OCTOBER 5, 2023 – In September 2015, a couple of months after the nursing home blow-up, I was again in New York but strictly to attend a board meeting of the World Press Institute, and with Beth to visit Byron, Jenny and Garrison. The board meeting was coupled with other events involving the annual fellowship program that WPI sponsored for our group of 10 foreign journalists. As a crow flies, the festivities were only nine miles from 42 Baghdad Street, but figuratively they were a world away from Rutherford.
On a Thursday morning I joined the fellows and several other WPI board members for a session with Dean Baquet, executive news editor of The New York Times. As I exited the Times building following the confab, I realized how close I actually was to Rutherford: the Port Authority bus terminal was a block away from Times Square. The draw was too strong, too convenient. If the fellows’ next stop was the nation’s capital, mine would be New Jersey.
I let Beth know I’d be back at Jenny and Garrison’s at around dinner time. I then called ahead to Cliff, who apprised me that he was going crazy with work and would be dashing around madly for most of the day. I would likely be on my own once I arrived at Ground Zero.
As I descended Highland Cross on my usual route from the bus stop, I saw the same old scene at the corner of Lincoln Avenue: the elegant dream house of my great grandparents, now their grandson’s garbage house encased in a convincing imitation of the Amazon rainforest. Only the flag hanging limply from the top of the pole gave the passer-by a point of reference to reality.
The growth around the back entryway was now in the form of a tunnel. I entered cautiously and approached the door. I could hear a radio blaring inside, but my loud knocking failed to summon the occupant.
I turned around to exit the tunnel and happened to see Cliff’s big black Denali now parked in the driveway separating the back yard from the warehouses. On my way toward it I saw Cliff still in the driver’s seat, his head pressed back against the headrest apparently to catch a few winks. I tapped lightly on the window.
“What’s happenin’?” he said a moment later as he lowered the window. “You surprised me. Get in.”
I climbed aboard.
“Today is totally out of control,” said Cliff. “I’ve been up since five and won’t be done until past midnight. I just had to get a quick nap in before I go back into my office to put out a bunch of new fires.”
“I’ve never been here when your hair isn’t on fire.”
“Tell me about it . . . So did you get in the house?”
“Nope. Have you been in there lately?”
“No. Frankly, Eric, I haven’t had time, and ever since the nursing home fiasco last winter, he hasn’t wanted much to do with me. I’ve been leaving him mostly on his own. I think Angelo has been picking up the slack, but who knows what Uncle Bruce has been paying him, except I don’t think I wanna know.”
“Let me call Uncle Bruce.” There was no answer and his voice mailbox was full.
“Let me call ’im.” Cliff already had his phone in hand.
“Yes,” UB answered with a flat raspy voice.
“You have a visitor at your back door,” said Cliff.
“I’m not home.”
“Where are you?”
“I was taking a nap.”
“Then you are home.”
“I’m not home when I’m taking a nap.” . . . Click!
The terse exchange gave us a good laugh. I was amused that the two people I could never expect to catch napping . . . had been napping at the same time and right in my midst.
After talking a few minutes Cliff and I noticed movement in the sides of the “green tunnel” followed by UB exiting the Amazon like a long-lost, bedraggled explorer. With the aid of a cane, he shuffled down the ramp to the driveway, unaware that we were watching from Cliff’s SUV. As Cliff and I alighted from it, Cliff called out to UB. UB turned, shaded his eyes and peered at me as if I were some alien trespasser. Cliff took advantage of UB’s hesitation and slipped away to the warehouse garage and the back entrance to his office.
I greeted UB as I approached him. In response he said, “the cane is for balance.” He’d never said “Hi” or “Hello” or “How are you?” and he wasn’t about to start at the age of 93. I followed his tentative lead to an indefinite destination toward the sidewalk, then onward to the corner of Park and Highland Cross.
“We’re following events closely,” he said, “to see who will be in next year’s match-up for president.” It was to be expected, I thought: to erect a defense against anything threatening that I’d come to discuss, he’d divert my attention. At the same time, he’d establish that he was in complete command of his faculties. Even the cane, he’d been quick to point out, was “for balance,” which I’d interpreted him to mean, “don’t jump to any conclusions about my increasing frailty.”
As we sat down on a bench outside the “Sweet Shop,” one of the ground floor retail tenants of one of the warehouse buildings, UB continued on the political theme.
“We’ll get to see whether a woman will be our next president,” he said, referring to Hillary Clinton.
“I hope she wins,” I said, knowing full well I was falling for the bait.
“I think what we need is a businessman in the White House,” said UB. “That’s why I’d like to see Trump get it.”
Perhaps if UB had known how truly innocent my intentions were he would’ve been less interested in talking politics (and economics) and more candid about his declining health. He must’ve sensed, however, that he still held favorable cards. In short order the conversation drifted to other, banal matters. As he chattered I noticed that next to the “Sweet Shop,” the corner ground floor space that had once been the bustling office headquarters of Geo. B. Holman Moving & Storage Co., Inc., was now occupied by a tea-leaves and Tarot-card reading psychic. I wondered what sort of rent the outfit was paying and if I could negotiate a discount price for a session revealing the future of the psychic’s own business.
Across the street was a new retail bank, Bayonne Community Bank, occupying the old A&P building that Grandpa had once owned and leased to the grocery chain. UB went on and on about the bank and how out of convenience he’d opened an account, “just in case I need the money,” he said. I knew the sad truth: the account made it easier to withdraw cash and walk 40 paces to the Rite Aid two doors down—a one-stop shopping destination to buy Table Talk frozen pot pies and . . . send money from the Western Union kiosk at the back corner of the store.
In time the conversation had consumed my patience. I announced that it was time for me to head back to the city to “beat rush hour.” Forty minutes later I navigated through the commuter hordes to the Eighth Avenue exit of Port Authority at 42nd Street. Given the beautiful weather, I savored the “commuter traffic” excuse I now had for my delayed return to Jenny and Garrison’s apartment, where Beth was waiting. I walked the 48 blocks uptown to El Dorado.
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
