(Ed note: We are in L.A. where it is a near certainty that conversations will eventually turn to traffic, just as in NYC they turn to real estate. I was reminded of this poem by Chicago-born L.A. transplant, poet Mitch Sisskind. sdh)
1.
In days of yore when the men played pinochle
At Julius Jaffe’s apartment a tradition grew up,
A rhetorical set piece evolved whereby
Al Farber in manly tones would describe
The route he’d driven in his Oldsmobile
From Skokie to the Jaffe residence on
Wellington Avenue. As a rule he took
Dempster Street to Ridge Road,
To Peterson, then south on the Outer Drive
Exiting at Belmont. But oh there were occasions
When the rain fell or the snow fell or in summer’s
Blaze the asphalt on Peterson Avenue buckled,
Or the Outer Drive itself was closed for some
Cockamamie reason. Then drawing himself
To his full height and waving his arms about,
Al Farber would declare, “I stayed on Dempster
All the way to Sheridan Road! I had no choice!”
Railing on and on until — falling silent as
Julius Jaffe shuffled the cards — he had the air
Of a man staring into the void. But this lasted
Only a moment, and once again he exploded
And the window panes rattled and the
Ashtrays lurched around on the card table.
“What else could I do?” he pleaded, existentially.
“Ridge Road was closed off. Traffic was a mess.”
2.
Forty years he's gone! Christ, here was a man
Who owned dozens of businesses: dump
Trucks, a line of hair care products, a bowling
Paraphernalia store, carpet cleaning equipment,
Children’s furniture, sick room supplies —
All under the aegis of Al Farber Enterprises.
Yet he never ate his heart out over money matters
Nor in all those years we met at the Belden
Corned Beef Center did he show any interest
In financial vicissitudes. We spoke instead
Of getting from one place to another, of alternate
Routes when Lincoln Avenue was congested
Or Pratt Avenue was impassable, as it often was.
In fact, the ever-worsening congestion on Pratt
And in Rogers Park as a whole caused Al Farber
To make a solemn vow. “I will no longer eat at
Ashkenaz,” he told me, referring to the delicatessen
located at Pratt and Greenview. “It’s not worth my
Time to sit behind the wheel for forty-five minutes
For a corned beef sandwich, especially when
A better sandwich with more meat on it can be had
At the Corned Beef Center. It isn’t called
The Corned Beef Center for nothing! Aw haw
Haw haw! Ah ha ha! Aw haw haw haw haw!”
3.
But then came the day — this too in the
Belden Corned Beef Center– when
Al Farber suddenly inclined himself
Across the Formica and spoke sotto voce:
“There was a time,” he said, “when the
Four of us – myself, Julius Jaffe, Gus Golding,
And Charlie Shapiro – would jump in the
Car after the pinochle game and drive
To Wilmette for an ice cream cone!
There was no traffic to speak of, Mitchell.
At the most, twenty-five minutes straight up
Sheridan Road where there was a place
Called the Dairy Bar on the border of
Wilmette and Kenilworth in that unincorporated
Area referred to as No Man’s Land.”
Pausing abruptly, he was overcome by a
Coughing fit and turned a bright blue, but
Somehow managed to say, “In Wilmette
Jews could live, but there was not one Jew
In Kenilworth. Not one!” And he died.
4.
Now in Los Angeles, lo, I am master of
Little-known routes and side streets bypassing
The cement mixers and FedEx trucks parked
On LaBrea Avenue or Highland. What others
Take forty minutes to drive, I can drive in twenty.
But this too is vanity because – and I make this
Public for the first time – I always feel not lost
Exactly, but not really there. Turning left
From Wilshire onto Rimpau, inwardly I head
North on Crawford Avenue in Lincolnwood,
Passing the Bryn Mawr Country Club, skirting
The sewage treatment plant at Howard Street,
On and on, all the way to Wilmette Avenue
Where Crawford becomes Hunter Road.
Picking up the children at Franklin and Western,
What in my mind’s eye do I see but the electric
blue roof light of a Chicago police car weaving
In and out of traffic on Milwaukee Avenue near
Where the Como Inn was. But the worst or best
Is this: alone in the Passat, I’m with Al Farber
In the Oldsmobile the day he said the hell with it
And stayed on Foster Avenue all the way
To Nagle. “I’m staying on Foster!” he cried,
And struck the steering wheel to challenge God.
But bear with my muse. It is not as it was.