Here's to You, Mrs. Finkelstein

Another Finkelstein shiva.

"Like the family hasn't suffered enough."

"So much tzoris."

"It was the drugs that killed him...You hear that?! Never take drugs."

Like any good tragedy, everyone had something to say. Everyone, except for a buzzard like Harrison LeVine, Shiva Crasher and Liar Liar Extraordinaire. He was simply morbidly curious. Shivas made him tingle with life.

Brenda Finkelstein, the shapely mother of the deceased, wiped her eyes with a hanky while Harrison Levine held her hand. "So where did you say you knew Ronnie from?"

"From camp, we were in the same bunk." Well almost. That was the summer that Harrison, formerly known as just Harold, spread the rumor that Finkie's older sister, Pammy blew him behind the garbage bins at Tupper Elementary School. When Harold found out that Finkie would be in his bunk, he immediately withdrew from camp and acquired asthma for the summer instead.

"Oh, how Ronnie loved his camp friends, he talked about them all the time."

"That was Ronnie."

"Sorry, I can't remember your name... All this grief."

"I understand, Harrison. Harrison Le-Vine with a capital V.

"Harry. Like Ronnie's best friend, Harry Starr, but I can't seem to place a Harry Levine..."

"That's Harri-son LeVine with a capital V. Rhymes with wine, Le-Vine."

“Yesss...”

Brenda Finkelstein arched her penciled eyebrows in surprise. "And wouldn't you know, our friend Harry Starr just walked in the door."

Exposed? Not for a rabbit like LeVine. He sniffed danger, licked his chapped lips and studied the paper cup of warm ginger ale in his hand. A sudden spill, the perfect diversion to dupe the hounds.

"Oops," he said after accidentally spilling the flat soda on Brenda Finkelstein's dress. "L-let me clean this up. I'm so sorry..."

"-It's okay, Harris. It won't show up on this black dress anyways."

LeVine scratched the Peru-shaped patch of eczema beside his nose. A few flakes fluttered down into his cup of remaining flat ginger ale.

"No, no, no. I insist on cleaning up. A-after all these years, I don't want to shake Harry's hand with this sticky paw.

No more time for idle chit chat. LeVine shifted gears into mad dash mode. He faked left to the kitchen ducking behind Spivak, the dewy-eyed three hundred and fifty pound florist...then pirouetted around Pincus, the jeweler with the ironic goatee...then ducked down, fake-tying what was in fact a Brooks Brothers loafer...and finally stumbled safely into the
vestibule and out the door past Epstein, the lonely smoker on the porch contemplating a freshly popped pimple.

Harrison LeVine was gone in a flash.

"Harry!" Brenda Finkelstein wrapped her arms around Harry and squeezed him for dear life, their pains melding. And despite the emotions of it all, Harry couldn't help noting...discovering...feeling...enjoying, nay reveling in Brenda Finkelstein's wondrous breasts firmly pressed against him. Not a bad-looking woman, actually. Not at all. "Harry. What happened? What happened?"

He hoped that she wasn't referring to his erection. He was contorting his lower back to the full extent to avoid brushing her belly with it. Deep breath, regain composure, self-loathing break.

But it wouldn't go away.

"Excuse me," said Spivak while brusquely nudging Harry forward into the clutching arms of Brenda Finkelstein. Oh me, oh my.

"Oh Harry," he thought he heard her sigh.

She pressed her belly against him. "Oh Harry," she did sigh.

Well, she was technically single, a widow but free game and Finkie, God rest his soul, was no longer around, so...Harry dug his magic pointer deep into her belly. Bad taste? Perhaps. But nonetheless, a shiva to remember.