Thursday, October 10, 2013

Finding and Losing Freddy

I seem to be running a war on my life. It’s two PM, and what have I done?
Well, I spent the morning wondering about 10AM, which was when the alleged plumber was supposed to show up. Instead—no need to sit down for this news—he arrived telephonically at noon. I went downstairs to let him in….
Nobody….
Right, checked the shoe store, above which I live.
Nobody….
Call the number that had just called me—nice you can do that with cell phones—and got the company, not the plumber. The plumber, it turned out, was on the next street up, and so the guy at the company patched in the plumber, who said he would come down one street. What did he do? Of course, he walked up one street.
I have wanted this plumber more than I ever wanted my first sexual experience or my first—and only—husband. And now, like so many things including my childhood and my faith in the essential goodness of people…where is my plumber going?
The company guy is busy explaining to Freddy, the plumber, that he is going the wrong way. Freddy, instead, is describing absolutely everything he sees—some of which are phenomenological. “There’s a woman parking her car,” reports Freddy.
Freddy, dear?
“Two cats are mating,” he says.
This I ponder for a moment—have I ever seen two cats mating on the street? It occurs to me: no. So why Freddy and not me? I do live here after all….
“Do you see any businesses on your street?” I ask.
“No,” he says.
“Freddy,” I beg, “go back to where you were. Stand absolutely still—describe every store you see. I’ll come find you, Freddy, BUT DON’T LEAVE ME!”
Oh—and I forgot to mention that all this is occurring in a construction—more accurately destruction—site, and that’s important to know, because their reaction—those big burly guys—to a desperate middle-aged guy professing his love and need for Freddy?
No me dejes, Freddy!”
Te quiero, Freddy!”
Bésame mucho, sings one. Kiss me a lot….
Freddy, in the meantime, has retraced his steps and is in front of the Bombonera, a long and now defunct tradition. I race to get him—talking nonsense on the way. We return, only to be greeted with cheers, whistles and catcalls. Oh, and scattered applause.
I grab Freddy’s hand—he’s the ebony on the keyboard, I’m the ivory—and raise it above our heads. We both bow.
“Freddy is the plumber,” I tell the guys. They give me a special smile.
Freddy, amazingly, is completely unfazed by this ridiculous situation, and gets right down to work—in this case pulling the handle off the faucet with such force that it crashes and breaks. Oh, and he will later inform me that it would be silly to buy a replacement because they’re ridiculously expensive. Who would want such things?
Well, it turns out that Freddy, of course, doesn’t have the parts and will have to go Bayamón to get them. I instantly object.
“You’ll never come back, Freddy,” I tell him. “People disappear in Bayamón—lost in traffic jams, or aimlessly drifting around in Plaza del Sol, or who knows what. Don’t, DON’T go to Bayamón!”
Before Freddy, I was a baritone—now I’m a mezzo-soprano in a very bad opera. Is this the moment to sink to my knees, and gaze upon him beseechingly?
He leaves, as so many men do, paying absolutely no mind….
I sit down at my computer. What to write about, today? I could tell you the improbable story that the redoubtable—love that word, by the way—New York Times served up this morning. It seems that the FBI arrested two rabbis in the New York area. And what for? Blackjack in the synagogue? Cocaine in hollowed-out Torahs?
Nope, the rabbis were employing a hit man to work over husbands who were unwilling to give their wives a divorce. Here’s the Times on the subject:
In some Orthodox Jewish communities, a divorce is granted only once a husband provides his wife with a document known as a get. And stories of the frustrations and obstacles that women face in their quest to obtain a get are commonplace. While a woman can sue in rabbinical court to try to secure a get, some husbands do not comply with the court’s edict.   
Right—be warned, any Orthodox Jewish readers of the blog, the little lady wants out? Give it to her—otherwise you’ll get kidnapped and worked over, and by the way, these guys are professional. They don’t leave marks, so when you go to the cops, they’ll just think it’s some weird Jewish thing, and shrug it off.
I ponder this for some time. Can I write about this? Is there enough here for a post? Can I combine it with some other story?
It’s no use. Freddy has come into my life, Freddy has left me. I am desolate. How is it in French? Je suis désolé. Better, I think.
There is nothing, absolutely nothing to write about today, and guess what? There is also no going to the bathroom because Freddy has dismantled both faucets and turned off the water. Fortunately in reverse order. But if I turn the water back on? It’ll be like the fountains at Versailles, though horizontal.
It took me back a bit to the 70’s, in those pre-AIDS days that we all very much enjoyed. Guys came into your life, and then they left. So long, baby-cakes!
Well, it’s 2:41, and page three, and exactly 904 words.
And Freddy?
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

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