Rabbi Soul

By Ron Rollins

Few are fortunate to have encountered a life of splendor such as the gift bestowed upon Rabbi Goodman. Love and favor have accompanied him throughout his days. Each challenge placed before him, Rabbi has managed to overcome. His storied attributes are unrivaled. Even today, both the sun and the moon illuminates a welcomed legend amongst the daily trials of a city.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ron Rollins
• Release date: Feb 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301715824

Ron Rollins

Ron Rollins dares to dream.

Book preview

Folks say that God took paper and traced Rabbi’s face, and then upon my body this work of art was placed.

- Jason Goodman

FOR LOVE

FOR LIFE

WE DREAM

1

INTRO

Can you spare some change? Humbled by life’s failures, his head remains bowed as he extends his hand with hope. He grasps at my sleeve as I push forward. I pull away to remain on task. Suddenly, the elderly man looks up and through recognition, the lights power up in his eyes. His mouth opens as his silver tongue releases words captured by my unwelcoming ears. For a second I thought I’d seen his ghost! It’s uncanny, simply uncanny.

It was then that I recognized this man to be none other than my grandfather’s dear friend, Teardrop.

The thing is, your grandpa Rabbi always looked after me even if it meant great sacrifice. You know… I was kind of hoping that you would do the same. Teardrop showcased a toothless, yet pleasant smile.

Through his street presentation, I couldn’t help but to notice the countless storied lines and expressions about his face. Time can alter a man, distorting his priorities and bending predestined realities. These days for Teardrop, a bottle of cheap whiskey a day kept the demons at bay.

Born Alex Lansing in a small town forty-five miles north of Chicago Illinois, Teardrop is one of three remaining survivors of the Legendary Goodman Boys, my late grandfather’s gang. My grand old man was once referred to as Chicago royalty around these parts. A title bestowed upon him in part from the various connections and large profits he amounted. In short, grandpa Rabbi was one of the first self made men around these parts, during a time where few in the area were capable of prosperity. His very blood was a purified mixture of oil and water, a gift to this world brought about by forbidden love; within a country that ridiculed the cultural status of both his father and mother.

My great-grandfather, Sid Goodman, saved each day’s earnings for five years time, while living the most meager of existence, so that he could achieve his life’s dream of going to the Americas. Sid eventually bought passage on a trade ship set out from the old country, in search of all that inspired that dream. He would have a good Jewish life favorable within the eyes of God. A good home filled with good, loving Jewish children, raised wholeheartedly by a good Jewish wife. Sid came to realize his dream, and in doing so learned the infinite boundaries of love. He fell into eternity with a beautiful, loving woman named Jessica Riley, the granddaughter of a slave. After three years of marital bliss, she gave birth to a miracle child- Johnny Goodman…AKA Rabbi.

Rabbi and Teardrop were inseparable. Old stories traveled about the neighborhood would often reference them as legends…On a good day. As legend would have it, on a particular eve inside a rural town located just outside of Chicago, young Johnny was racing home for dinner when the sound of human screams froze him in his tracks. Curious by nature, he advanced toward its origination. There, through the brush before him, stood five human figures dressed in all white, from the hoods covering their forbidden faces to their ankle high, mud ridden bootstraps. Two silent figures holding fire breathing sticks stood to the rear, while the remaining three each held rifles horizontally pointed at two adults. One, a brown skinned male dipped in red, until burgundy tinted his flesh. The other, a beautiful fire skin toned female. Blindfolded, they sat bareback and bound tightly on top a midnight steed. While Johnny examined the scene more closely, the haunting sight he was presently cursed to witness began etching itself into his evermore nightmares. From each of their necks extended individual ropes, lassoed securely around the large tree branch stabbing at the night sky high above them.

Suddenly the female spoke, her voice the very epitome of fear.

Please don’t harm my son…Please!

It was only then that Johnny noticed in the dirt, tied at the hands, lay the skinniest kid he ever gave sight. Instantly he felt that poor boy’s strife. There came a brief and awkward silence, abruptly pushed aside by the thunderous roar of three rifles simultaneously shooting for the stars. The horse, startled by the thunder from the black cannons, galloped off into the night’s embrace. The world spun swiftly, spilling red upon her earth. The female stronger in bond with her child spoke miraculously through her inevitable ending.

Run Alex, flee son, and don’t you stop!

With great difficulty, yet still within her final breath she requested that he not cry, not ever. Only run.

Alex didn’t look back as his mother and father became motionless in the Illinois wind. Like a rabbit being pursued by a fox, the young boy dashed into the woods. Johnny knew he had to help. Familiar with the area he headed the boy off and tackled him. The boy’s screams were relentless; everything his heart once beat for was no more.

Be quiet, boy! They’ll hear you! Johnny embraced Alex’s frail frame.

Alex could not silence himself; the love loss continued to overwhelm his senses, dominating his ability to rationalize the situation. He continued to both cry and scream, until Johnny laid down a smack across his right cheek. Johnny bound him to the ground and in doing so repeated the words of the boy’s brave mother to him.

Don’t cry…you hear! Don’t you shed one teardrop!

Thus, on the darkest of nights, my grandfather, Rabbi not only met his forever friend, but also named him; Teardrop, according to legend, on a good day.

BONG! BONG! The clock struck, jarring me from my reflective state. Five o’clock had arrived. The town square’s faithful clock tower explodes, reminding everyone of their momentary commitments. My family was home awaiting my return. And so, I continue on without giving Teardrop even the courtesy of a verbal acknowledgment.

I thought to myself, as I headed home, God please watch over that foolish old man. Ironically, everyone that knew Teardrop understood that the only reason Teardrop’s over expired body still walked these streets was in fact because God was constantly, without break, watching over him.

2

JASON

Responsibility is the one attribute in which I have always taken pride, not that I’d always seen the best examples of it. I, Jason Goodman, pride myself in being a man of my word. The clock strikes ten after the hour before I finally reach the walkway that leads to my front door.

Mind-shattering anticipation overtakes me as I envision my remarkable wife, Olivia, setting the table. My home welcomes me; its open gates act as open arms. I notice the side gate has also been left ajar. My dog, Hero, is more than likely two states away by now, but still my concentration does not falter. She will no doubt find her way home, she always does. The brass handle to our entry door is as familiar as it is comforting. My daughter, Daniela, startles me with a sudden hug as I enter our home.

Daddy, what took you so long? You know I can’t have Italian spaghetti without the French bread! She grasps the brown paper bag from my arms and runs off toward the dinner table. My attention turns toward our kitchen where Olivia stands with her back facing me. Her beautiful red hair seemingly adds tint to the entire room, calming shades of love. Forever I will remain in wonder of her exquisiteness.

My wife is a true experiment of love. Sadly, her parents never wed. They were from separate worlds that would have inevitably collided if they had married. Her mother was a nurse working with the Red Cross during the Vietnam War. Her father was a promising doctor, who extended from a wealthy WASP Massachusetts family. She believes within her heart that he cherished her mother dearly, but his family could not replicate this love. Not because of her being a nurse, but due to their difference in cultural being.

Living within the moment often reveals only the possibility of true love and for Olivia’s parents; their moment represented a world inside the harsh expectations of modern man’s realities. Olivia’s father may have attempted to reveal his desire to his family for a life complete with her mother?

For Olivia it’s a simple speculation of the heart. The fact remains that Olivia’s mother stood freezing in the cold rain, pleading for acceptance before her father’s family, while holding tightly within her womb their bridge to eternity, still, the door remained closed, therefore forcing her mother to endure the cycle of birth alone. She soon gave life to a beautiful baby-girl. He promised he would come for her after the birth of their daughter, but the young doctor never came, ultimately depriving himself of the most precious of gifts, fatherhood.

Daddy, wash your hands. Dinner is ready.

I follow Daniela’s orders as always. We three sit together and give thanks. I am overwhelmingly pleased. There exists no man wealthier than I at this very moment, and it shows from the shine in my smile to the diamond fragment visible beneath my left eye. These precious, stolen moments we spend together at dinner are easily the highlight of each day. Here we laugh, while breaking bread within each other’s presence. Here they are not simply passing thoughts during my hectic day, but live and important factors of my life. Close enough for me to touch, should I feel the need to express my love for them without the use of words. I listen with anticipation to the details of their day’s events, basking in the joy of hearing each personal accomplishment they attained. They enlighten me to the strength of both woman and girl, during open scribed adventures of their independent daily pursuits. Personal moments that took place without me, yet still they bring them home to share.

The phone rings unexpectedly, interrupting our melody of life. Its tone is off key, disturbing a family masterpiece. Two rings escape into our symphony before Olivia excuses herself from the table.

I will be right back, and Jason, don’t you dare touch my French bread! She glances in my direction. A slight scowl establishes itself on her face. A bit of theatrical intimidation to assure that her plate stays intact until her return. Daniela and I immediately lock eyes from across the table.

Well, Dad, she did say for you not to touch her bread. There was no mention of me.

I explode into laughter as Daniela breaks off a small section of her mother’s bread. I am outwardly jubilant, until Olivia’s voice carries out from our kitchen, quickly acquiring my attention.

Yes, I know Alex Lansing. What do you mean he has us listed as his next of kin? Is he all right? Is everything ok?

My fork falls from my hand, striking the hardwood floor beneath me. The sudden clunk startles Daniela, but she doesn’t react. Her expression remains blank, as the innocence that is her very essence leaves her momentarily confused. Teardrop means the world to Daniela. When time does allow for the chance to happen upon him, his spirits are grand, often energetic and regularly amusing, He represents a sort of grandfatherly figure to her. I sit within an awkward silence while processing Olivia’s every word. My mind begins to drift through an array of possible realities or causes for this warranted intrusion to our family meal.

Jason! Olivia calls out for me. Honey you should have this call.

My eyes refocus from the world of thought, back to certainty, as Olivia hands the phone to me.

The voice from the other end or our phone line quickly identifies himself as Dr. Wong, M.D. and present caretaker of a Mr. Alex Lansing. The good doctor describes, in full detail, the local police account of how his new patient came to be in his care, unconscious, and heavily bandaged on the eleventh floor of St. Luke hospital. Dr. Wong informs me that Mr. Lansing is currently listed in critical condition. Teardrop was assaulted by a group of youths, using what eyewitnesses described as a large iron rod. He had sustained multiple injuries to the head, spinal cord, and chest cavity, leading Dr. Wong to further express to me his concern for the possibility of internal bleeding. A series of tests were being administered as we spoke. I thanked the doctor for his explanation, as well as for his sense of urgency to this matter, and then politely ended our call. Teardrop reached for me, but I pushed him away. I could have extended an olive branch. I could have lent a hand.

• • •

No questions followed, only understanding. Olivia and Daniela understood as only family can. They both offered to accompany me to St. Luke Hospital, but the day had aged well into the night and they each had a very large agenda tomorrow. We bid goodnight with a reassuring kiss that everything would be just fine.

3

ARRIVAL

Music can assist the soul in reaching its freedom. A small passageway provided by my car’s moonroof reveals the night sky. Its starry occupants sparkle, while their brilliance struggles for release. Remarkable is their shimmer; all that is free to me. I feel compelled to soar into the night sky, well above any boundaries preset by man. Instead, I am denied my transport to a state of serenity. It is off to Teardrop’s side I go, held at bay by tender thoughts of a toothless smile. I decrease the car radios volume to a minimum, until only my thoughts remain vocal.

Teardrop really does hold a special place in my life.

Suddenly, I am burdened with regret. Never have I told him of his worth to me. I have taken the countless opportunities provided me over the years for granted. Upward my prayers ascend into the night sky, in search of redemption, in quest of another opportunity.

The ride to St. Luke Hospital seems to last an eternity, though my watch only lists it at twenty minutes. Time moves swiftly when matters of the heart are at play. The closest open parking space is marked Emergency only.

Olivia’s words echo inside my head as I depart from my car, He listed us as his next of kin in case of emergency. A smile manages to slash its way through my otherwise traumatic facial expression as I greet the tall blonde haired gentleman at the reception desk with the necessary pleasantries.

Good evening sir, can you please direct me to the closest elevator leading to the eleventh floor?

He politely requests that I give him the nature of my visit to the hospital’s eleventh floor. I explain that someone very dear to me is a patient here.

May I have the patient’s name? I will be better able to assist you then.

Alex Lansing I reply.

The receptionist then turns to the monitor to the left of him. His fingers move effortlessly across the keyboard below it, until he looks back to me.

Mr. Lansing is in room 1107, Sir, just take this corridor all the way down, and then make a left. The elevator leading to the eleventh floor will be directly on your right hand side, after you turn the corner.

He seems very eager to assist me at this point. I glance at the name plate held up magnetically to one of the three metal walls that complete his cubicle. Lionel Solomon.

Lionel, is it? Great name, thank you very much for your assistance.

Upon reaching the elevator, I am greeted by an elderly woman, who is busy repeatedly pushing the up button.

Darn thing must be broken. Once she releases the button, the elevator doors open. Her cheeks flush, filled with a brief rush of embarrassment; yet as she enters the elevator she still manages to muster a short bit of comic relief.

Well, are you coming or not? You know this thing has a mind of its own.

We pause shortly to share a moment of laughter and then ascend to the eleventh floor. The elevator trip is a fast one. We stop first at the seventh floor, where my new friend, the extremely talkative elderly woman departs to visit her neighbor’s niece, whom has just been blessed with twins. The stainless steel elevator doors interrupt her as she bids me farewell. A blink of the eye later, the number eleven lights up on the panel before me, followed by a buzzer that ironically reminds me of our oven timer at home. I have reached my destination. A large oval shaped sign hanging on the wall exhibits arrows pointing right for rooms 1102 - 1120, and left for rooms 1101 - 1119. A half moon shaped desk positions itself directly beneath those numbers.

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