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mariatellsstories · 1 year ago

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From Borscht To Woodstock

1969 – Liberty, New York - the Catskills

The bar lounge at the Grossinger’s Resort has the look of which any 1940's Jewish mobster would feel right at home. The red leather booths and dim lighting provides the perfect backdrop for just about any illicit gathering. However, the people in this story are neither nefarious nor adulterous.

It's 11am and three people sit in the rear booth, engaging in comfortable conversation - Fae Feldman, the activities director; Irv, her husband of ten years; and Lucy, her friend and foe of many years.

A waitress wears an orange and white uniform, Grossinger’s signature white doily hat, and obligatory smile. She walks through the dining area toward their booth, balancing three plates on her right arm. Her left hand holds a pitcher of coffee, with cloth napkins draped over her forearm.

“Here you go, Mrs. Feldman,” the waitress says to Fae.

Fae beams, “Thank you, Helen!” She slides her empty coffee cup toward the waitress. “Now Helen, vee have you as vorking dis veekend, is dat right? Eez dat vut you requested?”

The waitress smiles as she pours Fae's coffee.

“Yes. Thank you so much, Mrs. Feldman.”

As the waitress leaves, Lucy whispers, “The workers love you, Fae.”

Fae holds up her coffee cup as if giving a toast. “Vut's not to like?” She and Irv laugh.

Fae Feldman has worked at Grossinger's in one capacity or another for thirty years. At twenty-two, she arrived at Ellis Island alone. It was 1939 and Nazi Germany had invaded and ultimately annexed her homeland of Czechoslovakia. Upon arriving, Fae applied for work at Grossinger's as a waitress. Her olive complexion and statuesque frame opened doors for her. Many considered her exotic. However, it was it was her charm, ambition, and astonishing ability to organize that propelled her through the ranks and into the position of activities director. In effect, she had found a home at Grossinger's where she felt needed and, more importantly, respected.

“Here you go Sveetie.” Fae says, handing Irv the basket of onion rolls.

Irv takes the basket, gives Fae a wink, and laughs.

“Nothing but eggs and coffee for me today,” announces Lucy. She opens a small silver pillbox, takes out three tiny white saccharin tablets, and stirs them into her coffee. “You know, Fae, McCall's put out an article last week...you should read it. It said the easiest way to lose weight is to only have protein and caffeine. I think it's already working! I have more energy than I've ever had!”

Fae gently puts her hand on Lucy's. “Oh Lucy, don't believe everything you read.”

Lucy pulls away, “I have to watch my figure!” She strokes her bright red hair.

Fae frowns, “Darlink, you need to eat! Those little vite peels you take has taken all the voman off your bones!”

“You mean this saccharin? It’s harmless.”

“No. You know exactly vut little pills I mean.”

“Don't you ever think about losing weight? I love you, Fae, but you are by no means a small woman.”

Fae smiles and gives Lucy a contemplative look. Lucy shifts gears, “It's just that you're lucky, Fae, you have a husband.” Lucy nods toward Irv, who is pretending to study The Daily Racing Form.

Lucy continues lamenting, “Here I am trying to find my third husband!”

Fae sits back in her seat. “Vell, Darlink, all I know eez that Irv keeps a good eye on my vaistline, right Irv?” Irv smiles and nods in the affirmative, his mouth full of gefilte fish.

Sixty-year-old Irv Feldman stands about five-foot-three with his hat on. He has a stocky build and teeters from side to side slightly as he walks. His bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows, and mustache give him the appearance of a very serious man thinking about very important matters. However, his constant laughter at anything and everything reveals him to be quite an affable character, who is only heard speaking when absolutely necessary. A fixture at Grossinger's for the past ten years, he is easily identifiable by the unlit cigar that has taken permanent residence in the left corner of his mouth.

Irv is a retired, moderately successful insurance salesman from Miami. He came to Grossinger's in 1958 to see about investing in the resort. He met Fae during the time that she was managing the gift shop, and they were married a year later. Now Irv enjoys one-third ownership of Grossinger's.

“Vell..... look who decided to join us!” Fae teased, as her daughter Bette slipped into the orange vinyl booth next to Lucy.

“You look good, Bette!” greeted Lucy. “Is that a new dress?”

Bette balks. “No way Lu! I've worn this plenty of times. Come to think of it, you bought this dress for me last year, remember?”

Bette has lived no place other than Grossinger's Resort. She was always surrounded by the exaggerated elegance of Grossinger's in its heyday. She is a bit of a dreamer, but with an emerging sense of adventure. Bette hasn’t really experienced much of the real world for a girl in her twenties, so she tends to be a bit naive. She knows that she had been living a sheltered life and, until recently, didn't mind. Bette tries to fashion her looks to be as far from her mother’s as possible. She had naturally strawberry blonde hair, but wanted to be more extreme. Lucy had taken her to her colorist where, just like Lucy, she adopted the “golden apricot” henna rinse. Bette wants to stand out. With her fair skin, huge green eyes, and current fashion style, the bright hair color suits the personality to which she aspires.

Bette's biggest passion is the Who. It could have been any band of the time: the Beatles, the Stones, the Animals, or even the Monkees. But the day she saw the Who on “The Smothers Brothers Show” - that was it. At the end of “My Generation”, Pete Townshend demolished his guitar amid a display of pyrotechnics. After John and Keith also smashed their gear, Tommy Smothers came over to thank the group as they went to a commercial. A dazed Townshend grabbed Tommy’s acoustic guitar and smashed that too.

Watching that performance, Bette was overcome by a thrill that she had never experienced before. It was so breaking-the-rules, so beautifully impulsive. Even though that was two years ago, she seldom thinks about anything else.

“Mom!” Bette blurts out. “You simply must introduce me to Mort!”

“Mort from da band?” asked Fae, very puzzled. “Vut...you like him? He's a musician!”

“Mort? Heck no! No, I hear he has extra tickets to Woodstock! The Who will be there!”

“Da Who? Eeez dat dar name? Vy can't dey tink of a name? And vuts Voodstock?”

“Only the most happening, the biggest, the hippest rock ‘n’ roll concert that will ever be, is all!” Bette announced.

Fae looks at Lucy, “Vut is she talking about?”

“And it's right over in Bethel,” said Bette.

“Oh yes, I heard that,” explained Lucy. “The people in food management are sending over food, drinks plates, and cups. Bethel is such a small town for such a big event.”

Bette continues, “It's only about twenty miles away. Oh, that reminds me, I need a car to get there.”

“You don't need a car, Sveetie. When you find a good man, he'll take you wherever you want to go, right Irv?” Irv laughs, as he butters his onion roll. “Besides, you never asked me if you could go to this Voodstock.”

Bette sighs and rolls her eyes. “Mom, I'm twenty-two years old. Can you just ask Mort to come and talk to me today?”

“I can't, Sveetie. I'm very busy today. In an hour, I am auditioning comics in the Stardust Room.”

Bette sighs. “Okay, Mom.”

“Hey, vy don't you come vit me? The band vill be settink up after the auditions.”

“Oh, Mom, that's great! Thank you! I'll meet you there in an hour!”

Bette darts out of the booth. “Bye, Irv! Bye, Lu!”, she squeals, as she saunters out through the double doors of the dining room.

The Stardust Room was considered the most dramatic room of any at Grossinger's. The ceiling is eighty feet high with five chandeliers. It is still sporting the color choices made over a decade ago - bubblegum pink and deep burgundy. This nightclub within the resort is still a venue for music and comedy, but mostly, it's just rented out for banquets. Its seating capacity is 450. Booths surround the stage, which is elevated. At the center of the seating area is a revolving bar known as “the Carousel”.

Bette arrives and makes her way to the booth where her mother and Lucy are sitting. There is a very bland, soft-spoken comic auditioning on the stage.

“Mom, when is Mort gonna get here?” asks Bette anxiously.

“Shhhh! She's got more auditions after Sad Sal over here,” whispers Lucy.

Fae raises her hand dismissively to the stagehand. The comic slouches off the stage.

“So will Mort be here soon?” asks Bette.

“I tink so, yes,” Fae answers. “Next!”

A young, causally-dressed man walks onto the stage. Most comics are dressed in a suit and tie. This man looks like he just got up off the couch at home and decided he wanted to do a little comedy. He clears his throat.

Why do Jewish mothers make great parole officers?

They never let anyone finish a sentence!”

Lucy laughs. He continues.

Why don't Jewish mothers drink?

Alcohol interferes with their suffering!

Fae and Lucy giggle. The comic smiles.

“Do you have anything else?” Fae asks.

Excited, the comic moves to the foot of the stage.

A man called his mother in Florida.

Mom, how are you?

His mom said, “Not too good, son. Not too good. I've been very weak.”

The son said, “Why are you so weak?”

She said, “Because I haven't eaten in thiry-eight days!”

The son said, “That's terrible! Why haven't you eaten in thirty-eight days?”

The mother answered, “Because I didn't want my mouth full if you should decide to call.”

All three women erupt with laughter.

“Young man,” Fae calls to the stage. She looks at her paperwork, “Lenny Lang, is it?”

Lenny smiles through his goatee and puts his hands into his pockets.

“Yup, that's me!”

Fae summons him with a hand gesture.

With a bit of a saunter, he makes his way up the pink steps to her booth.

“Good jokes!” praised Fae. “Da people dat vill be here dis veekend vill like. Can you do a Saturday at 8pm?”

“Sure, that's great! Thank you, Mrs. Feldman.” He smiles as he shakes her offered hand.

Lenny notices Bette. “Is this your sister?” he asks Fae while looking at Bette.

Lucy laughs until Fae gives her a threatening look.

“I'm her daughter Bette.”

Lenny offers his hand, “Nice to meet you.”

Bette studies his face. Very warm...something exciting there.

“Come on, Lucy. I've got to see how the hiring is going at the spa,” directs Fae.

Lucy stands and puts her pocketbook under her arm, “Oh great! I could use a massage.”

“I don't think they massage bones, Lucy,” teases Fae.

Fae and Lucy cackle as they make their way out the side door. Bette stands up and slings her tiny purse over her right shoulder.

Lenny asks, “So how did you like my jokes? I have more...”

“I prefer humor more like Lenny Bruce, God rest his tortured soul,” responds Bette. “You weren't bad. No offense.”

“None taken. I'm a big fan of Lenny’s. I saw him just last year at the Hen on Madison. Have you ever been there?”

“In the city? No.”

Lenny spots the button pinned to her blouse. “I see you are a fan of the Who too!”

Bette’s face lights up and she gives a little jump. “Oh yes, they're going to be at Woodstock! Did you hear? I'm waiting for someone who might have a ticket for me. That would be so wonderful. I’ve been wanting to see them for forever!”

Lenny loves her excitement. “You know, they just came out with a double album called ‘Tommy’...”

“Yes, that's right. I heard.”

“I was planning to go into the city tomorrow to pick up a copy at the record store. Do you want to come with me? We can pick up a couple of Woodstock tickets as well.”

Bette feels like she's going to explode, and tries unsuccessfully to hide it. She looks down at the stage.

“Well, it seems like the guy with the ticket isn't going to show up, so sure...yeah. That sounds like fun. What time?”

“I'll meet you in the main lobby at about 11 o’clock?”

“See you then!” Bette walks toward the entrance, then turns around. “Lenny, I did think you were pretty funny.” She turns and heads out the door.

Lenny Lang is actually Leonardo Giantonio. He's Italian, but prefers Jewish comedy. He started out at fourteen, as a busboy in his uncle’s small hotel in Chicago. Lenny was sometimes able to be the emcee because his uncle didn't like to pay. Lenny began writing jokes at fifteen and performed at small hole-in-the-wall joints or talent shows. Since he decided to be a “Jewish” comic, he took the stage name “Lenny Lang”.

Bette is stretched out on one of the plastic lounge chairs by the side Grossinger's Olympic-size swimming pool. Fae is discussing details with one of the bartenders regarding a party scheduled for later that evening. This particular bartender runs the poolside bar. Grossinger's guests swim over to one corner of the pool where a large mosaic, which curves around the pool's edge, serves as a bar for the Jewish elite. Some of the elites of upstate New York are right where they want to be at this moment. They gather around the pool bar, sitting on underwater stools, talking, and laughing. They are holding elaborately shaped glasses topped with colorful tiny umbrellas. Fae sits on the lounge chair next to Bette.

“Did you get your tickets to dat music event?” Fae asks Bette.

Without dropping her gaze at the lifeguard's shoulders, Bette answers, “No, I'm going into the city to get them.”

“Do you have a ride? How will you get there?”

“Don't worry, Mother. Aren't you late for Mahjong?”

Lucy appears, shading her eyes with her gloved hand.

“Lucy, you're standing in my way,” complains Bette.

“Fae,” Lucy teases, “I know who's taking Bette into the city.” Lucy winks at Bette. “Those stagehands are such gossips!”

“Yeah.” Bette frowns at Lucy. “Especially if you give ‘em a five-spot, Lucy.”

“Okay, Betty, you just be careful. You dun't know him dat vell, ya know,” Fae cautions.

“Mother, please don't call me Betty. I'm a grown woman. Aren't you late for Mahjong?”

“Where's Irv?” asks Lucy.

“Poker. He's playink poker in da Sportsman's Club,” replies Fae.

“He's there every night,” adds Lucy.

Fae smiles. “He says he can't keep up with me,” she laughs. “He's fine. He's happy. At least I know where he is.”

“You're blocking my light, Lucy. Can you please move?”

Lucy sees that Bette is enamored with the lifeguard.

“Blocking your light, eh? You mean the light of your life up there in the lifeguard chair?” Lucy grins and winks. “I can set you up with him if you....”

“MOTHER! Aren't you late for Mahjong?” Bette sits up and scowls at Lucy.

“Okay, okay. She's right, Lucy, we’re already ten minutes late. Let's go. Don't stay too long, Betty.”

“Don't worry, Mom. I'm going to go watch ‘Love American Style’ in a few minutes.”

Lenny shuffles the cards, as he and Irv prepare to play poker. This was Lenny's first time playing with these players at the Sportsman's Club. Irv lights up another cigar, and puts it on a brass Grossinger's ashtray. For a couple of years through the comedy grapevine, Lenny had heard about this special game featuring extremely irregular regulars. Many comedians had tried to get into the game, but unless invited there was no access given. Lenny was excited but, of course, tried not to show it. Many of the best of the old kvetch and vaudevillian comics had played here. “Cream of the crap”, they'd say. At tonight’s game, Lenny and Irv are playing with George Burns, Don Rickles, Jackie Mason, Rodney Dangerfield, and Henny Youngman. To Lenny, this is Mecca.

Lenny Lang: Okay, who's ready to take my money?

George Burns: Come on, Rickles, start the funny. You say funny things.

Don Rickles: Some people say funny things, but I say things funny.

Jackie Mason: Creative comedy is like planting geraniums in a mine field.

Lenny Lang: I'll deal. I was about to make a joke about my sanity, but I lost it. Okay, five-card draw, jacks or better to open. Ante up!

Rodney Dangerfield: I told my psychiatrist that everyone hates me. He said I was being ridiculous – everyone hasn't met me yet.

Jackie Mason: My friends tell me I have an intimacy problem. But they don't know me that well.

Rodney Dangerfield: Count me in.

Irv Feldman: I'm going to get us a pitcher of beer.

Henny Youngman: When I read about the evils of drinking, I gave up reading.

Rodney Dangerfield: I drink too much. The last time I gave a urine sample, there was an olive in it.

George Burns: You should be so lucky. I get up every morning and read the obituary column. If my name isn't there, I eat my breakfast.

Irv returns and places two pitchers of beer on one of the side tables.

Irv Feldman: Yeah, George but you look great!

George Burns: Irv, everything that goes up must come down. But there comes a time when not everything that goes down can come up.

Jackie Mason: I tell you, it's no longer a question of staying healthy. It's a question of finding a sickness you like.

A waitress appears and places a tray of sandwiches on the other side table.

Lenny Lang: Thank you, Miss.

Don Rickles: What's your name sweetie?

Waitress: You can call me Maggie, Mr. Rickles.

Don Rickles: You didn't hear any of these lousy jokes, did you?

Waitress: No, Mr. Rickles.

Don Rickles: Okay, don't worry guys, they probably didn't spit on the sandwiches this time.

Jackie Mason holds up a full glass of beer toward the waitress: Thank you beer-y much!

They all moan, groan, and wince.

Don Rickles: The room service is great here…if you want to pay 500 bucks for a sandwich.

Irv Feldman: Give me two cards. I'm trying for an inside straight, right?

Lenny Lang: I stayed in a posh hotel once where the towels were so thick, I could barely shut my suitcase!

Henny Youngman: Hey Irv, you gotta bring in some funny too, ya know.

Irv stares at his cards for a moment: I just flew in from Vegas...

They all join in: And boy, are my arms tired.

More moans.

Lenny Lang: Did you know that the strength of the airplane turbulence is directly proportional to the temperature of your coffee?

Henny Youngman: I'll see your fin and raise you a sawbuck.

George Burns: All I know is that if God wanted us to fly, he would have given us tickets.

Don Rickles: I think you're bluffing - that's your tell. I call.

Henny Youngman: Read ‘em and weep! You better get out of the shower cuz I gotta flush!

Bette returns to her room and clicks on the television. Her room has an overall chic, off-beat look with the blacks and whites giving way to explosions of pinks, oranges, and purples, all on white shag carpeting. The furniture has an abstract feel, with each piece fighting for the limelight as the focal point of the room. The white sofa is broad with elongated throw pillows, covered with zebra-striped fabric. The two chairs, one table, and a lamp shade were made of bright pink plastic. Bette's bedspread is white satin with a fringed border. Next to her bed is a round orange pedestal tulip side table, on which sits a purple rotary phone and a can of Tab.

There are two framed posters on the wall. One is the Breakfast at Tiffany's movie poster depicting Audrey Hepburn in her iconic slender black gown with a slit down the side, accompanied by long black satin gloves. Between her teeth she holds an exaggerated black cigarette holder. Her famous feminine neckline is adorned with a thick V-shaped diamond necklace. The other poster is Bette's favorite. It's a poster showing the Who pretending to be asleep, wrapped in the Union Jack, at the base of the Carl Schurz monument in New York.

Bette turns on the television to watch “Love American Style”. She likes the show because it features unrelated stories of romance, usually with a comedic spin: love uncomplicated. She hasn't liked a show this much since “Rowan & Martin's Laugh-In.” She climbs onto her bed and opens a box of Screaming Yellow Zonkers. Her phone rings.

“Hello?...

Oh, hi Lucy! Thanks for calling me back. I was wondering if you had anything I could wear tomorrow when I go into the city...

No, nothing sexy. Oh, and don't tell Mom...

I just met him. I'm just going to get some tickets to...

A mini skirt? No. You have a few polka-dot dresses, maybe one of those?...

Okay. I'll see you later.”

Bette hangs up.

What does she think of this guy, Lenny? Why is she planning this trip with him? She panics a bit. Then she remembers his warm smile.

Bette snaps out of it, feeling a bit vulnerable, as she watches the American flag themed heart with exploding fireworks on the screen. Is there love like that out there? Bette has always soothed herself by getting lost in loudness - loud TV themes, loud colors and loud rock ‘n’ roll.

Bette’s “not-a-date” date is a whirlwind of events. Lenny meets Bette in the lobby as planned. They both feel unusually self-conscious.

“Good morning Bette.”

“Hey, Lenny. How are you doing?”

“Great!”

Lenny pivots to schtick mode:

I just had a long visit to the all-you-can-eat buffet and the food was arranged on a table. First were the croissants.

There was a note that said, “Take one, God is watching.” I took one but was perplexed. When I reached the end of the table there was a bunch of fruit in one big heap and a note that said, “Take as much as you want, God is watching the croissants.”

Bette smirks, “You are quite the funny man, Lenny Lang.”

“Good. Enough about me. Let's talk more about me.”

She smiles. “Let’s go, Lenny.”

It had been a long time since she had been downtown. She had almost forgotten about the energy that radiates from the city. The fast-paced subways, traffic, and street vendors give a feeling of anticipation, of possibilities. People meet here. Dreams are born, realized, and die here.

Their first stop is Tower Records. Adding exponentially to Bette’s excitement is the thought of getting a ticket to Woodstock. As Bette and Lenny enter the store, they see the dazzling display of albums covering every inch of available wall space. On every wall are massive enlargements of the latest album covers. Sheer saturation. The music is cranking.

“This is amazing!” cheers Bette. “You can get dizzy with all the choices! There’s so much!”

There are many unfamiliar new records, but she looks forward to learning about all of them. Bette and Lenny peruse the many rows of record bins.

“I have to go ask about the tickets. I'll be right back,” Lenny says, as he rushes to the front counter.

Bette makes her way to the 45s. She leafs her way through to “Paint It Black” by the Stones, “Try A Little Tenderness” by Otis Redding, and “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys. Bette notices a table exhibiting posters and fliers advertising local music venues and community activists’ events. When Bette reaches the upcoming concert information area, she feels the blood rush to her face as she gazes at the main poster. It has such elegance in its simplicity – a dove perched on the neck of a guitar.

WOODSTOCK MUSIC AND ART FAIR

presents

AN AQUARIAN EXPOSITION

WHITE LAKE, N.Y.

Bette is struck by the tag line:

3 DAYS

of PEACE

& MUSIC

“Bette, I have a surprise for you.” Bette sees Lenny flashing a huge grin and holding something with both hands behind his back.

“What is it?” she asks, as she tries to dart behind him to see what he’s holding.

Lenny swerves to obscure her view. With a Cheshire Cat smile, he quizzes her.

“What is something related to music that you would love to have?”

“Well, that's easy. We talked about this. The Woodstock tickets of course! Did you get them?”

From behind his back comes his left hand holding two tickets to Woodstock. Bette grabs one of them, as she jumps up and down, squealing with delight!

“Will you go with me?” asks Lenny.

“Of course! Of course! When is it again?”

“Read the ticket, Bette.”

WOODSTOCK MUSIC and ART FAIR

Friday August 15, 1969

10A.M.

Good For One Admission Only

NO REFUNDS

$7.00

E00946

“Wow! It looks like there may be a thousand people there, according to the serial number on the ticket!”

Bette wraps her arms around Lenny. “Oh, Lenny, this is going to be so much...wait...what else have you got there?”

“If you give me another hug like that, I'll show you!”

Bette stands and folds her arms.

“Okay.” Lenny shows her a newly released album by the Who. Bette’s eyes light up.

“Oh, my goodness! It’s their new album!” She jumps up and down again with excitement. “My Generation - they played the single off it for the first time yesterday on the radio. It's wonderful! I can't wait to see them at Woodstock!” Bette hugs Lenny again harder, causing his sunglasses to fall to the floor.

Lenny picks up the shades and puts them on top of his head.

“Hey, I've got an idea,” suggests Lenny. “Many of the musicians and singers you hear on these albums are working right down Broadway at the Brill Building. There aren’t as many there these days since the Beatles arrived, but they're still making music. Do you want to walk down there and check it out? We can't go into the offices, but we can sit in the lobby.”

“Sure. Why not?”

They stop at a corner stand for hot dogs, with a side of excited conversation.

As they walk down Broadway with hot dogs in hand, Bette notices herself evolving in real time. The city feels splendid and furious, exhilarating and exhausting. They pass a tailor shop and laugh at the naked mannequins and the naked mannequin parts in the window. They walk by a Green Acres episode being shown in the Korvettes department store window. In just a few blocks they arrive at the Brill Building.

They enter the lobby of the Brill Building and seat themselves on one of the mustard-colored vinyl couches. Bette lets out a dreamy sigh. “From everything I've heard and from everything I've read, it has always fascinated me the way these artists worked. Every day they would squeeze into their assigned room with just enough room for a piano, a bench, and maybe a chair for the lyricist if they were lucky.” Bette points to the floors above them for emphasis. “They’d sit there and write, sing, and play and work it all out very quickly. When they heard artists in other rooms composing songs exactly like theirs, they’d have to start over again.”

They talk whimsically about music for a while. At one point, songwriter Doc Pomus rolls through the lobby. Lenny and Bette are aware that they are in the presence of Brill Building royalty.

At Lenny's suggestion, they decide to walk down to Eisenberg’s on Fifth Avenue for lunch. They thread their way through women swinging their miniskirts, men in stiff business suits, and the elderly shuffling by with walkers.

Tucked among the parade of department stores, salons, hotels, and high-end restaurants is Eisenberg’s, a sandwich shop where most plates are less than $3. It's a no-frills space that hasn't changed since it opened in 1929. It's the lunch hour, and Bette and Lenny navigate around the crowd of construction workers, businessmen, locals, and a few tourists, all sharing the long 25-seat counter. Suited types with gold pinkie rings are enjoying pastrami sandwiches on sub rolls, and Bette can hear German tourists discussing the fine points of the tuna melt. They finally find the last two adjoining red leather stools at the far end of the counter.

“They have the best egg cream in the city!” Lenny testifies. “It goes perfectly with their amazing burgers. Wanna give it a try?

“If you throw in some fries, I'm game.”

Immediately, a waitress asks them what they would like.

Lenny gives her the order. “Two burgers...” He looks at Bette. “With onions?”

She approves. “Yes, with onions. And fries of course.”

“And two Cokes,” adds Bette.

The waitress finishes scratching on her pad, tears off the page, and hangs it on the fry cook’s carousel.

“Two cows, make ’em cry!” calls out the waitress, and scurries off to the construction worker who is already squawking out his order.

“What the heck did she say?” asks Bette.

“Oh yeah! I've been coming here for fifteen years. It's just the way it's always been,” states Lenny, as he pivots to expert mode.

“It's not just here. It's part of Americana, if you will.”

“Ameri-whata?”

“Diner slang.”

“Please explain.”

“For breakfast, for example, you would hear ‘Adam and Eve on a raft’, which is poached eggs on toast. ‘Burn the British’ is a toasted English muffin. And ‘sinkers and suds’ would be doughnuts and coffee, believe it or not.”

They both laugh.

“As for lunch or dinner, we're talkin' ‘first lady’ would be your spare ribs...think of Adam and Eve. ‘Burn one, clean up the kitchen’ is a hamburger with everything.

The waitress brings their food and puts it on the table.

“Be careful, honey, the plates are hot.” she warns.

“Got it,” acknowledges Lenny.

The waitress puts her pen in her mouth as she adds plastic squeeze bottles of ketchup and mustard to the table. “You want anything else?”

Bette smiles, “No, we're fine. Thank you very much.”

Lenny recalls to Bette that when he was a kid, he'd go to the Automat at Third and 42nd. He remembers thinking at the time, how futuristic it was to magically get your lunch from a little compartment.

They leave the busy diner onto Fifth Avenue, as herds of New Yorkers make their way down Broadway.

They see a boy steering a rack of dresses across Fifth Avenue. Lenny smiles at Bette and reaches for her hand. She is surprised by its warmth.

“I might be getting a gig at the Cafe Au Go-Go on Bleecker Street. I've done their open mic a couple of times. But in the meantime, I was thinking maybe we can go there and get a couple of drinks.” The Cafe Au Go-Go Comedy Club is a French-themed coffeehouse in the roomy basement of 152 Bleecker Street. It serves as a beacon in the night for many a disenfranchised performer.

Bette and Lenny enter a gently curving staircase leading to well-spaced tables. The light and sound systems are worthy of an Off-Broadway theater.

They are seated at a table for two in close to the stage. Basically, Bette and Lenny are the front row. After ordering their drinks, Lenny explains, “Ordinarily, I'd have us move because it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that it’s very likely that we'll become involved in some of the jokes, which would be extremely awkward. On the other hand, this is about new experiences. What’s the worst that could happen?”

The emcee gets things rolling. He is a large, round man and very bitter - like a six foot aspirin.

Two pirates, Morty and Sol, meet in a bar. Sol has a patch over one eye, a hook for a hand, and a wooden peg leg.

“Ye gads, matey,” says Morty. “What happened to ya?” Sol says, “Me pirate ship was attacked, and a lucky shot lopped off me leg. So now I got me a wooden peg.”

“And yer hand?” asks Morty.

'”When me ship sank, a shark bit me hand off. So now I got me a hook.”

“OK, but what’s with the eye patch?”

“I was standin’ on a dock, and the biggest seagull I ever saw poops right in me eye.”

“But ya don’t go blind from seagull poop.”

“True,” says Sol. “But it was me first day with the hook.”

Silence.

Bette leans over to Lenny and whispers, “He clearly resents being here.”

“You're very perceptive, my dear. This guy has been in the business for twenty years. I think he decided a long time ago to take his anger out on the audience.”

Lenny and Bette are close enough to hear his mind becoming unhinged. They nibble on hard rolls, hoping that if they had their mouths full, he wouldn’t approach them.

The emcee continues his act. He spends a few minutes picking on the drunken stag party members and lurks around several other tables asking questions, and ignoring the answers, begging to be heckled. His eyes scan the room and land on Bette. She responds by bolting out of her chair and making a b-line for the ladies’ room. Saved!

When the coast clears, she returns to her seat.

“Sorry about that,” she tells Lenny, as she wipes the corner of her mouth with her napkin.

“No, I respect your quick thinking!” Lenny assures her.

As Lenny and Bette slide into the back seat of a cab, Lenny thinks aloud about the club. “You know, I hate to say it, but it's stereotype central in there. The old Jewish guy only does jokes about being an old Jewish guy, the middle-aged woman only does jokes about being a middle-aged woman, and of course, the massively overweight guy only does jokes about being massively overweight.”

Bette nods in agreement. “Yeah, well, the language was often stronger than the jokes, but hats off to ‘em. They're very brave, and it was a lot of fun.”

Lenny leans back in his seat. “Yep. A small, sweaty club full of semi-funny vocal locals. God, I love the life of a comic.”

Bette opens the door of her mother’s and Irv's suite. Fae is sitting at a small dining table covered with a white tablecloth. In front of her is a small plate of scrambled eggs.

“Hey, Mom, you wanted to talk about something?”

“Yes, Betty. Sit down.”

Irv gives Bette a smile and a nod as she passes him.

“Hi, Irv. Am I in trouble?” Bette asks in a faux dramatic tone. Irv shrugs.

Bette sits on the other side of the table and examines the collection of English muffins, scones, and raisin toast.

“Of course, you're not in trouble, Betty,” contends Fae, with the hint of a tense smile. “You're a grown voman for Pete’s sake! But...”

“There it is. There's always a but,” sighs Bette as she slathers jam onto her scone.

Fae: “It's about Mr. Lang.”

Bette: “Lenny? What about him?”

Fae: “I know you're young and deez comic sorts are perhaps fun in theory. But just be careful not to take tings to a serious point.”

Irv coughs, as he lights his cigar.

Bette: “We just went on a few dates, Mother.” Bette takes a spoonful of her mother’s eggs.

Fae: “That is all vell and good, but I can tell that you may be fallink for dis man.”

Bette: “First of all, I'm a grown woman. Second of all, I have made no decisions about Lenny. And yes, he's a lot of fun to be with.”

Fae: “He's a comedian, Betty! He vill not be able to support you!”

Irv knocks over his orange juice glass. Bette leaps up, grabs a handful of napkins, and sops up the puddle on the shag carpet.

Irv: “Sorry about that, sweetie. And Fae, Lenny’s a nice guy. She's having fun.”

Fae puts down her coffee cup and sighs.

Bette: "I mean, I know you're trying to help, but you can't be objective about this. You're my mother."

Fae: "Betty, I'm not only your mother. I'm your friend, Betty, your best friend."

Bette: "Well, you can't be my mother and my best friend too."

Fae: "Yes, I can!"

Bette: "No, you can't!"

Fae: "Now don't contradict me, Betty. I'm your mother."

Bette: "Well, I don’t need a mother right now. If you’re my friend, be my friend."

Fae: "All right. I will speak to you as a friend. Listen to your mother, Betty!"

Bette: “I've gotta go. Irv, you have the patience of a saint.” She gets up to leave.

Fae: “You don't know everything about Mr. Lang, Betty.

Bette: “Yeah, Mother, I'm sure he's an axe murderer but like I said, he’s a lot of fun.” She smiles, turns around, and heads for the door.

Fae: “He's not even Jewish, Betty.” Bette stops and turns to face her mother.

Bette: What? Of course, he's Jewish. He does Jewish comedy for Jewish crowds. Besides, Mother, how would you know?”

Fae: “You don't run an establishment like dis vithout a lot of paperwork and a lot of information sources.”

Silence. Irv opens his newspaper with a loud snap.

Bette: “So even if he isn't Jewish, which he is, who cares?”

Fae: “He's Italian. His name is actually Leonardo Giantonio. And you should care if he's lying to you, even by omission.”

There is a knock on the door, followed by Lucy's voice.

“Fae, you and Irv gotta give it a rest!” she laughs. Even rabbits take a break...”

Bette suddenly opens the door, taking Lucy by surprise. Bette holds up one finger to signify “wait one moment”.

Bette: “Goodbye, Mother.”

She walks over to Irv and kisses him on the forehead. “Have a good day, Irv.”

Irv: “Goodbye, sweetie.”

As Bette heads out the door, she grabs Lucy's hand. “Come on, you're taking me shopping.”

As Lucy is being dragged away, she gives Fae a wide-eyed look of confusion.

Bette loves shopping with Lucy, who is like a mom to her, but not as judgmental. She is like a friend but a lot older, so she has the perspective to give guidance or advice. But shopping is always the best. To Bette, it’s never been about shopping per se, but usually to work out an issue. After each of Lucy's three divorces, they went shopping. After her first divorce, Lucy took three-year-old Bette shopping for the first time. Bette again went shopping with Lucy right after she got her braces just before prom. Sometimes, Lucy would just sense when the teenage Bette would feel a bit lonely and neglected by her mother, who was very busy with the resort.

Lucy really has shopping down to an art. They usually go to Bamberger's. Lucy asks for exactly what she wants, even if it seems ridiculous. She’s the type of person who would walk into a sandwich shop and order Chinese food. Lucy hands the salesperson a green shirt with a red collar and asks, “Honey, does this top come in purple, no collar, and also with sequins?” Inwardly, Bette groans. It isn’t even the same shirt! And yet, the saleswoman returns with the exact top Lucy wants.

Upon arriving in the Young Fashion aisle, Lucy grabs clothes from racks with the instructions, “Try it on, sweetie, just for me.” A skeptical Bette trudges obediently to the dressing room with the selected bedazzled blazer in hand, to prove how very wrong she is, how little Lucy knows her, and how laughable her selection is. But lo and behold, Bette looks in the mirror, and suddenly that blazer is the exact thing missing from her life, releasing her inner diva.

They breathe in the clean, new-clothes smell traveling through the air-conditioned store.

It’s the best therapy that money can buy. But the real nitty-gritty takes place in the inner sanctum of the dressing room. Because this is where Lucy pays Bette the greatest attention, it's the most satisfying part of the excursion. Obedient as a well-trained pet, Bette raises her arms and slips each garment over her head. Lucy scrutinizes Bette's image, multiplied in the three-way mirror. Inevitably, the moment comes when their reflected gazes meet. And that wordless look lets Bette know if the outfit passes muster.

“What do you think?” Lucy asks.

“Mom thinks Lenny is a loser.”

“How serious are the two of you?”

“We're just friends, but I think there could be a little romance. But Mom doesn't believe I can make my own decisions. She thinks I'm totally incapable of having good judgment.”

“All mothers are that way, hon. I think you have a pretty good head on your shoulders.”

“I hate it.”

“What?”

“I hate this dress.”

“Well, sweetie, I'm the last one to give advice, but if you're having fun, enjoy it! You're young!”

Bette puts her hand on Lucy's shoulder. “I'm going to Lenny’s gig tomorrow night. I told him I couldn't make it, but I want to surprise him. So I want to get something drop-dead gorgeous.”

“Something to show your figure?”

“No. I want something that shows an even better figure than mine...and a sequin purse to match!” They giggle like a couple of fourteen-year-old girls. Now that the mission has been declared, they proceed to the hunt.

It's a full moon as Bette rounds Bleecker Street. She sees a man dressed in a turkey suit smoking a cigarette, leaning against the brick wall near the club’s entrance.

Comedy. What are ya gonna do, she thinks.

Bette enters and deliberately stays in the shadows at the rear of the club. This is a very busy night for the Cafe Au Go-Go. Bette is excited that so many people will be able to experience Lenny's standup. He has just started his set.

Some friends of an old guy hire a lady of the evening for his ninetieth birthday. She arrives at his door, throws open her coat, and shouts, “I'm here to give you super sex!” True story, folks. The old man thinks a second and says, “I’ll take the soup."

Lenny was totally bombing.

What’s the difference between your girlfriend and a walrus? One is hairy and smells like fish and the other is a walrus.

Silence.

You’re welcome…

Bette feels flushed, hurt and angry. After his five minutes, Lenny sits at one of the front tables, nodding his thanks to those still applauding. Bette moves deeper into the shadows at the back of the club. A pair of young blondes waltz in, swishing their way to Lenny's table. He stands and offers them the two chairs at his table. The taller blonde in a sequined gown offers Lenny the back of her hand. He accepts her fingertips and gives her hand a small kiss.

As the women look at the menu, the other blonde says, “Mussels sound good, but I don't want too many.”

Lenny turns to them, “You can never have too many mussels.” With that, he flexes his arm and kisses his own biceps. The woman giggles, reaches out, and touches his biceps. She leans into Lenny and kisses him deeply on the mouth. When she releases him, he pulls her back for a longer, more passionate kiss.

Alarm bells go off in Bette's brain. She makes a break for the door, dropping her sequined evening bag. Bette cries in panic as she bobs and weaves through the oncoming crowd, as she finally spills out onto Bleecker Street. She runs down the street, angry and lost.

As she runs across the street, she is nearly hit by a cab. When the driver stops in the middle of traffic, she jumps into the back seat, and tries to remember to breathe.

Bette sits up in bed and rocks back and forth, watching but not really watching The Dick Cavett Show. She is eating from a giant bag of Cheetos. How can I be so stupid?

Although she feels hurt by Lenny, she is furious at herself. Bette is interrupted by a gentle knock on her bedroom door.

“Mother, please go away. I don't want to talk anymore!”

Silence.

Bette gets up and changes the channel. She settles on Merv Griffin, who is interviewing Leslie Uggams.

Another gentle knock on the door.

Angry now, Bette flings the door open. “Mother, I...”

It's Irv. He is standing in the doorway as if he's waiting for a cab.

“May I come in?”

Bette is embarrassed. “I'm sorry, Irv, I really am. I thought you were Mom.”

“No. Her breasts are bigger than mine.”

Bette cracks a sideways smile. “No, it's just that Mom makes me so mad! She doesn't understand what women in my generation have on our minds. Besides, she makes decisions and takes charge of this place every single day. But she doesn't trust me to make my own decisions.”

"You don't have to attend every argument you're invited to."

Bette and Irv sit in the two aqua canvas chairs.

“Listen, I've got something for you.” Irv opens one side of his tweed jacket and removes a small sequined evening bag.

“I've been looking for that everywhere!” Bette grabs the bag from Irv. “Thank you so much, Irv! Where did you find it?”

“Do you remember the cab you took to the comedy club last night? Well, he also took you home. You're gonna smack me, but I asked him to keep an eye on you. There are a lot of wolves out there! I know, I used to be one of them.”

Bette puts her face in her hands and sobs.

Irv doesn’t quite know what to do.

Bette continues sobbing.

“Uh, hey...you want I should get you a glass of water?”

Bette lifts her wet, red face. “No, Irv. Thank you for being so sweet. You've been the dad I never had. Oh my God! You didn't tell Mom what happen last night, did you?”

“I may be stupid, but I'm not crazy! No. She doesn't know a thing.”

A quiet moment passes.

Irv takes the unlit cigar from his mouth and says, “Listen, kiddo, things happen. The way I look at it, is that Lenny has been evaluated. You guys were great, and I liked him, but now upon further evaluation, you can decide to move on.”

Bette looks Irv directly in the eye. She doesn’t recognize his tone. It’s … comforting.

“I had a girlfriend shortly before I met your mother,” he continues. “I liked her a lot, but after we broke up, we never talked to each other again. Dragging it out would have been cruel. I heard a few years ago that her husband passed away from cancer. It was very sad, but I never reached out or said anything. She has other people in her life. I evaluated her. She evaluated me. We moved on. Lenny has been evaluated. He’ll be okay without you. You’ll be okay.”

Bette sits silently, afraid to move - afraid she might scare this moment away. Irv has quietly and consistently been in Bette’s life since she was six years old. For some reason, after years of small talk, the fact that Irv had an ex-girlfriend before her mother shocks her. Other than Irv's fondness for the word “evaluate”, this is a side of him she had never seen, but every part of it feels tailored to her. To Bette, the idea of moving on without looking back, even if it hurts, now feels possible. This is something she can actually use.

After Irv’s enlightening visit, Bette decides to return to Grossinger's. She chooses an outside table because it’s a beautiful summer day in the Catskills. She treats herself to an iced coffee. She has so much to think about. For the first time in a long time, she feels that not only is she thinking clearly but that her new perspective opens the door to many options that can apply to almost any situation. A calmness settles over her.

“Hello, sweet one!” squeals Lucy. “Well?”

“Well, what?” teases Bette. Lucy sits down across from Bette.

“Come on, you know what. SPILL, little girl!” Lucy leans in closely.

Bette makes a mental note that Irv can indeed keep a secret.

Bette brings Lucy up to date on all the ups, downs, and glass shattering crashes of the last twenty-four hours. When Bette finishes, Lucy is sympathetic.

“Cheer up, hon, more men will come along. You're so sweet, young, and smart, you're going to have to beat them off with a crowbar!”

“You mean a stick, right?”

“Nope. I tried a stick, and it didn't work. So, I had to get myself a crowbar!” They laugh, giggle, and snort.

“Excuse me, Bette?” It's Lenny. He stands holding a large bouquet of multi-colored tulips.

Aware of the situation, Lucy excuses herself. “Oh my, look at the time! I'm late for my massage or facial or pedicure....” Lucy gives Lenny the once-over, and then whispers into Bette’s ear, “You know how to get in touch with me, sweetie...in case you need to borrow my crowbar.” Lucy leaves.

“May I sit down?” Lenny asks nervously.

“It’s a free country.” Bette calls the waiter over. “Please, Neville, can you do something with these…these flowers?”

“Yes. Shall I put them in water for you, Miss Feldman?”

Bette looks directly at Lenny and smiles. “I simply don't care, Neville. Whatever you like.”

Neville awkwardly takes the tulips inside the cafe.

“My friends in the club told me you were there last night. I thought you said you couldn't make it. I would have loved to have seen you, but you left early.”

“Then why the flowers?”

“Well, from what I hear, you may have misunderstood what you might have seen.”

“I don't think so, Lenny.”

“Did you know that tulips are the official flowers of forgiveness?”

“So you forgive me?”

“No, no. I am asking for forgiveness from you, Bette.”

“I thought you said it was all a misunderstanding.”

Lenny puts his hand on hers. “Can’t we just start over? I really like you.”

Bette smiles and moves her hand away and onto her lap. “Lenny, I'm not even mad at you. You're not a bad guy. I just want to move on.”

“Maybe these will change your mind.” He tosses two Woodstock tickets on the table, as he gives Bette a wink.

Bette slides them back in his direction. “No, thanks.”

“What?! Come on, I happen to know that you're dying to go to Woodstock! The Who will be there. You can't miss that!”

Bette sits back in her chair and smirks, “Oh, Lenny, you're right.”

“I knew it.” He slides them back in her direction.

“You're very right. I can't miss Woodstock! That's why I'm going with someone else.” Her smirk becomes a full-on grin. She slides the tickets back toward him.

“Who? Who's taking you?”

“You don't get to ask me that...well you can, but you won't get an answer. I've got to run. Lose my number, Lenny. Don't worry, sweetheart, there are plenty of walruses in the sea.”

With that, Bette grabs her purse and saunters down the walkway with the full knowledge that Lenny is looking at the derriere he will sorely miss.

It's August 16, 1969. Bette is sitting on the ground enjoying the music, taking swigs from wine bottles that are being passed around. Bette’s eyes pan the surreal mass of young souls in harmony with one another. This is Woodstock. The crowd continues to swell. More and more long-haired young people are arriving. There are guys in tie-dyed shirts and bell-bottoms and girls in jeans and sheer muslin dresses, all of them with long hair parted down the middle and under thirty. That is, until Irv appears with his gray duffel bag.

“I got the sandwiches!”

“Oh, Irv, I'll never forget this day as long as I live.”

Today, Bette knows everything will be all right no matter what she does, who she does it with, or where she goes to do it. She finds meaning in this day.

“Now tell me, who is this band?” asks Irv.

Bette smiles and puts her arm around him. “It sure is, Irv.”

I'm not trying to 'cause a big s-s-sensation (talkin' 'bout my generation)

I'm just talkin' 'bout my g-g-g-generation (talkin' 'bout my generation)

My generation

This is my generation, baby

#fiction #short story #hippies #generations #Woodstock #catskills #comedy #love

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