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.
