The Road to Shmeggegee

By Joel Spiegelman

The Road to Shmeggegee is a hilarious memoir of the trails and tribulations of the life of composer/conductor/innovator/explorer Joel Spiegelman. Packed with humor, it combines the ironies, twists and turns of living in a complex world marked by turbulent relationships, successes, failures, and an utterly fascinating life. It keeps alive the comic tradition of Mel Brooks and Woody Allen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Apr 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9781620955390

Book preview

Harry

The Flood of June 5, 1982

I had just dropped off my son Jake at ‘his mother’s.’ It was raining profusely. In fact, I had never before seen the heavens really open up like that. Was God pissing on his children?

All of Connecticut had become a soggy mess. The downpour was relentless. I managed to find my way to Whitney Avenue and headed for the Merritt parkway interchange. Within moments I realized that this was no usual situation. No matter, I was sure that I could beat it. Traffic was being diverted because of flooding. I decided to take my chances. After all it was a well known fact that I had supernatural powers so I drove my car directly into the water. I was praying all the time. Even before the flood, I had been praying that God should grace me with a new car. Isn’t it a bad omen to drive around in a car in which you just got divorced?. The 1973 Chrysler Valiant seemed to glide effortless through the rising river that was beginning to form around me. Soon the river began to assume the characteristics of a small lake and I smelled trouble ahead. It was nothing, I thought. I’ll get through. A piece of cake! I will think my way through. Mind power will do it. Psychokinesis! So I turned myself on, all the time reciting out loud a magic incantation I had just made up. No kidding! I really expected to part the waters. Maybe just a little! After all, wasn’t I descended from the Prophet Moses? But, the omnipotent almighty didn’t respond. Instead, my Valiant came to a complete halt. I thought to myself It’s all right, I am sure I can think my way out of this. So, I thought out loud: Car move, car move, I said. Nothing happened. So I tried a little harder. I squeezed the words out with the hope that I could somehow psychically ‘squeeze’ myself onto the land that lay ahead. I turned the ignition and the car started. I pressed down on the gas pedal, and my Chrysler began to move. And suddenly it was all over.

The car now having come to a definitive crank down was slowly filling up with water. I clearly had a dilemma on my hands. I did learn one thing: for psychokinesis to work properly, it shouldn’t be raining. You have to do it in dry weather, and your feet shouldn’t be touching water either.

As I was searching for a solution, I thought of Zhmerinka, a small town in the southern Ukraine where my grandmother was born. A long time ago, in Zhmerinka, an old Jew came to his Rabbi with a serious problem. He also had a dilemma. Rabbi, he said, There is something I don’t understand. Nu, my son, what is it? asked the Rabbi. What I don’t understand is the difference between the Bolsheviks and the Impressionists? My son, he answered, You shouldn’t worry. I don’t understand either. But, there is one thing I do understand: We had better get out of here fast.

With this message flashing in my brain, I took off my brand new and quite magnificent Stetson hat, recently acquired as a gift from the Houston Symphony, and carefully placed it under the back window of my rapidly submerging car. God forbid the rain should touch it. By this time the water was up to the car window. I pushed the car door open against the rushing flood waters that were trying hard to keep it closed. I won. But the victory wasn’t an easy one. I stepped out of the car into water, which by this time was shoulder deep. I barely made it to land and was immediately directed to an evacuation center where I was forced to spend the next several days sleeping on old army cots and gorging on stale Dunkin Doughnuts, MacDonald’s hamburgers, and yesterday’s coffee. The local TV news came to interview me Professor Spiegelman, tell us what it feels like to be stranded in a flood? What are your thoughts at this very moment? they asked. My dear I replied, being stranded isn’t such a bad thing, much better than drowning. But on the other hand, drowning might be preferable to drinking yesterday’s coffee with stale doughnuts.

Finally, we were allowed to leave and the first thing I did was to look for my poor Valiant. There it was standing all alone in the middle of the street, which by this time had dried as the waters had receded back to the Whitney River from where they came. The car was dead, but the Lord saved my Stetson hat from the wrath of the rising waters. I grabbed it and left fearing another disaster might hit at any time.

One Month Later

The courtroom was packed with people waiting their turn. They were mostly debtors, a few creditors and the ever present attorneys. It was a disquieting and nervous atmosphere. It went along with the shabbiness of the setting, the low ceilings, the smell of sweat, smoky clothes, beer and the milling around in the tiny corridor overflowing onto the sidewalk next to a parking lot set about one hundred feet back from the street.

Perhaps it was all very appropriate. Bankruptcy is not something we are apt to brag about, so why shouldn’t the courthouse be set in a place not visible to the naked eye. Why shouldn’t it stink! I felt some comfort in all of this especially the hidden location.

My wife, Tanya, was sitting with our attorney two rows behind me. We greeted each other with a nod. It was exactly two months to the day that I had left her and filed for a divorce. The last thing that I wanted was another divorce. For with this one, the whole ship had to come down.

The hearing had not yet begun. The room was semi-quiet. There was an air of latent expectancy. Suddenly a loud and angry voice broke through the stupor. It was Tanya.

Do you see that son-of-a-bitch? That little intelligent looking quiet shit! Look at him! He’ll remember his third wife. He’s an agent of the KGB, and I can prove it. I have a letter from his second wife, Ludmilla that proves without a doubt that he’s a Soviet agent.

Her low voice was rasping as she continued to spew venom.

I’ll show that bastard, that little turd, she continued. Thursday, I’ll show it to the FBI. That will teach him a lesson!

I didn’t know what to think. I was stunned. An agent of the KGB. Lyudmila. The FBI. What is going on? I thought we had come here to clear our debts. I sat quietly, not reacting, just thinking. I see that nothing has changed, I said to myself. She is the same. But, here in public? To burst out like that in front of everybody in a crowded courtroom! That bitch! That mishoogana!

Our name is called, shaking from this vicious preemptive strike, I rise and walk with her to our places at the head of the room.

Raise your right hand. Do you swear … And we were sworn in.

We used to be sworn lovers. And now, we are sworn enemies; going bust together amid a volley of accusations crying espionage. As if it wasn’t bad enough to be both broke and divorcing, I had to be a spy, too.

Are there any creditors present?

Yes.

Please step forward.

An assistant manager of one of the branches of Citibank is sworn in. He pulls a document from his file.

Are these signatures yours? He asks pointing to a mortgage application.

Yes, I answer.

Is the information contained here correct?

Yes,