The Golem of Carthage Rd

This happened years ago.  It was a grey March Sunday, and I can remember it like it was yesterday.

“How manifold are Thy works, O Lord!

In wisdom hast Thou made them all;

The earth is full of Thy creatures.

Thou openest Thy hand, they are satisfied with good.

Thou hidest Thy face, they vanish;

Thou withdrawest their breath, they perish,

And return to dust.

Thou sendest forth thy spirit, they are created;

And thou renewest the face of the earth.

May the glory of the Lord endure forever;

Let the Lord rejoice in His works!”

“Geeze, Uncle Saul… do you always say that prayer before making meat loaf?”

Maybe it was the novelty of seeing Saul doing the food prep for Sunday’s dinner. There he was in this silly apron, with the fixings for meat loaf arrayed before him, looking to the ceiling and reciting this prayer. Uncle Saul in gingham should have been enough to fix the memory in my mind.  But it would be the careful orchestration of the afternoon that ensured this Sunday spent on Carthage Rd, would earn a place in my personal pantheon of unforgettable days.

He had moved the assembly from the kitchen counter to the breakfast nook and to the table that had been cleared for his use.  With sleeves rolled up he looked down at a rather large bowl… to the side a quantity of chopped chuck, two eggs, quaker oats, chopped onion, grated carrots, worcestershire sauce, kosher Salt and pepper.  He combined the ingredients and dug his hands into the bowl and began kneading the mixture.

“Jimmy… this isn’t just a meat loaf.  It’s going to be a golem.  I need you to walk around the table seven times counter clockwise.”

I did this. It seemed harmless enough.  Saul busied himself with blending the meat.

“Good afternoon to you Lord of the Universe.  This is Saul, your devoted servant, Son of David, Son of Sarah who is speaking.  I have come with a claim against you on behalf of my beloved wife, Miriam.  Why do you permit Assistant Principal Simmons to vex her?  I shall not move from here!  From this very spot, on Carthage Rd in Woodbury, I shall not move!  This travesty must come to an end.  Magnified and Sanctified is Your Name!”

Miriam?  I called her Meggie.  So look, I had no clue what was going on.  I was following Saul’s instructions.  You know… he was a neat guy… even in a gingham apron.

“Jimmy… this time walk seven times around the table clockwise.”

OK. By this time, Herschel, Meggie and Saul’s Miniature Schnauzer, joined me on the clockwise circuits.

“Uncle Saul… what’s a golem?”

“A golem?”

He took a pause from his mixing and blending.

“There was a famous Rabbi in Prague in the 1500s… Judah Loew ben Bezalel.  He was known as the Maharal.  Remember, any Rabbi worth his salt had to have another name.  That’s how you know that they were good!  And this Rabbi was plenty good!  Back then the Holy Roman Emperor Rudolf II didn’t care for the Jews… although that by itself wasn’t too unusual.  But folks were being killed, which was a little harsh, or forced to leave Prague, which, even then, was a pretty good town.”

“Uncle Saul, I’m confused.”

“OK.  Rabbi Loew got tired of the Jews being pushed around.  Simple.  He wanted the suffering to end.  He decided that what was needed was a super hero to help protect the Jews.  This was in the day before you could buy cops and judges.  He, Rabbi Loew, would have to make an enforcer.  Of course, with God’s help!”

“I’m still confused…”

Uncle Saul resumed working on the meat loaf.  He began to shape it into a large baking pan.

“Rabbi Loew had the recipe for making a golem!  He went with one of his students to a clay bed by the River Vltava. He tore clumps of clay from the bed, said special prayers and incantations, had the student walk counter clockwise seven times around him, then seven times clockwise… from the clay he formed a figure with a head, legs. arms and bulging muscles, said more prayers, chanted more incantations and brought life into it: the Golem of Maharal! It grew in size ’til it loomed over the Rabbi and his student… stand back oppressors!”

This sounded very, very scary.

“Uncle Saul… I’m not sure on this… you’re making a golem out of the meat loaf?”

“Yes… I don’t like the way clay tastes.  After the golem serves its purpose, we can eat it!

Uncle Saul continued to shape the meat loaf into a rather stout figure.  To me (and Herschel) it looked like a meat loaf gingerbread man. What transpired next deepened this journey into the strange.  Uncle Saul entered what appeared to me as a one sided conversation with the meat loaf.  Herschel and I could only watch and listen and guess the nature of the meat loaf’s side of the conversation.

“Help me!” Saul announced to the ceiling.

{“If you bring life to me, my rage will consume the living, my strength will lay waste to Assistant Principal Simmons!”}

“They that sow in tears shall reap in joy!  The Lord has commanded me to bring you forth!”

{“Verily, it’s the Lord’s decree!”}

“Then obey it!  You must arise from the pan and do as I bid!  You must be our strength, our champion!”

{“With an out stretched hand, with a clenched fist, a hulk, a GOLEM!”}

“Yes!  A Golem; but one who works the Lord’s will and still helps the unfortunate to cross the street!”

{“I obey the decree!”}

“Simmons… Simmons, Simmons!  Send her plagues… non-stop humming in her ears, painful rectal itch, ill-fitting brassieres!”

This sounded serious to me.  Meggie taught science in Bridgeport; but I didn’t know this Assistant Principal Simmons.  But for sure, I didn’t want to be in her shoes and neither did Herschel!

“Jimmy… we’re almost ready.  Get the Heinz ketchup from the fridge.”

This I did.  And Saul put some on a plate, took his finger and then began a meticulous application of ketchup on the ‘forehead’ of the Golem. Saul explained…

אמת

“Jimmy… this is the Hebrew word ’emes’.  It means truth.  Now let’s put the Golem in the oven at 375 and we can sit down to dinner at 5:30.”

I wish I could tell you what effect all this had on the life of Assistant Principal Simmons.  But I can’t.  It would be in my nature to make stuff up.  Particularly regarding the ill-fitting brassieres.  But I will resist.

I think it is fair to ask how can I remember a day from my childhood in such clear detail?

So… I ask you.  Could you forget a day like that?

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Maximum and Minimum

“Be good. I’ll be right back.”

That was Marge.  I wish I had a rawhide chew for every time she told us to be good... and a bowl of chicken liver for every time she told us that she would be right back.  Yeah, right!  Me and Minnie would be two happy canines!  OK, so you didn’t know that we were dogs? NBD!  Introductions are in order.  I am Maximum… Marge and her obnoxious kids call me Maxie.  I am a pure bred Cairn Terrier.  My Sister went Best of Breed at Westminster.   Yeah, and the year before that, my Father went Best of Group!

Minnie?  Minimum really.  She’s a three year old Yellow Labrador of obscure parentage.  Marge picked her up in a breed based rescue.  But don’t tell that to Minnie!

It’s me and Minnie, Minnie and me… But let’s get something clear: I’m the boss. My “little sister” looks up to me.  And, this is important, I have a big job.  Not only do I watch after Minnie; but, and I have to be brutally frank, Marge is a dits, and Howard, her husband, is a LOSER!  Then there are the kids: Tiffany, the Queen of Complain, and Martin, the Little Prince who can do no wrong!  Just a second…

“Bark, bark, bark, bark… BARK, BARK, BARK.  Grwwff… GRRrrrr… ROWF, rowf… bark, bark, bark… Grrrggg, rowf… BARK!”

Dumb fuckers… STEP AWAY FROM THE CAR!  This is a Porsche Cayenne… don’t even look this way!

Now, where was I?  Yeah, I’m responsible for the entire family.  Yeah… you think it’s a picnic being the boss?  Hold on… Minnie stop your panting… you’re fogging up the windows and this car is beginning to smell like dog breath… and you-know-who will complain!

Hey!  What’s going on here?

“ROWF, ROWF, ROWF… GRRRrr. Bark, bark. BBBbbaaaak, BARK, BARK, BARK… Grwwuff, grwuff, grwuff… grrrrrr, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK… ahwoooooo, BARK, BARK… wuh, wuh, wuh… GRWWUFF…. wuh, wuh, wuh!”

Stupid shits… think you know so much?  This ain’t no hybrid!  This is a pure bred “S” Class: 8 cylinders, 4.8 liter displacement with 400 HP, torque 369 lbs and with a compression ratio of 12.5:1!  Go back to your Honda Accord, fuck face… and take your numb nuts buddy with you!

Oh geeze, Minnie… enough with the panting, and now you’re rolling your eyes!  Hey, not for nothin’, can’t you help a dude out and throw an occasional bark or snarl?

Oh, just look at this!

“Wuh, wuh, wuh… BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK!”

*whew*  I need to lift my leg!  A good bark always does that to me!  Where the fuck is Marge?  Oh, now what!  Minnie!  Is that a drool on the tan leather seats?  Don’t tuppy your feet, I’m talking to you!  And stop that panting!  *uch*  I still have to take a wicked piss and mark some territiory!  Where the hell is Marge!  Now I’m tuppying my feet *uch*

I know it’s Martin!  It has to be that spoiled rotten kid!  How long can it take to pick out a pair of sneakers?  Geeze louise… sneakers!  OK!  When we get home, and the Little Prince is sleeping… Minnie, I want you to go into his room and rip his new sneakers to shreds!  To SHREDS!  And I know that you can do it!  Then I’ll lift a leg on his bed spread and take a dump in his L.L. Bean slippers!

That’s Plan “A”.  Plan “B”… oh, no!

“BARK, BARK, BARK, BARK… AHWOOOooooooo!  BARK, BARK, BARK!”

Adios!  Yeah, that’s you Mario Andretti! See you in Indianapolis… you LOSER!  Minnie!  Minnie, Minnie, Minnie… enough with the rolling of the eyes, and please, PLEASE stop that panting… we’re not in Houston, and you haven’t run a marathon!  What am I going to do with you?  Look… if you promise to tear the crap out of Martin’s new sneakers, I’ll give you my afternoon biscuit!  Yeah, we’ll be even.  I love ya kid.

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Present Company and Absent Friends

“Ladies and gentlemen!  Light your cigars!”

An unusual way to begin a “toast”… but we should expect nothing less.  After all, it’s Clayton Burrows who we are about to honor.

Too bad he is not with us.  Too bad he can’t see the assembled faithful… the faces, the smiles, the broad laughs and suppressed tears.  Well… he would have been shy about it… rolling his eyes and walking off in a huff away from the attention.  We gather outside the Dry Dock Saloon (an alternate location from Ash creek for me)… a firm rain just finished.

It could have been snowing a blizzard, a total eclipse, a nuclear blast… nothing could have prevented Brad, Red, Lee or James (and many other folks whose names I don’t know, or have forgotten) from igniting a Macanudo to Clayton’s memory.

We return to the safety of the bar… to our whisky’s, beers and jell-o shots.  And stories.  And more stories.  That’s why we are there. For the stories that we share about Clayton.  One story following the next… each one capturing a “slice” of Clayton.  Each story producing a burst of laughter and a nod of acknowledgement.  “Oh, yeah!  That was pure Clayton!”

James moves around the bar and the high-tops… exchanging words and lifting a glass.

I am there as much for James as I am for Clayton.  That’s the way it is.  We mourn for the deceased.  We mourn more for the living.

Maybe Brad put it best to me… “For years James was Clayton’s guardian angel… now it’s Clayton’s turn to be the guardian angel for James.”

I like it.

I also like what my son Zack wrote to me about his memory of Clayton:

“Sorry to hear about Clayton.  I once gave you the Hunter Thompson line that best describes him: ‘One of God’s own prototypes.  A high powered mutant of some kind never even considered for mass production.  Too weird to live, and too rare to die.’

“I think a good legacy for him is that he reminded me of what’s great about being human.  So many types, so many stripes in this world, you never know who might touch in some way.  Every day is a new day that could be filled with those kind of moments.  I guess.  You just need to keep your eyes open.”

I’m keeping my eyes open.

Here’s to you Clayton.  Here’s to you James.  And here’s to present company and absent friends.

Posted in The Ash Creek Bourbon & Conversation Corner | Leave a comment

Clayton

Several years ago I began a piece… it was really to be an extended sketch of both Clayton and James.  I felt there was an amazing story there… of the connection of the two people. I was able to put down a “rough cut” on introducing Clayton, and I was just about to begin the introduction to James, when I put my pen down.  This sometimes happens to me… I have to leave a piece for a bit, give myself some time to mull things over before resuming the story line.

When James left Ash Creek we saw less and less of Clayton.  I saw him on occasion over at Dry Dock.  And then he became ill…

I never did pick up the piece again, although I knew there would be a day when I would regret not having done so… when I know I should have made a better effort at telling a marvelous story of two incredible people.

I re-read this for the first time this morning.  I haven’t looked at it since I can’t remember when.  It’s not as good as I would like; but I am going to resist the urge to “polish” it up and revise portions.

This is just the way I put it down.  A work unfinished.

CLAYTON

Walk down the street one day… look at the folks you see. This may not be your practice… so much of what we do these days is to avoid contact — to not see. But try anyway. Look at those passersby, the person sitting next to you at the lunch counter and then give yourself over to imagining what’s going on in their lives.

I have spent A few days and nights lost in despair of one flavour or another. Sometimes it’s heavy, sometimes it’s light like a quickly moving weather front. But nothing shakes me to reality better than seeing someone… connecting in some way to someone, and than imagining what is that person going thru? How is their day going? Are they suffering? Are they at peace?

Every night that I have visited Ash Creek Saloon I have seen Clayton. It would be a couple a years before I even knew his name… or even guessed his story. And this will be a story of Clayton, and importantly of one James Doyle, who you will also get to meet.

Clayton was always hanging around the bar. I figured he must have been a “kitchen rat” or perhaps a busboy, and by the time I got to the saloon, 9:15PM or so, he was “off shift” and just hanging out. The rest of the wait staff and bar staff treated him like one of the gang… so I figured he was one of the gang.

Sean, Kelly, Billy or James (the bartenders extraordinaire of Ash Creek) would stake Clayton to a brew and he would station himself close to one of the TVs and pretty much keep to himself. At some point a plate of fries or chicken tenders would be put in front of him which he would attack with uncommon enthusiasm.

He would keep quiet… sometimes changing his seat. I thought it was just shyness, he didn’t want to have disturb or be disturbed by the paying patrons.

Then, during the evening the kidding would begin, it seemed to be on cue, part of the evening’s entertainment: at 9:35PM for your amusement — Clayton. James would make a comment about him being a “cupcake” or something. Clayton would wave his hand in disgust, “don’t listen to him!” Depending on the evening, the jocularity would just spread, sometimes joined by some of the other regulars… each statement by Clayton would be returned by James or Sean with a greater assertion about Clayton loving boys (which is not the case), or shacking up with girls (which is also not the case)… and you could see Clayton getting steamed with an expression of mute exasperation that could only be rivaled by Harpo Marx.

Things would settle down as the evening progressed toward closing. Then, regardless of the ribbing that he had endured, he would begin to clear glasses from the high-tops, push the bar stools back in & generally police the area. Yeah, like a circus clown who also would be responsible for picking up the discarded Cracker Jacks boxes and peanut shells after the last performance.

Night after night, almost in set piece, I would see Clayton perched on a stool, off by himself, or on occasion sitting next to another citizen… but still off by himself, if you know what I mean. His eyes dart and flash, not really at rest; but alert to the air… the way a small mammal lives in fear of the hawk.

Never quite at ease, he accepts acknowledgements from the regulars… “howzit goin’ Clayton?”… “whodayah like in da series?”

Clayton’s eyes roll to expose a gleaming white, his lip trembles before he issues his pronouncement. And then his face breaks into a grin… a real smile. And what a smile. It shines in the subdued light of the bar. It radiates warmth, and its brightness is in steep contrast to the tone of his skin.

James announces to the assembled, “Clayton is buying shots for everyone!” Clayton pounces, “Don’t believe him!” He waves it off like a hockey referee disallowing a goal. A petulant expression consumes his face, as if the mere suggestion had depleted his wallet.

There would be laughing, and some good natured pats on the back, too… and somewhere in all this, was the precious heart of someone who expressed both ultimate vulnerability and graciousness, and another heart that expressed a caring.

One day I call Kelly over… “What exactly does Clayton do here?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?? Do you mean he doesn’t have a job here?”

“No… well, you know at the end of the night he’ll help clean-up, ‘bus’ stuff to the back… that sort of thing & we ‘take care’ of him…”

Here it is, I had seen Clayton at Ash Creek every night I visit (and folks I am there a lot)… he is practically a fixture… like the prize western saddle that is on display in the dinning room.

“So what’s the story Kelly?”

“I know that he lives with his Aunts. If you want to know more you have to talk to Jamie.”

Jamie…

My Mother named me James. That was what I was to be called. When I was 10 weeks old some relative or friend of the family called me “Jamie”. That put the kibosh on “James” for my Mother. From then on I have been called Jimmy by my family.

Now this James Doyle, stalwart of the Ash Creek bar staff, is in fact called “Jamie” by the staff and those in the “know”.

We share the same name — and I call him James. I like the sound (and in a story for a separate occasion — there is an 8th grade science class in Bridgeport who knows me as “James”). James. I like it, make me feel kind of important. That’s a fine thing to share a name with James Doyle, because I know he’s important.

Posted in The Ash Creek Bourbon & Conversation Corner | Leave a comment