Brooklyn Boy Read online

  Ira Zimmer, Eric’s age, although he looks older, rumpled, soft, wearing a yarmulke, enters holding a tray with a cup of coffee and a wedge of layer cake, and sits one table away from Eric. He reads a discarded newspaper and glances at Eric, who looks familiar.

  ERIC (Into his phone): Hi, Nina, it’s me. The Prodigal Returneth. Listen, I got your message. I thought maybe I could stop by tonight, if that’s all right, and get that stuff out of your way. I’m in Brooklyn right now, still at the hospital. I could probably make it home by . . . (A small laugh) —I mean to your place—let’s say around six. How’s that? Call me if that’s a problem, otherwise I’ll see you then. Okay? Um . . .

  (Eric and Zimmer briefly make eye contact; he ends his call.)

  See you later.

  ZIMMER (Incredulously): Ricky?

  ERIC: Yes?

  ZIMMER: Ricky Weiss, Eric Weiss, the writer Eric Weiss?

  ERIC: Yes? . . .

  ZIMMER: Oh my God, this is so weird, I was just talking about you!

  ERIC: You were?

  ZIMMER: It’s beshert. You know what that means, beshert?

  ERIC: Yes.

  ZIMMER: Meant to be. Fate.

  ERIC: I know.

  ZIMMER: Look at you, you look exactly the same, me I turn into my father.

  (Eric chuckles, wondering, Who is this guy?)

  ERIC: Do we know each other?

  ZIMMER: Do we know each other?! Do we KNOW each other?!

  ERIC (Over “Do we KNOW . . .”): I’m sorry . . .

  ZIMMER: What, you’re too famous to remember your old buddy, Zimmer?!

  ERIC: Ira?!

  ZIMMER: Yes, Mr. Big Shot! Mr. Famous!

  ERIC (Over “Mr. Famous!”): Ira Zimmer!

  (They shake hands.)

  I didn’t recognize you!

  ZIMMER: No kidding!

  ERIC: I mean out of context.

  ZIMMER: What “out of context”? This is Brooklyn! This is the context!

  ERIC: I never expected to run into anyone I knew here.

  ZIMMER: Maimonides Hospital? You thought you were safe? Everybody passes through here sooner or later. It’s the last stop for Brooklyn Jews. Who you got here?

  ERIC: My father.

  ZIMMER: Bad?

  ERIC: Pretty bad, yeah. You?

  ZIMMER: My mom. Also bad.

  ERIC: I’m sorry to hear that. Is your dad . . .?

  ZIMMER: Dead.

  ERIC: Oh, gee, I’m sorry.

  ZIMMER (Shrugs): Long time ago; what can ya do. He was on my case about everything, that mean sonofabitch asshole may he rest in peace.

  ERIC: You do look like him.

  ZIMMER: I know, isn’t it freaky? I freak myself out sometimes. Look at this. (Rolls up his sleeves) These are his forearms! How did his forearms end up on my body?—Your dad must be, what?, like seventy-something now?

  ERIC: Seventy, exactly.

  ZIMMER: Wow. Seventy. My mom’s seventy-three.

  ERIC: Amazing. I remember her when she was our age. She must’ve been around our age when we were bar mitzvahed, right?

  ZIMMER: Younger, even.

  ERIC: I remember her lipstick-red hair done up in a sweep.

  ZIMMER: Yeah. Not much of that left. Chemo.

  ERIC: My dad, too. Prostate. Metastatic.

  ZIMMER: Uy.

  ERIC: It’s in his spine, it’s everywhere.

  ZIMMER: Uch, terrible. My mom? Ovarian.

  ERIC: Jeez that’s a bad one.

  ZIMMER: Let’s face it, they’re all bad, all of ’em.

  ERIC: True. (A beat) You know what threw me? The yarmulke!

  ZIMMER: Oh, yeah? My little kippah? I guess I got a little Orthodox since the last time you saw me.

  ERIC (Over “. . . you saw me.”): “A little”? Is that like being a little pregnant? Since when did you get so frum? (Devout)

  ZIMMER: Since Mindy Goldberg.

  ERIC (That explains it): Ah! I see . . .

  ZIMMER: Went to my temple’s singles group hoping to meet a nice Jewish girl? Didn’t mean one this Jewish. (Handles the yarmulke) My daughter made me this.

  ERIC: You have a daughter?

  ZIMMER: Bubbie, I have three daughters.

  ERIC: Three?!

  ZIMMER: And a son.

  ERIC: Wow!

  ZIMMER: And one on the way.

  ERIC: Jesus, Ira, isn’t that going a little overboard?

  ZIMMER: What can I tell ya? When it comes to procreation, we’re worse than Catholics. My daughter Sara made this. (His yarmulke)

  ERIC: Nice.

  ZIMMER: Didn’t she do a nice job?

  ERIC: Lovely. How old is she?

  ZIMMER: Twelve.

  ERIC: Twelve?! You have a twelve year old?! How can that be?! To me you’re still thirteen.

  ZIMMER: I know. Want to hear something even scarier than my having a twelve year old? I have a sixteen year old.

  ERIC: Wow, that is scary.

  (Zimmer takes out his wallet and moves to the table adjacent to Eric.)

  ZIMMER (Shows photos): Leah, Aviva, Sara and Ari.

  ERIC: Look at that!

  ZIMMER (Continuous): Sixteen, fourteen, twelve and nine.

  ERIC: They look great, Ira. Great-looking kids.

  ZIMMER: Thousands of bucks in orthodontia right there. (Another photo) And there’s my Mindy. Yup, there she is. The things we do for love, huh?

  ERIC: Wonderful family. Mazel tov.

  ZIMMER (Puts his wallet back): Look, it’s a life. Hey, you mind if I, uh . . . (Meaning, join him)

  ERIC: Yeah, sure, why not?

  ZIMMER (Over “. . . why not?”; moves his tray over): I gotta eat something, I’m famished—not to be confused with famisht. You can use that line if you want; I give you permission.

  So who do you see?

  ERIC: Who do I see?

  ZIMMER: From the old days. Hirsch? Weinberg?

  ERIC: No. No one really.

  ZIMMER: Sarokin?

  ERIC: No.

  ZIMMER: Wow. Not even Sarokin? (Eric shakes his head) Boy! And you guys were like so . . .

  ERIC: I know.

  ZIMMER: I was always so jealous. Hey, we should all get together!

  ERIC: Uh-huh.

  ZIMMER: Wouldn’t that be a gas?!

  ERIC: Yeah.

  ZIMMER: I’ll organize a reunion! I’m always running into kids from back then. “Kids.” Listen to me! They’re middle-aged people!—You got kids?

  ERIC: No.

  ZIMMER: No?! What’re you waiting for?! (His mouth full) Want some?

  ERIC (Realizing he means cake): Oh, no, no thanks.

  ZIMMER (Half joking): Good; I didn’t want to give you anyway. What’s your wife’s name?

  ERIC: Nina.

  ZIMMER: She Jewish?

  ERIC: No.

  ZIMMER (A concession): All right. What does she do?

  ERIC: She’s a wonderful writer.

  ZIMMER: Two writers. What’s that like?

  ERIC: Interesting. Hey, do you still draw?

  ZIMMER: Me? Nah. Sometimes I’ll doodle something for the kids.

  ERIC: I remember the comic book heroes you created. They were terrific.

  ZIMMER: Yeah, yeah. I decided long ago, back in high school: you can be the famous one. My mom and I were just saying what a big macher you are.

  ERIC: Believe me, Ira, I’m no macher.

  ZIMMER: Whataya talking about? I saw you on TV!

  ERIC: You saw that?

  ZIMMER: Me and several million other people, yeah. I’m sitting there eating breakfast . . . (Announcer voice) “In the next half hour . . . Eric Weiss, author of Brooklyn Boy . . .”

  ERIC: Oh, God.

  ZIMMER: I almost choked on my Cheerios! (Eric laughs) I swear: Milk almost came shooting out of my nose! You were great!

  ERIC: Thanks.

  ZIMMER: So cool, so relaxed! Like you’ve been doing this your whole life! Mindy was impressed; she thought you were cute.

  ER
IC: Oh, yeah?

  ZIMMER (Pinches his cheek): Shayna punim! If you didn’t sell a million books that day! . . . You’re all over the place! I’m at my dentist’s the other day, getting a new crown?

  ERIC: Yeah . . .?

  ZIMMER: There you are in Time magazine! Time magazine! Has a write-up on my friend Ricky Weiss! I couldn’t believe it, I showed everybody there! The girl at the desk?, everybody. “See this guy? We grew up together! In Sheepshead Bay! Like brothers, practically! Twins!” Oh, yeah, and in the thing?, in the write-up?, when they mention the friend in the book he gets bar mitzvahed with?

  ERIC: Seth Bernstein.

  ZIMMER: Seth Bernstein! Yeah! The friend he gets bar mitzvahed with? Wait a minute: That’s me!

  ERIC: Well . . . not you, exactly . . .

  ZIMMER (Continuous): I had to have that book! I run home, get online, order the book—and I want you to know you should be honored: I never buy hard-covered books—ever. Ask Mindy; if it takes a year, I wait for paper. But this one; how could I wait? I’m in this book! Book comes, tear it open, start reading. Cannot. Put. It. Down. I mean, hours go by. Kids can’t find me; Mindy can’t find me: “I-raaa!” I’m in the john, reading!

  (Eric chuckles.)

  (Half joking) Couldn’t count on the author sending me an autographed copy or anything . . .

  ERIC: Hey, if I knew where to send it . . .

  ZIMMER: Same address. 1911 Avenue X.

  ERIC: Your parents’ house?

  ZIMMER: Yup. House I grew up in. Now my kids are growing up in it.

  ERIC: No kidding. With your mom?

  ZIMMER: With my mom. Why, you think it’s weird?

  ERIC: No no . . .

  ZIMMER: You think it’s weird I sleep in my parents’ old bedroom?

  ERIC (Equivocally): No . . .

  ZIMMER: Okay, maybe it is a little weird. The bed is new at least. Well, the mattress. —So aren’t you gonna ask me what I thought?

  ERIC: What you thought . . .?

  ZIMMER: Of Brooklyn Boy!

  ERIC: I was just going to.

  ZIMMER: I hated it. (Off Eric’s look; he cracks up) I’m only kibitzing! Look at you! I really had you going that time! Whataya think I thought?! I loved it!

  ERIC: Oh, good!

  ZIMMER: Are you kidding? How could I not love it? It’s the story of my life! I mean, literally! The playgrounds and living rooms you write about, I know them! I was there! One or two things you got wrong but still . . .

  ERIC: How could it be “wrong,” it’s fiction.

  ZIMMER: Some of the real stuff was better. You should’ve called me, I could’ve helped you out. That’s okay; it’s still good. And that Seth Bernstein character! Obviously modeled on someone very brilliant.

  ERIC: Seth Bernstein is not you.

  ZIMMER: Yeah, right.

  ERIC: He’s not.

  ZIMMER: Whataya talking about, “not me”? Of course he’s me. He’s got “me” written all over him!

  ERIC: He’s a composite of a lot of people I grew up with.

  ZIMMER: Especially me. The acne on the back? The undescended testicle?!

  ERIC: You had an undescended testicle?

  ZIMMER: You know I did.

  ERIC: I forgot about that.

  ZIMMER: See? You don’t even realize how much he’s me.

  ERIC: He’s a fictional character.

  ZIMMER: What, like Kenny Fleischman isn’t you? Arnie Fleischman isn’t your dad? Who you trying to kid?

  ERIC: Ira . . .

  ZIMMER: Why can’t you just admit I inspired you? Huh? Why can’t you give me that much? I’m not gonna sue you or anything. I don’t care how rich you get off of me, I just want to hear you say it. The guy is me! I even gave it to my mother to read!

  ERIC: And?. . .

  ZIMMER: She thought he was me. Definitely.

  ERIC: What did she think of the book.

  ZIMMER (Equivocally): She liked it.

  ERIC (Picking up on his reservation): Yeah?. . .

  ZIMMER: You know. She had some quibbles here and there.

  ERIC: Like what?

  ZIMMER: She thought it was anti-Semitic.

  ERIC (Like a punch in the gut): Ooh, really?

  ZIMMER: Not me, that’s what she thought.

  ERIC: Gee, I’m sorry to hear that.

  ZIMMER: She didn’t care for your depiction.

  ERIC: My depiction?

  ZIMMER: Of Brooklyn Jews. She didn’t like it, she thought it was condescending.

  ERIC: She said that? Your mother used the word “condescending”?

  ZIMMER: No, that’s my word.

  ERIC: What did she say?

  ZIMMER: I think she used the word “snotty.”

  ERIC: Uy. She didn’t think it was funny?

  ZIMMER: No. She hated what you did to your mother.

  ERIC: The protagonist’s mother.

  ZIMMER: Whatever; you know: the main kid’s mother. She thought it was mean. The pill-popping and stuff? The diet pills?

  ERIC: Did you think it was funny?

  ZIMMER: Me? Yeah! Are you kidding?

  ERIC: But your mother failed to see the “aching ruefulness that underlies the comedy”? You see the reviews on the back?

  ZIMMER: My mother doesn’t know from “aching ruefulness.”

  ERIC: She just didn’t like it.

  ZIMMER: She didn’t just not like it, she HATED it.

  ERIC (Amused, sort of): Okay!

  ZIMMER: Hey, while you’re here, you should stop by and see her.

  ERIC: Why? So she can yell at me?

  ZIMMER: No! It would be a mitzvah. She would love to see you. You always meant so much to her.

  ERIC: I did?

  ZIMMER: Yes! She was crazy about you. Are you kidding? So she didn’t like your book. Big deal!

  ERIC: She HATED my book.

  ZIMMER: She’s still proud of you. We’re all proud of you! God, your dad! Your dad must be like . . .!

  ERIC: Yeah. He is.

  ZIMMER: If it was somebody else?, someone undeserving having this success? It would really piss me off. But you. Whatever good stuff comes your way, you deserve it.

  ERIC: Thank you, Ira. I appreciate that.

  ZIMMER: You really stuck to it. You didn’t give up. And I really gotta hand it to you. ’Cause after those other books of yours . . . The first two . . . (Shakes his head) Whatever the “message” or whatever, went (Whistles) wayyy over my head.

  ERIC: I know; they weren’t for everybody. The critics liked them, though.

  ZIMMER (Over “. . . though.”): I’m not talking critics now, I’m talking regular people. —Is it okay for me to be saying this?

  ERIC (With a laugh): Sure, what the hell.

  ZIMMER: ’Cause I don’t know what you’re supposed to say to a writer.

  ERIC: You can say whatever you like.

  ZIMMER: I almost wrote you a letter.

  ERIC: Yeah?

  ZIMMER: Years ago. After your first book: The Gentleman Farmer.

  ERIC (Impressed): Very good.

  ZIMMER: I told you: I’m up on you. I tried reading it, I really did.

  ERIC: It’s okay.

  ZIMMER: I read maybe fifty pages. If that. I didn’t know where it was coming from. You know?

  ERIC: It’s really okay.

  ZIMMER (Continuous): It didn’t seem like you at all. It was like you were trying to be profound or something.

  ERIC (Self-effacing): It was my first book!

  ZIMMER: I kept thinking, Where’s Ricky in this? What’s he writing this intellectual modern bullshit for? I was gonna write you and ask you point-blank. I wish I had. ’Cause, then—man!—that second book!

  ERIC: The Aerie.

  ZIMMER: Uy vey. Is that how you pronounce it?

  ERIC: Uh-huh. It’s a bird’s nest.

  ZIMMER: If someone put a gun to my head and said, “Tell me what this book’s about or I’ll shoot,” I’d be shot—dead—right on the spot.

 
ERIC (Making light of his discomfort): So, how are you, by the way?

  ZIMMER: Who am I to tell you, right?

  ERIC (Dismissively): No no no.

  ZIMMER (Continuous): You’re the published writer. Who am I. Just some schmuck who runs a deli.

  ERIC: Is that really what you do?

  ZIMMER: Why? You expected maybe something more exalted from me? I run my father’s deli. Remember my dad and my uncle had a deli?

  ERIC: Oh yeah, on, uh . . .

  ZIMMER: Kings Highway, right near the station.

  ERIC: Kings Highway. Right! So now it’s yours?

  ZIMMER: Yup. Mine, all mine.

  ERIC: That’s great.

  ZIMMER: Come on.

  ERIC: What.

  ZIMMER: You don’t think it’s “great”; I certainly don’t think it’s “great.” What’s so great about it? My dad drops dead, my uncle sees it as a sign from God, he picks up, moves to Boca, my mom is a basket case, my sister doesn’t want anything to do with the place, so who do you think the deli lands on, like a house fallin’ outta the sky? (A beat) Ya know? I used to wish him dead. I did; I prayed he would just go away and leave me the hell alone. Then whataya know? One day I show up to work after class? Ambulance, cops, people on the street. I think, Sonofabitch. You’re not supposed to get what you wish for, you know. Screws you up big time if you do.

  ERIC: I’m sorry.

  ZIMMER (Shrugs): It’s not your fault. (A beat) It was only supposed to be for the time being. Who thinks forever when you’re twenty-one, twenty-two? A year goes by, then five years, then before you know it, you’re the alter cocker behind the counter flingin’ the Hebrew Nationals. Some old customers come in, see me, and think I am my father! That he didn’t die! That he and I are the same person! (A beat) Need a story for your next book? Oh, I’ve got a story. Only I’m gonna charge you for it this time.

  (Pause.)

  ERIC: Ira . . .? It was a pleasure running into you. (Moves to go)

  ZIMMER: Where you going?!

  ERIC: I should head back to the city.

  ZIMMER: That’s it?! I don’t see you for twenty-five years, that’s all I get?!

  ERIC: I really should go.

  ZIMMER: It’s shabbos. Come home with me for shabbos.

  ERIC (Over “. . . for shabbos.”): Oh, no, I couldn’t—

  ZIMMER: You gonna shlep all the way back to the city?