The Dreams of Manny Schwimmer

By Herb Sachs

Manny Schwimmer talks to God. He talks to Him about installing an air-conditioning system in Hell, about Civil War heroes and black major-league baseball players, about using mathematics to identify the longest river in North America, about the importance of counting grains of sand. He also talks to Him about his personal accomplishments and misfortunes.

Sometimes Manny doesnt know if hes dreaming, or if God is really there. Was it a dream when he found himself in Court with men from his old infantry company, men dead these last 50 years? Did he really argue with God about whether or not he had killed someone, while God frantically checked His computer database for confirmation?

In the bizarre arena of a hospital ICU, Manny meets a woman out to avenge her mothers death, a soon-to-be murdered prostitute, a friend intent on executing Mannys last Will, an ex-wife who denies their son exists. At the same time, he fights issues of amputation, pneumonia, accessory to murder, unanswered wartime questions, self-denial, death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 24, 2002
• ISBN: 9781469104508

Herb Sachs

HERB SACHS has two degrees in electrical engineering, and a broad and satisfying career with Sachs/Freeman Associates in communications system design. As a side job, he served five terms as a Bowie City Councilman. His extensive technical writing preceded a first novel, The Fifth Notebook. He enjoys writing, running, biking, reading, and grandchildren, not necessarily in that order. He and wife Marilyn commute between Bowie, Maryland and Boynton Beach, Florida.

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Copyright © 2002 by Herb Sachs.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,

or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing

from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to

any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The song lyric excerpt in Chapter 4 is from Lush Life, Billy Strayhorn (1936)

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

PRELUDE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

ANDANTE

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ANDANTINO

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

ALLEGRO

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

CRESCENDO

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

FORTISSIMO

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

FORTE

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

DIMINUENDO

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

PIANISSIMO

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

CODA

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

Other books by Herb Sachs

The Fifth Notebook

PRELUDE

ONE

When Manny Schwimmer’s turn came, he stood resolutely before God. His black silk Armani suit with its delicate chalk striping hung stiffly over his loose frame, as if he had forgotten to remove the hanger. A rainbow-splashed Countess Mara tie canted in a nonexistent breeze. His Bruno Magli shoes mirrored the glow from a vague celestial source. The only movement from Manny came from an uncontrolled quivering of his sagging cheeks and the thumping of the skin overlapping his shirt collar.

So, Manny, said God after an uncomfortable pause. Manny didn’t hear the words as much as sense them. Almost four score years is not so bad, Huh?

Not bad at all, your Honor, he replied, trying to stare past the gray spiraling haze before him. Although a couple more would have been nice, he dared to add.

There was a shuffling of paper, and he could have sworn he heard the faint clicking of computer keys. Then, Not in the cards, I’m afraid. We make mistakes once in a while, but not this time.

Manny squinted, causing his drooping jowls to ripple. Uncertain how to respond, he said nothing.

To business, Manny. The light in front of him vibrated. It’s time for retrospection. Not Jeopardy, or Twenty Questions, or Millionaire, you understand. Just a few reflections. Okay? Why don’t you sit down while we do this? Manny felt something press lightly against the back of his knees. He sat. Then he carefully crossed his legs and almost reached for a cigarette. He could sense there was more.

So tell me, Manny, God continued, what do you consider your major achievements while living on Earth?

Achievements? Manny asked, wondering if this was a trick question. You could better tell me. After all, you know everything.

The haze seemed to swirl forward, then retreat. You probably think I keep track of how every being in the universe lives its life, said God, but I don’t. I’m more oriented toward the big picture. I could get involved in the details, but that’s not the way I operate and anyway I would only give myself a super headache. So I look in from time to time to see how things are going. And at moments like this, I get myself up to speed, so to speak. God paused for a reaction. Manny nervously picked at a cuticle, thinking that God was impersonating George Burns. Or vice-versa.

So, achievements, Manny, pressed God. What are you most proud of? What do you consider your top three accomplishments?

Manny folded his arms and stared at what he construed to be the ground. When he looked up, he thought he saw a slash of lightning embed itself in the haze.

Accomplishments, he repeated, slowly accenting each syllable. Let’s see. A pause. For openers, I worked myself out of the poverty and brutality of a west-side Chicago ghetto. Does that count? It may not sound like much, but it took one hell of a lot of smarts and moxie for me, just a kid at the time, to survive Dago and Mick and Polack street gangs that challenged our turf, and to pick up a couple of bucks a week to keep us from starving. His tongue slid across his upper lip. Is this what you want? he asked.

That’s up to you, Manny, God seemed to say. But fill me in a little, will you?

Manny almost countered with something clever, then changed his mind. My folks left Russia to escape Cossacks who became stinking drunk and searched for Jews to torment, beat, and use as saber targets. My father had been a porter, earning a few kopeks a week hauling merchandise in a horse-drawn cart. My mother was one of five daughters of an impoverished tailor and his wife. It was an arranged marriage.

He was warming up, leaning forward, extending a forefinger to make his points. Six months in America, my mother was living in a third-floor Taylor Street tenement that had been subdivided to accommodate four other families, she was pregnant with me, and my father had run off with a woman he’d met at the meat packing plant where he worked. He stared blankly ahead, as if watching a video. The woman’s name was Sophie, he added, for no reason in particular.

There were the clicking keys again. It says here, noted God, that you spent two years in a juvenile detention facility for manslaughter. Do you want to tell me about that?

It was called a reformatory in those days. Melrose Reformatory. A filthy, intimidating, terrorizing place. You know the slogan ‘We Make Men?’ A military academy mantra, among others. Well, Melrose’s motto was ‘We Break Boys.’ Manny took a deep breath, then seemed to digress.

My mother managed to survive as a seamstress and, from the parade of men through our place, I imagine in other ways. I began to earn my keep when I was seven, sweeping out Mr. Kaufmann’s grocery store every day, panhandling on 12th Street. By the time I was ten I was a runner for Seymour the Bookie, and a tag-along member of the Black Hearts—Jews playing like Mafiosi. Three years later, in an alley behind Marco’s Bar on Racine, I mixed it up with a red-headed schmuck in another gang—the Scorpions—over some territorial issue; I happened to have been holding a knife at the time.

That must have been pretty heavy, Manny.

Heavy? mused Manny, checking his shoes. It happened long ago. It was a tough time, and I try not to think back to it. But I don’t remember being traumatized by it, if that’s what you mean. Not then or later. Mad that I had been caught. Pissed at the Scorpions. That’s about it.

Silence punctuated by the sound of a clock ticking. Then something crackled, like a roaring fire. How about other accomplishments, Manny? He finally asked.

There was no hesitation now. I enlisted in the Army after my mother died—that was in ‘38. One tough Jew among a bunch of illiterate Cajuns and half-wit farmers. We trained in the stinking swamps of Louisiana and ended up in the stinking swamps of Panama, pretending to be an effective infantry fighting force. It was like being back in the reformatory again, only now it included water moccasins and tarantulas. They may be your creatures, your Honor, but I’d just as soon you’d kept them away from me.

Manny, try to stay focused, will you, said God with a low rumbling.

Certainly, Sir, replied Manny abstractly, but I have to tell you it was so friggin’ humid there, we had to jump into the ocean to dry off. As Manny snickered to himself, the rumbling got louder. Anyway, my west-side training paid off. It only took a couple of right jabs and left crosses to gain the attention of those hicks. Eventually I got a set of Sergeant’s stripes, and led a heavy weapons company. That was a big high for me. But . . .

But? repeated God.

Then I got busted to Private—something about being drunk on duty, as I recall.

And later came the discharge, interjected God.

Yeah. Manny stared into the past. That happened in the spring of ‘41. It had to do with an altercation I had with Lt. Reynolds, my Company Commander. Seems I took a swing at him. Four months in the stockade, and a dishonorable discharge. Pretty harsh stuff for a court-martial to mete out, especially since the Army was dying for recruits.

That takes us to World War II.

"I tried to get back into the military after Pearl Harbor, but no one wanted me. Strange, thousands of men were out there scheming to dodge the draft, and I kept getting rejected. Finally, I decided to do my part for the war effort in another way; I got into an essential home front industry. Junk.

Iron and steel for armament, copper and tungsten for electrical circuits, mercury for fuses, lead for batteries, and on and on. I bought from mines, salvage yards, dental supply distributors, auto graveyards, assorted warehouses, anyone with something to unload. I sold mostly to government contractors, but I managed to turn a neat profit on shipments to some Central and South American addresses—no questions asked or answered.

You made it big, Manny, at least as far as money was concerned. Didn’t you?

I did okay, conceded Manny, as he rubbed his hands together, but I was also smart enough to stash much of the loot in the same repository used by other gamblers throughout the country—the New York Stock Exchange. It’s the American Way, isn’t it? GE and IBM and Coca-Cola made it for me. That’s the real accomplishment.

As Manny caught his breath, a shadow to his left caused him to turn his head. A statuesque blonde in a red tailored suit smiled down on him. She exuded an odor reminiscent of something Barbara might have worn—something that once inspired urges of sex and lust and Elizabeth Taylor. Hello, she whispered in husky voice. I’m Felicia.

He stared at her Madonna-like features, then carefully checked out everything south—her impressive chest, broad hips, rippling legs. Why are you wearing Reeboks? he unconsciously asked aloud when he reached her feet.

It sometimes gets slippery up here, especially when the clouds roll in, she answered as she handed him a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen. Here’s a summary of the accomplishments you’ve just testified to. Please read it and, if it is correct, sign on the bottom line. One foot tapped impatiently.

Manny glanced perfunctorily at the paper and attempted to hand it back. I think I’d better talk to my lawyer, he said, then added, if that is possible.

Wait a minute, Felicia, God boomed, and the other two swung toward the sound. I have a couple more questions of Mr. Schwimmer. Then you can have him. Please leave us alone.

After Felicia had gone, God asked Manny, who still gripped the paper and pen, if he wanted anything to drink. Before he had a chance to answer hot tea with lemon, no sugar, Manny realized he was now holding a cup and saucer. Thank you, your Honor, he said, already getting accustomed to how the system worked around here.

I was wondering about something, God said, and Manny sensed the words above the clinking sounds of ice cubes striking the side of a glass. In our discussion so far, you haven’t mentioned your wife. Wouldn’t you classify your marriage to Barbara as a major achievement?

Hmm, was his initial response, accompanied by raspy sipping sounds. My chunk of life with Barbara could be considered an accomplishment, I guess. But if you will recall, your Honor, it wasn’t a satisfying marriage. It wasn’t even a marriage of forbearance or tolerance. Most of the time we were like two stalking animals, each ready to pounce on the other when the opportunity arose. After seven years we finally realized we had achieved virtually nothing together, and agreed to a no-fault cessation of hostilities. Barbara moved to Paris, I bought a condo apartment on Riverside Drive, and that was that. We haven’t seen each other in the past 25 years.

You loved her once.

Like a sharp jab in his side. I must have, he whispered. I must have. It’s hard to remember. It was so long ago. His eyes squinted as he searched his memory bank.

A sputtering sound, like a faulty car exhaust, broke the silence. And you had a child—a daughter.

Manny’s face was a mask. He raised and lowered the teacup without drinking, ignoring the liquid that spilled on his pants leg. Naomi, he muttered. She was three at the time of the divorce. I never failed to make support payments, and I went to Europe several times to see her. When she was a teenager, she spent two Augusts in New York with me.

His cheeks began to quiver violently. Beads of sweat clung to his forehead and the corners of his eyes. A lovely girl; Barbara had done a good job raising her. Bright, energetic, articulate. But for some reason, we never clicked. Probably it was my fault—I had other things to do, I wasn’t used to having a kid around, I often lectured rather than listened. We ended up having strained phone conversations a few times a year. I could hear her anger when we talked. A sigh. She now has kids of her own.

Regrets? asked God bluntly.

With regard to Naomi? Of course. I always planned to . . . . His voice trailed off. His head tilted downward until his chin hid the dewlap on his throat.

And what about Me? Manny’s head jerked upward at the question.

You, Sir? he asked. He sensed an echo of an empty auditorium.

Yes, Manny. Me. God. Tinkling sounds, reminiscent of a child’s piano, filled the space. What about Me? God repeated. Talk to Me, Manny.

Manny wished himself back at the weekly poker game, surrounded by his friends, bitching about the weather or the politicians or the lousy TV programs, watching the chips come and go, slamming a full house on the table in triumph. He stared into the haze until a crash of thunder brought him back.

I don’t know what to say, your Honor. We didn’t gab much, you and I. I had to do it on my own. Can’t you see that? Maybe I felt you were never around when I needed you. Or that you were too busy to deal with my personal problems. Or that . . . . His voice trailed, as if an eddy was sucking his sounds down a drain.

You didn’t give me a chance, Manny, did you?

Manny rubbed one hand across his eyes. Maybe not. Once or twice a year I’d stop by a shul, or join a minyan, or think about whether you were really there. Not often enough, I suspect. And not for the right reasons. But that’s the way I handled it.

The haze thickened. One more question, Manny. By the early 1960’s by your calendar, you had accomplished those milestones you spoke about—you’d escaped from your ghetto, had your Army career, made your fortune in junk. There had been an unhappy marriage and a child you never knew. God waited a moment. Tell me, Manny, He asked in a conciliatory tone, what did you do with the rest of your life? Where were you the last 35 years?

Manny stared in the direction of God, his eyes half-closed to soften the brilliance. He didn’t hesitate. Why, I sat back and relished my achievements! he said proudly.

TWO

One instant he was struggling to remain asleep, the next his eyes were open and he was staring into impenetrable nothingness. The shock of the transition was at first unacceptable. Then a sense of drowning in sweat overwhelmed him. He turned onto his left side and raised the edge of the blanket to let the room air slide over his body and begin to dry his skin. When his retinas finally caught enough light to distinguish vague shapes and shadows, he glanced toward the green glow of the clock on the nightstand. 4:06. He knew it didn’t signify late afternoon.

Crazy! Manny Schwimmer speculated, forcing his eyes closed as he struggled to drag himself back into the dream, trying to retain it’s essence before it slipped away forever. He mentally jotted down what he could remember, recognizing his dreams usually had the elusiveness of a grade-C movie.

He was too engrossed in the replay to notice the noises of the night—the faint pulses of the clock, the hum and erratic thumps of the refrigerator and its almost useless icemaker, the purr of the occasional car on the road bordering the housing development. A soft breeze materialized, creating a swish of palm fronds and the rattle of a distant gate, but he didn’t hear the sounds, even though his bedroom window was open.

After a while he gave a resigned sigh, rolled onto his back, and propped his pillow against the headboard. What the hell was that all about? he asked himself, meanwhile staring at the blank wall at the end of the bedroom, as if a TV screen displaying a Dolphins game was mounted there. But the images he was trying to recreate had nothing to do with football.

One of the leading characters of this night, he decided, had been this crude, comical, pathetic characterization of Manny Schwimmer. A narrow-minded, stubborn, quirky introvert who had clawed his way through life like a cornered tomcat. Very different from the real commodity, he concluded.

Sure, he’d grown up poor in Chicago. Yeah, he was divorced. And he’d made a few bucks in the stock market over the years. But all the rest—the reform school, the junk business, the daughter—was bullshit. Like dreaming he was an astronaut, or had won the Boston Marathon. Yet, real or not, there was something about the dream that disturbed him. He fumbled for the pack of Benson and Hedges that always sat on the nightstand, then remembered he quit cold turkey fifteen years ago.

It took him a few minutes more to realize he knew everything about the images he would ever know, and he had no answers. Shit! he said in exasperation, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. Just a stupid dream. Slowly and unsteadily he pushed himself to a sitting position, then to a standing one. Shit, he muttered again as he shuffled toward the dim glow of the night light in the bathroom.

This was the first time Manny Schwimmer had been upright at four in the morning since the fire in Russ Barron’s apartment next door. That had been almost eight years ago. It hadn’t taken a genius to realize it made no sense trying to sleep while acrid smoke poured through the edges of his front door. Tonight he hadn’t noticed any fumes—at least not the acrid kind.

He didn’t flip on the bathroom light until he peed an erratic stream that kept splashing the rim of the toilet bowl. When he did throw the switch, and the blast of the ceiling light hit him, he instinctively squinted, straining the rays until the pain behind his temples subsided. At that point he began to recognize the beige Formica washstand with its peeling chrome knobs and spout, the bargain rate Home Depot medicine cabinet, the mold-encrusted shower stall, the pale everything else.

In the mirror that intruded in front of him he saw a rumpled, puffy, stubble-faced old man staring at him. The reflection had faded skin, sagging jowls, a limp chest, a retracted hairline. Manny instinctively decided he didn’t know anyone who looked like that.

But you do, boychik, you do, he slowly admitted to himself, as he stood motionless before the mirror. This is you, like it or not. You’re no longer a kid in Chicago, or a 22 year old commanding officer in the Fourth Infantry in Europe, or a Northwestern University student on the G.I. Bill, or a Senn High School math teacher. You’re not even the guy who spent almost half his life in a nondescript cubbyhole at GlobeCom Engineering making orbital, payload, and trajectory calculations for NASA space flights. This is you, buddy, in your final role, your last assignment on earth—a decrepit, rudderless, lonely, South Florida retiree. He turned from the mirror in disgust.

Two hours later, as the still hidden sun began to silhouette the palms and high-rises facing his living room window, while the undersides of low-level cirrostratus clouds were being painted with a delicate pink brush, Manny remained slouched in his Castro recliner, idly watching the news on CNN. He wore the same Jockey shorts he’d slept in, and had added white socks. A half-empty cup of Lipton’s rested on the ‘mica end table next to him, the cup sitting amid the circular stains of previous drinks.

On TV, Bernard Shaw was saying, . . . and in North Carolina, two teen-agers will be arraigned in Albemarle County Court House today for breaking into the barn of a local dairy farmer and slaughtering six cows. The crime, apparently part of a college fraternity initiation, was discovered by Mike McNamara when he went out one morning last week to milk his cows.

The camera focused on the front doors of a modern, stark white, aluminum-sided structure, then panned over to burly Farmer McNamara. When I first walked in, it was a mess. Blood all over the place. Legs, tails, and udders cut away from the bodies. Dolly’s head crudely amputated. A gruesome sight, I can tell you . . . .

Fuckin’ kids, Manny murmured aloud. No respect for anything anymore. Those two ought to be shot. He looked at the cup, then