I remember Melvin when he was just beginning to walk. His little hand held on to his mother’s open fingers. Taking a few tiny tottering steps he’d look at her smiling face and go boom on his tush. Each time I saw him he walked a little further. A sadness came over me when he had his first birthday and could hold a railing and get up a low flight of stairs by himself.
Still I knew his mother, Charlotte, kept him in his playpen most of the time or she would not be able to do her chores, use her lovely script hand to address wedding envelopes and make a few bucks. Melvin hated that playpen. I, and all the neighbors on my floor, could hear his yells, his screams, hear him throwing toys on the floor. At twenty two months he could not be restrained anymore and managed to climb out.
His curiosity could have killed the cat if they had one. Charlotte, in a frenzy, knocked on my door one morning. ‘Help me, please Burt. Melvin has stuffed crayons in the wall socket I use for ironing. I can’t get them out.’ No fool was I. First I got my high intensity flash light, made sure my trusty fold-up small screwdriver was in my pocket. In her place I shut off the electricity, told Char to hold onto Melvin, and unscrewed the socket cover. What a mess was in there. ‘Charlotte, you will have to call an electrician. The wax has melted way down into the wall. Maybe it can cause a fire. I don’t know.’ There was a little pause. ‘I can’t afford an electrician. I’ll have to iron in the kitchen.
Knowing I had no electrical experience, the only thing I could do was ‘lend’ her the money to fix the wires. If I didn’t, I’d worry every night and day about the possibility of a fire. Lend, shmend, I thought. I’ll never get my money back. I’ve watched enough Judge Judy to know a contract has to be clearly written and signed by all parties. From my old loose leaf book that still has clean unlined paper in it, I dated it and listed the $50 loan I was making to Charlotte Venzini, to be re-paid at five dollars a week for ten consecutive weeks with no interest.
I signed, handed Charlotte two twenties and a ten spot and had her sign. For that I got a hug and a small peck on my cheek. I turned her electricity back on, went downstairs, put the loan paper in my safe deposit box, a cigar one I had saved since high school. The treasure, still having a hint of tobacco smell, went back on my closet shelf.
It was almost dark so I fixed a light supper and went into the den/living room to watch the Discovery Channel. Margaret Meade’s old films about the natives she found so interesting was enough for me to doze off.
Natives were white. One of them looked like Charlotte. They were doing the Charleston. Their naked bodies glided around a large bonfire. Tom toms were beating. I woke sweating. Nothing happened between , Charlotte and me in my dream.
My Seagram’s gin was near my bed. I took a swig right out of the bottle and went back to sleep looking for Charlotte.
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