Entertain Angels UnawaresI loved my friends. College buddies, drinking pals, angels all. We left Poland, its despotic regime, and had settled all over America. I missed them. Thirsted for them. "For the company," my Mother said, "you'd hang yourself." Mothers know best. The thirst was never worse than around Christmas. Come that day, heavens broke loose in Poland. Everybody sang, drank, forgot old hurts, wishing everybody else well. Even though I was Jewish, I had always caught the Yuletide fever. Last Christmas, my first in America, I hit the bricks. Peeking in the windows, I checked holiday tables for a free chair. In Poland, people would leave a chair for a stranger, even one straight off the street. Why? The stranger might turn out to be an angel, they said. But I got shy. Christmas trees stood by like much-decorated despots, guarding the happy against the unhappy. I felt like a stray. Quickly, I turned in. Holed up within my four walls with a bottle of Hennessy, I drank to the mirror. This year, just before Christmas, the Dean asked me if I would represent the college at the Modern Language Association conference in Los Angeles. My best friends, Lidka and Igor, had settled there. Were we still pals? Emigration changes people. Angels turn into wolves, and wolves into angels. My academic function was a perfect opportunity to find out. I jumped for it. Just for the heck of it, I had decided to fly in for the Christmas Eve party. I dreamt of the usual tidbits served at the Christmas Eve party -- mushroom-stuffed pirozhkes, Ukrainian borsht, noodles with poppy-seeds, honey-cake with raisins. I felt like crashing the party right now. Not empty-handed, of course -- a bottle of cognac for the man, a rose for the wife, a fancy box of chocolates for the kids -- old-days kind of stuff. Not to drink ourselves silly, God forbid, either. Just to see each other, enjoy the bright, starched table-cloth, praise the kids, maybe laugh off some old dreams, like skiing Mont Blanc, or painting Acapulco red, rehash old jokes, propose a toast, maybe two, for the beauty of all the ladies present. That's all. It would be great to stay with the Igors. Would they be able to entertain me, though? Was their flat big enough? Igor became a lawyer. Not long ago, though. They had Kiki now, too. Their second kid. Just in case, I called the Airport Hilton and reserved a room. Then, I dialed Igor's number. "Hello?" I howled. I wanted to whisper it, but I howled, I didn't know why. "Igor?" "Speaking." Igor had always been phlegmatic and laconic but I somehow thought he would howl back. "Long time no see, huh?" I yelled into the receiver. "Recognize me? That bark? That lisp? Sure you do! It's me, Teddy. Your camping buddy. Your skiing partner! Tatra Mountains, remember?" There was silence on the other end of the wire, so I kept going: "I was asked, no, I was begged, by my Dean to attend a conference, and guess where? In the City of Angels, of all places, so I'm wild about seeing you, guys. I'm on my way!" I could hear Igor sucking in his cheeks. Something was wrong. "Something's going on?" I asked. "Nothing to write home about." "What's the matter?" I didn't understand. All of a sudden, it was as if we spoke two different languages. "You two, guys, are splitting, or something?" "Nah." "So what the hell are you pissed off about?" I demanded. He took a long time to answer. "Lidka would kill me if I invited someone to sleep here," he mumbled. I felt offended Igor thought I hoped to crash for the night -- I didn't say that. I didn't say that at all. I hoped for it, though. I had to admit it. I didn't feel like holing up in the four walls at the Hilton room yelling, "L'hayyim!" into the mirror. I was offended he knew what I wasn't saying. "Call us when you get in town," Igor threw into the phone. He hung up. He knew I'd hoped to stay over. What did he think? "Stray," I guessed. "Sucker," maybe. He was right. How could I even think of doing such a thing? Bursting in on people on Christmas Eve? Claiming the free chair? Rotten of me, truly rotten. Who did I think I was, an angel? Early next morning, I flew into Los Angeles. As I walked by the TV monitors, I noticed the Friendly Skies had a flight to Acapulco that night. I perched on a tall stool at a cafe, sipping coffee from a steaming paper cup. A beefy Santa Claus rode the gift-sleigh drawn by merry reindeer across the window. The blue sky was showing through his eyes. People kept running all over, in and out of the terminal, calling "Rapido, rapido!" and "No se tardes!" carrying big bags, boxes, and suitcases, doing their last minute shopping. I caught their shopping fever myself, buying a bottle of cognac, a gold-embossed box of chocolates, and a bunch of red roses. Throughout the morning, afternoon, and evening I kept dialing Igor's number. First, busy. Then, no answer. Then, busy again. Then, the phone went dead. Then, Igor's phone rang, rang, rang. "What's going on?" I hissed to my coffee. "Are they out? Today?" They might be doing their last-minute shopping, sure. But then, how? Kiki was a baby. Schlepping a baby around? If they had a babysitter, wouldn't she pick up the phone? So, maybe they weren't out, after all. Maybe they were all in, bubbling with the baby, dressing the Christmas tree despot-like, baking, cooking, mixing, fixing -- and making phone calls, but never, not even once, taking a call. With their phone ringing off the hook, they knew it's been me, I thought. But that's exactly why they refused to pick up the receiver, so they wouldn't have to invite me over. There was a Polish restaurant downtown named Warsaw Exit, I saw it in the telephone book. I started calling the joint, too. The result was the same. No answer. Sour acid foamed in the back of my throat. I hadn't eaten a thing all day. Was I to spend the night within my four walls? Again? The second year in the row? Away from the two I loved most? Away from the old pack? Looked like it. I hated the thought. My abs started to spasm. Then, I remembered the Friendly Skies. If I took the red-eye to Acapulco, I'd hit the beach at sunrise. I could surf, eat fresh fish, drink fruit juices, and kick back around the pool. The next morning, I could fly back in for the conference. I pained for the old pals, though. I looked at the cognac, the chocolates, the roses, and I felt I'd miss something. Stubbornly, I kept dialing the number. I kept dialing till my fingers hurt. The sunset behind the Santa had turned bloody. I no longer felt like crashing for the night on Igors' couch. Or, pigging out on their holiday specials. There was only one thing I wished to know now: Did they really refuse to take my call or, should I get my head examined? When, after dialing a thousand times, my call finally got through, the stars stung Santa Claus' eyes like tears. Nursing my bruised, nearly bleeding fingers, I heard Lidka's voice. In the background, I could make up happy people, singing and clinking glasses. "I'd invite you," she said, ashamed. "But we have got the fish calculated in such a way that it's enough for exactly four people, not more." Big lump got stuck in my throat. I swallowed it. "Why should you invite me?" I said, trying to steady my hand. My knuckles went bloodless. "You got your own life, I got my own. I understand. Only, I had a stopover in Los Angeles, so I thought I'd call you to wish you a merry Christmas." I was ashamed she was ashamed. They might've run out of cash. I understood that. Been there, done that. Had I known, I'd have bought some fish for them. "You know what, Teddy?" Lidka said. "Why don't you come right after we eat?" What did she think I was there for, a free meal? It stung. It really did. "Never mind," I said. Then, I thought again. Maybe they did hurt financially? Maybe they did hurt for more fish? I hurt for friends who hurt. My flat rejection of her good-heartedness felt cruel to me now. But Lidka went on: "Don't you like the finger-licking honey-cake with dates and raisins?" she tempted. "It took a whole day to bake it. Jews eat cake, what?" I couldn't believe it. "How about the Warsaw Exit downtown?" I said. "Don't they throw a party tonight?" I tried to prove I hadn't meant to get a free meal. I was trying to let them know I was able to buy a dinner. "Igor!" Lidka yelled off the phone. "He wants to know whether they give a party at the Warsaw Exit tonight." She didn't say "Teddy," she said, "he." So, Igor knew who she'd been on the phone with, but how? What gesture did she use to tell him, sitting across the living room, that she was talking to me? What smirk? What face? In the background, heavens were breaking loose. I heard whispers, giggles, a few snickers, finally a horse-laugh, and then Lidka was back. "Probably so, Igor says." I wondered why Igor, my old buddy, wouldn't come to the phone to talk to me, but it was probably because the fish was sticking to the pan. "I called," I said, "but the phone was dead." "So you'll hop right over, what?" Lidka said. "For my honey-cake?" I stood there, listening. Lidka's seduction smelled of the poppy-seeds ground with cocoa dust and mixed with honey, making it gooey and sticky. I could almost touch the moist raisins and black-meat dates my Mother spiked her tzimmes with. I was getting dangerously mellow, just by listening, and it was getting sticky. Syrupy, even. I ached to sing, drink, wish well. I wanted to be with them. With the old pack. Right now. Right that moment. But, there was something spoiling all the goodies -- the acid foaming in the back of my throat all day long. The very thought of a honey-cake grew bitter as hell. I hung up. I threw my bag over my shoulder and took the bus to the oceanfront boulevard. I rode past brightly lit restaurants, cafes, houses of the residential area. I saw people gathering at big tables, drinking, eating, and singing. They were watched by people hiding in the dark. Not necessarily homeless people. People having their own four walls, Hilton rooms perhaps, but not a soul to share them with. Jewish people, maybe. I watched them. I watched them watching me watching them. At midnight, I was on the Friendly Skies to Acapulco. The jet was getting higher and higher. An angelic peace swept over me, soothing my sore soul. I felt strange. Instead of pirozhkes, borsht, noodles and poppy-seed cake, I was wolfing down a fish sandwich I bought at the airport. Chewing the fish, likely stuffed with sawdust, and washing it down with the Hennessy, I played my chat with Lidka back and forth, word for word, over and over again. To her, I saw it, I was a stranger. The higher I got, the stranger I felt. |