SEPTEMBER 28, 2023 – Whatever message UB intended by dropping me off at the bus stop on that October afternoon, I chose to ignore it. When I returned to Minnesota, I took the bold step of sending him a friendly letter in which I reaffirmed his “capital idea” regarding disposition of Hamburg (bequeathing it to Nina). I added what my better judgment told me was incendiary: the advisability of a power of attorney and a health care directive. To put a bow on my imprudence, I told him that I was planning another trip to New York/New Jersey for the early spring (2012), “when we could finalize those critical documents.”
My renewed sense of urgency was fired by Cliff’s reports that the money flow to Alex was now a gusher. I had to take some kind of action, and Cliff agreed that we no longer had the luxury of waiting until UB hit the magic age of 90, the time by which Cliff and I had earlier agreed UB would need to be corralled.
Two months after my letter to UB, I outmaneuvered the normal demands and distractions of life and boarded a plane for Newark. Again, Jenny and Garrison generously offered their Upper West Side apartment for my overnight accommodations.
After my October visit UB had turned back against me. According to Nina, with whom he’d communicate sporadically by phone, he wasn’t about to do anything except disinherit the whole family in retaliation for my latest initiative. With reasoning like a pretzel-shaped maze with no outlet, Mother kept making excuses for him. This time around his threat was a mistake. Whereas in the past it would’ve triggered fear that he’d give everything to Alex, UB’s intransigence now confirmed that I needed to take the strongest possible action; action requiring me to retain an attorney in Bergen County, New Jersey.
When I reached Ground Zero for my initial consultation with Cliff, however, a more immediate step was required.
“What’s happenin’” Cliff greeted me. His face showed uncharacteristic strain.
“I’m in the middle of preparing for St. Patrick’s Day parties,” he said, getting right down to business, “but I’m telling you, before we do anything about the bullshit of Uncle Bruce sending wheelbarrows of cash to Alex, we’ve got to haul some of the actual shit out of the kitchen. Eric, you won’t believe how bad it’s gotten.”
“How could it get any worse than it’s always been?”
“It’s the world according to Bruce,” he said, invoking his familiar humor despite his obvious stress. “I tell you what . . . He doesn’t know you’re here, right?”
“No, not yet.”
“Let’s keep it that way. I’ve got to deal with a couple of emergencies, but let’s say right around noon I take him to lunch. Not Fischer’s but the Candlewyck. I’ll be sure to order a big lunch, make and take calls, which I’ll have to because the world is insane right now and everyone’s calling me, but I need to call them too, so we’re even, so anyway I’ll drag out lunch as long as I possibly can which will give you, Jerry and Angelo time to clean up the pigsty that Uncle Bruce is living in. It’s got to be done, Eric. It’s a fucking fright! You’re only gonna have time for the kitchen, but no one can get anywhere else without cleaning out the kitchen, so you may as well start with that.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
“This afternoon we can talk about the bigger picture. Meantime, you’re gonna need a roll of Hefty bags, rubber gloves, which Jerry can get from our back room and probably something to put on over the clothes you’re wearing. Jerry can scare something up—if you know what I mean. His favorite holiday is Halloween, you know. He’s like a little kid about it. Oh, and I almost forgot. You’re gonna need a clothes pin.”
“A clothes pin?”
“For your nose. I don’t have any gas masks on hand.”
Together we laughed. “Ya just can’t make this shit up,” said Cliff, with the apparent effect of setting off his smartphone’s blaring ringtone—a g minor chord pattern played harshly on a souped up rocker’s keyboard. “I gotta take this . . . Hi Marco. What’s happenin’? . . .”
Less than a half hour later, Jerry (one of Cliff’s staff whom I’d nicknamed “Queequeg” – See 8/27/23 post), Angelo and I had donned our makeshift hazmat suits and gained entry to 42 Baghdad Street using Cliff’s extra key. Even though it was an inside job, we were armed with shovels and a roll of extra large lawn and garden Hefty bags. Angelo had thought to grab a dust mask from his toolbox in the very back of his crowded station wagon. The ever steady Queequeg took the lead. Angelo was in his usual animated state of anxiety. I was just plain disgusted.
“I keep tellin’ Mr. Holman he needs to pick up once in a while,” said Angelo. “Yeah, I keep tellin’ him, but he won’t listen to me, no sir. He won’t listen. I keep sayin’ this is gonna make ya sick livin’ here, but he says his diabetes has nothin’ to do with whether his house is picked up or not but I keep tellin’ him, ‘Mr. Holman, you’re gonna get sick from somethin’ else if you don’t pick up.’”
Queequeg the unflappable shrugged. “Different strokes for different folks,” he said with a chuckle. “We gotta get movin’ here before they get back from lunch. You don’t wanna see Uncle Bruce’s walk in here on us. Might give ’im a heart attack, which would be bad for his health.”
Once my brain had adjusted to what my eyes were seeing and my nostrils were smelling, my first thought was that my law office back in Minnesota was about 10 million miles away.
Before we’d even cleared enough space to put down our first Hefty bag, Angelo’s nerves got the best of him. “I can’t do it,” he said. “I just can’t. I’m gonna get sick in here. I told Mr. Holman he was gonna get sick, but now I’m gonna get sick, and I don’t wanna get sick, no siree, not me. I told Mr. Holman he needed to pick up once in a while and now look at it. I’m gonna get sick.”
So saying, Angelo let go of the handle of his shovel and turned in desperation to reach the exit before he puked into his dust mask. The shovel remained in an upright position, supported by the trash covering the floor. Only then did I notice the handmade proprietary label that UB had taped to the handle: “FOR USE ONLY BY BRUCE HOLMAN.”
“I guess it’s down to me and you,” said Queequeg, smiling in my direction.
“Yeah,” I said. “Except apparently we’re not allowed to use Uncle Bruce’s shovel.” I showed Queequeg the sign on the handle.
“You know what Cliff would say about that,” said Queequeg.
“Exactly—‘You can’t make this stuff up.’”
“And the honest truth is, you can’t.”
To the operation we’d brought garden shovels, which are fine for digging dirt but aren’t so good for scraping dried mouse urine off a kitchen floor—once you get through the heavy layer of trash covering the rodent pee. After I’d shoved enough debris out of the way to make room for a Hefty bag, I noticed a long handle of some tool leaning against the opposite wall. Queequeg had waded through to that side and was within reach of the tool. Whatever it was—a broom, rake, hoe—I thought it might be useful to us.
“Jerry, what’s that thing behind you, leaning against the wall?”
With one hand on his garden shovel for support, Queequeg reached for the other tool. With his powerful arm he pulled it free. Heavier than either of us had expected, it was a scoop shovel.
“Perfect!” I said. “The gods are smiling on us, Jerry. Just when we lose Angelo, an industrial gauge scoop shovel shows up where we most need it and least expect it.”
Jerry was in full laugh mode. “You really can’t make this up,” he said. “Wait till Cliff hears about this.”
We soon hit our stride, one of us holding open a Hefty bag while the other shoveled refuse into it. Once a bag was bulging in all directions, the draw string would be pulled securely, and one of us would wrestle the bag to the back entryway.
We learned to laugh at some stuff: the multiple clocks and thermometers; the big box of realty company pens; the full-size A&P shopping cart (!) loaded with newspapers; an old set of TV rabbit ears repurposed for holding fly paper; a proliferation of empty “Table Talk” pot pie containers.
“Hey, Jerry,” I said, holding up several of the pot pie containers in each hand, “guess what’s for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“Your uncle should eat better,” said Jerry.
“Yeah, well, he’s working toward 90, so you’re gonna have to cut him some slack.”
“How old was your grandmother when she passed away?”
“A hundred.”
“Wow. And your grandfather?”
“Ninety-three.”
“I’ll bet your grandparents didn’t eat Table Talk pot pies.”
“No, they didn’t. They ate pretty well. They ate out a lot too, on weekends, anyway, at fine restaurants. When I was a kid visiting they’d always go to the Dock ’n Dine, a nice place right on the water in Old Saybrook up near their place in Connecticut. Years later when I was living here and working for Grandpa—during a summer while I was in college and right after law school—they quit going up to Connecticut except on rare occasions. They’d stay in Rutherford for the weekend and on Sunday they’d go to a fancy old people’s restaurant I forget where but not too far from here. Uncle Bruce and I would always go too. We all got dressed up. You know, Gaga—my grandmother—would put on a nice dress and tasteful jewelry. Grandpa and Uncle Bruce would wear decent suits, and I would wear a tie and sport jacket. I was always up for a good Sunday dinner, but I kind of hated it too.”
“Why’s that?”
“I was really into running—you know, marathoning—at the time, and Sunday was my long day, the day I’d do a 20-miler, all out. It took time, not only to run it but to stretch before and just to cool down and recover afterward. But they wanted to leave the house for dinner a little before noon, and that wound up splitting the day for me. I’d either have to run first thing in the morning, which I hated, or I’d have to wait until early in the evening.
“Plus, especially on nice Sundays, I just wanted to be outdoors, somewhere scenic, and sorry but what surrounds Rutherford isn’t exactly scenic, at least for a 20-mile run. But I didn’t have a car—heck that first summer I worked here, I didn’t even have a driver’s license. I was stuck right here in this house in Rutherford. So, I had to spend the highpoint of the day—a couple of hours’ worth—with my grandparents and eccentric uncle inside a dark restaurant patronized by a bunch of old people.
“On the plus side, though, I got to eat like a king—or a pig, depending on your point of view, I suppose. I always loaded up on dessert—pie and ice cream.”
“I’m guessing pot pies weren’t on the menu.”
“No. My grandmother always ordered lamb chops.”
“Huh. So what was Uncle Bruce like back then?”
“You know, he wasn’t half as crazy as he is now. At the table he was pretty normal. He talked a lot, about all kinds of things, almost entirely with Gaga and me, never with Grandpa. Grandpa talked in monologue form in the car—mostly about business in the old days—but he didn’t say much at the table; wasn’t allowed to it seemed.
“If the food wasn’t just right—you know, overdone or underdone, you could be sure that Uncle Bruce would let the waiter know. Grandpa would absolutely never complain about the food, even if he could tell it was undercooked or overcooked, which I’m not sure he could, but Gaga could, and she’d let Uncle Bruce know, and he’d complain very much out loud.
“The other thing I remember about those Sunday dinners is Uncle Bruce’s role as Gaga’s personal valet. Grandpa would drive his big Cadillac up to the restaurant entrance and wait for Uncle Bruce to get out, open the trunk, take out the wheelchair, pull it open and roll it around to Gaga’s side and set the brake. I’d be out too, and sometimes Grandpa would get out too, pretending to help, but Uncle Bruce was in total command of the operation. He’d next open Gaga’s door and assist her expertly into the wheelchair as if she were the Queen of England and he, her loyal attendant. Grandpa’s role never changed. He was strictly the carriage driver.”
“That’s really precious stuff,” said Queequeg. “I’d always heard a lot about your grandparents but I never met them. Your grandpa was kind of the Godfather of Rutherford, wasn’t he?”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that, but he was no Don at the restaurant or for that matter, inside his own house—this house. I was touched by Jerry’s interest in a couple of old people he’d never met.
In time our cleanup operation migrated into the pantry between the kitchen and dining room. Squeezed into the passageway were two side-by-side refrigerators. Extra storage for the pot pies, I thought—until I opened one of them. I nearly passed out from the sight and smell of the growth inside.
“Jerry!”
“Huh?”
“Danger zone—refrigerator number one. And I’m too chicken to see what’s inside refrigerator number two.”
“That bad?”
“It’s worse than bad. It’s so disgusting, it’s against union rules even to think about cleaning it out. Besides, there isn’t time. Cliff’s gonna have to give us a pass on this.”
“I’m taking your word for it,” said Queequeg. “Besides, it’s your uncle’s house.”
“Actually, that’s only half right.”
“What do you mean—he’s not your uncle or it’s not his house?”
“Half of it belongs to my mother.”
Queequeg laughed. “Which half?”
My phone rang. It was Cliff, no doubt needing to leave the Candlewyck and wanting a status report.
“Hi, Cliff.”
“What’s happenin’?”
“Eight bags of trash waiting for takeout.”
“Good, good. I’m heading back to my office. Give me 15, maybe 20. Anything I need to know?”
“Yeah, Jerry and I aren’t tackling the science project in the refrigerator, and only a gallon of ammonia will deal with the dried mouse urine on the kitchen floor. Other than that, you won’t recognize the place. Just kidding. It’s still 42 Baghdad Street.”
“You can’t make this stuff up.”
“No you can’t. See you in 15 but it would be better if you made it 20.”
“Gu-bye.”
Turning to Queequeg, I said, “Okay, Jerry. The bell just rang. We’ve gotta get all those trash bags out to the trash cans across the drive. Then I’m going to disappear for a while.
I disappeared all the way back to Jenny and Garrison’s apartment. Cliff would call, I knew, once he found a break in the action. We could then talk in earnest about the next steps of the bigger picture.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
