The Diner Under the El

By Raanan Geberer

Many people think that the "baby boomers" all became successful and wealthy. Raanan Geberers New York-based "The Diner Under the El," however, shines the spotlight on people usually ignored in fiction. These are people who are somewhat shy, or dont have the type of outgoing self-confidence idealized by American society, and are often made to suffer for it.

"The Diner Under the El" takes place from 1987 to 1991, and focuses on three young Jewish men in their mid-thirties from the Pelham Parkway neighborhood of the north Bronx, N.Y. Every week, they go to singles events, and afterward, they meet at the "diner under the el" to commiserate. Change inevitably comes to their lives.

One loses himself in ultra-right-wing conspiracy theories and sadistic sexual fantasies; the second, a would-be rock musician, sees his paste-up job becoming rapidly obsolete; and the third finds salvation with an off-beat woman who introduces him to poetry, New Age mysticism and pop psychology, with hilarious results.

Author Raanan Geberer describes "The Diner Under the El" as something like "Seinfeld," but with a tragi-comic twist. Enjoy!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 5, 2001
• ISBN: 9781469117409

Raanan Geberer

Raanan Geberer was born in the Bronx, N.Y., attended local schools, the State University of New York at Binghamton, and Boston University. After working for several years in management for the New York City Housing Authority, he began working in journalism in 1981, and has worked for several newspapers and magazines, although he is contemplating a career change to teaching. He also gives walking tours as a hobby, has played in several musical groups, and has participated in two archaeological digs in Israel. He has lived, at various times, in the Bronx, San Francisco, Manhattan, Indianapolis, Brooklyn, and is now back in Manhattan, where he lives with his wife, the former Rhea Lewin. His main interests are rock and jazz music, politics, religion, and local history.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

There were three guys at the table at the coffee shop on White

Plains Road, just off of Pelham Parkway in the North Bronx, where they always went after going to singles events. They’d just come back from a dance at the Mount Vernon Temple.

I can’t believe that MC, said Louis, the guy with the reddish brown hair and the frayed western shirt. She kept saying, `Come on! Everybody get out onto the floor!’ And they played the music so loud, you didn’t have a chance to talk to anyone!

Yeah, it was a bummer said Irwin the accountant, the guy with the thick, horned-rimmed glasses, smiling to himself and staring at the floor as usual. Maybe we should have gone to the dance in Great Neck, or that Junior Hadassah ice-skating party. Professional Singles in the Know had a dance too, at some place on the West Side.

I didn’t see it in the Singles Bulletin, said the third guy, Larry, the overweight guy with the sideburns and suspenders. I guess they forgot to put it in.

I don’t like the West Side, Louis said pointedly. No matter what anyone says, it’s still dangerous! Still a lot of undesirables around there. That Annie, the one at my job, agrees! Whenever she goes to a social or a disco in Manhattan, she’ll only go to the Upper East Side.

I told you, Louis, Larry interjected, they haven’t called them `discos’ for six, seven years already. They’re just called `dance clubs’ now!

Discos, dance clubs, whatever, Louis said, scowling. He hated when Larry showed off about his knowledge of this popular trash, this so-called music.

What’ll you have? the uniformed teenage waitress suddenly said, interrupting them. She really didn’t have to ask: they usually ordered the same thing. Louis ordered a pizza burger, well done, Irwin a tuna fish sandwich, Larry eggplant parmesan. All three had diet cokes.

They were just three guys in their mid-thirties. They had grown up together in the Pelham Parkway area, played touch football together, gone to Christopher Columbus High School and then to Lehman College Together, and now went to singles events at least once a week. More than half of the time, they went to Jewish-sponsored events. Although none of them was that religious and only Irwin had any Jewish interests, they were used to these functions, they felt comfortable there, and the events were highly advertised. Until two years ago the group was a foursome, but then Barry got married and moved to Westchester. Now he worked for his father-in-law in the garment business, with a baby on the way. Still, the remaining three had each other’s companionship and that’s what kept them from getting discouraged, even if they had to keep going to these events week after week, month after month, year after year.

Hey, Larry asked Irwin, trying to make small talk, you see Michael Jackson on TV a few nights ago?

Yeah, admitted Irwin, but he still sounds a lot like 1970s disco to me!

Phil Collins was also on TV, on that British Grammy-type show.

Yeah, he’s OK, but Billy Joel’s still the best!

Louis just likes Rachmaninoff! They both laughed. For his part, Louis didn’t see what was so funny about the fact that he liked serious music. As far as he was concerned, it was one of several things that set him above the hoi polloi.

The waitress bought their orders and they ate in silence for a little while. Larry wolfed down huge bites; Irwin and Louis attacked their food slowly, deliberately. Louis frowned; his burger wasn’t done enough. If he was anywhere else, he would have sent it back, but here, he had to restrain himself because he came here on a regular basis. Larry absent-mindedly stared at the waitress, her shapely legs, her young skin, her tight-fitting uniform, her small but firm and high breasts. Why can’t you find girls who look like that in the singles scene?, he asked himself for the millionth time. Most of the girls at singles functions dressed to hide their figures, not to show them off.

Hey, Irwin suddenly announced, dabbing himself with his napkin. Look around. Only old people here!

Yeah, Larry agreed. Not too many young people around here anymore. That’s one reason I moved to Forest Hills.

Oh, you guys, said Louis sarcastically, dismissing the other two with a wave of his arm. Of course there are people in this neighborhood! You just have to know where to look for them, that’s all!

They paused a bit to watch the game on the TV set in the corner, then the waitress bought them their checks. They both walked Larry to his car, then Louis walked the short distance to his house and Irwin started walking north toward Mace Avenue. They bid each other goodbye until next week.

CHAPTER 2

The building that Louis’s family lived in was called a "new

building" even though it was 25 years old. That’s because unlike most of the apartment houses in the Pelham Parkway area, which were erected in the 1920s and ’30s, it boasted terraces and built-in air conditioning. It was still considered a desirable place to live, and now that it was going co-op, Louis’s family had just taken out a mortgage.

Opening the door, Louis witnessed the same scene as he had for years. His father was sitting at the kitchen table, trying to read the Post but nodding out, half-asleep. He worked nights for the Post Office, and had just gotten home. His mother was sitting next to him, drinking coffee and reading the New Yorker.

Hi dad, hi mom, he said perfunctorily. Actually, he hoped his parents wouldn’t notice him; his mother could go on a tangent at any second. Even now, his shoulders were slightly raised in a gesture of fear.

Hi, Louis, his father wearily said, looking up momentarily. How did your dance go?

Oh, not so good, not so bad. The music was so loud it was difficult to talk to anyone. Most of the girls were either the heavily-made-up, JAP type who wants a guy making $60,000 a year or else the mousy, socially retarded type, almost nothing in between.

Naturally, you would say that! Louis’s mother sharply interjected. You go back to these things week after week, and nothing happens. And naturally, if you actually do meet someone, she drops you in a few weeks or so. You must be doing something wrong, I don’t care what you say! Perhaps it’s because you’re a weirdo?

Mom, Louis said wearily, we’ve been through this before. It’s not like in your day, when the women were friendly. Now, if you don’t meet their precise requirements, they won’t even say hello! And if they start talking to you and you have the wrong type of job or live in the wrong place or something, they’ll just walk away without even trying to give an explanation!

I don’t believe you, she spat out, brazenly. You’re making this up. You’re just doing this for spite, so you’ll be on our hands forever. If a girl’s not some sort of slut, you’re not interested in her! Or maybe, just maybe, you scare them off by being in the company of those two jerks, those morons! You rotten thing! Oh, by the way, Mr. Big Shot, you left coffee grounds in the sink this morning, and I had to clean them out myself! Like I’ve said many times, you have no compassion, no feeling for other people whatsoever!

Ma, leave me alone, he mumbled, slipping out into the hall. He learned long ago that it was useless to disagree with her; she would never concede a point, and it would only drive her to new heights. He still remembered the time when he was 12 and she threw a putty knife at him. She had to spend two weeks in the ward at Jacobi Hospital after that.

In the hall, Louis passed his sister’s old room, which mom, now an assistant principal, used as a kind of office. He remembered the times when, night after night, he would slip into his sister’s room and run his hands over her sleeping body. Years later, his sister, now a physical therapist upstate, had told him that she had been awake after all, and even had secretly liked it. She thought the whole thing was a kind of joke, but Louis couldn’t help but thinking that his lack of success in the singles scene was God’s punishment for abusing his sister.

At the end of the hall was Louis’ own room. Above his bed he had taped up a map of the positions of Allied and Axis troops at the end of World War II; a map of Europe and Asia, with an emphasis on those countries that had missiles pointed at the U.S.; and photos he had cut out of Jane’s Fighting Ships. Once inside, he closed the door and uttered a sigh of relief; now he was in his own world, and nothing could disturb him. He opened up that new paperback he had received in the mail on Thursday: The Real Threat to America by Rear Adm. James A. Geraghty III (Ret.).

Moving his finger slowly under the printed words, he read, The so-called changes that have occurred in the Soviet Union during the last two years under Gorbachev are merely cosmetic. The weapons are still there, aimed at America. After a period of time, pre-arranged by the Illuminists to lull the American public, the hard-line communists will take power again, stronger than ever. Of course, President Reagan knows all about this, yet he says nothing. This is the same President Reagan, mind you, who has been a member of the Council on Foreign Relations and several ultra-secret Freemasonic orders since his 20s. . . .

Great stuff! It was time to go to sleep. But first, he needed to jerk off, especially after that disaster at the dance. He went over to the tape recorder and put on some music so his parents couldn’t hear him, specifically, Mussogursky’s Night on Bald Mountain. He unbuckled his pants, slid them off, and then lay down face front on the bed, thrashing his pelvis downward. As usual, he thought of his last girlfriend from three years ago, Maggie, the one who moved to Arizona. He had gone out with her for almost five months, a record amount of time for him. He thought of her size-40 breasts, her gigantic ass. Oh please, Maggie, he almost screamed, as the orchestra’s trumpets rang out a song of dread.

CHAPTER 3

Next Sunday, Louis, Irwin and Larry decided to go on a tour

of the historic Lower East Side given by the Fraternal Lodge’s Singles Branch. The original members of the Fraternal Lodge, back in the 1910s and ’20s, were very active in the struggles that led to the recognition of the ILGWU, the Amalgamated Clothing Workers Union, and several smaller Jewish-dominated labor unions. They also established a network of Yiddish schools, most of which later closed, and sought to preserve Yiddish music and theater. None of this, though, meant anything whatsoever to most of the 30 or so people on the walk—to them it was just another advertised Jewish singles event.

This building, now a Chinese church, was once the headquarters of the Jewish Daily Forward, with which this organization has enjoyed a friendly relationship for many years. On the 10th floor, the great editor Abraham Cahan, author of the novel `The Rise of David Levinsky’. . . .

Hey, don’t you girls live in Co-Op City?

Yeah, we used to live there, but we don’t live there anymore!

The gregarious Larry immediately started talking to the women in the group. His philosophy was to talk to as many of them as possible, on the theory that he might be compatible with one in ten or one in twenty, and it was just a matter of odds. Unfortunately, the only thing he could think of talking to them about was the singles scene itself.

So, Marsha, you ever answer any ads in the Voice?

No, I’m extra-careful. You never know what weirdos might take out ads.

You ever go to Club Med?

No, but I did go to Camp Fun-Filled in the Berkshires. I just love the sports, the tennis, the swimming, the scuba diving, the skiing in the winter . . . you ski?

No, I just play handball. You like to go to the summer concerts in Central Park?

Maybe sometimes a classical concert, but I can’t stand that loud music.

Larry could already see that this wasn’t getting anywhere, but he continued to talk to her, afraid that if he walked away from him she would be insulted. Finally she asked, Do you mind if I go across the street for a second and get a soda? Larry uttered an inner prayer of thanksgiving.

Irwin, the shyest of the group, couldn’t get up the nerve to approach anyone. So he kept smiling at the women, hoping one would smile back. Then he would be able to go over and talk to them. But they just smiled briefly and then turned away, or else ignored him totally.

Over there is the Bialystoker Home for the Aged. Even now, it gives free medical care to anyone who can prove that their ancestors came from the region of Bialystok.

Louis seemed to be having more luck. He struck up a conversation with a tall, thin woman wearing a light blue shirt with ruffles and pastel pink polyester stretch pants.

So Marcie, uh, you live in Kew Gardens? Louis asked.

Yes. I used to live in Riverdale, but I got divorced a few months ago and moved back with my mother.

What do you do.

I’m a court reporter in the Queens courthouse.

I work for the city Housing Department, in the Section 8 program. Do you know Julie Kramer? She’s a friend of my sister’s, she’s a policewoman who’s sometimes assigned to the court there.

Oh, sure! Marcie suddenly lit up. Sometimes we go running together. Sometimes we lend each other books, mostly romance novels.

I think I saw you at Professional Singles In the Know.

Oh, that’s my favorite place! The music isn’t too loud, and they have good food! Only thing is, so many of the people are too young for me!

This Chinese restaurant was until a few years ago the Garden Cafeteria, one of the last surviving Jewish dairy restaurants in New York City. In the old days, the socialists from the Forward and the anarchists from the Freie Arbeiter Stimme would get together and. . . .

Uh, Marcie, does what this guy is talking about interest you?

No. When I saw the calendar item about the walk, I thought it might be interesting, but it reminds me too much of when I had to take Poly Sci.

Louis just accepted this; he knew that most women didn’t share his interests in politics, history, sociology. He took three deep breaths and asked for her phone number. She gave it to him on a small piece of paper.

It’s not easy to find decent singles these days, she said, smiling. You like to go to movies? I like musicals and romantic comedies.

Neither Louis nor Marcie was that enthusiastic. Each had been on about 100 first dates before, and in at least half of those cases, the first was also the last. But they were still hopeful.

Meanwhile, at the front of the group, the guy still droned on through his bullhorn.

This synagogue was the original Young Israel. By the way, on that wall over there, you can see a mural of some of the original leaders of this community. . . .

CHAPTER 4

Irwin walked from the Allerton Avenue station to his house on

Mace Avenue, an old 1920s yellow brick two-decker that had been in the Kessler family even before his father had come here from Israel in the early 1950s. For years, the house had only three occupants: Irwin, his father, and whoever was living in the furnished studio apartment on the ground floor, most lately an Albanian immigrant limo driver. Before that, it had been occupied by a Jamaican nurse; before that, by a newly arrived Russian engineer. Irwin’s mother had died of complications from diabetes when he was only 11.

When Irwin walked in, his white-haired father, head of a successful catering business, was at the kitchen table going over some ledger sheets, dressed in a jacket and tie, hair combed immaculately. As long as Irwin could remember, he had rarely seen his father without a jacket and tie except early in the morning at breakfast, mowing the lawn, or working around the house. Even at sporting events, he wore a seersucker suit, white pants and shoes, and a straw hat. Lately he had taken to occasionally wearing T-shirts indoors, but he would never wear T-shirts with lettering or slogans on them: that just wasn’t adult enough.

Would you like some cake? There was so much of if left over from the bar mitzvah we did this afternoon, Irwin’s father, Selig, offered, in a cultured, faint German accent.

No thanks, Irwin answered.

How did that walk go? Irwin’s father asked, cordially.

Oh, the same old stuff, Irwin replied, smiling sheepishly and looking down at the floor. I smiled at some girls, but they just looked away from me.

Well, what do you expect? I keep telling you, if you wear a white shirt, a tie, ironed pants, shined shoes, a haircut every two weeks, things would be different! No matter how his father complained, Irwin noticed, he always spoke in a soft voice, as befitting an educated, polished man like the one he thought himself to be.

Oh, dad, Irwin said, resignedly. Things aren’t that way any more.

Well. . . . his father’s voice drifted away.

After Selig Kessler, a former university instructor, had escaped from the camps years ago, he was smuggled into what was then Palestine and fought in the 1948 Arab-Israeli War of Independence as a pilot. Later on, though, he found life in Israel too difficult, and left to join his brothers in the U.S. Curious about the life his father had abandoned, Irwin, after graduating from Lehman, enrolled in a six-month volunteer and Hebrew language-education program at a kibbutz. From the start, things went wrong: