Subterrania
Harry settled into the bean bag chair in his old room in the basement. It felt good to be subterranean again. Back in his burrow, safe in a hole.
Sweet holes. Benchmarks of life. Like the panties stuffed in his pocket. He pulled the silky souvenir from his pocket, draped it over his face and inhaled deeply. The sweet musky scent of Mrs. Finkelstein.
A knock on the door. Unusual in Harry's old house where barging in was the accepted mode of entry. He quickly stuffed Mrs. Finkelstein"s panties into his sweat pants. The soft silk good against his throbbing member in crime. Mental note: Explore further uses of panties, start a collection. Battle panties - the next best thing to being there, a substitute for skin.
"Come in," Harry said while concentrating hard on wilting his annoying erection. Such an unruly body part. Why couldn't it be more like hands and feet? those appendages listen. But no, the dick had a mind of it's own, something that Harry grudgingly respected. The maverick penis, and like Harry, brimming with wanderlust.
"Don't bother getting up, Harry. I don't need to see you with a hard on," Alvy barked. "The old basement room, the jerk-off lair. And you left this for California?"
" ? " Alvy still had that hold over Harry, who sat there his mouth agape.
"Still, it's good to see you, you big putz. Give me a hug, just keep your hard on away from me, fucking perv. You think I don't know you were fucking Pauline? You sneaky fucker you." He hugged Harry hard. Harry hated hugging men, especially vulgarians like Alvy.
"You make me sick as ever, Alvy. And yet, strangely I'm still drawn to you. What is it about your asshole magnetism that I can't resist?" That was true, everyone loves a rogue.
"Well I'm not here just to see your shaineh punim, Harry. Who's got time to waste. I'm here on business, bubeleh."
"Forget it, Alvy. Don't even start. No interest here in selling belts. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-that-hold-your-pants."
"What the fuck are you talking about? The belt business is dead. China killed that, those fucking mumzers working for three cents a week. Forget that, forget the fashion biz, forget it all. Movie producing is where it's at now. With the Canadian dollar so low, all the stupid yanks are shooting up heretofore save a few bucks. I made a few connections, already produced couple of schlocky films, and I'm working on a new one now. The story of some cocky young putz who's boning his boss' wife. Couldn't help but thinking of you, Harry. Like I always said, you're a good looking kid. And certainly more of an actor than a belt salesman, you're so full of shit, always were, still are. And of course, I get a big fat tax credit forputting some home grown talent I. The lead. What do you say, putz?"
Alvy pulled out a knish from the brown paper lunch bag he held.
"Knish?" he said with his mouth full.
Harry recoiled in disgust. "No thanks...Give me a minute to think about it, will ya?"
"I'll pay you scale and throw in a few points on the back end? What else do you need to know?"
Nothing. It was about to start all over again.
Posted by David Hamburg at 7:48 AM
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Gorgeous in the Basement
It was apropos that Harry Starr blew his first big break in the basement. He was after all, a subterranean kind of guy.
Unlike Stevie Dash who clip-clopped down the basement stairs in his spiffy new clogs. He raised an eyebrow and blew off a deliberately misplaced shock of dippity-dooed blond hair that graced his noble brow.
"I'm gorgeous," Stevie's sculpted look advertised. Nature's undesirable mutations like his old hooked beak of a nose, now carved and whittled away into a glorious equine profile punctuated with petulantly flared nostrils snorting out imaginary clouds of steam like a true warrior. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, Stevie Dash was oh so gorgeous.
But not as gorgeous as cellar-dweller Harry Starr. Tall dark and handsome Harry Starr. Cary Grant-gorgeous au naturel.
Two prized bucks alone together in one room. An ode to beauty, a testament to the work of The Almighty. Regrettably, no one was watching.
"Harry, Harry, Harry! How long has it been?"
Long enough to see that you got a new beak.
Harry hated Stevie Dash - not really, but there was always a bit of hate, as far back as the good old days, even when they were best friends. Stevie Dash, always pushing, pushing, pushing.
"I dunno, Stevie, six - seven years?"
Until you became too cool and important to hang out with me.
"That long, man? I've been so busy, it's like I lost track of time."
Yes, the world that they were growing into was crass and unfair, teaming with injustice, abound in philistine tastes. How else could one explain Stevie Dash riding the crest of success as an emerging film-maker when luxuriant hair and unbridled chutzpah were his key assets, while Harry Starr was mired in the faux wood-paneled Baba O'riley basement wasteland?
Unlike Stevie Dash who clip-clopped down the basement stairs in his spiffy new clogs. He raised an eyebrow and blew off a deliberately misplaced shock of dippity-dooed blond hair that graced his noble brow.
"I'm gorgeous," Stevie's sculpted look advertised. Nature's undesirable mutations like his old hooked beak of a nose, now carved and whittled away into a glorious equine profile punctuated with petulantly flared nostrils snorting out imaginary clouds of steam like a true warrior. Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous, Stevie Dash was oh so gorgeous.
But not as gorgeous as cellar-dweller Harry Starr. Tall dark and handsome Harry Starr. Cary Grant-gorgeous au naturel.
Two prized bucks alone together in one room. An ode to beauty, a testament to the work of The Almighty. Regrettably, no one was watching.
"Harry, Harry, Harry! How long has it been?"
Long enough to see that you got a new beak.
Harry hated Stevie Dash - not really, but there was always a bit of hate, as far back as the good old days, even when they were best friends. Stevie Dash, always pushing, pushing, pushing.
"I dunno, Stevie, six - seven years?"
Until you became too cool and important to hang out with me.
"That long, man? I've been so busy, it's like I lost track of time."
Yes, the world that they were growing into was crass and unfair, teaming with injustice, abound in philistine tastes. How else could one explain Stevie Dash riding the crest of success as an emerging film-maker when luxuriant hair and unbridled chutzpah were his key assets, while Harry Starr was mired in the faux wood-paneled Baba O'riley basement wasteland?
Subterrania
Harry settled into the bean bag chair in his old room in the basement. It felt good to be subterranean again. Back in his burrow, safe in a hole.
Sweet holes. Benchmarks of life. Like the panties stuffed in his pocket. He pulled the silky souvenir from his pocket, draped it over his face and inhaled deeply. The sweet musky scent of Mrs. Finkelstein.
A knock on the door. Unusual in Harry's old house where barging in was the accepted mode of entry. He quickly stuffed Mrs. Finkelstein"s panties into his sweat pants. The soft silk good against his throbbing member in crime. Mental note: Explore further uses of panties, start a collection. Battle panties - the next best thing to being there, a substitute for skin.
"Come in," Harry said while concentrating hard on wilting his annoying erection. Such an unruly body part. Why couldn't it be more like hands and feet? those appendages listen. But no, the dick had a mind of it's own, something that Harry grudgingly respected. The maverick penis, and like Harry, brimming with wanderlust.
"Don't bother getting up, Harry. I don't need to see you with a hard on," Alvy barked. "The old basement room, the jerk-off lair. And you left this for California?"
" ? " Alvy still had that hold over Harry, who sat there his mouth agape.
"Still, it's good to see you, you big putz. Give me a hug, just keep your hard on away from me, fucking perv. You think I don't know you were fucking Pauline? You sneaky fucker you." He hugged Harry hard. Harry hated hugging men, especially vulgarians like Alvy.
"You make me sick as ever, Alvy. And yet, strangely I'm still drawn to you. What is it about your asshole magnetism that I can't resist?" That was true, everyone loves a rogue.
"Well I'm not here just to see your shaineh punim, Harry. Who's got time to waste. I'm here on business, bubeleh."
"Forget it, Alvy. Don't even start. No interest here in selling belts. Stupid-fucken-strips-of-leather-that-hold-your-pants."
"What the fuck are you talking about? The belt business is dead. China killed that, those fucking mumzers working for three cents a week. Forget that, forget the fashion biz, forget it all. Movie producing is where it's at now. With the Canadian dollar so low, all the stupid yanks are shooting up heretofore save a few bucks. I made a few connections, already produced couple of schlocky films, and I'm working on a new one now. The story of some cocky young putz who's boning his boss' wife. Couldn't help but thinking of you, Harry. Like I always said, you're a good looking kid. And certainly more of an actor than a belt salesman, you're so full of shit, always were, still are. And of course, I get a big fat tax credit forputting some home grown talent I. The lead. What do you say, putz?"
Alvy pulled out a knish from the brown paper lunch bag he held.
"Knish?" he said with his mouth full.
Harry recoiled in disgust. "No thanks...Give me a minute to think about it, will ya?"
"I'll pay you scale and throw in a few points on the back end? What else do you need to know?"
Nothing. It was about to start all over again.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Harry's Medley
Everyone's gone to their houses
Now we're alone at last.
A break from the awful. Distasteful but tasty. Been so long, been so rough since Big Finkie checked into prison, and checked out of life soon thereafter. Then Ronnie goes skitz and checks out like his dad. Too much, too soon.
Only feeling left is a tingle in the dark damp cave. Ripe for spelunking.
Everyone's gone to their houses
Now we're alone at last.
"I'll help you clean up, Mrs. Finkelstein." A good time to try something new like cleaning up.
"Thanks, Harry. I can use the help." Feeling guilty, guilty, guilty like the Barbra song. But lust strikes like lightning and at the most inopportune times.
Awkward looks exchanged. Vibes, lots of vibes.
"Excuse me, where do I put this? Where do I put that?"
"Hee hee hee. Right here," she says as she brushes up against him.
No words, no words. Harry plays Brando in Last Tango. All that's missing is Paris.
Nothing left to say. Taking this to our graves. Don't tell anyone. We'll deal with Ronnie when the time comes. In the hereafter.
Everyone's gone to their houses
Now we're alone at last.
It's a dirty secret that we vow not to share
Most of all we've got to hide it from the kids.
Here's to you, Mrs. Finkelstein.
"Life just happens," she says. "That's it."
"There's no narrative," he says. "Until it's over, that is."
"And then who cares?"
"Is this immoral?" he says while lighting up a cigarette.
"Smoking is bad for you."
"But it's not a question of morality."
"Do I look like a philosophy major?"
"Not with your clothes off."
Moment of deep reflection. "Think it's time to go, Harry."
"Let me finish my smoke first."
"Finish it outside."
Here's to you Mrs. Finkelstein
Heaven has a place for those who pray.
Hey, hey, hey.
Now we're alone at last.
A break from the awful. Distasteful but tasty. Been so long, been so rough since Big Finkie checked into prison, and checked out of life soon thereafter. Then Ronnie goes skitz and checks out like his dad. Too much, too soon.
Only feeling left is a tingle in the dark damp cave. Ripe for spelunking.
Everyone's gone to their houses
Now we're alone at last.
"I'll help you clean up, Mrs. Finkelstein." A good time to try something new like cleaning up.
"Thanks, Harry. I can use the help." Feeling guilty, guilty, guilty like the Barbra song. But lust strikes like lightning and at the most inopportune times.
Awkward looks exchanged. Vibes, lots of vibes.
"Excuse me, where do I put this? Where do I put that?"
"Hee hee hee. Right here," she says as she brushes up against him.
No words, no words. Harry plays Brando in Last Tango. All that's missing is Paris.
Nothing left to say. Taking this to our graves. Don't tell anyone. We'll deal with Ronnie when the time comes. In the hereafter.
Everyone's gone to their houses
Now we're alone at last.
It's a dirty secret that we vow not to share
Most of all we've got to hide it from the kids.
Here's to you, Mrs. Finkelstein.
"Life just happens," she says. "That's it."
"There's no narrative," he says. "Until it's over, that is."
"And then who cares?"
"Is this immoral?" he says while lighting up a cigarette.
"Smoking is bad for you."
"But it's not a question of morality."
"Do I look like a philosophy major?"
"Not with your clothes off."
Moment of deep reflection. "Think it's time to go, Harry."
"Let me finish my smoke first."
"Finish it outside."
Here's to you Mrs. Finkelstein
Heaven has a place for those who pray.
Hey, hey, hey.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Eulogy for a Friend
"O Finkie, where art thou? We were just getting started and now you're gone. Good friends don't come easy.
What was so special about our friendship? Did we fight together in battle? Did Ronnie save my life? Did we conquer world together? None of the above. But we shared moments. Little moments maybe, trite, crazy and always childish, even long after we reached adulthood... Actually adulthood barely happened. That's because old friends never have to grow up. That's the beauty of it. Old friends can't impressive each other. There's no dirty secrets. It's all out there and some it stinks. But like Ronnie liked to say, "If it doesn't stink, it's not real." Ronnie liked to say. And together we stunk a lot.
It's not only that I'll always remember our crazy little moments, like when Ronnie, who was petrified of dogs, smashed his basement window with a shovel because a blind twelve year old Bassett hound was chasing him around the house, or the times we'd go clubbing posing as Hollywood movie producers...there were lots of moments...the moments we relive over, over and over again, the moments that make us laugh at the end of a rough day, the moments that benchmark our lives, the moments that are real.
But what is real can also be harsh , unforgiving, random and often, unfair. And that's what happened to Finkie when he took I'll, and ultimately when he left us. A life cut short before Act two really got going, a life without act three. Thats not supposed to be how the story is supposed to go. We all want a happy ending.
So how can I bid farewell to Ronnie Finkelstein, Finkie, with but a few clumsy words strewn together, fragments of snapshots frozen in time, for mere words cannot do justice to a life lived, one that was real and true. All ic says that Ronnie Finkelstein was aboy, was a man, who had a friend that will never forget him, that will never let his memory die. And that is enough."
What was so special about our friendship? Did we fight together in battle? Did Ronnie save my life? Did we conquer world together? None of the above. But we shared moments. Little moments maybe, trite, crazy and always childish, even long after we reached adulthood... Actually adulthood barely happened. That's because old friends never have to grow up. That's the beauty of it. Old friends can't impressive each other. There's no dirty secrets. It's all out there and some it stinks. But like Ronnie liked to say, "If it doesn't stink, it's not real." Ronnie liked to say. And together we stunk a lot.
It's not only that I'll always remember our crazy little moments, like when Ronnie, who was petrified of dogs, smashed his basement window with a shovel because a blind twelve year old Bassett hound was chasing him around the house, or the times we'd go clubbing posing as Hollywood movie producers...there were lots of moments...the moments we relive over, over and over again, the moments that make us laugh at the end of a rough day, the moments that benchmark our lives, the moments that are real.
But what is real can also be harsh , unforgiving, random and often, unfair. And that's what happened to Finkie when he took I'll, and ultimately when he left us. A life cut short before Act two really got going, a life without act three. Thats not supposed to be how the story is supposed to go. We all want a happy ending.
So how can I bid farewell to Ronnie Finkelstein, Finkie, with but a few clumsy words strewn together, fragments of snapshots frozen in time, for mere words cannot do justice to a life lived, one that was real and true. All ic says that Ronnie Finkelstein was aboy, was a man, who had a friend that will never forget him, that will never let his memory die. And that is enough."
Saturday, June 25, 2011
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.
"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.
Friday, June 24, 2011
Finkie Chokes
"It's better up here, Harry. It really is."
"Finkie?" Was it him or the peyote talking?
"Oh, now you're pretending you don't know me just 'cause I'm dead."
"You're dead?"
"Beats life in the schizo lane. Man, was I whacked out of my fucking tree...Gonna get it right the next time."
"Finkie?"
Harry's cell phone rang. His heart slammed against his chest.
It was him.
"Harry, it's Morrie..."
Finkie's big brother.
Morrie didn't have to break the news, Finkie beat him to the punch.
"How?"
Did he off himself? Belly flop off a ledge? Down a bottle of Flinstone vitamins? Wrist alterations?
"He choked on a chicken bone..."
" ?"
"He choked on a chicken bone?"
"Yeah. Just between us, Harry...while he was jerking off."
Sad and ridiculous, but a true Finkie ending. O how Finkie loved his eat 'n jerk lunches. Such a lust for life!
"The funeral is Wednesday, Harry...Harry. Harry are you there?"
Harry dropped the phone and crumpled to the ground. Gomez rushed to his side.
"What's wrong, Harry?"
"Finkie's dead. This trip is over."
"I'll say..."
I need you to take me to the airport. Can you drive me there now?"
"Finkie?" Was it him or the peyote talking?
"Oh, now you're pretending you don't know me just 'cause I'm dead."
"You're dead?"
"Beats life in the schizo lane. Man, was I whacked out of my fucking tree...Gonna get it right the next time."
"Finkie?"
Harry's cell phone rang. His heart slammed against his chest.
It was him.
"Harry, it's Morrie..."
Finkie's big brother.
Morrie didn't have to break the news, Finkie beat him to the punch.
"How?"
Did he off himself? Belly flop off a ledge? Down a bottle of Flinstone vitamins? Wrist alterations?
"He choked on a chicken bone..."
" ?"
"He choked on a chicken bone?"
"Yeah. Just between us, Harry...while he was jerking off."
Sad and ridiculous, but a true Finkie ending. O how Finkie loved his eat 'n jerk lunches. Such a lust for life!
"The funeral is Wednesday, Harry...Harry. Harry are you there?"
Harry dropped the phone and crumpled to the ground. Gomez rushed to his side.
"What's wrong, Harry?"
"Finkie's dead. This trip is over."
"I'll say..."
I need you to take me to the airport. Can you drive me there now?"
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