Perhaps at the not too gentle insistence of my mother, my father suddenly took an interest in his gangly awkward son. Occasionally, I accompanied him on Sunday mornings, walking to the bus stop for an across town adventure to his favorite delicatessen or bakery. On the day of my epiphany, the destination was the bakery, where for the first time in my life I saw a woman with a tattoo on her arm. Being ignorant of recent historical travesties, I made some comment in front of the woman and received my father's infamous glare. This indicated that I lit the short fuse on his explosive Hungarian temper and that I'd better shut up. After he apologized for my stupidity, we left the bakery where I learned the woman was a concentration camp survivor. He provided a few comments about her unbelievable suffering and of course, I felt ashamed of myself. This seemed to quell his anger and we walked with our fresh rye bread and a box of pastries back to the bus stop.
It only took me a few minutes to relight that terrible fuse of his. As we were walking, I found a penny on the street. I picked up the penny and as many of my friends did, I threw it high in the air trying to sail it on top of a building roof. There in the sunshine, on East 140th street my father, using his work-hardened strength, grabbed me by the shirt. I found myself dangling in midair and totally at his mercy. He warned me never--ever to throw money away again and slowly lowered me to the ground. Scared and somewhat wiser from the second life-lesson learned in three minutes, I was on my best behavior on the journey home. |
