H
e a r t S o n s & H e a r t D a u g h t e r s of A l l e n G i n s
b e r g
N
a p a l m H e a l t h S p a : R e p o r t 2 0 1 4 : A r c h i
v e s E d i t i o n
LESLÉA NEWMAN
Upon Hearing
that the Second Avenue Deli Is Being Replaced By
Chase Manhattan
Bank
Let us have a moment of silence
for the red-headed hostess
a classy dame if ever there was one
with her false eyelashes and magic marker
eyeliner
with her nails painted the bright orange
of traffic cones by the side of the road
in the middle of the night
with her long gold earrings dangling like
empty playground swings
after the children
have all been called in to supper.
She ran a tight ship, that one, managing
groups of anxious
theatre-goers who all had shows to catch,
pairs of
finger-snapping wise guys eager to impress their dates
“Don’t worry honey, I’ll get us a table,”
ravenous altercockers from New Jersey
arriving by the
busloads,
the men sweating in their grey wool
overcoats and felt derby hats
the women in mink coats, clutching patent
leather pocketbooks
the size and shape of old doctor’s bags
everyone crowding into
the already crowded doorway
all staring up at our brassy-haired hostess
like a pack of hungry dogs
knowing that when she
held up
one perfectly manicured finger it meant
“wait”
and when she swiveled her wrist and waggled
that same finger
it meant—oh joy!--come, hurry, follow me,
here is your table, here is your chair
here is your menu the size of the Rand
McNally atlas
And let us bow our heads and say a prayer
for the old, stooped over yet dignified
waiter
a prince of a man if ever there was one
who stood all of five-foot-two and looked
like my Uncle Irving
with his stringy grey comb-over
cresting over the top
of his shiny pink head like an ocean wave
breaking over the
shores of Brighton Beach,
with his crisp white shirt and fat black
bowtie always slightly askew,
a gravy stain decorating the lapel of the
gold jacket
I’m sure he wore as a Bar Mitzvah boy back in
1932.
Oh bless him for clanking down
a white china plate of coleslaw and a
silver tray of green pickles,
I
shouldn’t starve to death
before I shrugged off
my winter coat and sat down
at the little table for one in the back known
as Siberia,
but banished as I was he refused to desert
me,
standing beside my
table silent and still
pencil poised above
pad, immobile
as a prizefighter frozen in the ring
waiting for the bell
to sound
amid busboys with buckets
of dirty dishes scuttling past
waitresses with trays the
size of hula hoops
held high overhead on delicate bespangled
wrists,
he was patience personified
as I sat there drooling over my choices:
blintzes or knishes, tsimmes or kishkes
kreplach or babka, chopped liver or latkes
or perhaps all of the above?
And now let us glorify the poor cow
a noble beast if ever there was one
whose severed tongue
I bit into
despite being a
vegetarian
but hidden there at the little table for one
in the back
I could be anyone, I could eat anything
even 16 ounces of thick slices of cow tongue
pressed between two
pieces of rye bread
cooked to succulent
perfection
bringing me back to the
kitchen of my youth
where my grandmother
ruled
in her blue flowered housecoat buttoned up
to the neck
her stockings rolled down to her swollen
ankles
a large shiny knife held tightly in one
hand
a whole cow’s tongue lying before her on
the cutting board
slick, sleek, and
slimy as the body of a beached whale
she turned a deaf ear to my teenage rantings
about animal rights
and saving the planet
barked out between
spoonfuls of brown rice and yoghurt
soup I shoved into my mouth trying not to
gag,
and late at night when everyone else was
asleep
she, a chronic insomniac playing solitare
downstairs in the living room
pretended not to notice
her beloved granddaughter
sneaking into the
kitchen, the family dog a Toto look-alike
close at my heels as
I quietly quietly quietly
eased open the
refrigerator door
the bright light slicing into the darkness
like my grandmother’s sharp knife into that
tongue
pieces of which I now
crammed into my greedy mouth
so good it was, so tangy, salty, chewy,
sweet
washed down with a
swig of Dr. Brown’s black cherry soda
drunk straight from
the bottle, glug, glug, glug—ah!
I consecrate the Hostess, Holy Keeper of the
Gate
may you be led to the best table in the
house all the days of your life,
I venerate the Waiter, Humble Bearer of
Countless Suppers
may only the finest foods be set down before
you
until your own Last
Supper is served,
I sanctify the Cow and her Great Selfless
Sacrifice
may you know only soft hay and sweet grass
in the great pasture in the sky
I glorify my Grandmother, Beloved Balabooster bustling about the kitchen
of the Kingdom of Heaven
may you have hungry, grateful mouths to feed
for all of eternity and beyond,
I honor myself, angst-ridden angry adolescent,
unable to make the
world a better place for two- or four-legged creatures alike,
I anoint myself, underpaid secretary spending
hard-earned pennies
on pseudo-home-cooked meals eaten to ease
loneliness of life
in the big city, a promised land never
living up to its promises,
swallowing hopes and
dreams as easily
as forkfuls of seven-layer cake washed down
with bitter cups of coffee
made even more bitter by tiny tubs of
nondairy creamer
and pink packets of poisonous artificial
sweetener.
And now miles and years away from Manhattan
standing in my own nonkosher kitchen,
I even praise the corporate crooks of Chase
Manhattan Bank
bastards that they are
for setting up shop on the hallowed corner
of 10th Street and Second Avenue
and stirring up these long-forgotten
memories
that have been simmering on the back burner
of my mind for decades
like an enormous vat of matzo ball soup
waiting to be served
[“Upon Hearing That the Second
Avenue Deli Is Being Replaced by Chase Manhattan Bank” © 2010 Lesléa Newman, from NOBODY’S MOTHER (Orchard House Press,
Pt. Orchard, WA). Used by permission of the author. All rights reserved.
Reprinted by permission of the author. Originally published in NHS, 2013 http://www.poetspath.com/napalm/_special_edition_nhs_2013/.]