A CHOCOLATE ICE-CREAM CONE

I see a picture of my dad sitting on a bench, legs stretched out in front of him. And I see myself half standing and half leaning against him, smiling and looking quite satisfied and safe with his arm around my waist and my head resting on his shoulder. My dad and I are on the boardwalk in Brighton Beach heading towards Coney Island. My father promised me a chocolate Carvel ice-cream on a sugar cone dipped in chocolate sprinkles. And I remember by father ordering his in Vanilla and when I saw the black spots of vanilla beans my stomach turned a little because I thought the black spots were from the sand billowing up from the beach.

My mother was very sad that day and a dark, black film seemed to float above our heads blocking the sea breeze from blowing into the windows of our house.
“Come Diane,’ said my father, “let’s go get an ice-cream. If you can walk all the way to Coney Island that will be your gift along with a special surprise when we get home.”

Even though I was only six I felt torn between leaving my mother to whom I felt protective when she got sad like today. But the thought of spending a day alone with my father and running barefoot through the surf with my pants rolled up trying not to get them wet and then building mud castles in the sand with my dad won out. Of course my mother’s encouragement was a large factor in my decision making. “Go sweetheart” she said. “The fresh air and playing on the beach will be the best medicine on this perfect day to be out of doors. You need some color in your cheeks. You’ve been cooped up inside too long.” I knew her smile was forced, holding back tears welling up behind her eyes yet trying so hard to be cheerful. I knew her face lied, but she really did want me to go out and be with my dad.

I turned the photograph over and examined it. I wondered at the veracity of my memory. Was it mine, was it something I remembered hearing, or did I make the entire story up. But then I realized that it doesn’t really matter because after all, it is my story.

The obnoxious stench of cigarette smoke assails my nostrils. The smoke-blowing young couple is blocking the sidewalk leading up to the Olive Garden restaurant entrance. I bypass them by stepping into the driveway, but my wife charges between them, forcing them to part like the Red Sea as she asserts her right to use a sidewalk designed for walkers, not smokers.

I can’t stand cigarette or cigar smoke.

I almost break into tears when I see a lovely young woman with a Virginia Slims dangling from her rosebud lips in the act of committing suicide—slow but almost guaranteed. My dearest sister died a slow, painful death from lung cancer at 60, because she never quit smoking.

And who is the stupid looking young guy with the silly grin clutching a cigarette in his left hand? Except for all the hair he looks familiar. I am jerked back to January 1944. This 22-year-old ensign is en route to his first duty assignment on Adak Island in the Aleutians. It’s me. Can you believe it? The guy who hates cigarettes? What is hell is he doing with a fag between his index and middle finger? A common sight for the twenty-six years I am a pack-and-a-half-a-day inhaler of nicotine and tar. Certainly as obnoxious as the young couple blocking the sidewalk to the Olive Garden on this balmy Friday evening on November 2, 2007.

Do you know that 300 million Chinese smoke cigarettes—more than the total U. S. population--that about 438,000 Americans die each year from smoking, that 21 percent of adult Americans still smoke versus 13 percent in California?

Do you know that cigarettes and alcohol are by far the most deadly drugs consumed by humanoids and the most widely-traded commodity in the world? Not heroin, cocaine, meth or marijuana.

But I don’t quit smoking at 1:30 PM, Friday, December 20, 1963, because I fear the damage it is doing to my lungs and body. I quit because my wife gives me a choice when I ask her what she wants for Christmas.

“Either a mink coat or you quit smoking.”

Not a difficult decision. I can’t afford to buy a mink coat.

But do I have the will power? I tried once before, but balloon to 210 pounds and go back on the filthy weed.

No turning back this time.

I use the tried and true method: I tell everyone I know that I have quit puffing the deadly coffin nails. How can I face them or myself if I every light up again?

Every half hour while awake, I fight off the desire. The craving ebbs. Only to repeat again in thirty minutes. Fight it off over and over again. After two weeks the craving subsides. Never again.

I bury the past of that ignorant young Navy ensign with the cigarette in his left hand.

I consider this the most important achievement of my life.

Yvette and Frédéric
Reiss duPlessis

“There is no easy way to tell you this. I’m sorry. Yvette is suffering from schizophrenia.”

“Oh God!”

“I’ve consulted with the other doctors on staff and they all agree. All of those symptoms you noticed ... the blank, vacant expressions, the lack of smiles or emotion, the mood swings from happy to sad to angry for no reason and all the other things you’ve seen, they are real symptoms. I am sorry.”

“We were afraid you’d tell us something like this. It’s been a nightmare watching her lose interest in everything, in life. She doesn’t care about anything, yet, oh God, she can be so sensitive to anything we say to her about it. We knew something was happening to her. We were hoping it was less serious but we tried to prepare for the worst and now our worst fears are..... Oh, God! Stan, what can we do?”

“There are treatments and we’ll do everything possible. She will need all the love and attention you have always given her. She is a bright young woman and knows there is something wrong. We’ll start treatment right away.”

Yvette could not understand why Doctor Andre was so concerned. I’m OK. Why is mother so worried and why does daddy look at me that way? I’m fine...well, most of the time... except when I have to cry. I just have to cry sometime, that’s all. Tonight I’m not crying, I’m just enjoying the melancholy of Frédéric’s music. How sensitive he is, I mean was. Why did I think is? He’s dead. I know he died in the eighteen hundreds ...but I remember him and the sad looks and sighs we shared last night as he played his beautiful Fantasie Impromptu or was it Frank Sinatra singing, “I’m Always Chasing Rainbows” on the radio? No! It was Frédéric and he smiled that sad, mournful smile as he played for me. Oh, Frédéric, please stay for a while. Let me introduce you to mother. She loves your music almost as much as I do and she will love you the way I do. Frédéric, don’t look so sad when you play for me. It’s all going to be OK. I promise. Stop it! You silly girl, you know Chopin is dead. Stop talking to him. He can’t answer you, but Frédéric, you do talk to me between the etudes you play for me...just me. Frédéric, I want you to promise me, you will stop seeing that Aurore Dudevant woman. She’s crazy. Everyone knows she is. Why would she call herself George Sand? She’s not a man. She loves you and wants to take you away from me. I wont let her. You’re mine.

“Yvette, is there someone in there with you? I heard you talking.”

“It’s OK, mother, It’s OK.

Suddenly the urge to cry, the uncontrollable urge. “Yvette, I’m here sweetheart, why are you crying? What’s wrong?

“I don’t know mother, I don’t know.”

“Sweetheart, try to tell me why.”

“I can’t mother, I can’t. I don’t know why! Frédéric. He’s so unhappy, so sickly and that woman, she’s draining him. He needs his strength.”

“Who dear? Who’s Frédéric?”

“Chopin, mother, Frédéric Chopin. He is so sad. That’s why his music is so sad. He’s unhappy.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you know Chopin is not alive. His music is wonderful. It’s alive but he’s been dead for 100 years. Try to sleep, baby, try to sleep.”

“I try mother, but I can’t sleep. I’ll try.”

“Sleep my child and peace attend you, all through the night. Guardian angels God will send you, all through the night.”

“Mother, why are you singing that song to me? Please sing something else.”

“Sleep sweetheart, sleep.”

“Frédéric! Frédéric! Mother’s gone. It’s OK to talk to me. Where were you while I was gone? What were you doing? Did you write a new piece for me? Oh, Frédéric, can we always be together and be happy? Maybe we can make each other happy. Can we try? The only time I’m happy is when you’re with me, when you play for me. Please play a Nocturne for me Frédéric. Let’s ignore the world. Let’s ignore all those people. Let’s live our lives together. We don’t need them. We don’t need anyone. We have each other. We understand each other. Play for me Frédéric. Play for me.”



Chopin portrait by Delacroix

The People of the Book

My wife, all of my friends—even casual acquaintances—and I are people of the book. No, this has nothing to do with religion, even though we study the book with the enthusiasm, thoroughness and zeal that would make a Talmudic scholar envious. While the book provides no spiritual uplift, it does give us definite and immediate rewards. We use it not to worship some unseen deity, but rather we seek and find in it coupons that will give us up to twenty-five dollars off on a meal. We are the people of the Entertainment Book.

About Florence

by Reiss

Time. Time is what it took to know, understand and love Florence. Hidden inside her massive exterior was a person who, once she trusted and liked you, would give you anything you needed or wanted. She was generous to a fault, would give money to those in need, shower gifts on her friends and was always ready to offer assistance where needed.... if she liked you. If she did not, it was best to stay out of her way. It took time for me to understand the humor, the straight face with which she delivered her funny barbs and the depth of the barbs she used. Fortunately for me and most people, she liked us. She liked people. She had more friends than any one person I knew. Those exposed to more than the initial impression, learned about the real person under that tough exterior. Others, with limited exposure, would wonder why so many people liked, even, loved her. The one thing we all learned quickly was, she did not suffer fools easily.

On the job, she was a fair but no nonsense manager. She was also fun when the time was right for fun. She would support her staff, befriend, train, guide and mentor them... if they tried and if they were honest and open with her. If they were not or if someone betrayed her trust, that sad person learned, in short time, what if felt like to be run over by a human steamroller. I remember one employee who did not take his job seriously, did not take her seriously and was, to say the least, inept. Somehow, he had climbed the ladder to a position beyond his abilities, willingness to perform or, perhaps, understand. Unfortunately for him, he found himself working directly under Florence. Those of us who knew Florence knew he was in for the ride of his career. She offered to help him. She counseled him. She offered special in-house and outside training, she did everything a manager was expected to do and many things beyond what was expected of her. His performance did not improve. Indeed, he didn’t seem to respond to all of her efforts to help him and he even seemed to make light of his situation. The war was on. Every mistake, every blunder, every display of ineptness was documented as only Florence could. Every offer for training, every counseling session, every attempt she made was documented. She was a masterful writer. She was a masterful manager. She was a powerful woman who understood and knew how to use her power. Eventually, after months of documentation, counseling and letters of need for corrective action, the hapless man was notified: His manager had requested he be demoted two steps down from his current position. We had never seen that done before. But then, we had not seen someone willing to take Florence on this way. It might be said here, that an action of demotion is not a common one and a request for a two step demotion is very rare. It is assumed that if and when a person passes the lengthy probationary period, a time when they are under constant scrutiny and training, they are capable and will perform in the position to which they were promoted. In most cases, inept employees do not pass probation. There are those who are clever and get by, but not often. Too, there are those who take advantage of their position when they get to a level where they feel they can kick back, take it easy and do as little as possible. For a select few, it might work, but not if they worked under Florence. If and when and demotion takes place, the employee has an appeal process open to them all the way to the courts and, if they take it all the way, they often win because it is assumed they were capable if they made it this far, especially, if there was no documentation of poor performance or behavior. This guy assumed he could win on appeal. He, again, underestimated his opponent and her ability to perform her job. Her job was to demote him and she did it...well. He lost all appeals and, eventually disappeared. We never saw him again. He learned what it was to be run over by the human steamroller.

Those of us who took our jobs seriously and tried to do it well, found a supportive, helpful and warm manager in Florence. Many of us found a friend.

I discovered a sensitive person who had a life-long problem with her weight, fought that war with the same vigor she did her job, but there was little question the problem was one for which she could not find the solution. Obviously, neither could the countless doctors she visited.

I remember, today, the gift she treasured most of the many gifts I gave her. It was a little sign that read, “You’re not fat, you’re fluffy!”