published in The Widow, Cornell literary magazine, fall 1975

Berlinsky told Howie and me to meet him at the Pancake House for an announcement of “major significance;” and as we sat down he called to the waitress, “Miss? Milk all around, please,” and then turning to us added, “It’s on me tonight, boys.” I glanced at Howie. This was serious stuff. The milk came and Berlinsky picked his up.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I have called you here tonight to proudly inform you that the man sitting across from you — yes, Berlinsky, the same Berlinsky who not too long ago bowled a 190 in your company — Berlinsky, is getting married.”

“It was a 180,” Howie said.

“Who’s counting?” I said.

“When’s Berlinsky gonna get here for chrissake?” Howie asked.

“He said it was important,” I replied.

“Berlinsky, I repeat, is getting married,” he interjected, abruptly silencing our banter. Howie looked confused, but then slowly began to chuckle, and finally was laughing, and I laughed, and Berlinsky laughed, and Howie said, “Wait’ll Berlinsky hears this, he’ll never believe it,” and I said, “Could you have some of those little wrapped hotdogs?” We clinked glasses and drank to Berlinsky’s life. “One other thing,” he said when we were leaving, “We’re the band.”

So, Berlinsky was throwing in the towel. Crazy Dave Berlinsky who used to throw worms at girls during the playground years, was now going to enter wedlock. I imagined the ceremony. “Speak now or forever hold your peace,” the guy would say, and I would jump up, throw my arm around Berlinsky’s head (holding it like a bongo drum) and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, I ask you, is this the face of a married man? Is this the face of a man about to take the sacred connubial vows? Is this man even capable of matrimony? Of feigning love, promising commitment? No, ladies and gentlemen, he is not. I know this man. This man, who was the first to call that humble and respected fellow citiizen of ours. Miss Patricia Fowler, ‘Fatty Patty’… this man, who in tenth grade gained schoolwide notoriety in the now well-known ‘Knee-pad Incident,’ in which he forcibly removed Harry ‘Schmitty’ Schmidtlap’s knee-pad from his person during a gym class on the grounds that ‘He’s just wearing it because it looks cool’… this man, ladies and gentlemen, is a no-good, a do-badder, and my best friend. The defense rests.”

Berlinsky, the husband, ex-giver of cootie shots to the stricken unfortunates who had come in accidental contact with the disease-carrying females of our fifth grade class. Berlinsky, my partner in countless no-girls-allowed activities. Berlinsky, leader of the band, president of the secret clubs. Berlinsky, the letter-writer, speech-maker. Ideas-haver. Berlinsky was a committee, Berlinsky was a chairman. He had five-year plans, 10-point programs, old business, new business. And a treasurer’s report:

“I’m afraid it’s down to $74, sir,” Berlinsky would say, “plus loose change, a subway token, and your mint Kennedy half-dollar in the glass case.” He would tell us of personal fund-raising activities he was considering — bake sales. paper drives. His hundred-dollar-a-plate testimonial dinner had been a complete failure. Money would be coming, though. Berlinsky would be very rich. Ideas-haver, inventor, his inventions would bring in capital: The glove built for two, enabling lovers to hold hands in cold weather (The Smitten); the personalized birthday cards, along the lines of keychains and miniature license plates — Happy Birthday Alan, Albert, Alex, Alice, Alvin, Arthur; his favorite, the reusable charity — an ordinary quarter with a hole in it and threaded with a string, allowing the user to drop it into a blind man’s cup with a solid “clink” and then silently yank it back into his palm with a yoyo-like flick of the wrist (Berlinsky was a genius.)

So money wasn’t the problem. The new business, what Berlinsky needed now (he told us, but we hardly listened) was someone to stay with him for about 25 years. Someone of the female persuasion. “Of the order homovaginus,” he declared for clarity. It was time, he had said, to meet a pretty lady. Sitting next to him at a cheap subway food counter, he imagined, she would be a nickel short and would look around helplessly. He would fall in love for five cents. Or walking out of a supermarket, she would drop her bag and grapefruits would roll down the sidewalk, oranges in the gutter. Love for a fruit salad. She would be a telephone operator taking his late night call, a waitress serving him black coffee at six in the morning, a stewardess fastening his jammed seatbelt. An unwed mother in the park. Berlinsky would climb a tree and rescue her screaming kid’s kite, then lift him high in the air and say, “There, everything’s fixed now, right?” with a wink to his mommy which said, “I’m great with kids, I rescue kites, let us marry.”

He was ready. He wandered around the city eyeing every woman with the question, “Is it you? Are you going to need help putting a leash on your hyperactive spaniel? Are yours the eyes mine will meet looking into the same shop window?” We just figured that what Berlinsky really wanted was, in short, to get laid. But in his own eyes he was Don Juan, Lancelot, Cyrano, out to court a young maiden.

And so came Annie, almost like Berlinsky had imagined. She was sitting on a park bench, reading, and Berlinsky wandered by and asked “What are you reading?” and then held his breath waiting to see whether she would say “Get away from me, you jerky degenerate,” or simply smile and answer him the way he had planned it when getting up the courage to approach. She looked up and saw Berlinsky standing there in his San Francisco Giants cap and his Asbury Park, New Jersey sweatshirt and his Creamsicle-stained orange lips (Berlinsky was irresistible) and said, “Women in Love” and Berlinsky’s eyes lit up and he said excitedly, “I wrote that book!” and she laughed and said “You’re kidding?” and Berlinsky said “I mean I read that book, I’m in that book,” and then with his cockney distortion added “Let love be enough, then, I’m bored with the rest,” and Annie bent down and plucked a dandelion and held it out to him and said, “See what a flower I’ve found you.” It was a very pretty scene. A month later Howie and I would be drinking milk in the Pancake House, and Berlinsky would be ours no longer.

The night before the wedding Howie and I slept over at Berlinsky’s. The last pajama party, we figured. A tribute, a memorial event. We stayed up late making phony phone calls and watching Carson and then “Demetrius and the Gladiators,” then “It Happened One Night.” Every few minutes Howie would shake his head and say, “Berlinsky… today you are a man,” and clap him on the back, and Berlinsky would nod in agreement and say, “Incredible… am I the incredible guy?” I kept asking him, “How ’bout Wednesday nights. Berlinsky? You gonna be married on Wednesday nights too?” and a few minutes after that I’d say “How ’bout Thursday’s, Linsky?” At about 4:20 Howie and I sang two choruses of “For He’s a Jolly Berlinsky” and we shut the light. As Berlinsky dozed off he was saying, “You guys… unreal, you guys.”

Early that morning Berlinsky discovered eight very pretty Indian girls dancing around his bed, chanting an ancient Cheyenne prayer. As each girl passed the headboard she would shout above the others, “Ber—lin—sky,” rising and falling in pitch like the three notes of certain doorbells. After seven complete revolutions the girls all began chanting “Berlinsky, schmelinsky, the finsky dinsky” and laughing and finally one of them (she looked like the chief) took out a small glass and crushed it with the heel of her boot.

Berlinsky shouted “Mazel-tov!” and they all disappeared and Howie and I woke up. Berlinsky told us why he had shouted but we didn’t believe him. “Cheyenne girls don’t wear boots,” Howie explained.

Exhausted, Berlinsky rose and stumbled to the kitchen, grabbed a dirty glass from the sink, rinsed it, and poured it full with juice. He held the glass high in front of him and proclaimed. “He was a rinser,” thus toasting the day, and downed the juice. He often imagined the various categorical character judgments his biographer would someday have to make. When he laced his sneakers he could be heard declaring, “He was a lacer.” It would take a skilled man to do the job, Berlinsky told us, because he was a very complex subject. What would they make of his habits? The pleasure he took in removing bandaids from other people’s hairy wounds, the way he buttered his toast on on the diagonal. The research they would have to do, the data they would have to analyze. Berlinsky was complex, he assured us.

He wondered what his dream could have meant. “You’re getting married today,” we told him.

“Shit. you’re right, what time is it?”

It was 5:30; we had slept for an hour and ten minutes. We embraced our friend, wished him luck, and told him we’d see him at the wedding. He became momentarily overcome with emotion when he heard we were coming, and as we pulled out of his driveway he called out, “Life is funny.” It was the most profound thing we had ever heard Berlinsky say since the time his dog was hit by a car and killed, when he told us, “Dogs die too, you know.”

Howie and I went home and loaded our instruments into the back seat of his car. The three of us had played at countless weddings over the years, Berlinsky always in charge. At the larger affairs he would make up names and then say into the microphone,”Ladies and gentlemen, at this point we would like a special warm hand as I call on Uncle Izzie to dance the Anniversary Waltz with Tanta Sadie.” The crowd was usually very enthusiastic, and more often than not, there was an Uncle Izzie and Tanta Sadie, and if there wasn’t, nobody ever seemed to notice. And now we would play at the wedding to end all weddings — it was the last great gig, like the last game for a dying football coach.

We slept a few hours, went out to breakfast. then donned our tuxedoes and headed for Temple Emmanuel, arriving about a half an hour before showtime. We mingled with the Uncle Izzies and the Tanta Sadies, (who took on much greater meaning, now that they were Berlinsky’s) tossing off conversational gems like, “She’s a very nice girl… and Jewish!” and “Yes, I’m a very close friend of David’s — we roomed together at law school.” Berlinsky had cheated his way through high school and the closest he ever came to college was being placed on the alternate list for a correspondence course, but it turns out that the guy I had said it to was the caterer who knew only that the Berlinsky party was having the cornish hen, and little more.

About five minutes before the ceremony I started to have second thoughts about the whole thing. As I was discussing with Howie the possibility of calling in a bomb scare, a little boy approached us. “Are you Howie and Philip?” he asked. We nodded “Cousin David wants to see you in the other room.” We followed the kid away from the crowd and through a door in the back. Berlinsky was sitting there in full wedding gear except shoes.

“You see those feet?” he asked, pointing at his feet. “Are those the feet of a married man?”

“Cold?” I asked.

“Freezing.” he said. “This game is called on account of rain. Follow me please.” I was ecstatic. Howie was grinning like a madman. Berlinsky picked up his shoes and led us, in stockinged feet, out a back door where the three of us virtually tiptoed into Howie’s car. As soon as the door closed there was an explosion of mirth.

“You gotta be kidding Berlinsky, think of the relatives,” Howie shouted hysterically, pulling out of the parking lot.

“Think of Berlinsky,” Berlinsky said.

“Think of Annie,” I said.

“Think of Berlinsky,” he said again.

“Think of the caterer’s 250 cornish hens,” Howie squealed.

“Shit, you’ve got a point,” said Berlinsky, showing a sudden trace of remorse. “Take me home, James.”

We drove to Berlinsky’s house and he ran in and came out with a pair of dungarees slung over his shoulder and his San Francisco Giants cap on his head. “To Annie’s,” he commanded.

“Believe me, Linsk,” I said, “she’s not going to be home.”

“She’s at a wedding,” Howie offered.

“To Annie’s,” he insisted and we drove to his estranged bride’s home. Berlinsky ran in and came out with a pair of Annie’s dungarees and a tee-shirt slung over his shoulder. We were bewildered, but exuberant, and content to
let Berlinsky run the show like he always had. He clambered into the back seat and Howie and I turned to face him, silently awaiting his next command.

“To my wedding, of course.”

“David,” I said, “if you embarrass me I’m never coming to one of your weddings again.”

Berlinsky just shook his head with mock disgust and said. “No faith, no faith, after all these years.” He was beaming.

As we approached Temple Emmanuel we saw a crowd gathered outside the door. “Park here,” Berlinsky commanded in a loud whisper. We saw crying mothers and grandmothers and aunts and great-aunts standing around Annie, who seemed a bit less upset than her comforters. Berlinsky had his head out the car window and was waving like crazy to get Annie’s attention, and finally eye-contact was made. Between her Aunt Gert’s veil and Grandma Rosie’s shawl, Annie spotted the familiar scrawny wrist and we watched as she excused herself from her relatives and casually sidestepped away from the scene unnoticed. She ran to the car and peered through the open window at Berlinsky sitting amidst the drums and amplifiers. “You’re late,” she said, “but you didn’t miss anything. Berlinsky didn’t show.”

“Listen Annie, I just… I ah, I brought you your dungarees,” and he held them up. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Are you kidding me? You don’t know? There are 250 cornish hens waiting for us at Mr. Victor’s Banquet Hall — we have a reception to get to.” Annie opened the door and jumped in, Howie peeled out, I took the rice out of the glove compartment and threw it all over the lovers in the back seat, and Berlinsky popped open a bottle of champagne, spraying it all over the car. Howie broke into song: “Hava, Berlinsky, Hava, Berlinsky, Hava, Berlinsky,
venismach…” I clapped along in rhythm and Annie poured a glass of champagne on my head. Berlinsky leaned forward, and using the champagne bottle as a microphone, asked me, “Phil, what do you have to say?”

“Well, Dave,” I replied, talking into the bottle, “it’s been a long season, and I’m just glad we got it all together at the end, and I think we had a great bunch of guys to work with, a great bunch of guys.”

“Thank you, Phil. This is Lindsey Berlinsky in the clubhouse, wishing you all a hearty mazel-tov.” It was a wonderful, glorious event. The wedding to end all weddings. We marched into Mr. Victor’s wheeling the amplifiers and the drums, Berlinsky playing his trumpet with one hand and carrying Annie with the other. While Howie set up the equipment and I explained in broken Spanish to the kitchen crew that they were invited to a party, Berlinsky made a big sign saying “Open House — Come In!” and put it outside the open doors.

Pretty soon Howie was behind the drums, my accordion was on, and we played a medley of “Yossel Yossel,” “Tzena,” and “Belz Mein Schtetle Belz,” Berlinsky walking around down on the dance floor playing along on trumpet. A small crowd wandered in and Annie showed them to their seats and brought them each a cornish hen. The music and the sign on the door attracted more passers-by, and some of the staff at Victor’s had called their families to come down, and Berlinsky had gone next door to the bowling alley to make a general announcement. Within the hour the hall was full and fat Maria the soup-girl at Victor’s was dancing the hora with Pedro, the custodian, and Berlinsky had given his trumpet to some guy who played a lot better and he was dancing with Annie on stage. They were very much in love, it seemed. Pretty soon some guy came up and asked to try Howie’s drums, and eventually I found an accordionist in the crowd and the four of us left.

“Those affairs are always too noisy for me,” Berlinsky said.

“It’s the Jews, and the Puerto Ricans.” Howie said.

“And the Blacks… and that Chinese guy banging on his plate with the spoon,” Berlinsky said.

We returned to Howie’s car and the newlyweds changed into the extra clothes Berlinsky had brought along. Howie drove us around aimlessly and Berlinsky pointed out important landmarks — the A&Ps he had shopped in, the trees he had climbed. It was truly Berlinsky territory. Annie was impressed: “You really used that phone booth?” she asked at one point, and Berlinsky just kind of looked down and brushed it off as nothing big, saying shyly, “Only once or twice… for local calls.”

Berlinsky, the child king, sandlot monarch, was showing off his empire. He still had a devoted following, and I for one knew that he would never lose me. I remember the recess when Berlinsky first exercised his royal power
in my behalf. About twenty guys were choosing up sides for softball teams using the traditional method of naming two captains to alternately make selections from the crowd. Berlinksy was usually one of the captains, but he was late that day and the next tallest kid filled in for him. They began choosing teammates, each time dwindling the central group of players by one, making the remaining people in that group one person less important, less respectable.

“I got Lieberman,” the first captain said, and Lieberman broke into a wild grin and ran to his captain’s side shouting “Alright!!”

Then, “I got Silverberg.”

“Lochrane.”

“Heffner.”

“Mareschi.”

“Zuckerman.”

“Haluka.”

As each name was called, the person it belonged to would be freed from the ignominious crowd of unwanted kids and would bound over to the newly-formed group, all instantly best friends, it seemed, as if they were all there from some prior, secret agreement, and the whole ceremony was just a big joke being played on the last guy to be picked.

Which was going to be me, I knew, except that just when we were getting down to that horrible moment, Berlinsky showed up and assumed his role as captain. Everyone on his team greeted him excitedly, saying things like “Look
who we got, Berlinsky, we got Miletti, we got Hutchings,” but Berlinsky just stood there staring at Shapiro and me, the only two unafflliated kids left.

“What about Philip?” Berlinsky said. “You mean you didn’t take Philip? Are you kidding? You ever seen that kid play? He’s my man, we can’t win without Philip, you guys crazy? Who’s turn is it to pick?” It was Berlinsky’s turn.

“Awright!!!” he screamed, jumping off the ground, “We got Philip, awright, okay, you guys are in big trouble.” I ran over to Berlinsky’s team and everybody said stuff like “Okay Phil, hey Phil,” slapping me on the back.

That afternoon I cried on the way home, walking with Berlinsky.

“What’sa matter?” he asked.

“Poor Shapiro,” I said, and Berlinsky nodded.

“Yeah… okay, tomorrow I’ll do Shapiro. Tomorrow’s Shapiro Day.”

Shapiro was Howie.

So here we were driving Berlinsky around on his wedding day, paying homage to the great historical sites he made famous. “I beat Bobby Colgrove at boxball right over there once, right in front of Jean and Herb’s Stationery,” he told us, and then, “Me and Miletti ate lunch on that big rock by the tracks, once.”

At one point Berlinsky leaned forward over the front seat and said,”By the way, fellows, you are cordially invited to attend a honeymoon.”

“Where?” Howie inquired, but Berlinsky just shrugged his shoulders. Awhile later, the four of us checked into the Hotel Wilson. Annie and Howie made the arrangements for the room and I took the opportunity to ask Berlinsky if he wanted to be alone with Annie.

“You kidding?” he replied, incredulous. “On my honeymoon? She’s lucky I’m letting any girls tag along at all,” but then with a sudden change of tone he asked, “Do you like her, Phil?”

“She’s wonderful. Dave.”

“She is, you know,” Berlinsky said earnestly. “She’s incredible. I’m gonna marry that girl someday.”

Which is pretty much what happened. We sat up in the hotel room drinking champagne, watching Carson, and making phony phone calls and along about 4:20, just as Howie was about to sing another round of “Good-night Ladies,” we heard Berlinsky over in one corner of the bed saying something to Annie.

“Will you marry me?”

That is what he was saying. She said yes, and the next morning at 9 o’clock sharp we were in City Hall, in a small room with a man named Mr. Sporer, a Justice of the Peace. Berlinsky and Annie were eloping.

“… speak now or forever hold your peace,” Sporer said eventually, and I remembered my little speech, but just by looking at the way Berlinsky was standing, holding his Giants cap over his heart, I could tell he was serious, and I said nothing. At his feet was a little champagne glass wrapped in one of Mr. Victor’s cloth napkins. Sporer pronounced them man and wife and Berlinsky stamped down on the glass and then kissed Annie very gently, both their eyes wide open. Sporer had seemed momentarily confused by the breaking of the glass, but then quickly flipped through a little book of expressions to use at different kinds of weddings and finally looked up and said,”Masil-tuf.”

Howie and I left Berlinsky and Annie kissing on the steps of City Hall and went to the Pancake House for breakfast.

“One hell of a guy,” I commented when the milks came.

“No shit,” Howie said.

“To Shapiro,” I said, holding up my glass.

“Me and you,” he replied, touching his glass to mine.

Nevertheless, we were drinking to Berlinsky.