No, I am not talking about Aretha Franklin’s tune. Years ago, I worked for someone who, when it came to politeness and respect for others, had it down to a science. I remember in elevators, he would always wait for everyone to exit, especially the women. He held the doors for everyone and helped people with their coats and into their chairs.
I haven’t heard from him in a few years. But I doubt things have changed. His dad, who is long gone, was similar. There was a great scout leader who passed away a few years ago; he was an example of respect, particularly toward our campgrounds. We’d walk around the camps, and whenever he saw garbage, he’d pick it up off the trails. He’d be upset it was there. He taught us to keep our sites clean, and when we saw trash, we cleaned it up and disposed of it properly.
I try to follow their steps. But I have found that in today’s world, simple respect is gone. A few weeks ago, I was entering the gym. It was pouring outside. I saw a person dragging their heavy gym bag at the door and trying to exit. I held the door for her. She stood there for the next several minutes texting away. This has happened a few times—the same thing in elevators and at the doors of our office buildings.
Cell phone addiction has cramped respect. People are too interested in seeing their friends’ latest memes or social media posts. But I think it was happening slightly before people’s best friends became their iPhones. The trails of the places I hike are getting dirtier, and less people are wiping down machines in the gym after they finish using them. The list goes on.
More respect equals better productivity. People will likely be more motivated and happier.
For those of us who never attended Ten Mile River Scout Camps (TMR) or perhaps hiked or camped along the New York State’s Adirondack and Catskill Mountains, along the Finger Lakes Trail, and other parks like Harriman State Park, you might not know what a leanto is. Let me explain. A leanto is a three-walled structure used for sleeping. The front of it is open. You can build a small deck on its front and add screening. You wanna keep the bugs out. But bug juice (a camp drink) is fine.
Cherikee Red
That’s what I lived during my teen years on Chappegat (Chappy) Hill, TMR. Mine had a deck, screening and electricity. It had fridge stocked with Cherikee Red (A now-discontinued super sugary red soda), other soda, etc. We had boxes of Freihofers chocolate chip cookies and home-baked cookies from Noni (my grandmother). I shared it with my camp friend. Many people crashed in it. Some crashed every night.
The inside and outside of my leanto (1988)
We played Risk, ate food from El Monaco’s (Now closed), McDonald’s, and I kept my Frosted Flakes there. I rarely ate the lish (delicious) meals prepared in the Kunatah Dining Hall. May it stand forever. We played music on Bertha. She was the boom box that one of our crashers brought up to TMR. It was a double-deck cassette player with a CD player on top. Remember those? U2 (My bunkmate hated them. Right now, I have mixed opinions on the band I worshipped all my life.), Steely Dan (My bunkmate loved them), The Clash, Depeche Mode, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones, Sex Pistols, The Beatles, The Who, Mojo Nixon, Jethro Tull, Squeeze, The Ramones, XTC, and, unfortunately, Pink Floyd played 24/7.
Camp was the time of my life. I looked forward to it all year. I remember riding around in the “WhoMobile “(A 1966 F-85, A basic version of an Oldsmobile Cutlass). Sometimes the camp staff drove it. I remember when Kousin Keety (Keith) got his license, and we would ride around listening to “Rock Lobster” by the B-52’s. That’s the only song he had on the tape. We just kept playing it.
Where I lived
I drove the “Truckster” (A 1976 blue Cutlass station wagon). I cranked Depeche and U2. Joey cranked Judas Priest and Metallica. Larry, our assistant scoutmaster, would, in his good nature, make fun of us teens and our music. We would drive him around to Peck’s Supermarket (Now Pete’s), the hardware store, and other places to go shopping for camp. And of course, until we lost him, he teased me about my famous episode of getting lost in Hawley, PA, a Wayne County, Pennsylvania, borough along the Lackawaxen River.
We all had fun canoeing down the Delaware River and swimming in the Ten Mile River. Most of us earned many merit badges. There was special list for those who did not earn badges. I never slept. On my first morning in camp, about an hour before wake-up time, I was sitting at a picnic table by the Palace (our office), staring at the black rattle snake in the fish tank. Larry was walking from the willy (latrine) where he may have come from the shower and asked me what I was doing. I said, I don’t sleep. He decided I was the Chappy vampire. Quickly, everyone knew. They still call me Dracula. It’s cool, unlike Bela Legosi, who’s dead. I am flying around.
We had action-packed days. But eventually, some people needed to sleep. So, we retired to our leantos. Chappy closed after the summer of ’88. It should have never closed. That’s another story. My leanto was at the top of the hill. To get to the top, you climbed muddy steps.
After Chappy closed, my leanto was moved to the bottom of the hill. I slept in it during Alumni Weekend of 2009. I visited it on every alumni weekend. The grounds of Chappy were part of the Rock Lake Camps (D1 Kothke, D2 Chappy, D3 Kunatah, and D4 Ihpetonga). Sadly, that section is in the process of being sold. Much of what was there was destroyed, my leanto was marked, “NOT TO BE DESTROYED.”
A leanto mover
I am chair of the Ten Mile River Scout (TMR) Museum, located at TMR’s HQ. At our facility, we have the Dr. Karl E. Bernstein (My camp hero) Cayuga/Kotohke Cabin, a willy (Sadly it is not operational), and the former Kunatah Trading Post, which will soon be the Hal Rosenfeld Museum Annex. My leanto was supposed to be moved to the museum. A week or so ago, one of our trustees cleared the area where it was situated and got it ready to be moved. He went up a few days later with his friend to haul it over. As soon as he arrived, he saw that a machine had crushed it. There’s nothing left. My name and other names had been scribbled all over it when it was alive. When I heard, part of me died. To all my camp friends, remember the trails you hiked and the lakes you jumped into. You never know when they may be taken from you. I am sitting shiva. You’re welcome to join me.
These days, many people no longer use traditional leather wallets. You may remember them. They had a billfold and pockets for your license, credit cards, and a picture of your kid or dog. According to a report by Amazon Web Services and PYMNTs in February 2024, 79 percent of Gen Z use digital wallets. Baby boomers and seniors account for 26 percent of the digital wallet users.
Let’s reminisce about the various types of wallets available. They still exist. Let’s start with my first wallet. It was a white Jox Sox. I got the socks from my grandmother. She was and might still be the queen of socks. But they had to be Jox Sox from Thom McAn, a shoe retailer. Sadly, it shuttered its 100-plus stores in 1986. You can still get Jox Sox from Amazon. I have a pair.
In the ’70s, most of us kids kept a dollar or two in our socks. We put coins in them, too. Sometimes, that causes cuts on the soles of our feet or toes. I can remember a quarter or two floating around my sock. The change could tear through our foot protection. My favorite memory was from when I attended the Manhattan Beach Jewish Center Day Camp. The camp would take us on a field trip to L&B Spumoni Gardens to get spumoni. That’s where I developed my love of this precious treat. Our counselors told us to wait for them to get us our spumoni and not to get anything else. We were about 10 years old.
Did we listen? We pulled a dollar out of our sock and got on the line for a Sicilian slice. Back then, a pizza slice cost around 50 or 75 cents. We knew they had the best pizza. They still do. I was last there on Memorial Day. I pulled my money out of my Timberlands wallet. It now costs $9.75 for two slices and a bottle of water.
Please note that the camp is kosher. Why did they take us to L&B? Who knows? They would pack kosher meals for us when we went to the now-closed Action Park (it reopened under another name), the beach, and on overnight trips to Cooperstown. Once, they took us to Yankee Stadium. We snuck over to the concession stands. The counselors told us they had to taste our hot dogs to see if they were kosher. So, we cut a piece off. Yeah, we and some of our trusted counselors ate all sorts of “kosher” crap from the stands in the amusement parks. And wherever else went.
In the 1980s, I attended summer camp, which was the best time of my life. Before I went, my dad handed me an old brown wallet of his. He said I should have one and carry a few dollars in it to buy stuff at the trading post. I took it. I obtained the singles from Larry, who served as our banker and purchased candy from the trading post or a hamburger meal in Bob (Slob, as we called it) Landers.
I carried that wallet with me when I needed to. For the most part, through junior and high school, I kept a dollar or two in my pocket or sock. I arrived at college and needed to carry a little more money. Not much. So, I had the wallet. My girlfriend didn’t like it, as it was worn. She bought me a new one for my birthday. It was nice. I used it. When she dumped me, I went back to the trusty old wallet. Eventually, as I got older, I bought a few. I had a nice Coach wallet from Bloomingdale’s, and I received another one for my birthday from the people at a volunteer group I worked with. They just bought it for me. They had no idea if I was using a worn one or my sock. We had a meeting around my birthday. We had pizza, and they handed me the new wallet.
For the most part, now my iPhone is my wallet. I tap it at the subway turnstile. Yeah, I ditched the MetroCard, too. Eventually, New York City Transit will eliminate them. I tap and pay at the Stadium, Key Food, and most restaurants.
Ultimately, my favorite wallet will always be a sock. Preferably, a Jox.
Until you glanced at the subheader, I bet you thought I was writing about that rascally rabbit, Bugs Bunny. Well, finding a doctor could be like walking into the world of Looney Tunes. It can be a trick or treat.
When Doctors are Picked for You
Sometimes, doctors are picked for us. Sometimes not. Sometimes, we pick the right physician and get well. Sometimes, we get sicker than before we went for our examination. When doctors are picked for us, I mean when you’re a kid, and mom brings you to the doctor. My mom (full disclosure: she’s a retired RN) always scheduled appointments for me. Nothing was wrong. She was known as a holiday or weekend ruiner. If we had a holiday weekend, I wound up at the pediatrician, the dentist, or the ophthalmologist.
Doctors are picked for you when you walk into or are flown to the ER. You don’t have a choice. You are stuck with the ER docs. I have done it a few times. My first kidney stone (I’ve had four) was in May 2013. I went to the ER. The doctor was fine. My mom liked her. That was a plus. I remember her calling her friend, another retired RN and saying this doctor and treatment seems fine.
Picking a Doctor Recommend on the Hospital’s Discharge Sheet
After kidney stone number one, I walked out of the hospital feeling somewhat better from the morphine and Toradol. I thought they said tortellini not Toradol. I guess I wanted good food. In hand was a list of urologists. The next day, I called the first one on the list. At the time, he was about a ten-minute walk from my residence. He was very nice and knew what he was doing. A few weeks later, he performed the procedure to remove the stone. My mom liked him.
When a Doctor Picked for You Might Be Clueless
About a decade later, I got stone number two. It was over Rosh Hashanah. I walked home from a nice lunch and felt sick. My mind flashed back to my first stone. I called Mom. She knew something was wrong since I was calling on a holy day. I told her what was happening and said I would shower and try to sleep. If I am still feeling sick after an hour, I will head off to the ER. It lasted about 30 minutes until I headed to the hospital. I noticed an orthodox woman being triaged a few stations next to mine. It’s a great way to start the head of the year. The doctor prescribed a painkiller for me to pick up at CVS, not Tamsulosin (Flomax), the drug used to treat kidney stones. Of course, I did a CT scan. I have had many. The radiologist reported two nodes in my lungs. The ER doctor told me about this and said it was a sign I probably had lung cancer, and I needed to get it checked.
When Mom Picks the Doctor
I freaked out about the possibility I had lung cancer. I called Mom. She said I did not and to call the urologist. I called his office, they were shocked the doctor didn’t prescribe Tamsulosin. I went to see him and got the prescription. Sadly, he is now two subway trains or an Uber away from me.
My mom said she knew a pulmonologist and had no worries that I had lung cancer. I went to see him. I was decked out in my Yankee apparel. He’s a fan of the Bronx Bombers. He looked at the hospital CT scan. He said, here’s your kidney stone. That’s for your urologist. Here’s part of your lungs. Here are the nodes. He noted since it was an abdominal scan, it didn’t show my full lungs, and the ER doctor should have never said anything about cancer, particularly because only a portion of my lungs were on the scan. He prescribed another CT scan. It showed nothing. We briefly chatted about Mickey Mantle and that was it.
Doctor My Eyes
Maybe Jackson Browne is singing about me? I hope the doctors who are doctoring my eyes aren’t running on empty. I have been wearing glasses since I was about five. So, my eyes needed to be doctored. My first ophthalmologist was the one my dad went to. He was fine. I had a few different eye doctors over the years. Most were fine. Eventually, I found one my mom knew; he was the best. I went to him for many years until he was forced to retire early due to a medical condition. Years ago, I had a vision issue, and he spent quite a bit of time on the phone with my mom, walking her through what needed to be done. I wouldn’t have understood a word they said. All worked out well.
After his retirement, the doctor who took over his practice was a colorful and fun character. No problems. I liked him. The only problem was I moved, and heading to his office from my new location took too long. I found someone near my former midtown office. He was decent. I needed an eye drop prescription filled. He said he’d do it right away. Over a month later, I was still waiting. I called his office regularly and was told they were working on it. Eventually, I was able to stroll into Walgreens and get the eye drops.
A former friend of my mom’s, a general practitioner, suggested I write a review on Zocdoc. I did. Nearly two years later, I walked into his office for an exam. His assistant dilated my eyes. Then he came and complained to me about the review and said he could do this exam if I wanted. But he would never see me again. I told him, you already dilated my eyes it would have made more sense to call me before the appointment and cancel. He just looked at me. I did the exam. All was well.
A few years later, I went to another ophthalmologist. He did a visual field and said my pressure was very high. He wanted to do surgery. I checked with other eye physicians. They said it was not high. The number was about two points below what’s considered high. I now go to one of my friends for eye exams. We do the exam and talk about a special swimming hole that no longer exists in our beloved summer camp. If you want to see it in your eyes, you need to look carefully. That may not be what Peter Gabriel meant in his tune. But be careful.
A Doctor Who Bilks the Elderly and Others
I had back pain. It has happened. Thankfully, not in many years. I hope I am not jinxing myself. I went to a general practitioner that I knew. She did a physical and decided I had high blood pressure. I didn’t. Like the visual field, the numbers were a few points below high BP and could have gone either way. She wanted me on all sorts of meds and sent me for tests. I didn’t take the meds. I did one of the tests. It showed nothing. I went from my office to Cornell Medical Center on a very wet day. I was so drenched I had to go to the Gap and buy a new outfit to return to work.
Here’s another one of her foul ups. She was supposed to send my records to the hospital before my kidney stone procedure. The hospital and urologist requested them. She never did. She said she forgot. I once told this story to another doctor. She said, I shouldn’t ask this, but it is…? I said yes. She said the doctor is known for these problems and for messing around with overbilling the elderly. Her Zocdoc reviews were loaded with stories. I didn’t write one. After my experience with the eye doctor, I decided I would never write a review again. I could write many great reviews and a few bad ones. BTW, Zocdoc has been very helpful when picking a physician and making an appointment. Some of the docs have been awful. A few have been fine.
Getting Your Diet Right
Last August, kidney stone number four made me cancel my vacation to Milan. I got my money back and plan to go. But I have been freaking out since August 2024. I have been reading nonstop the flyers from the urologist on proper dieting to prevent stones. I visit legit sites like the American Urological Association, Mayo Clinic, and the Johns Hopkins Bloomberg School of Health. I do not trust Dr. Google or social media for medical advice. I decided to see a dietician. I did it years ago and did OK. I found one on Zocdoc, and the hell started. I misread her profile and mistook MS for MD. I guess I need to doctor my eyes a little more.
I did three sessions and ran. The first session was basic. She told me to download an app to take images of what I was eating. One night before attending the NY Philharmonic, I went to PJ Clarke’s and had their burger and fries with a Stella. She’s the best woman out there. One day I need to go to Belgium to see her birthplace. I told her about other things I eat. Mind you, I am controlled and eat a very low sugar diet and stay away from salt as much as possible. All the good things are all the bad things. She flipped out that I went to Clarke’s. The next session she was still attacking the place. She said her parents live near Lincoln Center, and she is very familiar with the restaurant. She must have had bad service, didn’t like her meal, or had a bad date at this venue. She wanted me to buy vitamins from some vitamin sales company she gets a commission from. I did not.
She said I should do blood work to help her figure out my diet. I said OK. She got the results, which were fine. Some items were borderline. But not high. Basically, from what the RNs and MDs I know that I sent it to say, you have nothing to worry about. The dietician also said she forgot to ask them to test for a few things. But the labs just do that anyway. So, it doesn’t matter that I forgot. Those items were not included from the lab. The medical professionals I spoke to say the lab will only test what’s on the prescription. She told me I was diabetic. She also said I had nonalcoholic liver disease and needed a liver test. Then she said she is an elite runner and a trainer and tried to sell me her services. This nut thought I was going to have lung failure. That’s when I said goodbye.
The scary thing is she billed my health care provider $2600 per session. They paid her $520. Therefore, she made about $1600 for around two hours’ worth of work. Is she stupid? As a dietician, she is the dumbest of the dumb. Her eating recommendations conflicted with what the urologist said. Her scamming was off the charts. Thankfully I did not fall for it. She said, I needed to see her for at least a year to correct my lung, liver and other issues.
The bottom line is to stay healthy. Jumping back to Peter Gabriel, picking a doctor can be like playing games without frontiers.
Alana’s looked like she was about to burst. She and Marc were chilling in his camp. Why they were there, no one knew. Even they couldn’t figure out why they weren’t home. The two had no clue where the nearest hospital was. Marc remembered a few hospital runs in camp after they went to Action Park. Someone always got hurt.
They had a mix of Adele, Joy Division, the Cure, U2, and Depeche Mode playing, and even a little Billy Joel, Elton John, the Ramones, and Beatles made the setlist. The fire was burning. The weather was perfect. Marc kissed her. He was very nervous. Their doctor didn’t know of their powers. They had no idea what would happen when the baby was born. They did their best research by reading Star Wars books.
Alana’s water broke. She was in the leanto that Marc slept in during his summer years. She was on the floor on top of a green blanket. The cots were long gone. She started to scream. March began to shake. Wi-Fi was nonexistent in this part of the camp. Due to the connectivity issue, they couldn’t find a video on YouTube showing how to deliver a baby. It was too late for Marc to get her into the car and use Google Maps to guide them to a hospital.
Alana’s face was redder than a tomato. Marc was pretending to be an OB/GYN. She screamed. No one heard her. Or maybe someone did. Suddenly lightning flashed. She cried. Clueless, Marc was holding her ankles. He almost fell. As Marc was falling, a hand pushed him back up. He freaked. He turned around and saw the Woodsman with his herd of buffalo. The Woodsman motioned to Marc, who stepped away. A buffalo waltzed up to Alana. It looked at her. Alana’s eyes froze. She laughed. Suddenly, a boy and a girl popped out. They were perfect.
It was a warm winter weekend. The two woke up and decided to go to camp. They jumped into Alana’s Infiniti and quickly got to Marc’s camp. They played “Tommy” and “October” on the ride up.
Marc and Alana made camp in Marc’s leanto. It was no longer where it was in Marc’s younger years. Marc started to build a fire. Alana changed into her bathing suit and told Marc to do the same. They hiked down to the lake and jumped in. They swam for about 20 minutes and hiked back up to their campsite. Marc remembered years ago when a good friend walked up to the site after gouging junk food at the lake. He had a pleasurable experience on his walk.
The two lovebirds also had a pleasurable experience walking back together while holding hands and being alone. At least, they thought they were. They got to the site, and Marc saw the fire burning quite high. He knew who lit it. Sitting in Marc’s leanto sipping Genny cream ale and munching on Freihofers was the Woodsman. Marc ran up and gave him the official handshake.
The Woodsman smiled and hugged Alana. She knew she was now in. They sat in silence for about 30 minutes. The Woodsman got up, and he took a small piece of wood out of his pocket. He explained that he’s been carrying this wood around for decades. It came from a tree near a throne. He told the two that this magical piece of timber has helped lead him to great heights. He said he believed the two of them would get even stronger. He warned them to continue to be careful with their powers. He passed around a can of Genny and had them all take a swig of the “lish” ale. After that, he yelled out, and his herd of bison appeared. He rode off.
Alana and Tzipora were cruising. Alana was behind the wheel. That Depeche song had just finished, and for some reason, the women decided to play “Abbey Road.” They were driving. They had no set destination.
They were traveling toward the Delaware River, near Marc’s camp. Alana was up there enough times with her guy that she knew the route. She loved being by the river. For a winter day, the weather was perfect. The sun was shining, and the temperature was right around 50 degrees.
They pulled into an old campsite Marc used to take his camp group to on overnight hikes. Marc remembers when all the kids got poison ivy. He didn’t. He led them right to it. They were aimlessly hiking, and Marc said let’s use this as our supply leanto. The poison ivy plant was growing all around. Several kids fell in it. Later on, most were quite itchy; Marc was fine. He jumped into the Delaware to cool off and bathe. They had no showers at this site; for some, that was fine. For Marc, that was gross.
The women sat in that same leanto. All the plant life was dead for the winter. She met the Woodsman once. He came in with his herd of buffalo to talk to Marc. They were in a different section of the camp. She didn’t expect to see the Woodsman. She knew he likely would only come out for Marc. But she knew he knew she was in camp, and she’d be safe. They opened their sandwiches and stretched.
Tzipora walked to the river and put her feet in. The water was cold. But she didn’t care. Very quickly, she was taking a dip. Alana smiled and was coaxed in. The two frolicked around.
Suddenly, they heard strange moaning noises. At the entry point of the river, they saw Jay. He, of course, knew the camp. He was kicked out many moons ago. Tzipora vaguely knew about the damage he caused. She got scared. The two women were not dressed for a fight. They were sopping wet.
Alana and Tzipora exited the river quietly. Jay was so stoned he didn’t even notice them. They dried off and put their warm clothes on. Jay was still seated by a tree that Marc always loved to hang out by. He was chanting. He had his air pods in and was cranking Judas Priest.
Tzipora looked at Alana. She smiled. They approached Jay. His arms began to shake. As they shook, pieces of glass flew out. Alana thought he was detoxing. She laughed and lodged a few apples at his head. She then shot wine into his eyes. He fell out of his spot. He rolled down toward the river.
The two women jumped into Alana’s Infiniti, kept the Beatles playing, and drove into town.
As you recall, our story started many years ago with Marc stopping a few Boston teens from harming an older man in a NYC subway station. But where did Marc get his powers from? Many have wondered. Well, it goes back to a strange day in camp in 1983.
It all started when Marc first met the Woodsman. He was about 12 and a newbie in camp. Marc was sitting in his leanto, and the Woodsman appeared and said, “I know your father.” Marc knew his dad was active in the programs this camp ran. He was excited. The Woodsman said he was leading a hike to an old, closed camp. It was the place where he spent his youth. He ran ceremonies, the waterfront, and other stuff.
At around 2 p.m., a merry band of youngsters began their hike. About a half hour later, they were at a picturesque window. Their guide told them where all the old latrines were; they went into a dilapidated dining hall and some other cabins.
The kids were learning so much. Some call it leeaaarnning. Regardless, all was well. Marc was sipping water from his canteen, he was chatting with some kids. Suddenly, a kid from some provisional group tried to push him. Marc didn’t get along with many except for one of the Provo groups. The group they did get along with was only because of its leader. They didn’t like the group. But the leader was always sedated, so all was well.
The kid pushed him again. Marc hit the ground. The kid tried to step on his head. Marc got up and squeezed his arms. His eyes shut. The kid kicked Marc. As Marc clutched his stomach from the kick, he opened his eyes and shot honey at the kid. Then, pomegranates shot out of his fingers. The kid was nailed. He fell onto the floor. He almost fell off the cliffs. Others were watching. Of course, in this group, strange things were the norm. No one thought anything of this. They were the weirdest group of campers in the world.
Eventually, the Woodsman gathered the group together, and they hiked back to their site. By the way, even though the Woodsman showed them the old latrines, he ensured the kids knew he never used them.
Marc was sitting in his office. He was pleased that his website updates took. He began writing some corporate statements. He has yet to respond to the headhunter from the other day. The job market sucks. So, who knows what roles are real and lasting? It’s too bad he can’t be a superhero for hire. He goes about his business and takes of business. He often has to work solo. But loves it when he and Alana tag team. Toss in Anat and Jerry, and they are unstoppable. They are their version of the Fantastic Four.
Everything was so quiet. It was late Friday morning. Marc was wondering what he and Alana would do Friday night. She’d light candles. She probably got the usual takeout dinners. The two of them sometimes cooked. It was an experience.
Alana texted him that she just bought a challah and was gonna cook salmon. Marc texted back his approval. The market was tanking. What else is new? The Cure was cranking on YouTube. “Disintegration” came on. It brought him back to the 80s and his first date. He took Laura to see the Cure at the former Giants Stadium. The Pixies and Love and Rockets opened. It was a night of darkness. They loved it. The two were too young to buy beer. They shared M&Ms and held hands. She kept saying how angelic Robert Smith’s voice sounded. Still does. He remembered Depeche Mode dates with Dina and Erasure with another girl. And all the shows he saw with Alana. They will continue to see many more. Of course, he saw a few shows with Jen. Some of these women were camp girls. Not his. He went to an all-boys camp. The girls went to the typical jappy camps. Anat and Jen met and had their first fight at one of those camps. It was the only time Jen ever beat Anat. She didn’t yet have her powers. For the girls in those camps, it was who had better clothes. The guys in those camps weren’t much different. Marc was more rustic and met the best people ever.
His group was extraordinary. Anat fights with dried fruit. This delicacy played a significant role in Marc’s camp. As did dairy products, voodoo, and resting. Sometimes things went wrong. But everyone was always very apologetic for their wrongdoings.
Just as “People are People” came on, Marc hit send on the document to senior leadership. He anxiously awaited their response. He sipped his water and again checked MarketWatch. The Dow was lower than earlier. Don’t even think about the NASDAQ.
About an hour or so later, his inbox lit up with comments. Minor edits were made, and the document was approved and scheduled to go live Monday morning. Marc grabbed his coat and headed to the subway.
He approached the station and saw some madman spitting at people. He usually stayed away from these crazies. He knew he could stop them. But too many people filmed these individuals.
A young child was spit on. The guy was throwing things out of his pockets. The kid’s mom was in tears. She looked like a sweet young woman. She was dressed like the girls from the camps Marc’s girlfriends went to. Alana didn’t bother with camp. She only went one summer. Alana was the mixed-up cutey in all black. She kept to herself and listened to Joy Division. She’s still mourning Ian Curtis’ death.
Marc couldn’t let this kid get hurt. His mom was shaking. He walked up to the perp. He told him to stop and leave the poor little boy alone. The guy tossed a bottle at Marc. He then launched a decrepit old sweater. Marc ducked. The guy got closer to him. Marc shot pomegranates out of his eyes. He loved the feeling. He always wondered what Palpatine felt like when he was shooting Force lightning. The assailant fell back. He rose back up. Marc nailed him with honey. It hit him in the eyes. He fell back. Marc fired a few pomegranates and wished Alana was here to fire her apples, wine, and figs. Marc saw that guy was not getting up anytime soon. People were circling the nut and taking pictures. Marc used that as his chance to run down the stairs and catch his train.
Marc woke up to a cool breeze. He’s not much of a sleeper. He thinks he slept well. He took a walk over to the lake and jumped in. He toweled off, had some cereal and juice, and jumped into his car for the trip back home. He texted Alana, told her how much he missed her, and told her she would be here next time. She wrote back about how much fun she had with Tzipora. She said all was clean. Marc knows about their liaisons. He could care less.
Marc hit the expressway and cruised most of the way to the Smiths and Echo & The Bunnymen. Meanwhile, Jay was sitting home in his dump of an apartment. It looked like a welfare motel. He barely had the money to pay his rent. Kari came over. She did not look happy. She told him what happened on the beach with Alana. Jay punched a wall. His hand started to bleed. He lit a joint and cracked open a beer. He guzzled it down like a frat boy. Of course, he never went to college. He barely finished high school. The two argued for a little while.
Marc was making great time. Alana texted and said she was cooking dinner. Marc wondered what she was making. She is not known for cooking. Neither is he. Marc figured she was ordering takeout, and she’d warm it up. She thought she was cooking since she turned on the oven to warm up the schnitzel.
Anat was getting tired. She was in her third trimester. She hoped the last few weeks would be peaceful. Dan was busy buying baby items. They refused to do a gender reveal party. They wanted a surprise. They would be thankful and happy with whatever Hashem blessed them with. She would name the child after her grandmother no matter what. Jerry was busy practicing his olive throwing. The kid is getting stronger. Jen even called Anat to see how she was feeling. Anat laughed and smiled.
Mitchell's thoughts, photos, etc. 