Off his park bench.

(Hava - not Java)

Black coffee, shots of vodka: his undergraduate years programming through the night, building what he felt was destined to become the next Google, Netflix, Facebook.

It never happened. Vlad lamented as he surveyed the world from his park bench.

Was it despair, grandiosity, hypersensitivity, his lack of perspective or absent sense of humor - especially about himself? Perhaps a little of each. Could he ever love anyone? Did he have to love himself first?

His father said Vlad would never amount to anything until he embraced his roots. Vlad only felt shame about being who he was. If his father meant Judaism Vlad at best ignored it. Was he what his father called a self hating Jew?

****

The big guy in the dark suit was a grander, tremendously more imposing  and intimidating version of Frank Sinatra. As Joe listened, his attention was drawn to the equally big guy in the light gray suit off to Joe's left.

Grey suit came over from his desk to be next to dark suit's desk. He talked to Joe who felt a mixture of admiration, comfort, stress at difficulty following everything being said - and fear. A fear greater than he ever remembered: one false move, he would be the owner of a new cement overcoat, dumped in the Hudson.

After a while, he wasn't sure whether it was minutes or much longer, Joe said he did not hear the last part. He apologetically said his mind had wandered.

Grey suit said there were many signs Joe was not paying attention.

Was it anxiety which caused Joe to be mindless, unconscious, act in ways hurtful to himself and others? He offended everyone. When he opened his mouth, people were either offended, bored or saw him as an easy mark. Victim writ large. As he ruminated over these, stuff was happening in the real, external world. He was even further behind now. Was his internal world less real? Was the external world real or was his perception shaped in large part by his moods and history?

The big guys got up. Joe followed as they left the building. He lost them at a fork in the exit staircase at West 4th street. He felt he had sighted them in the left, then the right exit, then he felt a little more certainly- but not certain at all - that they exited to the left. But wait! when you face west at that subway station there is no right exit only the left. He ignored his confusion- or was it clarity? - and exited left.

Even with all this fear, the compulsion to attach himself to the these strong men was stronger.

Joe must have walked many blocks - miles even- but was not aware of anything except a vaguely desperate sense that he had to find and reconnect with the big men. He wasn't sure but at some point, it occurred to him they wore clothes identical to suits he owned.

*****

"Will." Joe searched for the voice coming from behind the pushcart. The wizened old guy wore a warm smile. His face was like a tanned prune. The face reminded him of a kitten. Was the old man toothless? He resembled David Diamond, if you could imagine him being devoid of any negativity and filled with joy and love for all living creatures. This was a man who would be equally joyful to discover a robin's nest, a squirrel munching on acorns or a long lost relative of a good lifelong friend.

Joe recognized the face but could not remember the old fellow's name. Will, my uncle, Joe said, passed away a few years ago. Interesting Joe thought, to be confused with my uncle rather than my father. What was Will about? What was he about for me?

****

1916... a difficult birth, Rose recovered and loved her first born. She had come from Russia seventeen years earlier, met her future husband at a Passover Seder. He was strong, determined to build a better life, also recently arrived from old country. Ben's father was the son, grandson and great grandson of rabbis. Joseph was the family's first atheist.

It was a time of the first radios, Teddy Roosevelt, Trustbusting, enormous increases in productivity, cars replacing horses, machines, factories, dehumanizing work, unimaginable overcrowding in immigrant tenements, bonds of great family love... A time of great orchestras, of forerunners of Tin Pan Alley, young George Gershwin devouring The Rite of Spring, La Mer. Summertime- in America... A time of Horatio Alger - of determination to make a better life in the new country of limitless possibilities, rivalries among immigrant groups.

When Rose brought a rabbi to their small apartment to tutor Will and his younger brother Martin for Bar Mitzvah, Ben in the tradition of his father said, "Rabbis: a bunch of bums!" He threw the learned man out of his house. To say the least, it was a strange encounter.

Dinner for a dime. The beer was what cost a dime. Food was free. Young Ben often went to that bar after work at the hat factory.

They called him crazy Benny. His hair-trigger temper was most evident when driving -- tight fast turns around corners- on two wheels.

Odd - or at least surprising - his sons were not afraid of him. Ben was smart. Smart enough to know he did not have the answers; so he stayed out of his boys' way. He gave them plenty of tough love but no advice.

****

Rose

Rose was different. She gave endless advice - and taught the kids - she taught them thoroughly, deeply - she taught them to worry.

Rose was always worried. Would they be able to pay the rent? Would the boys go to good schools? Would they get hurt in street fights?

A singer and shoe model. That was part of the young beauty's story. Hard to believe fifty years later as her body was wracked by cancer. Primitive barbaric treatment in those days.

****

ECST

Electro-convulsive shock therapy. Barbaric.  That's what my mother had for her depression - before I was born. It's still used today. According to several mental health profession it sometimes works by readjusting the brain chemistry.

What am I? A jerk with no character?

Can I find a balance between being self respecting and caring about others? They are not mutually exclusive. I feel chest tightening now.

****

Rose, my grand mother, left Odessa when she was two. Her parents owned a small country theater. They spoke and sang in Russian, Yiddish, German and Polish.

Ben's family was multilingual too. He joked years later: When we got to this country, I asked a policeman - in Russian - for directions. He couldn't understand me. So I asked again. This time in Yiddish. Again the policeman was baffled. Ben said what kind of country is this? They don't speak Jewish - OK I can understand that. But they also don't speak gentile.

****

Sometime after he was appointed the youngest Principal Conductor of the New  York Philharmonc, Lenny's father was interviewed. The reporter asked if he had treated his son special when he was growing up. The older man grew pensive. A few moments went by. Then he said thoughtfully, I didn't know he was going to grow up to become LEONARD BERNSTEIN!

1918 that's when Uncle Lenny was born. Same year as Martin, Will's brother. Will & Martin were writers, painters, cartoonists. Lots of talent. Too many issues for them to have made it big. They wrote for Captain Marvel, had a two minute daily radio skit, had a play on Broadway - after all the touring, rewrites - not to mention the agony of getting a famous director and star who couldn't work together- after all the legwork of getting investors, the play - which is amusing in a dated corny way -If you're in the right mood, it is charmingly innocent- closed after one night. Mel Brooks, according to Will, was a friend who said "Springtime Follies," the worst play ever written-- immortalized it - and to insiders also immortalized Will & Martin and another co-author - in Brooks' infinitely more successful "The Producers," as "Springtime for Hitler."

Brooks' work always made Martin's son squirm.

Will & Martin were resilient, developing decent if extremely uneven careers, Martin as a hack writer and editor. Will as an editor, critic and later a director, producer and entrepreneur of a well-known Off-Off Broadway theater, the Quaigh. Occasionally they lost an "Off" and were elevated to the realm of Off-Broadway 43rd Street across the street from Town Hall.

Martin had many years when his mother's worrying prophecy came true: he had no income. This did not make him either cheerful or even tempered. Though he did have a wonderful sense of humor, a natural story teller.

****

1900 Aaron, the youngest of five children did pretty much whatever he wanted. His parents were too busy running the store.

What Aaron wanted to do was play piano. Improvise - not the way other kids improvised around jazz and standards. He did a little of that. There was something about what came out of Aaron's piano that was odd- interesting- if you wanted to be charitable. He read a great deal and befriended everyone. Devoured scores. Soon he could hear them in his head in a silent room. That's when he got serious about composing. One of his first pieces which he later reworked into "The Dybyk." Traces of it enlivened his "Dance Symphony."

As a young man he wanted to go to meet Stravinsky and study with the greater-than-life teacher Nadia Boulanger. If he had told his parents when he first got the idea, they would have said "Vas! Vat are you crazy or something?" That would have killed it. Aaron read, was it Ben Franklin? who said a wise man keeps his own counsel. He wanted to be wise - and - happy. So he didn't tell anyone till he saved enough and bought the ticket for the trans Atlantic steam ship.

Off to Paris: That's where music was happening- there and in American dance halls. Movies were coming of age; still years away. Tin Pan Alley, Broadway were all the rage. The Jazz Age, then The Crash, The Great Depression, World War I ended when Aaron was 18. He was 45 when WW II ended.

****

In Paris: Gershwin was there too. He asked Ravel to teach him. Maurice said "I could do that. I could give you lessons. You could learn something from me. A dramatic pause: But why, Monsieur Gershwin, why would you want to be a second rate Ravel when you could be a first rate Gershwin?"

****

Charles Ives "Central Park in the Dark"

Carl Ruggles wrote six pieces - each monumental - that was his entire output. He wrote on laundry paper stretched on every wall of his home.  In this way, he could see the music. Ruggles made his living as a school teacher.

****

Bartok

Prokofiev

Shostakovich

Toscanini

Furtwengler

Von Karajan - especially Karajan

Samuel Barber

Stakowsky

Rodinski

Schnabel

Serkin

Ormandy

The Philadelphia Orchestra

Curtis

The Metropolitan Opera

Menuhin

Oistrakh

Vladimir Askenazy. - Vlad's parents named him after the great pianist.

****

Little Stan loved to make music out of his mother's pots and pans. He would not stop unless given a recorder or a toy organ. Of course he did not know he was a direct descendant of one of the most powerful trumpet players of all time. Years later when he played bassoon in All City Orchestra he began to suspect he had a calling to music.

Five years later on tour, known as one of the great saxophonists of Bop, his obsessive personality which had served him well in the years of intense practice underwent a deadly metamorphosis. To ease his pain, he took a shortcut. Intense practice gave way to ever more self destructive addictions.

****

Gabriel loved to garden when he was not working as a psychotherapist. He had an apple orchard upstate.

Gabriel helped Dan understand his dreams.

When Gabriel was not gardening or working, he played trumpet in a little dive off Bleecker Street, in a fusion band called the Angels of Bleecker Street. They had thought about calling themselves The Saints of Bleecker Street - with references to Menotti's opera and "When the Saints go Marching In." He and his wife had fond memories of New Orleans, it's jazz, it's colorfully decaying French Quarter, ghost of Louis Armstrong.

There was something vaguely off about the name Gabriel & the Angels of Bleecker Street. His wife asked him if he knew that Gabriel was a biblical name?  He was offended - despite his being a therapist and having been in therapy - longer than he cared to remember, he still got easily offended and took long to forgive. The exact opposite of what he advised his clients. He smoldered his rage into a smile which wouldn't fool anyone. He finally answered his wife: Didn't everyone know that?!

****

Joe wondered why he felt so relieved to see the ancient man. The kitten faced old timer behind the pushcart. He wondered and could not tell from the cart in front of the old gentleman what he was selling- only that the small items were colorful, not mass produced. Something haphazard, incomplete, unprofessional about the display. None of this troubled the old fellow.

"We all have our little jobs to do." Why did that quote from "Soldier's Tale" creep into his mind?

****

In their youth and as long as his parents, uncles and aunts were alive, Ben & Rose heard about the Pogroms.

****

1072 CE

Jews were not welcome in Odessa. Christians were not allowed to loan money. Jews were not allowed to do much else. Barely tolerated, Jews were a necessary evil. When they got too powerful because of the role they were put in by society, society cut them down to size.

Josel was uncomfortable having to wear clothes and hair different than the Christians. He did not particularly want to be Christian. He just did not want to be different. Yet he was different. Not just compared to goyim, but different than anyone else he knew.

He wrote, sang and danced on Shimchat Torah, and of course studied and worked in business. It troubled him that Jews were reviled for being businessmen. What choice was there? Why hated for something you were forced to do? This societal sadism was pervasive. It still filled him with rage. To no good end. Did anger ever improve anything? It felt so good for an instant. The clean up and repair if it could ever be made was a gargantuan undertaking.

What made Josel different was an unhappiness with the status quo.

Josel was a thinker: why was there antisemitism? Did we do anything to invite it?

Were we weak in some way? Weaknesses invites exploitation.

The meek shall inherit the Earth? Wrong religion. Same idea.

****

The Garden of Eden

An apple tree is planted.

One God. Morality. Community. Work towards a common goal. Study to improve our mind. Young Gabriel did not want to study. He only wanted to play his trumpet. What good is that? He heard his mother's voice amplified in his mind.

If it is true that archangels do not have parents, then as far as this bit about Gabriel is concerned, it is best summed up in the immortal words of the late Gilda Radner: "Oh well... Never mind."

****

He watched as his father built the huge boat. As he grew bigger, his father gave him little jobs. Bring a nail. Later, get a plank. Later still, bring two chickens. Two goats. Two rams. It started to rain. Heavily. It wouldn't stop. His father took it in stride. He was prepared. He did as always the next right thing which needed to be done. Fear was not a welcome guest; not harbored. Neither now nor when the family searched for safe harbor - or ever.

****

His father said he was overly sensitive. Not in so many words. It was more in the argot of however it would have been said in Aramaic.

He thought, too sensitive for what? To revel in the dawn. The twilight. The cool breeze by the brook where doves fly over wild fig trees.

Or too sensitive for an old man, who can see only himself - when I see what he is about?!

****

1,422 BCE

He was seventeen that year:

"I cannot change who I am." He wondered if this early sense of himself. "I am that I am," could be put to greater use than just about himself. He loved the world. He wanted to make his mark on clay, no the newer technology- papyrus was better.

He was a profoundly religious young man. Then it occurred to him. It is not about me. It is about something greater than me. Greater than this Earth.

"I am that I am," the simple words of a little man, when written by the one of the first great writers as some of the most memorable words from the first truly great book, resounded like echoing thunder across valleys, from mountain to mountain top: when Moses asked the burning bush, what is thy name: Booming. "I am that I am," God hath spoken.

He felt honored that he could serve in his own way. It would never have occurred to him to sign his name. He was a vessel, a conductor of the word of God.

He was sensitive to what needed to be done, as was Noah in his time.

****

The slave boy asked an elder what the Pharoh was doing in the statue with his smile, eyes serene, palms uplifted on his knees.

****

The flood of 10,000 BCE

Gilgamesh sighed as the last ice retreated.

****

Hrothgar shook his head.

****

John The Baptist wondered if he should have kissed Salome.

At least now we know where the expression comes from: " To lose your head over someone."

****

The Chosen People.

Chosen for abuse.

That's what Vlad thought. A graduate of MIT and now a nothing. He had known lots of talented people who were living in the Park. The youngest member of The Philadelphia Orchestra now licked his wounds nearby. A gifted jazz tuba player who had been sober for five years was now working part time, living with roommates in a subsidized apartment - an inspiring story of a guy picking himself up saying no to self-pity. He wanted to get a full-time job. Possibilities were limited given that he had not finished college. He applied to be a sanitation worker. He was powerful, could easily pick up metal garbage cans. He said carrying around a tuba for 21 years has well prepared me to pick up trash. He was aware of the irony. When he told Vlad they both laughed reflecting on their rich histories which led them to a much different place than they had expected. Even though the tuba player's mother, loved her son and wanted to protect him said he was being delusional, the tuba player brushed it off, applied for the job   telling himself I need the money. I can always go back to college part-time. One step, then the next. He more and more knew his own mind.

****

Vlad loved Stravinsky, Gershwin, Copland, Bernstein. He missed hearing recordings of Oistrakh.  He was sorry—

…all of a sudden, he was grief-stricken, he wailed, hot tears, his chest heaving: he had not gone to the funeral of his father's cousin Martin. He wondered what Joe was doing in life.

****

A distant band played Hava Nigila.

****

Vlad got off his park bench.

 ********* EOF *********

already dead

The frying pan missed his head by inches. " Do you have to go out every fucking night?" That was the last of her words he heard as he raced out the door.

Why did she stay married to him? Why he to her? The second question he thought was easier to answer: he felt he couldn't make it on his own. Didn't make enough money.

He slept on the couch. He knew he was insensitive so of course she did not want him to touch her.  This made sense. He had no right to resent her since it was his fault. His anger slipped out by his ignoring her chatter -- and pain -- and desire. It was there. He just refused to see its manifold forms. She begged him to find stuff for them to do together. He said he couldn't think of anything because his creativity wasn't working. Neither was his dick. Actually he didn't know if it worked or not.

His bartender said, "so she says you're insensitive." There was little evidence to the contrary as far as his marriage was concerned. He could be sensitive with strangers though. Why was that? He figured it was because they had no history with him, those women didn't know what a self-absorbed prick he was. Except that he never slept with any of them. So he wasn't as much of a prick as he might be. Why didn't he have an affair? Fear of the complications or did he really want to fix his marriage? That meant fixing himself…He didn't know how much more self-improvement he could do. Hence despair. He had been abstinent and sober for a five year stretch. It didn't help his marriage any. He never got drunk enough to lose his temper or his job. He was kind of a maintenance alcoholic. He didn't even like the feeling of liquor in his system.

Even if he could have sex with all the women he lusted for every day, he felt it would not fill his feeling of emptiness. What was the emptiness about? He felt more satisfied from a 45 minute therapy session or 15 minutes of listening to music or a similarly short time playing violin than the countless hours he spent at his job or at the piano.

Quality time. Being present. So he started meditating. Not "just like that." He had been interested in Zen- like thought for years.

Wait - hold on - is this the same guy who is so not in tune with his wife she threw a frying pan at him?

People are not what they seem - for better or worse - or both.

Everyone has to hide their misery to do their job.

Life becomes more of a problem when you think it's supposed to be easy.

My cup runneth over. So why am I so afraid? Why did I have a panic attack tonight?

Out of it came a desire to make a graphic organizer of all the problems at work. Monday. Tomorrow is a day off.

He shuttled back and forth between minor addictions: beer, porn, strip clubs, messages, poker. He usually won but it was still a way to anesthetize himself.

What was he keeping himself from feeling? Anger, lust, hopelessness... Power.

Because he felt powerless, he craved it as much as sex or money.

He was still holding himself back so as not to compete with his father - who was for the past dozen years already dead.