Made out of Money

 

Rory Edwards sat patiently on the couch with the floral design in his building’s lobby while a postal worker sorted mail into each of the delivery slots. He wondered who had given the worker a key to open the copper postal dividers, but his thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the worker asked Rory if he needed his mail right away.

            “Na, take your time. I got all day. Besides, this couch is more comfortable than the monstrosity I have in my apartment,” Rory said, leaning back.

            “Alright, chief,” the man grinned and replied, tossing envelopes into the slots like a seasoned blackjack dealer in Vegas.

            Five minutes later, Rory heard the large metal door of the mail slots echo as it closed. He grunted as he stood and slowly approached the cozy lobby mailroom.

            “Magazines, magazines, junk, bills, bills, and yet more bills,” Rory remarked flatly, shutting the door of his mailslot.

            He rode the elevator with the neighbor who lived in the apartment above him.

            “Bills, bills, and more bills. I just don’t get it,” Rory said, raising the stack of mail toward his neighbor for emphasis. "What do they think, that I’m made of money or something?"

            “Made of money? Wouldn’t that be crazy if we were actually made of money?” his neighbor joked.

            After the elevator reached his floor, Rory opened his apartment door, tossed the stack of mail onto the empty computer box he used as a table, and returned to the monstrosity he called a couch. Almost as soon as he propped his legs on the coffee table in front of him, his eyes closed and discovered a world where everyone took idioms a little too seriously.

            In the blink of an eye Rory found himself standing in front of a weeks-worth of groceries at Yum-Yum Fruits & Vegetables’ checkout counter. The young woman bagged his food and politely smiled. “That will be three nail clippings and two locks of your hair.”

            “Huh?” Rory said, puzzled. “Wha?”

            “Will that be cash or donor card?” she said still smiling.

            Behind him there was a young boy and his mother. The boy had a fistful of hard candy and bubble gum that his mother didn’t know about. The tot tugged at his mother’s dress and showed her the stash of candy in his tiny hand. “Mom. . .can I, can I.  . .pleease?” he pleaded.

            The mother frowned and counted the pieces of candy. “Well, alright, mister. But this one time and it’s coming out of your allowance.”

            “Yeah!” the child said, jumping in place.

            The mother stuck her finger into her nose and pulled out the cost of three Red Hots and two squares of bubblegum.

            Rory waved at the little boy after he paid.

 

            On his way home, Rory passed the same stores he saw a thousand times before only the signs were unnerving to him. The dollar store was now called “The EarWax Store,” and in Drugs R Us the window display advertised a top-of-the-line electric wheelchair for the discounted price of “An Arm & A Leg.”

            He wasn’t surprised at all when he saw the “All the edibles you can eat” banner at Skyhigh Dispensary for the discounted price of “Your Left Nut.” He then decided to order a calzone at the corner pizza place. The bill was a mere half tablespoon of phlegm.

            After leaving the store with cheese stains on his shirt and thin plastic bag of groceries in his hand, Rory started to yearn for the good old days when currency wasn’t as messy.

            He woke with his hand covering his testicles.

 

The End

            

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

            

 

            

            

 

 

 

             

A Crooked Finger

A Crooked Finger is more than the title of my latest book, it points to a compilation of funny stories and wild whoppers that have been passed down in my family. Most of them are true, even the ones that seem a bit far-fetched. However, there are a few that we wouldn't pass muster with the most gullible readers amongst us. 

    Now available at Amazon.com in print and ebook format.

A Letter to My Brother

Dear Jack, 

I know that you were never fond of reading. So this letter will be short.

If, by chance, you were off somewhere in heaven filling out some mandatory paperwork and missed the service for you at Romanelli's, let me tell what happened.

First, it was unforgettable. It was as close to an Irish funeral as you can get. Sure, there were tears—but those tears were also from happiness. Family and friends, both new and old laughed and shared memories. It reminded me of one of your epic backyard parties. 

Billie and I eulogized you (if you give me your current email address; I can send you copies of them), an emotional Paul got up to reminisce about you before feigning to "moon" the packed room. Corbin endeared himself to everyone by saying you were his other father. Finally, Nancy explained to us that you did not believe in "in-laws"and she always felt like a sister to you.

You touched so many lives in such a short time.

Love and hugs forever,

Jim

My Eulogy for Jack

At first, I really didn’t think I was gonna get up here. I figured if I did, I’d just blabber a few unintelligible words before making a fool of myself. So, I prepared a few notes in advance to help me. (Cough). . . 

 

A priest, a rabbi, and a bear walk into a bar. Whoa, wrong notes. (cough)

 Here we are.

 

First, let me put everyone here, including myself, at ease. My brother, Jack, didn’t want this day to be sad for any of us. Not by a long shot. I firmly believe he would want it to be quite the opposite of sad. Jack would want this day filled with happy memories about him.

 

And if, by chance, some Jack Daniels is drunk or a few cigars are smoked today, I wouldn’t be surprised in the least that Jack would be doing the same right now.

 

My brother was the kindest, most giving, and funniest person I’ve ever known. Picture Mother Teresa standing over a barbeque grill munching on a stogie with a wicked sense of humor. That’s the type of person Jack was. And so much more.

 

At our respective weddings, Jack was my best man and I was his. But the reasons for our choices wasn’t just because we were brothers. Oh no, far from it. We were more than that. We had already forged an unbreakable bond when both our parents died. Jack was only seventeen when Dad passed away and barely twenty-one when mom died of a broken heart. Jack and I clung to each other for strength.

 

As time passed so did our pain. Eventually, we became known as the two young brothers who converted a once quiet home on 121st street into another“Animal House.” Liquor flowed freely; music blasted; and a certain contraband (now legalized) filled the air. Without a doubt our parties were legendary.

 

 

 

Jack had some pretty amazing role models during his life. Let’s start off with our dad. He owned a corner grocery store in the Park Slope section of Brooklyn. Every so often, Dad would blatantly disregard New York’s Child Labor Laws and have his two young sons work in his store. It was a blast and we had the times of our lives. Jack and I used to straighten the cans on shelves, sweep the floor, and separate empty soda bottles in the basement. We saw that our Dad went a step beyond being fair to his customers. He made sure his older customers always got their food—even if they couldn’t afford it. Dad taught us the value of a good day’s work. And he paid us handsomely—tuna on toast with lettuce and tomato with a bottle of coke.

 

Our Uncle Eddie was as generous as his brother. He would try to force money into our Aunt Paula’s hands every time he visited her. She always refused and said something like, “now, now Eddie, stop. The convent provides me with everything I need.” 

 

He didn’t give up and tried harder the next time they met. Still, Aunt Paula wouldn’t take anything. 

 

Finally, he got his sister something he knew she would never refuse and couldn’t return. He bought her a ticket to Rome and made sure she got an audience with the pope. For a nun, that was like winning the Lotto.

 

Aunt Paula was no slouch either. I wouldn’t be stretching the truth if I said that she was the most generous person of all of them. She was a member of the Sisters of Charity for more than sixty years. She devoted her entire life to helping people. When she wasn’t concerned with their souls, she managed to help many with their physical needs. Like buying a new carriage with the little money she had for a poor single mother in her care.

 

You may be asking yourselves, “heck, Jim, what about your own mom?” 

 

Well, before I get to her, let me tell you a story about two brothers. No, not me and Jack—our dad and our Uncle Eddie. They loved each other immensely. They went to fight a war together. They lived on the same block and partied together. And, even at one point, they worked together. They were inseparable.

 

Then, late one night, all that togetherness came crashing down. Jack and I were wakened by Dad and Uncle Eddie shouting. We ran to the basement where we saw they were arguing. It was awful. The two men we admired most in the world were yelling at each other and stopped speaking to each other soon afterward. Jack and I were devastated, but our Mom made it a point to tell us we should never stop visiting or loving our Uncle Eddie. Gosh, we tried so many times to get our uncle to make up with our dad and vice versa. But Uncle Eddie and our dad had a trait that was passed on to my bother—stubbornness.

 

It was our Mom who physically dragged our Uncle Eddie down the block and into my Dad’s open arms, where they hugged, cried, and acted like the rift between them had never happened.

 

Aside from being the peacekeeper in the family, Mom was a pretty good cook, that is, according to Jack. I plead the Fifth on that. He once told me his love of cooking was due to staying with our Mom while she cooked the meals. He said she cooked a mean skirt steak, whatever that was.

 

These are the people Jack grew up around. Uncle Eddie, Aunt Paula, Dad, and most especially, Mom. Tough shoes to fill, sure, but Jack did a damn good job of filling them.

 

Jack gave of himself in so many ways. And I think many of you will always remember those epic backyard parties. That’s when I’ve seen my brother really happy and content. I can still see him, wearing one of his Henley shirts and a baseball cap, hovering over his new gas grill with a glass of Jack Daniels in one hand and a spatula in the other. He would back away and joke with us before returning to flip over a few more burgers.

 

Afterward, when his work at the grill was done, he sat among us, and leaned back with a smile on his face. ‘Cause he knew that he had helped make the people he loved happy for that day. Nothing pleased him more than knowing that everyone was having a good time. 

 

Cancer may have slowed Jack down but it never stopped him from giving of himself. He called me from his bed at a rehabilitation care center in the city this past Christmas. He said, “when you see me this Tuesday, I have a little job for you to do for me. Okay?”

 

When I dropped by, the first thing that caught my eyes was a 3-tier wire rolling cart filled to the max with grocery bags. They were stuffed with bagels, rolls, and an assortment of pastries, fruits, cookies, and donuts, not to mention deli meats, various salads, and a hefty tub of cream cheese. Enough food and snacks to feed a small army!

 

“Take anything you want, Jim, and roll the cart over to the nurses’ station.”

 

And this was in addition to giving the entire staff on his floor Christmas gifts.

 

So, whether you called him Jack, Uncle Jack, Grandpa, Dad, or just Honey I’m sure you’ll all agree, just knowing Jack was a gift in itself.

 

He was a gentle soul who will always be loved, always be missed, and will always be in our hearts. 

 

So good-bye for the time being, Jack

 

 

Jack and his "famous smile."

It was a done deal, written in stone, and a sure thing. Any time I told my little brother, Jack, to put on his "famous smile", any surrounding hearts would melt. Whatever mischief we had done, was promptly forgotten when he flashed his innocent, little boy smile.  It was like magic.

I can't count the amount of times I was saved by this gift. If I tossed a basketball into my neighbor's yard, breaking their prized rose bushes, I instinctively shouted for Jack. "Jack! Get over here quick.  I'm gonna need your "famous smile." It worked like a charm. 

Now, I find myself dreaming of those days and I wake up with tears in my eyes. I ask myself, why does life have to be so short? Especially for those with a "famous smile." 

 

Celebrating Jack

This, my dear followers, is an invitation I am extending to you all to celebrate the life of my dear brother, Jack.

The Spaight clan, here in America, is having a celebration of sorts for Jack Spaight. It is at a local establishment called Romanelli's Funeral Services located at 89-01 Rockaway Blvd. on February 26 from 1 to 5.

If you are unable to come, please share your memories of my brother on the Romanelli website.

Please help ease our pain

 

Memories of My Brother

Ever since we were young boys growing up in our house on 121 Street, my brother Jack and I were thick as thieves. We played together and went to the same schools together. We were rarely seen apart. Our parents would often dress us up similarly. It's no wonder my aunt Paula always got our names mixed up. 

One of our childhood games was called "Johnny Rebel". It was a take on Hide & Seek. However, our version involved the entire neighborhood and many of the people who lived there. Jack was a "Union" officer and I was an escaped "Rebel" soldier who he needed to find. I hid anywhere on our block, you name it and I hid there—in garages, under cars, or in our neighbor's basement. But he always found me.

Jack was also a cop. And thanks to our next door neighbor, Mrs. Dillon, he dressed the part. She sewed an entire policeman's uniform from scratch which he wore as he rode the police cart our grandfather got him.

He could do no wrong as fas as she was concerned. She never complained when he tossed a basketball that inadvertently bounced into her yard and snapped a branch off hew prized rose bushes. Nope. He got off completely. Instead, our mom put the blame on me.

Sure, the years passed and as they did we turned into adults and we each got married. Although we moved away from one another we always made it a point to get together and make more memories.

I remember the promise I made to him while he was in a rehabilitation place for cancer patients. He was frail and weak and I visited him each week, oftentimes I saw him twice in one week. Sunday and Tuesday.

I said that I was going to continue to visit him each week after he got home.

That never happened, cause my dear baby brother developed Covid, then pneumonia, finally leaving him in septic shock.  He left us peacefully last Tuesday.

But don't be sad and wipe your tears. Death is only temporary. I have to believe that. I must. I'm convinced  he is with our mom and dad, making some new memories of their own.