Message to my subscribers

Dear subscribers, I apologize for the long delay in posting a new episode of NJ Chronicles, but I have not been idle. I would like to now offer you the opening page of a new work of fiction I am calling Holy Land. I sincerely hope you will enjoy it and the subsequent episodes to follow.

PLAY BALL!

HOLY LAND

Upon my high school graduation in June of 1969, I entered into an audacious metaphysical plot to influence the outcome of the Major League Baseball season with a mysterious figure whom I had never met or spoken to before, my father’s estranged older brother Alex. Alex believed that baseball was a mystical experience, a portal that afforded profound insight into the nature of being. He called this experience Metaball. Much as the kabbalah interpreted the Torah for its metaphysical allusions, my uncle recognized a system of numerology hidden within box scores and player stats on the backs of baseball cards. Such esoterica was also, he claimed, at work in the transcendent physics inherent in the size, shape, weight, and construction of a baseball to create the change up and curve, the sinker and the slider, pitches that when skillfully executed could shave off a millisecond of bat speed that was the difference between a strike out and a homerun. He recognized the sublime anomalies that inform the outcome of every game as a mirror of the triumphs and tragedies, the inexplicable twists of fate that is life itself. Fate, destiny, life, baseball is all of one, he would say. I was captivated by such rhetoric and readily became his willing accomplice in a criminal conspiracy that broke not only societal laws of this world in the desecration of sacred texts, but mocked our very faith in God, himself. Jews, he confided in me, pious davening Jews would be the instrument that would transform the worst team in baseball, the NY Mets, into world champions. How could I have possibly refused such an offer.

EPISODE 1

“Paul?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“ This is your uncle Alex, your father’s older brother. We’ve never met but I wanted to wish you a happy birthday.”

Stunned, I shot up out of my chair. Holy shit, I thought. Had I heard correctly?

“Excuse me?” I said, “my uncle who, Is this for real?”

I had never met or spoken to my father’s estranged older brother in my life. He and my father had had a dramatic falling out years before and had never spoken to one another again. His name was anathema in our home; it was as though he didn’t exist. All my life I’d wondered about the secrecy surrounding his banishment from our lives. What terrible occurrence could have happened to precipitate such dramatic alienation. My only knowledge of him was comprised of bits of hearsay collected at family gatherings: he had lost his mind incinerating Japs with a flame thrower on Iwo Jima. It was said he was dangerous, suicidal, had been committed to a mental institution. One said he managed a minor league team in Boise, Idaho, another he was a bearded Beatnik poet in the Village living with a shiksa, a black jazz singer, no less. Such was the far flung apocrypha surrounding him. In my mind I pictured a mythical being belonging to another world, a world of mayhem, insanity, and moral corruption. How could I not have been fascinated? Now suddenly, just like that, he was speaking to me on the phone. He might as well have been calling from the moon.

“Yeah, it’s for real, Paul. I know this is kind of out of the blue,” he said, helping me out, “but we need to talk. Tell me, what’s her name?”

“What’s who’s name?” I asked.

“The girl. The one you have, don’t have, dream about, can’t live without, jerk off to, there’s always some girl, am I right?”

“Shelly,” I told him, about to hang up the phone. “Her name is Shelly Glass,”

“Shelly Glass, Shelly Glass,” he repeated, thoughtfully. I could hear him inhaling his smoke. “Sounds brunette, classy, maybe a young Ava Gardner. You must be scared to death of her.”

“How can you know that?” I asked, mystified. It was true that she was a voluptuous brunette and that I turned into mush whenever I was with her, afraid to ask her out, but not a soul in the world outside of my best friend Eddie Arrighi knew that. I started pacing back and forth across the floor of the small room.

“It’s not so hard to figure out Paul. You think you’re the only kid who ever had such problems? Your voice told me you’re all dejected, probably feel like the biggest loser on earth and here’s this ripe, luscious creature dripping a trail of honey up and down the school hallways, dying to be ravished and you’re standing around like a schlemiel, a regular fucking putz, your mouth hanging open and your dick ready to explode all over the place. You’re what, 18, too shy and clumsy to make your move and you don’t have a job, no money in your pocket, because it’s what 10:30 am and you’re moping around at home talking to this madman who may or may not be your lost uncle, wondering what the fuck is going on here? Am I right? Tell me I’m not right.”

“Pretty close,” I answered, chuckling now, “but I’m still not sure this is for real?” I said. “OK, tell me this, if you really are my father’s brother, which one of his arms is burned?”

“The right arm,” he answered without hesitation. “It happened when he was about four, I guess. We had these big old ranges in the kitchen in those days. I was there when it happened. Your grandfather ran him down the street to the doctor. Yeah, I’m for real, whatever that is. I know you probably have all kinds of questions. God only knows what kind of shit you’ve heard about me, but, you know, that’s to be expected in Nod Land.”

“Nod Land?” I repeated.

“Yeah, Nod Land, Zombieville, the Dead Zone, whatever you want to call it. The Righteous get the heebie – jeebies when one of their own strays off the reserve. It’s threatening to them. They get all shook up, start foaming at the mouth. Tribal fear, baby, it’s powerful shit. You might even be feeling some of that directed at yourself now.”

“Yeah, kind of,” I admitted. It was as if he were reading my mind. I happened to be struggling with the decision to go to college in the fall or not, a decision made difficult by the fact I was now eligible for the draft. My parents were adamant about me continuing my education, staying out of harm’s way, out of the deadly jungles of Viet Nam, a country few Americans could even find on a map.

“Of course you’re getting it!” he exclaimed. I could hear him lighting up another smoke. “They can tell you’re a sensitive artistic type like your uncle Mikey was, a kid who isn’t going to follow the tribal rules. They’re probably terrified you’ll run off and join some hippie free love commune, live on brown rice and wild berries, drop acid, have ecstatic visions, walk around barefoot like Jesus in a robe, all kinds of terrible pagan shit that will have them scurrying for the nearest cliff to jump off. Wailing Jews, believe me, can bring down thunder and lightning from on high, travel up and down the Westside Highway like drums along the Congo signaling all the other wailing parents to clamp down on their own miscreant kids who are up to no good just like you. But look, we can discuss all that fear shit later.”

“ So, tell me again, what have you heard about me, anyway? Don’t worry it’s just between us; I won’t be offended by anything.”

“Are you sure?” I said. “I haven’t heard that much really,” I confided. “It’s more like what I haven’t heard that’s the problem. You don’t exist in our house. I’ve never heard my father even say your name. All I know about you is bits of gossip from weddings or family gatherings, but I don’t really pay much attention to that stuff. You’re more like some kind of alien to them, I think.”

“An alien, that’s good, very good. What else?”

“Well,” I said, “first of all you and my dad had a big falling out years ago and never spoke to one another again, but no one will tell me why. It’s the big secret that kind of hangs over us, know what I mean?”

“OK, yeah, sure, I can see that. Everything’s got to be a big secret. Tell this one, not that one, on and on, the usual gossip. It’s all fear, Paul. This one got pregnant, that one saw a psychiatrist, Mindy’s having an affair with her dentist, the other one is a closet fagela caught wearing his mother’s undies. They can’t let any of that shit leak out of the bag. Anything else.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, don’t worry,” he chuckled “I’m having fun, kid.”

“You lost your mind in the war, incinerating Japs alive. That’s the exact words I heard.”

“Alright, now that one I expected. We’ll get into that horror show later on. Anything about being in the bug house?”

“Yeah, that too,” I admitted.

“Well, that doesn’t surprise me either. Give me one more and I’ll lay off the interrogation.”

“OK. You asked for it,” I warned him. “You’re married to a shiksa, a black woman, maybe a singer, and you’re a Beatnik who lives in the Village.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” he cackled and went into a coughing fit. I could hear him lighting another cigarette.

“And what do you make of all that?” he asked. “Curious? Want to find out if it’s all true? Find out if your errant uncle is a nut bar or not, or mope around the house all summer spanking the monkey to death like a useless Momo? This is the thing Paul, I’m calling to offer you a job, a summer job.

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. My guess is you don’t have a dime in your pocket. Right?”

“You’re right,” I admitted.

“OK, then. We got a deal?” he asked.

“But wait a minute,” I said, “I don’t even know what the job is. How do I know if I want it?”

“That’s right,” he said. “Of course you want to know. Let’s say the job is in the field of metaphysics.”

“Metaphysics? “What’s that?

“We’ll get into that later, too. Let’s just say it’s precision work that is both physical and metaphysical in nature. You play ball, right, you’ve got good hands? This job requires dexterity and focus, insight, and intuition. You’ll pick it up fast, I promise. A lot is riding on this one, Paul and I need someone I can trust – I mean really, really trust. We need eight, ten wins in a row to lock into a real groove, glide right into first place before the All Star break. Can you start tomorrow? The sooner the better. Look, Paul, why don’t you just give it a try for a day. If it’s not for you, you can always quit. No obligation. I’ll pay you fifty bucks cash, and your day won’t have been wasted. You can take that girl out somewhere special. How’s that sound? What have you got lose. If nothing else we can at least meet, right. You can have a look at your father’s nutcase brother.”

“You mean the Mets? In first place? I don’t get it?”

“Of course, the Mets. Is there any other team? Don’t worry. You’ll see it all tomorrow.”

Fifty buck was a lot of money. My mind was racing away. He was right, I had nothing to lose. The truth was, I already felt inexplicably drawn to him somehow. Everyone in my family was normal, ordinary, colorless. I hadn’t even seen my uncle in person, but he was already a brilliant rainbow of colors. Everyone in my family went to their jobs and then came home to watch the game. Yeah, Nod Land. No one read books, had ever had an abstract thought, had ever gone insane or, god forbid, married outside their race or religion. No one knew ever had anything interesting to say. My father drove me crazy with his endless talk about plastic spoons and in twenty years of marriage my mother had only learned to prepare two dishes, meatloaf with ketchup on top and lambchops with canned vegetables. The idea that there existed a madman, my father’s own brother, banished from the tribe and suddenly reaching out to me, needing my help for some strange baseball project was thrilling.

“Sure,” I told him. That sounds fair.”

“Atta a boy. Here, write down this address. Be there tomorrow morning about 10.”

I wrote down the info. “What is this, Holy Land Supplies?” I asked.

“Tchotchkes,” my uncle said.

“Tchotchkes?”

“Yeah, Jewish stuff, trinkets, icons, Jewdoo talismans,” he explained. “You know how the Christians have their blond Jewboy god nailed to a cross, the virgin mother, the baby Jesus’s sacred little schmeckela. Then the Hindus have all their hundreds of elephant gods, arms and legs flying everywhere, shit like that. Well, our job is to take all that pious Mount Tuchus Old Testament bullshit and put it to work for the Mets. This is where you come in. This is the metaphysics of the game.”

“Whoa,” I exclaimed, my mind racing. “What do you mean by all that? I don’t get any of this?” I told him. Maybe the rumors were true, and my uncle really was nuts. I suddenly felt as if I were being conned. Sacred schmeckela, Mount Tuchus, working for the Mets. For all I knew he was calling me from Bellevue right now. He took a few seconds to reply.

“Alright,” he said. “I know it’s a lot to take in. I apologize; I don’t want to scare you off. But just think about it. Six in a row tonight, right Paul. Ain’t that something?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I replied, “it is amazing.

“Amazing is right, but what does that mean? Do you think this kind of shit just happens on its own? Suddenly the whole team starts hitting and catching the ball? Not a chance. They’re getting a little nudge, Jews, baby. The entire yidel didel wailing wall kosher matzo ball slurpers are hanging with them on every pitch. See you tomorrow, Kiddo. There’s plenty of time to go over all this.”

“Wait a minute!” I protested. “What’s Jews and metaphysics have to do with the Mets? And what about my father? He’ll go apeshit on me for just talking to you. You don’t know what he can be like.”

“Well, actually I do know what he’s like but he’s also a devout Mets fan, right?

“Huge.”

“He’d give his left nut to see the Mets win it all, wouldn’t he?”

“Gladly,” I told him.

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. Trust me Paul. Listen, I’ll make you a deal, if the Mets don’t win tonight, you can forget about me, write me off as the nut case I’m supposed to be. At least you’ll finally know why I’ve been shunned by the family. But if they win, making it make six in a row, right, I need you in the morning. We’ve got a lot of work to do in a very short amount of time.”

“The important thing is, right now I have a summer job for you, if you’re interested. Maybe you can use some money for college, buy a ragtop and take Shelly out for a moonlit drive? You said you don’t have a dime in pocket, and I seriously need help right now. It’s quite urgent and I need someone I can trust - I mean really trust.”

“I don’t get it,” I replied, unsure of what to say to him. My mind was racing to keep up with him. But why me? You don’t even know who I am. This sounds important. How do you even know I’m someone you can trust. And what about my parents? Do they know you’re calling?”

“Well, those are all good questions Paul and deserve answers, but let’s just say for the moment that I have a good feeling about you. You know, sometimes you just have to trust your instincts about these things, even if it goes against accepted knowledge, know what I mean? Do you trust me? Does anything I’m saying resonate with you?” he asked.

Again, I was taken off guard for a second. He really was my estranged uncle, and he really was from another world, and he could read me like a book.

“Yes, I do,” I heard myself saying. “I do trust you.”

“Good. Well, how long have we known each other, three minutes? It only takes a second for your instincts to know what’s what. But intellect. Oy! The mind! What a fucking rat’s nest. Do you believe everything your parents tell you, everything you hear on the news? Of course not. Ninety percent of everything we hear is bullshit. If you don’t trust your instincts to guide you in life, you’ll never find your way. You’ll end up living a lie based on all the other millions of lies you’ve ever heard, instead of the truth that’s inside you. I don’t think you want that.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “I do know what you mean, actually.”