”
“Ladies, please,” I interposed, “let’s not start off on the wrong foot—“

“She took my seat! I put my purse down!”
 “Okay, here’s how we’re solving this:  Mrs. Schnierson, you take the seat first, and when we get to Plattsburgh, Mrs. Levy, we’ll switch and you can have the window.”


We got to Montreal, and cheap-skate Ricky hadn’t even booked them into a hotel: they were staying in a jerry-built barracks that had been erected outside the fairgrounds. Two rows of beds, one against each wall. Like an army bunk, or summer camp. A communal bathroom, they had to stand in line. There was an aroma of freshly-cut wood and sawdust. The place must’ve been put up twenty minutes ago.

“But vhere’s de TV?” Mrs. Rappaport asked me. She was rotund, with thick, black, orthopedic shoes.
“Mrs. Rappaport, you didn’t come to Montreal to watch TV, did you?”
“I kehn’t fall asleep vidout de TV is on.”

The next day, I led them through the fair. I must say, this fair was exceptional, and almost worth the agony of dealing with this battalion of complaining yentas.

The Czech Pavilion, for example, featured a sculptured wall of living, breathing woodwork –by which I mean the parts actually moved. It was a panoramic view of a turn-of-the-century village, in miniature, to scale, with a farmer’s wife milking a cow (her little hands went up and down beneath the cow’s belly), a boy drawing water from a well (the bucket came out of the well dripping actual water), a priest giving a church sermon (his head turned from side to side as he  scanned his prayerbook) –all carved in shiny, blond pinewood. You could stand there for twenty minutes, enraptured by the craftsmanship and imagination. It was absolutely stunning.

The Canadian Pavilion had a circular hall, with a curved movie screen around the entire interior. It was Surround-a-Vision, there were no seats, you stood, as film was projected three hundred and sixty degrees around you in a flying trip across a mountain range. An amazing sensation, far surpassing Cinerama, and better even than IMAX, which is merely a tall screen.

The Argentine Pavilion featured a restaurant that served beef straight from the Pampas. Oh, there was lots to experience, and I was as eager as any tourist to take it all in.

It was hard not to become impatient with my slow moving charges, who needed to be shepherded cautiously through the crowds. But this was my job. I was there for them. On the second morning (we were here for three days), we had an accident. Mrs. Schnierson twisted her ankle getting up from her cot. So when the group gathered, at eight in the morning, I had to tell them the following: “All right, people, stay here at the Pavilion of the Future. I’m taking Selma to the Infirmary to have her ankle looked at. We’ll meet you here in forty-five minutes.”

Moving slowly, I supported Selma Schnierson on my arm as we inched through the surging crowds to the infirmary. It would almost have been easier to carry her –but that far above the line of duty I wasn’t prepared to go. Fortunately, Selma was among the first patients to be seen this morning, and as she was ushered into the examining room to see the doctor, I called after her: “Chins up, Selma.”

I looked around the ante-room, which was hung with framed posters of Canadian scenes. Skiing in the Laurentians; the Old City in Quebec. I was alone with a white-uniformed nurse, a pleasant looking girl in her twenties.

“You guys been busy?”  I asked her. “Any heart attacks?”  I’ve always been morbidly curious about heart attacks; Marjorie’s legacy, probably.
“Not really,” said this young lady.

“Any seizures, attacks of appendicitis?”
“Not really,” she repeated. “It’s mostly minor stuff, like the sprain your lady has. We have had quite a few fainting spells.”

“No kidding?”
“Yes, the women see the exhibits in the Medical Pavilion and it’s hard for them to take it. Some of them pass out. We have to break the ammonia capsule under their nose.”

“What’s so disturbing in the Medical Pavilion?”
“Well, it’s really quite fascinating if you have a strong stomach: they show you the latest procedures for doing a kidney transplant, that’s one exhibit, and open-heart surgery, that’s another. They show it up close. It’s extremely graphic, watching the incisions, tying off the veins. Not everyone can take it.”
Selma came out of the examining room with an Ace bandage around her ankle. We thanked the staff and started back to re-join the group, our walk proceeding at the same pace.
“Nice young man, this doctor,” Selma began. “Dr. Neal. He’s attached to Montreal General. But oy, did he have a case of b.o!”
“Really.”
“Positively. The moment I walked in.” She made a face, wrinkling her nose.
“But he did a nice job on your foot.”
“We’ll see,” said Selma, darkly. She wasn’t going to give out any approval till the results were in. To forestall any further complaints, I began telling her what I’d just learned. How quite a few people had been fainting.
“You don’t say?” was Selma’s response. “From the Medical Pavilion? What do they have in there that’s so disturbing?”
“It’s not the conditions, it’s that you see them so up close, with all the blood and everything. They do a kidney transplant and open-heart surgery.”
“Kidney transplant!” said Selma, suddenly becoming animated, “That’s what my Morris had! We had to wait six months till they found a donor, someone who matched? You got to get someone who matches your blood type. Lucky for us we had the best specialist in Forest Hills, maybe you know him? Dr. Paul Buttenweiser? He’s attached to Columbia-Presbyterian? He’s very famous, he was in the Hundred Best Doctors.”
“Don’t think so,” I said.
“Oh, yes, quite renowned in his field, the Renal field they call it.”She paused, thinking about it. “Ooh, I’ll tell Sadie, she’ll be interested, her son has the same condition, damaged kidney. Yes, I’d like to see that.”  And then she came up with the line that made the trip for me. She was nodding her head in anticipation of how she was going to tell her friend Sadie about the show in the Medical Pavilion…and she had a little after-thought: “Open -heart is nice, too.” she said.


Short Story: Piano Job #1.

07 Friday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Celebrity Encounters

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 A Club Date in Wilkes-Barre                         

            Jackie VernonIn the mid-sixties, the Improvisation was the cutting edge comedy room. The rising stars of the decade would come in to test new material, and we had Steve Landesberg, Robert Klein, Richie Pryor, really funny guys. Some nights established names, people like Alan King and Milton Berle, would show up to get some adulation, maybe do a bit or two, and check out the young Turks.
            I was the house pianist, my job was mainly to accompany the occasional singer, but often to supply opening fanfares, play-off music and scoring for the comics’ bits. Car chases, for example, or love scenes, like a silent-movie accompanist. I had a theatrical instinct for punctuating comedy routines musically, and I could tummel, throw lines with the comedians.
            One night, Eddie Corman (not his real name) came in. He was hot, having done five or six Ed Sullivan shots, and he got onstage and did his Photo-Carousel routine, with the cricket clicker: “This is me on the beach in Bermuda –going down for the third time.” Click. “This is my wife, ignoring my cries for help.” Click.
He finished with a Civil War bit, Abe Lincoln, something about freeing the slaves, and he gets to the finish, and he turns to me and says, “When I say, ‘And that was the last we ever saw of him’ give me Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

            “What key?”
            He shrugs. This happened sometimes, amateurs would show up without knowing their keys, and I’d have to wing it. I do some hasty figuring: from the timbre of his voice I get that he’s a baritone and therefore his top note probably won’t be above a C. If the body of the song sits around a B, this will dictate the key of G.

            So I play it in G, and Eddie, who is not a singer by any means, actually sounds GOOD. He gets a big hand, and steps off the stage with a smile of satisfaction.
            A few minutes later, I go to the bar to get some juice, and there he is.

            “Hey, Knuckles—c’mere, wanna talk to you.”  Calling me Knuckles is his idea of affectionate kidding. I moved next to him. “Hey, Eddie, you killed. You absolutely killed.” I said, shamelessly flattering him. It was true. I had to hand it to him, even though I was put off by his grossness. He was really too heavy. While we were talking, I saw him pick his nose –and then roll the catch between his thumb and forefinger.
            “John, I’m lookin’ for someone to conduct. You wanna go to Vegas with me?”
            Whoa, I thought, that could mean some real bread. The only problem was, I’d never learned to conduct.

            “You mean lead a band?” I asked. “Ten or twelve men?”
            “Whatever.”

            “Oh, Eddie, I’m sorry, I’d love to, but I don’t conduct, I just play.”
            He nodded impatiently. “Ahright,” he said, “then how about this weekend? Saturday. I gotta go to Wilkes-Barre. You wanna come along and play for me? It’d just be you.”

            “What’s the music? Do you have charts?”
            He looked at me blankly. I realized he hadn’t understood me. “Or even a lead sheet?”

            “Nah. Just ‘Battle Hymn of the Republic’. The way you did it tonight. It sounded good.” He meant HE sounded good. “Bring your tux. I’ll give you two-fifty.”
            Now in 1967, two-fifty was like fifteen hundred dollars. My eyes began to glitter with greed, but I kept my cool. “Yeah, OK, that sounds good.  If  I can get a sub for my gig here.”
            “Work it out, willya?” Eddie said. “We’ll be leavin’ from my place, The Excelsior, East fifty-seventh. At noon, OK?”


“Yeah, yeah, Eddie, but gimme your number, I’ll confirm with you tomorrow.” 
He wrote his number on a cocktail napkin and went back into the main room to get more plaudits.

            I was able to find a sub for the Improv, and that Saturday, at noon, carrying my tuxedo in a garment bag, I showed up at the Excelsior. It was indicative of Eddie’s world-view that he lived here, an expensive, garish yet ordinary sixties apartment building with –in the lobby- tear-drop chandeliers and gold-flecked mirrors. Right out of Miami Beach, down to the fountain in the circular driveway.
            There was a guy in a chauffeur’s cap, standing by a white Cadillac limousine, a Coupe deVille. As I approached he called to me.

            “You the piano player?”
            “Yeah.”

            “Eddie’ll be down in a couple minutes. We’re waiting here. Whadja say your name was?”
            “You can call me Paladin,” I said. In those days I had a smart mouth,

which served me well with the comics in the Improv.
            “C’mon, John, we all know you.” This came from inside the limo,

I turned to where the voice had come from and saw a shaved-headatop a bright, toothy grin. He looked like Lex Luthor.  It was Danny Davis, whom I knew from the Improv, a not-very-funny comedy writer for whom I had little affection. Danny had once heckled a brilliant comic, Jackie Gayle, off the stage. I had never forgiven him for this. I had no idea what he was doing in the back of Eddie’s car.
            “John Meyer, we call him ‘Knuckles’,” Danny shouted gleefully, pleased to have someone from his own milieu (he thought) to heckle, throw lines at. “He likes to play in the cracks. This is Bernie.”
            “Hiyuh,’ said Bernie, without taking his hands from his pockets. I noticed Bernie had several teeth missing. “Eddie ‘n me were in the army together.”
            I had barely started speculating about this when Eddie appeared from the depths of the Excelsior lobby, a garment bag over his arm.
            “Hey,” he barked, by way of greeting. Danny got out of the backseat and made a couple of mock-boxing moves, feinting, weaving and holding his arms defensively in front of him.

            Eddie punched him affectionately on the shoulder. “You fuckin’ idiot, how are ya?”
            I could see what the tenor of this ride was going to be. Comedy-jock. All the way to Wilkes-Barre, a four hour trip. The male bonding ritual continued as Eddie puffed his way into the back seat. If he’d had to climb a fight of stairs, he would’ve needed an oxygen tank.

            The rear window was down, perhaps a third of the way. As Bernie passed outside, in a quick, furtive move he looked both ways, unzipped his fly, pulled out his penis, and, standing on tip-toe, pushed it through the window towards Eddie’s face in the backseat.
            I couldn’t accept what my eyes were seeing.

            Eddie gave a walrus snort –something between a grunt and a guffaw- and reached over to buzz up the window, hoping to trap Bernie’s flaccid member.  Since the ignition was off, this retaliatory move was a failure.
            Everyone had a laugh over this except me. But as I shook my head in disbelief, I had to smile at the sheer grossness of it. Some things are so stupid you either have to laugh or kill yourself. The guys  of course, thought I was joining in their camaraderie.

            I always felt like a pretender when I had to adopt the tone of a conversation or an emotional environment that I didn’t really feel, like this comedy-jocko grossness. Would I have to keep up this pretense for the whole trip?
            “Hey, Eddie, d’ja hear the one about the Polack rapist?”  This was Bernie, doing seventy-five mph along the Jersey Turnpike.
            “No, what?” said Eddie, and then in a quick aside to Danny: “Yeah, I heard it, but I wanna hear Bernie tell it—“
            Danny gave Eddie’s arm an intimate squeeze.

            “This dumb schmuck Polack is inna police line-up. He’s there on a rape charge, tried to rape some chick, y’know?. So he’s there with a dozen other guys, the other suspects, y’ know, for the chick to identify, and they bring the chick in, and this dumb Polack—“ Bernie was chortling through his spittle- “this dumb Polack sonofabitch, he points at the chick and he says, ‘That’s her.’”
            We all pretended to laugh, even Danny, who considered jokes and the entire comedy arena his private preserve. He had adopted the comedy maven’s habit of never laughing.  Instead he’d nod sagely. “That’s funny,” he’d say, turning the corners of his mouth down judiciously, “Oh, that’s funny.”
            Hours later, Bernie turned off rte 80 and slowed for the toll. In the lane to our left, a very attractive blonde sat in a Mustang convertible with the top down. She was wearing a Spandex top, no sleeves…and she looked hot.
            Eddie saw her, and nudged Danny. “Danny.” he said, and thrust his chin in the direction of the window.
            Danny took a look and buzzed down the glass. Kneeling on the floor, he called to the woman in the Mustang.  “Hey, Miss—“ he shouted, “Miss: how would you like to be Eddie Corman’s guest for his performance tonight at the Holiday Inn, Wilkes-Barre?”
            The woman leaned towards the passenger side of her car. “What?” Danny repeated his invitation, this time including the phrase, “nationally acclaimed TV personality”.
            The woman was more gracious than she needed to be, having been propositioned like this. She smiled, waved, and drove off. Danny turned to Eddie with a helpless grin.  “We struck out”, he explained.
            “Y’mean you struck out,” said Eddie, without smiling. He angled his body away from Danny in an attitude of displeasure and dismissal. Danny was definitely in the doghouse now.
           
Jackie Vernon
I, of course, was delighted. Of all the piggish behavior.  I decided to rub salt in the wound.
            “Do you have much success with this method of recruiting?” I said to Danny.

            “Ooh,,.a five dollar word,” Danny riposted, evading an answer. “Where’d you learn that one? One of your fancy schools?”
            “I mean, if I were a blonde in a convertible—“

            Eddie gave me a look. “Yeah, well, you’re not.”
            The subject was definitely closed. 

            At check-in, Eddie was met by the assistant manager, a Mr. Apthwaite. Apthwaite was small and detail oriented, rather like the actor Bob Balaban. He wore a dark suit with his name on a badge on his lapel.
            “Welcome, welcome, Mister Corman, Mr. LoMonaco is so pleased to have you at his hotel. I’m the assistant manager. Your room is all ready for you and your staff, your associates. If you’ll follow me…”
            He led us into an elevator, down a carpeted hall, and into a Suite, room 214. There was a living room with a couch and a coffee table and a bedroom with a shiny, maroon quilted bedspread.  And thick, thick drapes, also maroon. Danny, who was carrying Eddie’s garment bag, hung it carefully in the living room closet.

            “You’re all welcome to dine in our King Arthur room,” said the diminutive manager. ”I would suggest you visit the room in the next half hour or so, before it fills up. We’re expecting quite a crowd for your show.”
            It was now five-fifteen. The show was scheduled for seven-thirty. Right, I thought, we are in the Boonies here.

            “I’m gonna lie down for a few minutes,” Eddie told us. “I’ll see you guys downstairs. We’ll eat at six.”
            I almost said, Aye aye, sir. But I headed obediently to the door, waiting -out of some misguided politesse- for the others.  Danny followed me, but Bernie hung back.
            “I’ll be down in a minute,” Bernie said.
            As Danny and I rode to the lobby, I said to him, “Bernie and Eddie seem to have a special relationship.”

            “Yeah, they go back a long ways.”
            “Does Bernie keep Eddie warm on those co-wo-old winter nights?”

            “That’s not funny, you putz.”
            “What war were they in, anyway?”
            “They weren’t in any war, jerk. They were in the peacetime Merchant Marine.”
            “I’ll bet they never left the Brooklyn Navy Yard.”
            “I think they were stationed in Norfolk, Virginia.”
            “Well, Danny,” I said expansively, putting my hand on his shoulder, “as General Sherman once said…” I paused. Danny looked at me expectantly. When I let the pause lengthen, Danny said, “What? What did General Sherman say?”
            “He said: ‘I can resist everything except temptation.’”
            The King Arthur room lived up to its name. Plastic shields hung on the walls featuring a plumed, silver helmet above a pair of crossed swords. The crest said Dieu et mon droit. in raised plastic lettering. The menu was printed in Olde English script, with each selection named for a different Knight of the Round Table.  The roast beef was Sir Lancelot’s Cut and for dessert there was Lady Guinevere’s Bread Pudding. The wallpaper was red, with a fleur-de-lys motif running through it.  I made an effort to keep a straight face, because I sensed that allowing even a speck of ridicule to surface would jeopardize my standing with Eddie.  And I didn’t want to blow my chance to do a few more two-fifty gigs.
            Eddie had the Sir Gawain roast beef, a double-thick cut, (Joust-size) served from a scratched silver trolley, the kind where the lid rolls up to reveal the entire haunch. As Eddie dug in, my mind flashed on Charles Laughton as Henry the Eighth. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find a large mastiff prowling beneath the table.
            Watching Eddie eat was not pretty.  Let me just say that he had to tuck a napkin under his chin to avoid anointing himself in beef blood.
            Halfway through our meal, Apthwaite came to the table. 
“Are you gentlemen enjoying your dinner?”
            Eddie, mouth full, waved appreciatively.
            “Oh, and Mr. Corman, there’s a young lady waiting in the lobby. She says she has an appointment with you.”
            Eddie looked up, quizzically. “Yeah? What’s her name?”
            “She wouldn’t tell me. She said she had to speak to you.”
            “No kiddin’?” Eddie rose from the table and began heading out. 
Danny gestured to his throat. “Napkin,” he said.  Eddie snatched the napkin from his collar and threw it on the floor.
            The three of us looked at each other with raised eyebrows.
            Eddie did not bother with dessert or coffee and did not return to the table. About ten of seven Danny and I went to the lobby and saw him in deep conversation with the most stunning woman.  She was a bit taller than Eddie, perhaps five foot ten, the word that came to my mind was ‘statuesque’.  Shoulder-length brunette hair and a black, ribbed knit dress, belted at the waist that gave the promise of a juicy bosom.  Her only jewelry was a thin silver bracelet, a subdued pair of earrings and a rectangular tank watch, from Cartier.
            This lady was a most enticing, classy package.
            I approached the two of them, ostensibly to discuss any last-minute musical notes, but actually to get a closer look at this vision. However, when I was about five feet from them, Eddie put out a restraining hand.
            “I’ll see ya onstage,” he said.
            For the next twenty minutes I wandered outside, brooding about the perks of celebrity. God. If you were a celeb, I ruminated bitterly, even if you were the grossest, most tasteless piece of drek –as I believed Eddie was- you could still attract a woman like this. In fact, she had sought him out, checked the Holiday Inn entertainment schedule and made sure she found him.
            Probably a singer, I speculated, who’d like to open for him, or maybe a fledgling PR person who wants to represent him.  She’s gotta have some objective, she’s not tracking him down because he’s Robert Redford.
            As I took my position on the piano-bench I could observe her clearly.  Eddie had placed her in a place of honor, by herself at a ringside table for eight!  With a full bottle of J&B (his idea of class) in the center of the gleaming white tablecloth. Yeah, sure, whatever you want, drink the whole bottle, we spare no expense. Not for a girl like you.
            I watched her throughout the show. After all, I had nothing to do for fifty- five minutes till the finish of his act. This is me in Bermuda.  Click. 
This is my wife, ignoring my cries for help. Click, click, click. It was a clever piece, I wondered who’d written it. Not Danny, I was sure. It was too good to be Danny’s.Jackie Vernon
            Delilah seemed to be amused (I’d christened her Delilah). Her lips were set in a constant grin. Once in a while she’d bend forward in laughter, clapping her hands together. Oh, Eddie, you imp. How can anyone be so funny? Listen to them, you’ve got ‘em eating out of your hand.
            The audience was, indeed, eating him up. There were middle-aged ladies in the audience…in house-dresses! With their hair from the afternoon, still in curlers, a bandanna tied around their head! Unbelievable.  And they’d brought their kids and their grandchildren, eight year olds, twelve year olds, to see the TV star, the guy they’d seen on Ed Sullivan’s Toast of the Town!  Look, Mikey, there he is! Remember the funny man on TV?
            “HIS TRUTH GOES MARCHING ON” and the loud, genuine applause, 
Thank you, thank you so much, you’ve been a wonderful audience, and at the keyboard I’m repeating Battle Hymn of the Republic as play-off music, over and over, six times till the clapping dies and the excited after-show buzz fills the room: Mikey, keep the menu,  we’ll get him to sign it, would you like that? Sure he will, they told us we could see him in the lobby.
            I saw Eddie in the lobby a few minutes later. 
He was signing the kids’ menus, but looking over their heads for something. He’d take a menu, glance down, then look up and crane his neck around, seeming to search for…guess what.
            I went into the bar, where Danny and Bernie were sitting on stools, having a drink.
            “We gonna get going, or what?”
            Danny motioned me to a stool. “Soon as Eddie’s ready.” he said. 
And when is that likely to be? I asked, mentally. I ordered a cranberry juice.
            Suddenly Eddie materialized beside us. “Hey, any of you guys seen Monica?”
            “Which one is Monica?” I asked, knowing there was only one person she could be, and dreading the thought of having to wait around for Eddie to get it on with her before we made the four-hour return trip.
            “You know, the chick. The one I was talkin’ to before the show.”
            “Shit, no, Eddie,” I said, “you wouldn’t even introduce us—” Danny shifted uncomfortably on his bar-stool. “Wasn’t she, di’n you put her at a table?”
            “Yeah. Never mind.” And Eddie scooted out again, towards the lobby, moving as fast as I’d ever seen him move.  In the next ten minutes I saw his 
corpulent, sweaty form cross in front of the lounge door three or four times.
            Bernie lifted his head from his drink. “What’s goin’ on?” 
I slid off my stool and, carrying my glass, went to the door. Two minutes later Eddie came round again.  I didn’t have to say anything, he came right up to me.
            “You guys just wait in there while I get this thing organized.”
            “What’s the story?” I prompted him.
            “Well, y’know, we had, we made an appointment…” he looked like a little kid who’s lost his shovel.
            “Like a date?”
            “Well, y’know, after the show and all. We were s’posed to meet right here, in the lobby, after I did the autographs. But…”
            But. But he couldn’t find her,  that was the But. Disappearing Monica.
            He spent another twenty minutes searching for her. Finally he appeared in the bar carrying his garment bag. “OK, let’s go,” he ordered brusquely. He was not happy.
            Nobody said anything as we walked to the parking lot, Eddie’s frustration having sealed our mouths.  Bernie unlocked the car, popped the back open, and I laid my tuxedo on the floor of the trunk. Then I opened the rear passenger door and got in.  Bernie turned the key and the Coupe DeVille was purring smoothly into action when behind us we heard a voice:
            “Mr. Corman, Mr. Corman—just a minute—” 
It was Apthwaite, the assistant manager, his thinning hair waffling in the autumn breeze. “Mr. Corman, I just have a few questions for you—”
            Eddie flung open the door. I could see he was still in a state of puzzled agitation. Apthwaite, when he spoke, was extremely animated.
            “Mr. Corman, everyone is still laughing from your wonderful show.  We’ve had nothing but positive reaction, and I hope you’ll be able to come back to us next year.”
            “Yuh,” said Eddie, ever gracious.
            “I wanted to make sure everything went well. How was your room?”
            “Yeah, yeah, fine.”
            “And your dinner? Anything you’d like to see on the menu, perhaps, that we could provide next year?”
            “No, Yeh, yeh, i’ was good, very good.”
            “And the young lady. Did that work out okay?”
            Eddie frowned. “What young lady?” Then a light of recognition broke over his face. “You mean Monica?”
            Apthwaite gave a noncommittal smile. “I mean the young lady.” he repeated, with mysterious emphasis.
            Eddie, guileless, launched into a complaint. “Well, yeah, no, I mean, 
we were supposed to…she was supposed to, uh, meet me, but, you know, afterwards I co’ont find her. We never connected.”
            “Is that so?” Apthwaite responded with a slight frown. “Mr. LoMonaco will be very distressed to hear that.” A beat. “I’m sorry.”  He took a step back. “Well, have a safe trip home.”
            He closed the door gently but firmly. Bernie put the car in Drive and pulled out of the parking lot…as my mind whirred with absolute astonishment.
            Sonofabitch. The gorgeous brunette was a working girl, set up by management for Eddie’s pleasure.  But on meeting him, he grossed her out so much that she split!  Couldn’t go through with it, not even for the hefty fee LoMonaco had obviously guaranteed her.  Wow. Wait’ll I tell the gang at the Improv, I thought; Eddie Corman is so gross he can’t even get laid by a hooker!
            “Oh, Eddie, oh, Eddie” I crooned, next to him in the back seat. “Wait’ll the guys hear this.”  I knew I was cutting my throat in terms of future jobs with him, but I couldn’t stop myself, I was chortling with glee. “That girl was a hooker. And you were so protective, you wouldn’t introduce any of us –man, she woulda taken us all on. Except you!”
            I was breaking up. Danny was in the middle –in more ways than one. 
Sitting between me and the comic, wanting to join in the ridicule, but restrained by his allegiance to Eddie.
            “What’s the joke?” Bernie leaned to his right to hear better.
            “That great-looking brunette that said she had an appointment with—” But Eddie broke in. “Ahright, that’s enough, Knuckles. Skip it.”
            When he called me Knuckles, I knew I’d had it. I wouldn’t be doing any more gigs for Eddie playing Battle Hymn of the Republic. But this story was beyond the two-fifty, in fact it was priceless.

                                                            EPILOGUE

            In fact, Eddie never paid me the two-fifty. He kept saying his accountant was getting to it, getting to it, but the check never arrived. After six months or so, I even contemplated taking him to small claims court, or writing to his union, or his agent, but…well, you know how that goes. The time went by and I forgot about it. And so you could say Eddie got his revenge for my ridiculing him.
            But a year or so later, I saw him in a restaurant, the Brasserie on East 53rd street. He was in a booth for four, his wife and another couple. Obviously, to look at her, he was still on his first wife. In a word, Dumpy. Mousy brown hair and a body like his, corpulent.
            Seeing him there, about to start spilling gravy on himself, the old grievance returned.  “Eddie!” I called, with false bonhomie, “how the hell are ya?” I left my table and crossed to where he was sitting.  Eddie was forced to introduce me.
            “Dis is my wife, Ceil, and this is Mr. and Mrs. Steinmann, John Meyer.”
            I smiled a brief acknowledgment. “Eddie and I did a club date in Wilkes-Barre once upon a time.  In fact Eddie, you still owe me for that date, you know? I never got that check you kept promising.”
            There was a silence. Then he said, “I paid you.”
            “No, you didn’t, Eddie.”  The silence continued. I let it hang in the air
as long as I could. Nobody said a word. Finally, I said, “I’ll invoice you again, Ed. You’re still at The Excelsior?”
            Again, Eddie made no reply. Then Mr. Steinmann said, “Yes, John, he’s still at the same address.”
            “Right,” I said, and then, to the Steinmanns, “Nice to’ve met you.” 
And I went back to my table.
            Minutes later, Eddie approached me. “That wasn’t nice, John. 
Embarrass me in front of my friends.”
            “So pay your bills, Ed, and this kind’ve thing won’t happen.” 
Eddie shifted his gaze from side to side, as if concerned he might be overheard.
            “Y’know,” he said in a soft voice, “ I could have a friend of mine take a look at you.”
            I knew what he meant, one of his unsavory connections; but I also knew this was an empty threat. It wasn’t Eddie’s style, he was…a bumbler.
            But something in me couldn’t let him have the last word.
            “Eddie, I just want to know one thing: have you found a girl yet who’ll take your money?”
            He turned and went back to his table. I like to imagine he might finally have seen the humor in the Wilkes-Barre incident.
            But I don’t believe he ever did.



Romanee-Conti and the Philistine

03 Monday Oct 2011

Posted by meyerwire in Wine Experiences

≈ 1 Comment

Bouteille_de_Romanee_ContiThe first time I met Frank, he put a fifty in my tip jar. Wanted me to know he was a Big Man. He was dating one of the girls there at The Gaslight, let’s call her Jodi, and she could sing and she had taste and of course she was beautiful. All the girls the Gaslight hired had to be beautiful and had to wear abbreviated Gay-Nineties, teddy-style outfits with the push-up bra. Because that was the theme, the gaslight era, and the club was in a five story town-house on East fifty-sixth street, between Park and Lex. It thought of itself as competition for The Playboy Club and it was run by Italians. The male staffers – and that included the singer/pianists- dressed on the fifth floor, we each had a vertical steel locker, as in a health club, where we kept our tuxedos. Oh yes, the male employees had to sport formal wear because this was a real class operation. One Monday I was changing and my shoe slipped on something and I looked down and there were shell casings on the floor. Little brass shell-casings, each with a tiny indentation on the metal where the hammer had struck. So you wanted to mind your manners. There wasn’t supposed to be any fraternizing between the boys and girls on the job, because the girls were supposed to flirt with the customers, and an on-site boy-friend would put a crimp in this. And Frank was precisely the kind of guy management encouraged, an affluent trader in the market who came around to hear his girl-friend, Jodi, do a few numbers. Jodi liked me the best of the players, because I knew some of the more rarefied tunes she liked to sing, numbers like The End of a Love Affair. I could have gone for her in the well-known Big Way, but she had a twelve year old daughter (uh oh) and of course there was Frank.  LeilaAnd Leila. Leila was my lady, and she was smart and funny and undeniably gorgeous. So one evening, Frank -knowing of my gourmet pretensions – took us to La Cote Basque, the little jewel-box offshoot of Soule’s famous Le Pavillon. Frank liked to dine well himself, and he welcomed this chance to show off his largesse. Well, there was Romanee-Conti 1966 listed on the wine card. Eighteen hundred dollars for the bottle. “We’ll have a bottle of this,” he told the waiter, pointing to the entry on the wine-card. I simply gasped. I’d never had this wine, the crown of Burgundy, renowned through the ages as the wine of princes, kings, diplomats. Eagerly, I watched as the purple nectar was decanted, relishing the thought of my first taste when my leg of lamb arrived. It would need at least forty-five minutes to breathe and show its bouquet and power. To my chagrin, Frank picked up the decanter and poured a glass for each of us. He lifted his glass. “Cheers,” he said. I was horrified. It was clear he expected each of us to to drink along with him. He obviously had no idea how unyielding this wine would be right now. But we had to follow his lead. Unwillingly, I put the glass to my nose and took a sniff. Reputedly, I should be inhaling a bouquet of raspberries, violets, perhaps a hint of licorice -all held in perfect suspension. Well, there was nothing. The wine was closed, No Admittance, come back in an hour. Frank was drinking, and so were Jodi and Leila. I resolved to save as much of the wine as I could for as long as I could. I tipped a minimal amount of the liquid into my mouth for a taste. Apart from a bite of acidity, there was almost no character -it was as if you were trying to suck a lollipop that had been encased in the finger of a leather glove. Frank was looking at me. “What is it John, no good? Should I send it back?” “No, no, Frank, it’s fine, I’m just saving some for the food.” Well, by the time the food arrived, Frank had gone through most of the bottle. The two sips that I’d managed to salvage had finally begun to show just the foothills of majesty and class that were characteristic of this (allegedly) superb wine. I’m still waiting for my Romanee-Conti moment. FOOTNOTE: a few weeks later Jodi asked Leila for advice: “He’s asked me to marry him -what do you think?” Leila told her not to do it, that she’d be miserable with this controlling, pompous jerk. Well, not only did Jodi marry the guy, she told him what Leila’d said -and that was the end of any more wine-tasting opportunities for me!

Romanee Conti


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