Titles, Inc.

Jewish Paul Newman

Paul Newman’s framed photograph signed "To Florence" stands prominently on my desk.  It has been there for years and provokes comments from men as well as women.  We all love him.

A customer looked at the photo and said, “He was Jewish.”  I said, “Half Jewish.  His father was Jewish.  Isn’t it amazing,” I went on, “the Jewish population is so tiny, and I know so many people who have a Jew in their family line –- aunt, grandmother, cousin, grandfather, great-uncle…”

He talked about Newman’s generosity and donations from his products.  I said, “Yes, I was looking at a wall of salad dressing, and made the decision by buying a Paul Newman brand.  Light Raspberry and Walnut.  So good, I scoop it up in a spoon after the salad is gone.”  We talked about his movies, how they don’t make actors like Paul Newman anymore.  Men are attracted to him as strongly as women, if I can judge by conversations in my shop.  I said, “I’ll tell you why we women like him, he stayed married to the same woman.  He didn’t upgrade his bimbos every year, the current Hollywood practice.”  According to the tabloids at the check-out counters, a whole year is a serious commitment.

A thought just crossed my mind.  Are people buying his salad dressing because it is good, or because they remember how hot he was in "Cat on the Hot Tin Roof"?

This customer has a really French name that can be pronounced only with a French accent.  He said his father fought in the French army in WWII.  He came to America and married an Ohio girl who lost her citizenship by marrying a foreigner.  That’s how it was then, he assured me, seeing my astonishment.  She had to apply again for her citizenship along with her new husband.  The things I learn from my guests.  Oh, like you knew that all along.

Suddenly he said, “My father was Jewish.” 

“What??”

He said, “I never knew.  My mother died.  Then my father died.  I had to go through all their papers.  Then I found my father’s citizenship papers.  He had a Jewish name.  He changed it legally.  He was so proud of being a French soldier, he picked a very French name.  He never told me he was Jewish.  I feel so sad about it now, that he couldn’t share it with me.”

The phone rang and he used it as his exit cue.  I think he wanted to revisit his father’s deception privately.

When I had said, airily, “Everyone has a Jewish relative,” I didn’t realize I was actually right on target.

----Florence

Say Cheese

He is in the food business.  “What does that mean, the food business?”  “Well, one of our big products is cheesecake.  We sell a lot cheesecake.”  I was reluctant to bring up his competitor’s name, a major cheesecaker, also in Chicago.  But I did.  “How can you compete with them?”  He said there are enough cheesecake eaters for several bakers.  And besides, he said his is better.  “Wait a minute,” and he walked briskly out of the shop and returned with a box which he presented to me.

“Here’s my cheesecake.  I want you to give me an honest opinion of how you like it.”The box has Japanese printing all over it.  I am puzzled.  “Did it come from Japan?”  “No, no, we send to Japan.  It’s a big market for us.”  Japan?  They eat cheesecake in Japan?  Surely not with chopsticks.  (When I eat at a Japanese restaurant here, I am never issued a fork.  Chopsticks only, so I’m just sayin’.)

Since I am trying to control my cholesterol with diet, I stopped eating cheese some time ago, but I haven’t forgotten what cheesecake tastes like, so I figured just one slice, just this once.  Art can slowly eat his way through the rest of the circle one luscious slice at a time.

It was delicious.  I was happy to be able to tell him so.  Except for one small issue, the cake crust at the bottom was not crispy crunchy, but blended in with the mush of the cheese.  He said, “I shouldn’t have given you one that I was driving around with.  It softened.  Of course it should be crunchy.”  I invited him to join our Pun Club meeting in my shop the next night.  He said he’d try.

One of our punsters, Clayton, a professor of foreign languages at Lake Forest College, always brings a home baked treat to the Pun Club.  This time it was cheesecake!  I kept watching the door hoping Josh would come in to taste this superb cake with its crispy crunchy crust.  (He apologized later for the no- show.)  “Why is this so marvelous?” I asked, as the second portion melted on my tongue. Clayton said it had booze in it.  Oh yum.  

Several days later, I was describing it to Josh.  Yes, he had made cakes that way too, and agreed they were good.   Apparently you can’t sell alcoholic cheesecake in bulk.

Anyway, now there were two, no three, portions of cream cheese contaminating my non-cholesterol belly.  And no, I am not going to mention this indulgence of dairy in my diary.

----Florence

Continued: Buying Books #2

So the next day, I get a phone message, “It is now 6 PM and you never showed up or called.  I will be expecting you tomorrow at the same time.  I have these cartons and I can’t keep them here waiting for you.”

I called back leaving an equally irate message, “If you don’t answer your phone, how could I find you on that dark lane?  And your directions to the neighborhood had me making a right onto a street with a big sign saying No Right Turn.  It’s snowing hard, and having seen your lane, I bet they haven’t plowed.  I can’t make it back tonight.”

He phoned at 5 PM and reached me.  See, he phones after 5 PM because he told me he sleeps all day, and wakes at 5 and stays up through the night.  I assumed he had a night job. 

He “made nice,” told me he looked out the window and the private snow plow service that this lane uses has cleared the street, and everybody makes that Right Turn, never mind the sign, so I agreed to try again.  He said to phone when I am nearby and he will guide me in.  I reported back to Art and said I was reluctant to get lost again and could he drive with me?  We chose a gas station as a meeting place.

Well.  I walked across the street to the parking lot.  No, I couldn’t walk across the street because I couldn’t figure out where the curb was with all the snow banked up.  I went to the corner, crossed, and walked back on the other side to find the lot blanketed with snow.  There were only two cars out there, mine and another directly beside mine.  The snow plows had cleared the center by piling the snow back to the cars.  I plunged through.  I was pushing the snow off my car with the new longer brush Art had just bought for me, when I heard the man approach his car beside me and start scraping away also.

The young man came around to face me.  He said, “You will not be able to get your car over that bank.  I can, but you can’t.”  I looked at his small truck.  He said, “Get in your car, I will push you out.”  I got in and started the motor.  He was leaning up against the hood of my car.  He stopped and came over.  I put the window down.  He said, “You have it in reverse, right?”

The car wouldn’t move.  He pushed, and pushed, finally rolling me out.  He came back to the window, “Good thing the wall is right behind me, my feet were sliding.”  I thanked him and thanked him.  This is a situation I call beyond coincidence.  Two cars side by side in an empty lot.  Both drivers arriving at the same time.  The other driver being young, strong, and a good Samaritan.

I met up with Art and we drove to the house with books.  The man stood in the lighted garage and guided us in.

1.  He is retired and is awake through the night and sleeps through the day, by choice.

2.  His Christmas tree, and decorations covering the entire room, stay up until spring.  

3.  He had two very small cartons of books on a table.

4.  I didn’t like his books. 

----Florence

Buying Books

The problem with selling a terrific book is that you can’t replace it.  I was arguing with a customer who wanted a discount for a splendid book and when I said, “No,” he told me he negotiated for his new car, and the salesman was very accommodating.  “Sure,” I said, “He can call up and say send me another one.”  When his expression told me he didn’t get it, I explained, “I can’t call up to replace this book.  It’s a treasure, and I may never see another copy.”  Notice, I am not mentioning the title because this is a generic story.  I relive it every time I have a have a very special book in a prospective buyer’s hand.

So when I get a phone call to come buy their books, (and who calls me?  Widows, or children who don’t want their inherited books, people down-sizing their homes, people moving far away who have to leave the books behind), I am eager to go.

I had an appointment at 11 AM to look at railroad books.  I like railroad books.  I can sell railroad books.  The young widow had them stacked up and ready to show.  They were in fine condition in fine dust jackets (hooray!), but on examining them, too many were later editions and reprints.  (Lesson:  basically, a later edition is the same book having been printed again because it sold out.  A reprint has a new publisher and possibly a change in format.)  Her husband was a reader; he wanted the information even if he had to get it in a seventh printing.  And some were cheaper reprint copies.  I sorted them out.

Usually I am interested only in First Editions for the collector.  In this case, I figured there are railroad book readers out there like this (former) collector who wants the words, never mind the edition.  The first edition will cost more.

So I bought them all from this very nice lady who helped shlep (yes, that’s an American word now) these oversize books to my car.  I unloaded at the store, and was ready for my next house call.

I had scheduled a 5 PM house call for the same day.  He had been very cordial on the phone, “What do you drink?”  I answered, “Tea?”  He said, “No, it will be 5 o’clock.  I mean a drink.”  I parried for a minute, then agreed to Vodka and tonic, but then backed off.  “Really, a cup of tea would be nice.”  He asked, “Do you have a GPS?”  I assured him I did.  He said, “You’ll never find my house.”

He was right.  5 PM in January is pitch black.  His address was Ascot Lane which was not there. I drove up and down a street while my GPS kept hollering, “Recalculating” each time I reached the end of the block and made a U turn, She kept urging me to turn Right, or Left, depending on which direction I was driving on that damn street. There was no street to turn into. Nothing but driveways.  I crawled.  Wait!  That was a long driveway.  A single lane dirt driveway.  Lane!  I cautiously entered.  Yes, with set back houses.  This was it!  I could read the reflective number on the tree near the first house.   1105.  OK, I needed 20.  Opposite side.  I looked anxiously for numbers.  No further indication of numbers.  If you don’t know where you are going, this lane implied, Go Home.  I drove to its dead end.  Dark houses.  Long driveways.  No numbers.  I was hoping to find him in the doorway flagging me down.  I did the civilized thing.  I pulled out the cell phone and dialed.  Of course nobody answered.  Leave A Message it told me.

I was very rude.  “Screw this!” I shouted.  “You’re not even home!”

Will he call me back?  Will I go back?  Only if he tells me he has one of these spectacular books that I think I will never see again.

----Florence