THOSE WERE THE DAYS

 
My friends and I go back to K-thru-6. You might think that’s odd, but only if you’ve never lived in Cleveland. My buddies and I all grew up in bungalows in South Euclid and went on to Ohio State, except one guy went to Miami (of Ohio). We were Zeebs (ZBT) in Columbus. A couple Sammies.

Mr. Miami U. — the outlier — called me the other day for a loan, like I’m the loaded-guy in the bunch. Maybe I am. Who knows. We’ve all been reckless with money. I like Mountaineer Casino in West Virginia, and have no problem traveling to Vegas multiple times a year. Do you remember my dad? He loved the ponies and bet football. He also liked Raisinets, as do I.

Mr. Miami U. is being evicted, as we speak, from his apartment; he hasn’t paid his rent in four months. I said to him, “You’re ahead, man. Four months’ free rent!” What kind of idiot landlord lets a tenant fall four months behind in his rent? Maybe that’s how it’s done in California. My friend is in Los Angeles. Before that, Massachusetts. I said, “You’re so broke and yet you’re living in the second most-expensive city in the country!”

“That’s why I’m broke — L.A.,” he said. “My old lady insists on staying out here.” (His third wife.) “She likes the weather.”

“Go back to New England.” I gave him $500, straight out. “It’s tzedakah, not a loan.”

Then a couple days later he called and wanted $1500 more. He said, “I’m going to an extended-stay hotel tonight. The bailiff is coming any minute.” I declined on the $1500. Where are his grown children and his two brothers in all this?

Fact: my friend deserted Cleveland and that costs. The internet says he’s an “emeritus professor of educational studies” from Farkakte U. in western Massachusetts. He’s smart, but not that smart. I’m as smart him! He definitely has played a few too many World Series of Poker.

I’ll stick with my low-stakes poker game here in Cleveland. We’re going to keep playing until we’re all in Bet Olam Cemetery, and we’ll keep playing there, too.

My kids live out of town. That hurts — the kids and grandkids out of town. Do you remember when all your friends and cousins lived within five blocks of each other, and Mom called out the door, “Be home before dark!” Remember biking to Little League? Those were the days. We thought they’d never end.

“Those Were the Days” — the song — I hear it frequently. A friend from third grade (1958) has a klezmer band here. The music all sounds the same to me, except he’ll occasionally throw in something recognizable, like “Those Were the Days.”

I recognize it.

Ralphie, the only Jewish greaser at Brush High in 1968. The rest of us were collegiates.

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fiction