MYRON & ME
The throw of the dice this week lands on adventures in livingness. There were two more evenings that rekindled my roots in New Jersey. One was Sabbath at Myron’s. We gathered around a table, cluttered with exotic kosher food that Myron’s wife Clara had prepared. We prayed, ate, laughed, and listened to Myron’s stories. There were no phones ringing, television or music.
Arthur, Callahan, Paul, and another gentlemen visiting from Germany sat at the table. Myron told us about the time he went to Nigeria. He was thirty seven years old and was in charge of slot machines business. I looked at him now and then through the dinner, and imagined him at that age, a young fearless student. Myron’s life has never been about just livingness. He lives differently than anyone I’ve ever met. He treats people differently, and he is certainly a person who you cannot BS. After I left New York, he went to Russia to do business. He sent photographs of Moscow, and told stories in his emails about Russia. I learn from him, but it’s not the same as living the experience. The only way to learn from Myron is to sit beside him and shut-up.
On the country drive out to the suburbs to visit a friend of his, Myron gave me a history lesson of the Jewish religion. He passed on the simple version; he called it Judaism 101, because I cannot fool Uncle Myron. What I learned in Synagogue has not been exercised in many years. I recorded his lesson on my pocket recorder. What happened next was more about universal religion; friendship without judgment and criticism.
“This is a good friend of mine. He just got out of the joint. He was a boss of one of the families in New Jersey.”
When we reached Tack’s neighborhood, I noticed the other homes had a similar design and color like custom homes in a development usually do. All the lawns were manicured and the neighborhood appeared pressed with the same iron of income level and values. We parked on the street and walked up the driveway. A woman with penetrating brown eyes and short cropped hair waved at us. Myron turned to me, “Tack’s in shackles. He can’t go further than the garage.” Myron introduced me to Tack’s wife, and we gathered around the center island of the kitchen.
“Where’s Tack?” Myron asked.
“He’s in the house, I’ll get him.”
Myron whispered, “He’s got another case coming up, he appealed but odds are he won’t win.”
Tack entered the kitchen, and we were introduced.
“What can I get you Luellen? A glass of wine, something to eat?’
He looked healthy and fit; a man of strength but a worn voice like someone with laryngitis.
“No thanks.”
“ Tack, you know who this is?”
“No, who?”
“Al Smiley’s daughter. You remember, Benny Siegel’s partner.”
“No kidding.” He said.
Tack’s wife, peered at me through her glasses. I smiled, unashamed, and relieved I didn’t have to explain everything.
Tack had a stack of papers to show Myron. They walked into the living room and started to talk.
“Mrs. Tack, can I see your garden? It looks beautiful from here.” I asked.
“Sure.” I followed her outside to the wooden deck overlooking a lovely green patch of grass and flower beds. We sat down and I told her I was a writer, and how I met Uncle Myron. She told me she was a High School teacher.
“I’d love to read your columns. Will you send them to me?” I agreed to, and then we talked about summer vacations, and she was looking forward to going to Los Angeles.
“I go every year with my sister. We stay in Santa Monica, and go to the beach every day. We don’t even talk that much, we just lie down; get out our books, and escape. I love Los Angeles.”
“I love it too.”
We sat out there, on a muggy warm Friday afternoon, just listening to birds, watching them feed from the little bird tray, and sewed a silent thread of understanding.
When Myron came out to fetch us, Tack looked more relaxed. He asked me to come back anytime for dinner, and have a real homemade Italian meal. I told him I’d like that. The thing was he really meant it. If I showed up one night, they would invite me in without any hesitancy.
Afterwards in the car I told Myron I felt like I was in the Soprano’s home.”
“You were sweetheart. You were in the real thing.”
“Will he have to go back to prison?”
“I believe so. Mrs. Tack knows the score; she’s been with him since High School.” Myron said Tack was a stand up guy, and he liked the family and would do whatever he could to help.
The next night I spent with Arthur on Mulberry Street. He took me to Florio’s for dinner, and we sat with Butch Blasi, another Runyon character with a disarming manner and a face that made Sylvester Stallone seem ordinary. Arthur and Butch talked back and forth about different characters; guys from the Genovese family, and how this one ended up in the joint and the other one in a ditch, and then in the middle of a story, Butch tells me he likes my coat. Then they return to the quipping and stories and there were too many Horse Eddie names so I just sat back and absorbed all of it without needing to talk. It was drizzling outside and just a few people on the street. I could have sat there all night listening and drinking espresso.
I left New York with a sealed envelope of memories that included a walk on Riverside Drive. Morris Rosen lived on that street. I never met him, but I read about him. He orchestrated the battle against the government when they tried to deport my father to Russia. He was also the man who took control of the Flamingo after Benny Siegel was murdered.
A couple of weeks after I got home Myron sent me an email with a link to a newspaper article. Tack lost his case. He was sentenced to life in prison. I asked Myron if I could talk to Tack and hear his side of the story. Myron said, “ Sweetheart, it won’t help your career and it won’t help Tack.” That’s the way things turn out in the underworld. No one will ever know the real story. Any dice to throw Email: folliesls@aol,com
