A COFFIN AS BIG AS THE RITZ
"How did he die?"
"Val died 20 years ago."
"Sorry, no coffee."
"Eastern Europeans don't process caffeine properly."
"That's why we moved to America, for the caffeine... OK, so, what? Val died again?"
"His brother Luther's heading to Kettering for a CAT scan…"
"The funeral's when?"
"Asks the cabbie to pull over because he's woozy."
"They cremating him?"
"As he's stumbling out."
"Fatal heart attack."
"Stroke."
"How is he?"
"Dead. That's how your uncle is Mr. Smartass. Dead." Hey, she called me "Mr."
"Poor Uncle Luther... Who's Uncle Luther?"
It falls on me to extend our sympathies because my mother stopped talking to his wife twenty years ago. Luther's wife insisted Wagner's music was beautiful despite the politics. So that was that. There also might have been a crack about my mother's potato salad.
No matter that I have reservations at Ruby Foo’s and tickets for "Mama Mia." As my father always said, “The family comes second.”
Leaving Ruby Foo's, I remember Luther became my uncle after he went before the House UnAmerican Activities Committee and never mentioned that my parents drove him to those meetings.
At first mom and dad were grateful. But eventually they felt slighted that he didn't include them in the same A list as Clifford Odets, Abe Burrows, and Sterling Hayden.
Luther explained he only named names the committee already had. Luther was half a hero.
Luther once got credit for a Robert Preston film rewritten by Ben Hecht. Luther was also half a screenwriter. Then he blacklisted himself since that sounded better than writer's block.
Luther spent the remainder of his life encouraging aspiring novelists by telling them they had no story because they had no life. Then he'd eat dim sum until he passed out. Arthur Miller also once smiled at something he said.
This will be my first time inside Uncle Luther’s apartment. The difference between the homeless and Manhatttanites is the homeless let you see how they live. When I was younger I assumed his home was Empire Szechwan on 96th and Broadway because that’s the only place we ever met.
The excuse for never entering Luther's apartment was, "Oh, he's been writing." One conjured twisted coffee cups, crumbled sheets of yellow paper, brimming ashtrays, and half eaten pastrami sandwiches. The truth is there wasn't room for both Luther's typewriter and us.
Luther's typewriter was only used occasionally to pound out the same exact letter accusing someone of stealing the same exact idea he registered with the Writer's Guild 40 years ago. Sometimes studio lawyers paid him just to go away. Luther probably died because they finally met his price.
Desperate for caffeine, I stumble into Hunan Palace. Shockingly Mayor Bloomberg’s no smoking ordinance is enforced.
"No smoking or no smoking?" The hostess asks.
"No smoking please."
"There’s a fifteen minute wait for no smoking, but I can seat you in no smoking immediately."
"Sounds good."
Ride of The Valkeries blares. It's my cell.
"Who died?"
"You're having coffee. Why do you do this to me?"
"Tea. Who died?"
"Luther's wife is phoning in the obit..."
"Aneurysm?"
"That sweet woman. Loved my potato salad..."
If I hop a cab right now I can still catch "Mama Mia" by the time my mommy reveals what felled Luther's wife.
Next week the table read of Luther's unfinished will.
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Due to renewed fears created by the Patriot Act, David Feldman's parents were never members of the Communist party. In fact his mother thinks John Ashcroft has a lovely singing voice.
