The Light Makers - Alby Chrisbach

The Light Makers © 

Alby 

Chrisbach 

A Round Table Story

Alby Chrisbach is 

81, a seasoned story-teller and 

alone on Earth in 2999. In 

1945, when Alby was 17, he 

had moved to Los Alamos. 

His dad had been hired to 

work as a machinist at The 

Labs. Alby witnessed the 

first atomic blast, the Trinity 

Test. It terrified him. A 

new material was formed by 

the blast. Alby discovered 

it, enabling an adventure 

of time-travel. He wanted 

to preclude the development 

of nuclear technology. He 

travels back in time to meet 

Einstein, Oppenheimer and 

Teller in 1941 at Columbia 

University and considers 

some of the cultural issues 

behind the creation of the 

bomb. 

 

“No faculty of the mind is as pure as friendship; 

it is our only rightful claim to decency.” 

— Mark Isaac Rabinowitz 

✑ 

Alby tells the story 

of a murder that occurs 

within this group of notables 

that grows to include young 

Beat poets and writers, who, 

along with the physicists, 

suggest a series of practical 

and egalitarian technologies. 

The murder investigation 

is interlaced with some 

advocated technologies, 

Alby’s time-travel and a 

stream of quips and queries 

from the physicists and poets. 

Front Cover Photo: 

Mark Rabinowitz, July 1941, 

riding up to Mount Kisco 

on the newly paved Albany Post Road. 

Mark made the bike frame and the rack. 

Marcia Rabinowitz made the saddlebags.

✑ 

✑ 

© Copyright, 1998 by Alby Chrisbach: The Light Makers 

United States Copyright Office Registration # Txu 884-696, November 18, 1998. All rights 

reserved. Duplication or publication of this document, conventionally or electronically, is not 

permitted. This story is a work of fiction. The characterizations of four well-known physicists, 

four well-known poets and other notables are fictional. Any possible association to any real 

person or event is coincidental. 

alby@albychrisbach.com

Chapters 

~ Illustrations ~ 

PRELUDE ................................................................... 9 

~ THE FAMILY, SUCH AS THEY ARE IN 1941 ~ ................... 12 

~ THE OTHERS, AS WE SHALL MEET THEM... ~ ................... 13 

ST. JOHN THE DIVINE .................................................. 15 

SINING THE STONE ...................................................... 25 

~ THE 57TH PARALLEL ~ ............................................ 44 

FROM LATVIA WITH LUCK ............................................... 45 

~ MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS ~ .......................................... 64 

THE STEPS ............................................................... 65 

~ NEW YORK GLOSSARY ~ .......................................... 84 

THE ROUND TABLE ...................................................... 87 

CHILDREN OF MANHATTAN ........................................... 109 

~ COTTAGE YACHT MOCKUP ~ ................................... 119 

BICYCLING, ATOMS & POETRY ...................................... 131 

~ THIS IS JUST TO LAUGH ~ ........................................ 136 

~ THE IDEA OF ORDER ON THE DELAWARE ~ ................... 150 

COMMITTEES TO DIE FOR ........................................... 155 

MOLECULAR MECHANICAL CALCULUS ............................. 181 

DIAMONDS ARE FOR NOW .......................................... 195 

FISSION IS FOREVER ................................................... 205 

FEAR OF LEAVES ....................................................... 217 

HAMMOCKS OF BROWNSTONE RAVINE ............................ 225 

TRAILS & TRIALS OF DECEIT ......................................... 231 

A HANGING ............................................................. 245

A Round Table Story 

Prelude 

Alby Chrisbach 

✑ 

My name is Alby Chrisbach. I am 81 now, born in 1928. I have 

been alone for 12 years. I have become, inadvertently, a time-traveler. 

It would be 2009 in my timeline, although an atomic clock that I found 

recently indicates it is 2999. Before me is a natural paradise that bears 

greatest resemblance to my perception of the forests of a pre-technical 

era, possibly five or six thousand years ago. There are few buildings 

standing in this former Santa Barbara and those are deeply covered 

in layers of white, orange and purple-flowered vines. I am dreadfully 

frightened to sine the stone again since it has been through this abuse 

that I may have eliminated all people and our handiwork of civilization. 

Yes, I am alone, except for my dear dog, Tarigo, and myself. 

I am a thin man, abstemious in habit, often delirious with 

hunger. My hair is now white and remains thick and long; for many 

years beyond my expectation it was brown and wavy. In a few timelines 

I have been thought to be mystical because of my endless hunger 

and because of my dark eyes that linger inappropriately in study and 

stare. I believe the characteristic that is the strongest in me — and the 

one that has transcended time the most graciously — is empathy. It 

has nearly cost my life more than once, but I have honed this skill to 

a point where some thought I could read minds. In these, my aging 

years, in this grotesque peace of loneliness, I have come to be able to 

read time as well as the openings toward it. With the directness of a 

gale-force wind I yearn for some minds to meet again, some minds to 

merge with, some minds to understand. 

I consider it so very unlikely that any of this will ever be read. 

It appears that human life no longer exists. I am well aware that, if 

you were to exist, your perceptions might be entirely different from 

mine — that is, if you somehow were to acquire a copy of this journal 

from my future. I am also aware that there may be other powers at 

play here, as my friend Leon had suggested when we were students. I 

may well be dead. I may be in a dream. I may be autistic or a savant 

of some kind, and you may be there, but I may be blind, deaf or in a 

coma. I cannot be positive of who I am and of the events that I will 

describe. I can only tell you that which I perceive. I imagine that when 

people were alive, back then, that the only truth that anyone could 

really tell is the truth of their own perceptions, including their own 

various distortions of their experiences and interpretations. These, 

humbly, are mine. 

9

Prelude 

The Light Makers 

These are neither tales of science fiction nor of science speculation. 

These are the stories of the feelings and conclusions of some 

of the people I have met in my time-travels, people that I had come 

to have known intimately. I miss these people greatly and it is their 

stories that I must tell. I have several stories all-in-all, The Light Makers, 

this series of little tales that includes the story of a terrible murder that 

deeply saddened other tragedies in this community. Another story is 

about Metallic Hydrogen and Neutronium, called Metallic Hydrogen. 

This story tells of the dramatic cultural effects of time-travel, only a 

few of which are found in The Light Makers. I tell a story of timelines 

called The Bell Tower. 

There is a plethora of print reproduction equipment about, 

since the evidence of life remains in many places. It is always necessary 

to cut great vines and remarkably dense growth to access this or 

any other equipment, such as communications devices, which I seek 

often, but always, to no avail. Prior to sining the stone again, a dangerous 

process that I shall explain in another chapter, I take pleasure in 

reproducing some copies of these texts. I will release them in random 

times unknown to me with the hope that you might exist, and that you 

are capable of reading. If you can read it is possible that your influence 

will alter the distortions of time and place that I believe I have 

caused. If these distortions do not occur, then this book might not 

be written, a number of technologies may disappear, and, with luck, 

humanity will persevere. 

With the direction our species has taken, it now seems so unlikely 

that additional time-travel will be able to restore life to earth. I 

am going to indulge myself in these tidbits of tales that have interested 

me rather than supply you with a technical manual for reversing the 

dissolution of mankind. If I were to write such a manual, I would 

inaccurately call it ‘Weapons Dissolution Methodologies,’ or some 

other pretentious title — perhaps ‘The Egalitarian Development.’ 

These stories, however, are not about weapons or utopias. I have tried 

every possible technique to generate this reversal for 12 years without 

success, and remember, it is I who possesses the power of the stone. 

If restoration is to occur, it must occur through the real power, your 

power, the power of human desire to quell exhibitions of arrogance 

and the barrenness of ruthless greed. 

I have spent many years mastering the correct swing of my 

leather pouch and pea-glass. It isn’t a trivial task to achieve the correct 

sine wave to go to the correct time and place. I know now that 

you must treat each motion as seriously as an Olympic discus thrower, 

10 



several of whom I trained with in order to develop the strength and 

grace to bring my weighty pea-glass into pattern. I have acquired many 

journals, letters and ships’ logs to help tell these tales with accuracy, 

and all-in-all, have treated both time traveling and story-telling quite 

seriously. 

Ω 

11

~ The Family, such as they are in 1941 ~ ~ The Others, as we shall meet them... ~ 

Chaim Scheckman 

Ishmael and Lara Scheckman 

Key: 

Bold Major Character 

Italic Minor Character (included for perspective) 

Blank No appearance 

Doralyn - 58 

Daniel - 66 Horace - 70 Jared - 58 

Vladimir & Faye Weinstock 

Peter Dennis Ronnie 

Heshie Rabinowitz - 67 

Gladys - 64 

Rusty - 43 Richard - 43 

Mark Isaac - 39 Marcia - 39 

Roy - 31 

Moisha - 34 

Sally - 27 

Jeffrey - 17 

Jonathan - 19 Joshua - 13 

Anthony Bruno 

Major Characters 

Anthony Cinelli Bishop, Mark Isaac Rabinowitz’s best friend 

Patrick Londonderry Policeman then Detective, assigned to Chief Shawnessy 

Spoon O’Reilly 

Priest, Assistant to Bishop Cinelli 

Jeremy Davidson Community Poet and Panhandler 

Benjamin Poinstein Real Estate Developer 

Stumpo Stagnoli Detective, assigned to Chief Shawnessy 

Mikey Martinelli Detective, assigned to Chief Shawnessy 

S. S. Shawnessy Chief of Police, leading the investigation 

Georgey Rinato 

Mayor of the City of New York and friend of Londonderry 

Eileen Bechsler 

Jonathan Jeremy Rabinowitz’s girlfriend 

Albert Einstein 

Physicist 

Edward Teller 

Physicist 

Robert Oppenheimer Physicist 

Jack Kerouac 

Writer 

William Burroughs Poet & Writer 

Allen Ginsberg 

Poet 

Manolo Ramirez Naval Architect, Mechanician, Anthropologist, Ethnographer 

Amalayus Harraka Former Scheckman Paint Factory Foreman 

Nicky Fozzoni 

Benjamin Poinstein’s Lieutenant 

Barry Leverman Engineering Student at Columbia 

Enrico Fermi 

Physicist 

Rahim Markowitz Owner of Berkeley’s Shfvitz next to ‘The Labs’ 

Minor Characters 

Leon 

Smart college friend of mine 

Rob 

Childhood friend of Mark’s - Next Door Neighbor 

Andrew 

Friend of Joshua Rilke Rabinowitz 

Mrs. Krauck 

Building Superintendent at 116 th & Riverside 

The Avalon Family Rabinowitz family friends from Mount Kisco, New York 

Lyndon Rich 

Clairmont Fuckademy Headmaster 

Trent 

Friend of Jonathan Jeremy Rabinowitz 

Pauli Prito 

Mafia Leader from Staten Island 

William Carlos Williams Physician & Poet 

Professor Bechsler 

Eileen’s father, Barnard Professor, 2 nd home near Los Alamos 

General Leslie Groves Manhattan Project military leader at Los Alamos 

Mickey 

Friend of Jeffrey Scheckman 

Sharon 

Secretary to Richard Scheckman 

Mrs. O’Neil 

Receptionist at Napa Winery 

Spaulding 

Chardonnay Club Tennis Player 

Darryl Hammacher District Attorney 

Roger Berlini 

Attorney for the Defense 

Julius Hoffman 

Young Judge 

Henry Barnes 

Traffic Commissioner of New York City 

Dr. Levinthal-Lipman Forensic Psychiatrist 

Serge Inglentomena Building Superintendent at an East Side Hotel 

The Steel Family 

Avalon and Rabinowitz family friends from Mount Kisco 

12 13

St. John The Divine 

✑ 

Joshua Rilke Rabinowitz, a blond-haired Jew, and his best friend 

Andrew, a red-headed Catholic, were high up where no one should 

go in St. John The Divine, the Manhattan Cathedral on Amsterdam 

Avenue and 112 th Street. From their perch, the 13 year-olds viewed the 

largest nave in the world, larger than the Vatican. On this Sunday in 

1941, midway between the birthday of Jesus Christ, and, as the story 

goes, his commemorative day of resurrection on Easter Sunday, the 

Day of the Harps was celebrated only at St. John’s. This holiday was 

conceived by the charismatic and remarkable Father August, whose 

real name was Anthony Paul Cinelli, and whose real title was that of 

Bishop. As a devotee of St. Augustine, Bishop Cinelli said repeatedly, 

“Do few things and do them well.” He said it so often that people 

thought he was getting senile. He had been saying it since he was 10, 

when Joshua’s grandfather, a Jewish-Latvian furniture maker, told him 

this favorite phrase of woodworkers, and that it was St. Augustine who 

said it first. “Do few things and do them well.” 

The endearing and kind Father August was 6’ 4”, strongly featured 

with exotic black eyes and shiny black hair. He was a sensitive, 

lightly sarcastic leader, often genuinely funny and strong enough to help 

the sculptors move stone. He absolutely refused to be called Bishop. 

He didn’t want to be thought of as above his congregation. Instead he 

insisted he would be with his congregation, part of it, intimate within 

the community. Anthony Cinelli was so important to Catholic New 

York — and his Church so important to Christianity in general — that 

the Cardinals and Bishops of the Archdiocese of New York met at St. 

Patrick’s just to discuss this issue. Two years prior, in 1939, they made 

a compromise and summoned Bishop Cinelli by limousine: Anthony 

Cinelli would be known as Father August, after his mentor, St. Augustine, 

the urban utopian visionary. Anthony Cinelli was thrilled. He 

considered this to be the greatest honor of his splendidly honored life. 

That evening he put on cut off sweat pants and a T-shirt and spun his 

way through nearby Central Park on his Cinelli bicycle, complete with 

a full set of Campognola parts. He did 5 laps, or 25 miles. 

Andrew, a classmate of Joshua Rabinowitz’s at Fieldston, just 

over the bridge in Riverdale — the lowest part of the Bronx — had 

worked on this one for awhile. He knew that Father August was best 

friends with Joshua’s dad, since he had seen him at Joshua’s house 

many times. The Rosary Beads and Cross that Father August wore 

had been hand carved by Joshua’s grandfather, Heshie Rabinowitz, 

15



out of rosewood, teak and zebrawood. They were very large Beads, far 

larger than anyone had seen on a clergyman before. They scaled well 

on very large Anthony Cinelli. They fit his frame, and elevated him 

mysteriously. The large, handcarved zebrawood cross, fluid in form, 

large enough to be suggestive of a man with a burden had been rubbed 

lovingly by hand. 

Andrew, like everyone who knew the activities of Morningside 

Heights, knew that the Day of the Harps was fast approaching. If he 

and Joshua could get up into the nave, somewhere high, they would be 

able to see and hear the entire event without a bunch of lying adults to 

bother them and yell at them. Andrew was skilled with his dad’s camera 

and was pretty creative, and thought if he showed Father August some 

of his pictures they might be able to get high up in the nave. This was 

also the best place to check out the girls’ boobs — from above. Father 

August, the eccentric man of the Church who gave sanctuary to many 

for political reasons, and who sometimes filled the grounds and the 

floor of the church with the poor, appreciated Andrew’s photography 

and agreed to the scheme. He told the boys to see Father O’Reilly for 

access to the hidden stairs, “Spoon’ll help ya.” 

The Day of the Harps was an orchestra performance of 100 

Harps. The endless echoes of the string sounds were so unique that the 

holiday on Morningside Heights became more important than Easter 

itself. 100 Harps. Only in Manhattan could you find 100 harps, and 

the charismatic Father August got them there, year after year, and he 

filled the church, year after year. St. John’s was a significant place not 

only for music, but also for architecture, art, childcare, care for the aged, 

care for the homeless, care for the sick. The building was an ongoing 

construction project with sculptors and masons employed year round. 

Volunteer sculptors came from Carrara in Italy to climb the scaffolds 

and carve for St. John’s. Bronze sculptures suddenly appeared on the 

grounds. Rooms were built overnight in the basement as if carved directly 

from Manhattan’s speckley gray schist by God Himself. It was an 

honor to work for Catholic Bishop Anthony Cinelli, Father August, of 

the Episcopalian St. John The Divine. Although generally inconceivable 

for a leader of one religion to head the church of another, in this 

case, both Catholics and Episcopalians were thrilled to have Anthony 

Cinelli in this position. 

On February 23, 1941, Sunday, the Day of the Harps, when 

Andrew and Joshua were given access to the hidden nave stairs by 

Father Spoon O’Reilly, Father August was not in New York. Father 

16 



O’Reilly warned the boys to be careful and not make any noise while 

they were up in the nave, and insisted on a complete set of pictures 

after they were developed. Andrew’s father’s Nikon impressed him 

as it impressed me. The camera was of the new single-lens reflex type 

that enabled you to see in the viewfinder the same image that would be 

captured on the film . Quick-responding mirrors on springs enabled 

this technology. Andrew had four Nikkor lenses. A round Cardinal 

opened the service shyly, said little and announced that Father August 

had been called to Rome. The audience murmured impolitely, missing 

Father August and his raucous jokes and funny improprieties. After 

all, a Catholic running an Episcopalian monument cannot persist 

without humor. 

The talented harpists played Bach, Vivaldi and Beethoven. 

Young Leonard Bernstein conducted. The boys snapped through two 

rolls of film. While the harps played the boys lay on the floor looking 

down in complete amazement, with an overhead, commanding view. 

They studied the 100 harps and 100 harpists in black-tie and low cut, 

white-gowns. They appreciated the string sounds that could not be 

heard elsewhere on Earth. During the first intermission, Andrew 

looked out over the new construction site and at the picture of the 

new building, the old age home that would be built across Amsterdam 

Avenue. The first floor had been poured, and columns added to later 

support the second story. On either side of the future entrance of the 

building the columns were very thick, as if they were going to support 

a giant marquee and cantilevered floor sections. Something on the 

top of one of the columns looked familiar. It was in the concrete, now 

dry, floating in and out of the top of the column. 

“Hey Joshua, can things float in concrete, on the top of it?” 

“You mean when it’s wet?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Sure, I think it’s like water, stuff floats. When we put our 

hands in wet concrete, it’s always real wet. I guess the water gets pushed 

to the top and other stuff could float up with it.” Joshua didn’t think 

anything of the question, but during the second session, he knew that 

Andrew wasn’t listening to the harps. 

During the second intermission, Andrew went back to look 

at the column. 

Joshua followed, “What’s wrong?” 

Andrew, “Look at the big column closest to us, on the top of 

it, what do you see?” 

Joshua, “A rope or something.” 

17



Andrew, “No, look again.” 

Joshua picked up the camera, “Put on the big lens.” 

Andrew did, and gave Joshua the camera. Andrew put his 

head between his knees. 

Joshua focused, with difficulty, and said, “Hey those are Father 

August’s Beads, I wonder why he threw them there, maybe to give them 

to the poor or something like that.” 

When Joshua took his eye off the camera to give it to Andrew, 

he heard Andrew crying with his head still between his legs. “Suppose 

he’s in there, suppose Father August is in that column?” 

“Don’t be stupid, Andrew, you heard the Cardinal say Father 

August is in Rome.” 

“No, don’t you be stupid, asshole. Father August would never 

throw away those Beads and he would never miss the Day of the Harps 

or this whole weekend.” 

The boys didn’t hear much of the finale of the harps. The playing 

went on without them. They were sweating. They were alone at 

a bad time, as if locked in a closet like terrorized children. When the 

joyful crowd poured out of all of the doors it still took another hour for 

Andrew and Joshua to get Father O’Reilly’s attention. They insisted 

he accompany them up the hidden stairs. They looked panicked, but 

Spoon didn’t presume to guess the reason. 

Andrew said, “Look at the thick column by the garbage dumpster, 

to the right of it, look at the top of it.” 

Joshua said, “Here, look through the camera.” 

Spoon O’Reilly’s systems began to close down. His throat was 

collapsing. His eyes were filled with water. He was feeling his upper 

stomach cramp, acidic gas tearing at his upper chest. “We must get 

the Cardinal, please, you go, tell him that if he would be so kind, to 

please accompany you up the stairs to see me. Say nothing to no one. 

Be sure to kiss his ring, both of you.” 

The Cardinal was the perfect grandfather, much like my own. 

He patted the heads of the boys and followed them quietly. Up the 

stairs, slowly, more stairs — the camera. The image of the Beads in 

the concrete was too much for the Cardinal. He needed water, he 

needed to sit down, he needed to leave St. John’s and get air. The 

Cardinal asked the boys to get the police, since neither Father Spoon 

O’Reilly nor the Cardinal could move. The Cardinal instructed them 

to explain nothing, just to come to see him, and to bring the police 

upstairs. Spoon and the Cardinal stared at the column through small 

clear pieces of clear glass known as lights in the magnificent stained 

18 



glass windows. A 45” square column of concrete was encased in lumber 

before them. 

∞ 

Father August — Bishop Anthony Paul Cinelli — had been 

missing since early Friday evening. Spoon had looked everywhere, 

they had asked everyone. He knew that something was very wrong 

almost immediately. Bishops didn’t abandon their staffs and friends 

and jobs and students and miss appointments and special holidays. 

Was Anthony complaining about anything? No. Was there a warning? 

No. Anthony had said last week that some meetings were tough, 

lots of shouting. No big deal. This was New York. People shout all 

the time. Ad Hoc Morningside Planning Group, Friends of the Park, 

Urban Shelters, Air-Rights Allocations Committee, Crisis of the Aging, 

St. Luke’s Children’s Wing Committee, and more. Just meetings. 

Andrew and Joshua ran out to find a cop. They ran to 

Broadway. It was crowded, too many people. Andrew shouted at the 

panhandler, Jeremy, “where’s a cop?” Jeremy pointed. They ran. He 

screamed up the street after them, 

“The yellow beast sat on the bomb, 

Though no smart beans are beasts. 

You sloppy banana boys, 

You are beasts to steal my beans.” 

They found Officer Patrick Londonderry, and hurried him up 

the hidden staircase. Spoon was down and about and had already sent 

for the limousine. He yelled at the boys to get in, and gave the driver 

Joshua’s address. He knew it well; he had been to Round Table dinners 

with Father August. Spoon was greeted warmly by Marcia Rabinowitz, 

who was certain that the boys had done something terrible, since there 

was no other reason why her son and his friend would be ushered 

home by Father O’Reilly mid-day. The brief story in low tones in the 

doorway sickened Marcia, just the thought of it. Spoon took her to 

the couch. She ran to the bathroom, heaving. Anthony Cinelli had 

been her dear friend since she had first met Mark. Anthony was the 

godfather of her children. 

Spoon assured them not to jump to conclusions. Marcia sat 

with the boys for 15 minutes or so, and they seemed to be OK. Everyone 

was too scared to cry, faces were red, sweating. She wasn’t OK, 

so she went back to the kitchen. Andrew came into the kitchen and 

19



asked if Joshua could come with him while he went home to tell his 

mom. “Fine, go.” She was coming apart. She felt it. To collapse on 

her bed, to cry hard, to get Mark, Mark who was in Princeton for the 

day. Christ. Fuck. No. It’s not happening, no. 

The boys ran out of the elevator, down Riverside, up 115th 

Street, down Broadway to 112th Street. They ran across Broadway 

and sprinted down 112th to Amsterdam. About 20 policemen were 

there, about half on horseback. A great number of short and beefy 

men were getting out of a few pickup trucks, and picking up air hammers 

from even more mysterious confines of these few trucks. A large 

compressor on the site was started. The site foreman was shouting 

orders. Several men in suits were getting out of cabs. One man was 

one of the building’s owners, developer Benjamin Poinstein, of this 

newest old age home. The other was his Project Manager, the Owner’s 

Rep on the job. Others in suits looked like detectives and spoke into 

car radios. The boys went close to the action so that Father O’Reilly 

and the Cardinal wouldn’t see them. Spoon and the Cardinal were 

sitting across the street on folding chairs in front of the enormous 

bronze doors of St. John’s, doors that told stories of life and death in 

detailed reliefs. More frocks of undetermined position surrounded 

the seated men. 

To open a construction site on Sunday afternoon — to gather 

the owners and contractors almost instantly — should be an impossibility 

in any timeline. In this case, the site was opened in less than 

hour, with most players present. A murder of a Bishop in Catholic 

New York? The construction industry, especially concrete, is very Mafia 

and very Catholic. This Cathedral is incredibly important in New 

York. When Officer Londonderry understood who might be in the 

column, he didn’t call his precinct first — in violation of all protocols 

and orders. He called his childhood friend from PS 109 in Queens, 

now Mayor Georgey Rinato, at his temporary home at Gracie Mansion. 

“Why Jesus fuck goddammit does this have to happen in my 

New York in my goddam administration.” Mayor Rinato screamed, 

then shouted, then rolled the ball. He told the City Controller to 

prepare to enable financing for twenty detectives and officers to work 

on the disappearance and possible murder of Bishop Anthony Cinelli. 

“Fucking Anthony Cinelli, god damn this City.” 

The wood forms were removed from the column from the recent 

pour, slow piece by slow piece. Scaffolding was erected completely 

around the column and enclosed entirely with drop cloths. Short, 

thick men with small air hammers ushered their air hoses into the 

20 



scaffolding and up. The noise began. Within 5 minutes, there was so 

much dust the noise stopped, the short men talked to the tall super, 

who talked to Chief of Police S.S. Shawnessy. The drop cloths were 

removed. Whatever was to be seen would be seen by all. For decency, 

the short, bullish men worked as much as possible on the west side of 

the column, the back, chipping away at the somewhat fresh concrete. 

Within 25 minutes an air hammer man screamed a very deep, dark 

sound, almost a growl. Blood had squirted on his face and chest. The 

air hammering stopped. Another man wiped his face, and took him 

down and off the site. He was shaking like the air hammer he had 

just dropped. His face carried the fear of a gargoyle. 

The crane from the site started up. The hammering began 

again, with men chipping low, close to the first floor pour. A welder 

was cutting the double-tied steel rebars. Other men were up higher 

tying chains around the column. A flatbed truck was pulling up to 

the site on Amsterdam. The crane rose upwards and cranked to 

tighten the chains on the column. The hammering continued, and 

in another 25 minutes, all but the foreman left the scaffold. He tied 

3 more special ropes to the column that other men held. He went to 

the opposite side, raised his air hammer, hammered for 2 minutes, 

and the upper section of the column was freed. The crane operator 

cranked away immediately, spun the concrete block out toward the 

street, and the men with the ropes guided the column section above 

the flatbed. Within a few minutes the round column was lowered to 

the flatbed, chocked, covered and chained. The presumed entombed 

body of Father August was driven to a place unknown. The crowd 

dispersed, quietly aware of who might be in the concrete. The reporters 

and cameramen blended into the scene. They would be mauled if 

they were rude. The construction site was boarded up, and “Closed 

by Order of Mayor Rinato and Chief of Police Shawnessy,” each with 

a hammer in hand, tacking up the Order with angry faces that made 

them look like sheriffs tacking up ‘Most Wanted’ posters. Good for 

the front-page, though. 

The ice-solid Hudson River drove the winter winds of Riverside 

Drive with Chicago-like forces. For many weeks after Father August’s 

death, anger dominated many circles in New York. The Rabinowitz’s 

were devastated. Mark Isaac Rabinowitz, Joshua’s father, had been 

Anthony Cinelli’s best friend since childhood. Heshie and Gladys 

Rabinowitz, Joshua’s grandparents, took the train up from Princeton 

to see if they could help, and they worked with the folks at St. John’s, 

21



and cooked, and brought food. The Avalon’s came down from Mount 

Kisco. The Episcopalian congregation of St. John’s was demonstrating 

daily, demanding police action and threatening vigilante action. 

Other angry parties included the Episcopalian Ministry, the general 

community of Morningside Heights, the Archdiocese of New York, 

The Catholic Church in Rome, The Catholic Italian community both 

in New York and Sicily, the construction community in New York and 

the Mafia in both New York and Sicily. The Mafia gave the police two 

weeks, then said they were going to handle it after that. It would be 

the Weekend of Hope that the police would first investigate. 

The Weekend of Hope at St. John The Divine consisted of 

Friday, the Day of Disclosure, Saturday, the Day of Remembrance, 

and Sunday, the Day of the Harps. 

On Friday evening the World Disasters Travelling Show from 

the International Federation of Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies 

put on a $50 per plate dinner. A play that dramatized natural and 

man-made disasters was presented. Jonathan, Joshua’s older brother, 

had been one of the authors since he was 14. There is no problem 

getting material. Each year 15 to 20 million are made homeless. The 

extent of annual human tragedy is incomprehensible. 

Saturday, The Day of Remembrance, was a clothes and cannedgoods 

drive in the morning, distribution in the afternoon and a festive 

free buffet dinner for the needy in the evening. No one went home 

until he or she was stuffed and pockets were filled with cans. Skits were 

repeated daylong and jugglers and mimes became silly and near-delirious 

with the repetition. Panhandler Jeremy didn’t miss a thing. His 

disheveled beard and notably clean hair merged in a brown enormity 

as if he had just woken from a million year nap and stepped through 

the glass of a caveman display in the Museum of Natural History 30 

blocks south. He helped load trucks the evening before, and on Saturday 

made as many trips with as many cans to as many hiding places 

as any trained urban survivor could, regardless of the anthropological 

era from which he might have come. To a smiling lady handing out 

canned peas, he limericked, 

22 

“It not can not, I not be not, 

We not feel not, you not see not. 

I see can, yes I, 

I saw Father, yes I, 

Know not sleep not, I not tell not.” 



The cross-eyed, quiet lady shook her index finger at Jeremy as 

if to scold him for denying her the flying reptiles and flying fishes that 

normally occupied his speech. I handed Jeremy two cans of carrots; 

we stared in silence. My table was next to the lady’s table of peas. 

My broken leg was somewhat painful, and beginning to itch; I wasn’t 

smiling as instructed. In my most recent time-warp I had acquired 

this broken-leg through an arrival on the edge of a platform. My pod 

rolled from it onto a concrete floor in an abandoned warehouse in 

Clifton, New Jersey. I tied up my leg the best I could with some nearby 

package cord. I crawled to a window, broke it, and shouted for help. 

I left my pod there on Kulick Street. Passaic General Hospital set my 

leg and set me free. 

∞ 

Sunday of the Weekend of Hope was the Day of the Harps 

and the day of the discovery of Father August. If there was an opportunity 

present in this murder to turn the other cheek and end the 

vengeance cycle that so devastatingly traumatizes our species, it was 

not going to be exercised with this murder. This was a time for an 

eye for an eye. People were pissed. Chief Shawnessy was personally 

in charge of the investigation, and he updated Mayor Rinato and the 

newspapers daily. 

Mark Isaac Rabinowitz was the hardest hit personally by Anthony 

Paul Cinelli’s death. He mourned in his own way, silently, alone 

in his office at home. He saw the face of his friend as a gigantic image 

taking up the entirety of his vision, larger than any movie screen, 

larger than his own peripheral vision. Anthony’s image maintained its 

projective force for 8 days, and then, it was locked only into the corner 

of his vision, small, but present. In this time, Mark Isaac hadn’t slept. 

He dosed in his chair, briefly, and not in a bed. 

Mark Isaac then slept for 2–1/2 days, in bed this time, unaware 

of his dreams, getting up, drinking, peeing, smiling at his family if 

they were up, and when it was over, it was over. Mark Isaac got hold 

of himself, ate well, returned to his schedule and heralded his family 

and immediate community back to life, as Anthony Cinelli would 

have demanded. “Let’s drive up to Mount Kisco, all of us, and thank 

the Avalon’s for their help.” They drove up the Albany Post Road 

that Sunday, to acknowledge first spring and put the terrible death of 

winter behind them. 

23



A few trees began to bloom in the weeks that followed, and the 

gray snow and black speckled slush began to melt. A few light snowfalls, 

white and beautiful, a few hot days, more blooms, more smiles. 

As the spring-gentle robins chirped the tree buds to life, Mark Isaac’s 

grief grew to anger. He was more than curious to learn what luck the 

police had in their search for the murderer. 

24 

Ω 


Sining the Stone 


As a boy in grammar school I had learned that indoor plumbing 

had been developed during the Roman Empire. I wondered sincerely 

how and why technologies sometimes came and went. With the 

power of time-travel in my hands, I was able not only to witness such 

changes, but also to cause them. I wondered if I could help Mark to 

find Anthony’s killer. In the absolute sense I never intended damage to 

anyone, and I even believed that I could fool with the timeline enough 

to preclude the development of nuclear weapons. 

Having inadvertently introduced the bicycle in the mid 1750’s, 

the transportation system of the timeline of my childhood had been 

changed. By the 1870’s roads were paved and cars honked and maimed 

their way through busy streets. Other technologies, fashions and trends 

developed earlier because of my intervention, but my critical mission 

was to identify and stop, if possible, the timeline that developed the 

nuclear technologies and their spin-offs, Metallic Hydrogen and Neutronium. 

Through sining the stone I tried to fix whatever inequities I 

understood, such as anti-Semitism, since I am half-Jewish myself. I 

believe that at least in Princeton, New Jersey I was able to accomplish 

this reversal. I found myself studying a group of Catholics and Jews 

who were socially close to several of the inventors of the bomb in the 

days preceding the Manhattan Project. Most of what I learned about 

these people was at the time of Anthony’s death. It is through this 

mysterious and entirely alarming murder that you will learn of these 

frenzied, frantic, desperate people. Some are weak and ineffective, 

some besieged by self-destruction, some besieged by greed, and others 

whose malevolence is carefully disguised behind their careers. 

Most of what I learned about these people, of their good and 

bad, has been at the Rabinowitz Round Table. It was a fine table, 

certainly, but it was the overt fashion in which this group thrust their 

exaggerated dysfunctionality upon everyone which caught my attention. 

They did it with an abrupt frankness that reminds me of the days 

of verbal culture, far before mass media and even book publishing. I 

was there at the time, became a friend within this very community of 

nudniks, notables and geniuses and went as far as breaking and entering 

to acquire the journals of those who kept them. It is strange to 

me now that while alone on this planet I find this particular process 

of story telling to be so fulfilling. Looking at the incursion of growth 

around me, throughout Santa Barbara — a former tourist town on the 

25



Central Coast of California — and at the devastation of other places 

I used to visit, I cannot believe life as I have known it will emerge 

again. In my loneliness, as some seek a god, I have romanticized beings 

beyond. Most of the time I do not believe that the life forms of 

other planets would be in the least way humanoid even if they had an 

interest in our vegetation and seas, and somehow, an interest in the 

gadget mentality to develop space travel. The likelihood of a creature 

from another planet possessing any communicative abilities seems 

impossible. Such lifeforms would look more bizarre to us than cockroaches 

or dinosaurs, and their communication forms would be about 

as different. I therefore have no false expectation that the world I may 

have destroyed by trying to save will find a magical resolution from 

space. In that sense, there is no hope. It is in the sense that you in 

your timeline might read this journal of my timeline that represents 

the only hope I can fathom. 

∞ 

The buildings of these years have collapsed. The reinforcing 

bars in the concrete have all rusted and the concrete floors and walls 

fell under their own weight. The roots of time have stitched their paths, 

weaving this forest floor. Its fruits are my only foods. The streams 

from the transverse mountain range of Santa Barbara are my secret 

joy. You will see in these stories items out of your time, since I have 

changed time. Which items they may be depends on your timeline, 

which I cannot know. The minor distortions will not distract you; the 

stories of murder, of tragedy, of genius, and of obsessive greed will be 

fully recognizable since these have followed us through all the timelines 

I have encountered. 

I do not believe in magic or miracles and I certainly don’t believe 

in unfounded popularisms like astrology. Yet, as you know, there 

is the unexplained. On one timewarp I learned some techniques in 

biofeedback with a Dr. Fred Lorenz of Davis, California. I found that 

I could raise the temperature of an ear or a hand, and lower the temperature 

of the other ear or hand at the same time. I learned to drop 

my heart rate down to 20 beats per minute. I learned to stretch out 

between two chairs with my head on one and my heels on the other. 

A 200-pound man sat on me with no appreciable effect. I learned to 

swim long-distance butterfly, and swam 4 miles of this stroke without 

stopping, every week for a year. On the other days of the week I swam 

4 miles of backstroke, or breaststroke, or freestyle and then combinations 

of those strokes. As I swam I studied the patterns on the bottom 

26 



of the pool, and occasionally let my body continue to swim on the 

surface while I went to play in the more interesting patterns along the 

bottom. It is a treat to look up at yourself and see your stroke. It is 

the patterns alone that provide the tour. 

There is little doubt that the most dramatic art form of the 

mind and body enhancing skills that I learned with Fred Lorenz is 

dream-hopping. Some skills of biofeedback — such as creating alpha 

waves to make you more calm or beta waves to simulate mathematical 

thinking — are rather simple to master. Mastering the theta wave is 

not easy at all, this, the needed skill to dream-hop. Theta is the brain 

wave that is commonly generated by artistic people in the height of 

creativity or by athletes in endurance swims or runs. This phenomenon 

occurs most frequently while working in the middle of the night. I 

labored with the long, gray-haired Dr. Lorenz to master this last skill, 

to generate theta waves at will. 

Dr. Lorenz worked with me until my skillset was quite high. 

Besides learning to swim, I was able to correct my vision to 20-20. I 

learned to withstand unusual heat and cold since I could adjust the 

temperature of my skin. I kept working on the theta wave challenge, 

and once made the electroencephalograph chime and several components 

in the array of lab equipment beep and chirp. The moment 

was excruciatingly painful. I tore the electrodes from my head, burst 

from the inner, glass-walled observation chamber, stormed through 

the white lab-coated technicians working at the black-slate counters, 

charged through the doors and sprinted about ten miles to my time 

pod. I fell to its side. And slept. 

And slept. And dreamt of quiet Mark Rabinowitz, who 

was awake, so I left him. And I dreamt of the deeply caring Marcia 

Rabinowitz, who was asleep, and who I visited. Oh, how this woman 

cared for so many, how she was in such perfect synchronicity within 

her culture. So many nights when I hopped into her dreams did my 

own pillow become soaking wet with tears of her later pains, wet with 

the empathy which has besieged my paltry existence. Marcia’s plight 

overwhelmed me, and the sadness of her experience penetrated not only 

time but place. Here, approaching the year 3000, I cry uncontrollably 

for a woman dead more than 1000 years. Not once in my life did I 

dream-hop to find the mind of a dullard. Always there were struggles 

in each person’s dreams, struggles, less creative or more creative attempts 

to explain life. What I like most about dream-hopping is that 

the otherwise rigid walls of up-time do not exist, and each transcends 

his imagery throughout all timelines. This is most exciting since for 

27


28 


many decades I have been the only time-traveler depending entirely 

on dream-travel for emotional substance. 

∞ 

I have aged normally with little damage despite the suddenness 

of some of the temporal shifts. I have come to know the feelings of 

some of the people that I have dreamt with along the way, and have 

time-traveled to meet. Some people I have come to know intimately. 

I have met some of these people deliberately, since I am almost always 

on one of my sophomoric missions to change the events of history. I 

make as few changes as I can, focusing on the significant issues. Some 

changes appear harmless. Others have been ultimately tragic. 

Several times when I was really alive — when there were others 

in my life — my apparent empathy made people ask if I was a Social 

Psychologist. No one has ever asked if I were a Cultural Anthropologist, 

although this is primarily how I have seen myself even during 

these lonely years, a barren observer of three dimensions trapped by 

circumstance in the fourth dimension of my own making. 

Empathy has magically produced employment for me when 

needed. I acquired jobs as an investigative reporter. It was easy for 

me to sense what was going on in a busy newsroom, and to enter the 

dreams of those I met during the day. In subsequent days I could say 

expected phrases to land permission to submit articles. This skill of 

‘extended-empathy’ and this trade of investigative reporting has been 

dangerous, although I became increasingly careful over the years. I 

thought I knew when to leave a time or a place — that is, until 12 years 

ago. 

∞ 

You will meet a great many people in this story and wonder, as 

I have wondered, what has become of them. Time travel leaves behind 

an unfortunate barrenness that plants question marks every inch along 

every timeline. I cannot eliminate these real people and I cannot leave 

them nameless. They were there. What I know of them, I must tell 

you; I cannot simplify the interwoven nature of a community. The few 

names that you must know, you will know. These are the Rabinowitz’s 

— Mark, Marcia, Jonathan and Joshua. You will not be able to forget 

the good Anthony Cinelli. If there was anyone special and worth 

knowing it would be Jeremy Davidson. 

Anthony Cinelli’s murder begins only four years before I found 

the pea-glass, the stone. It begins in a place that I tried to find for five 



real years of my life. It is not easy to master time warps, contrary to 

science fiction. I have referred to sining the stone as warping time. It’s 

more like warping a place. To get to the right place at the right time 

takes, well, time. And risk. Once I found myself with my legs growing 

out of solid rock. I wasn’t in pain. The rocks had grown around me. If 

my upper body had not been free to swing my pouch, to sine the stone, 

I would have died in place. I surmised that the place for time-travel 

would be in orbit, so the earth wouldn’t suddenly be mountainous 

beneath me. I also imagined that if I were in orbit, the earth might 

glide away from me as time changed. I never left the planet surface; 

I couldn’t figure out how to enter space. One time I caused a rogue 

wave to emerge from the middle of a quiet ocean and found myself 

miraculously washed aboard a rocking ship with a Swedish crew in a 

terrible panic. Had that ship, the Skara, not been there, I would have 

surely drowned. I avoided the ocean on all future time-travels. 

∞ 

I brought some of this future to another past. These anomalies 

can be seen since you will notice historical distortions that vary 

according to your own timeline. It is best if you complete an experiment 

now so that you can understand the issue of time. If you have 

never made a Mobius Strip before, I urge you to do this now. If you 

do not, you will find these stories lacking. This experiment is quite 

necessary. Please gather a regular sheet of 8 1/2” x 11” paper, tape 

and a pen. Making a Mobius Strip assures you that not everything 

is as straightforward as it appears, and the things that you hold to be 

self-evident may not be so. This experiment is far from a trick. If you 

do not make the Mobius Strip yourself, now, you will only smirk your 

way through these tales. 

Fold the paper back and forth several times along its length, 

less than one inch from the side. Score it with your thumbnail. Tear 

carefully along this scored line. Keep the thin strip and discard the 

large remaining sheet. In kindergarten you learned to tape the narrow 

ends together to make a ring. Do the same thing, but give it a half-twist 

— not a full-twist — before taping it. Tape it carefully on both sides so 

it doesn’t fall apart. 

Please do not presume that I am leading you astray. Aside 

from my experience with time-travel you would find me to be a quiet 

old man who is a realist, a man whose memory is intact, and a man 

who greatly respects the passion of youth. I know clearly that the loop 

29



that I have made has two sides, as does yours. I can see both sides; 

so can you. With the loop in my hand I can feel the dual surfaces of 

the twisted ring, and can almost squeeze them. Side one is next to our 

thumbs and side two is next to our index fingers. Fine. Our twisted 

ring has two sides. Let’s try to prove this. 

With a pen, begin drawing a line anywhere on the strip. 

Continue in the same direction always extending the line further and 

further. What has happened? You haven’t switched sides with your 

pen line, yet the pen line met up with itself. There are two sides to 

the Mobius Strip, one next to your thumb, and the other next to your 

index finger. Yet, at the same time, there is one side to the Mobius 

Strip. You have traced it with your pen. There are two sides. There 

is one side. 

This contradiction is similar to that of time, at least as far as I 

understand it. It is perhaps the contradiction of the universe itself, and 

possibly the contradiction of our cultural and economic structures. On 

one side of our strip, on the ‘have’ side, our need for creature comforts 

is huge. We sacrifice all ethical ideas for a system that provides these 

comforts. The other side, the ‘have-not’ side, is not important to us in 

our desire for comfort; it is the side we actively forget. However, as you 

have determined, your two-sided strip has only one side. It is the same 

side at all times. The line is continuous; it represents a continuum. 

An ethical culture would flow as this continuum, through you in your 

life to generations beyond. Either ideation flows with consistency or 

with contradiction. Many believe that the ‘have-nots’ live on the other 

side of the tracks. But they don’t. They live on the only side. 

∞ 

With luck and your efforts humanity will persevere, and I in 

my efforts will disappear. If it were not for the finality of annihilation 

in what the military called a ‘Nuclear Theater,’ I may have been more 

conservative in my exploitation of Metallic Hydrogen. Knowing of 

the possibility of global annihilation has made it prudent for me to 

attempt to prevent it. Prudent, I thought then, but now I fear that it 

may have been I who has caused such annihilation through my timetravels. 

I cannot know this, and it is only self-serving to even mention. 

At least, it cannot be excluded. As of this writing, I know human 

life stopped. How it stopped, and if it can be reversed, are for other 

Round Table Stories. 

Ahead you will feel the woes of the whining, sad environments 

that characterize nouveau-riche and puerile-academic attitudes. You will 

30 



taste greed, and see greed intertwine even within the brilliant. You 

will experience the ultimate arrogance, the consideration of global 

holocaust. 

∞ 

It first happened when I was 17. I grew up in an Italian and 

Jewish neighborhood in Paterson, New Jersey. My mom was Jewish 

and my dad Italian. The neighborhood was loud and it was fun. We 

had little clubs. Our club was ‘The Cobra’s.’ We had jackets with felt 

patches with a green embroidered snake. Very cool. We had bows 

and arrows, and shot at each other without fear. Sometimes there was 

blood. One kid lost a finger with firecrackers. Another was stabbed 

in the toes in a knife game called chicken. I won that game, ‘cause I 

was the kid who got stabbed. We liked to shoot arrows at ‘The Warriors’ 

the most, because they were mostly nebishes. I hated school, and 

liked sex. The neighborhood was pretty funny, and I have provided a 

glossary to help you with those special words of that timeline. 

Dad was a machinist milling airplane components. One day 

in 1945 he came home and said we’re moving to Los Alamos, New 

Mexico, wherever that was. I was the middle kid, a thin slice of bologna 

between two older brothers and two younger brothers. I was unusually 

quiet until I was about 14, and if I talked, no one listened. I wrote a 

lot then, and I guess that’s why I’m writing now. 

I never even completed one course at Santa Fe Junior College 

in New Mexico. I registered for Anthropology, Physical Education, 

Dance, Philosophy and Flying. My Anthropology teacher was beautiful, 

about 23, and also my flight instructor. We had an airport right 

on campus. I loved flying as much as I loved girls. Lots of girls. In 

Philosophy I sat between some lovelies. Young Mr. Higginbotham 

noticed them, too, and directed most of his lectures directly at us, at 

the girls and me. He held up a pencil. “Is this pencil really here?” 

“Yes,” answered a pretty one. 

“Of course,” I answered. 

“No,” answered some kid named Leon Wiesel from the other 

side of the room, “I perceive a pencil to be in your hand, but I do not 

know, in fact, if it is in your hand. I may be entirely misperceiving, 

and furthermore, I may be alone in this room, and furthermore there 

may be no room and no school and I might be just a fantasy emanating 

from a rock.” 

Smirks spread. 

31



“A priori,” Leon said, at which point I alone laughed condescendingly, 

accusatorily and loudly at Leon. It was my policy to laugh 

at anyone who said ‘a priori.’ 

“I think, therefore I am,” Leon continued, trying successfully 

to impress Mr. Higginbotham, whose favorite word was ‘predicated.’ 

I hated school. 

Leon’s dad and Mr. Higginbotham’s dad worked at ‘The 

Labs,’ too, up the hill at the old Los Alamos Ranch School for Boys. 

General Leslie Groves was in charge of the entire complex. Gigantic 

explosions were taking place up there. Leon was 16, and would probably 

go off to Harvard. I was flunking 3 out of 5 courses at Santa Fe. 

I was doing well in gym, and great in flying. They wouldn’t let me 

in the Army because I was a little too tall and a little too skinny and 

had a little too much asthma. Dad got me on at The Labs, but only 

after school. He got me on as a General Laborer working for a New 

York developer. I was entirely pissed that I couldn’t get into the Army 

because Pearl Harbor violated me as it violated everyone else. I was 

glad that at least The Labs were a real part of the War Effort and that 

I was part of The Labs. 

You see, I didn’t mean to do it. Once I understood that I might 

not be able to master time-travel after all, I did it only a few more times, 

at first. Until I realized that everything was already so different, that 

it wouldn’t matter if more things changed. So I did it more. And I 

didn’t really believe I was the only one making changes. I suddenly 

found myself remembering what my friend Leon had said. To this day, 

I think of Leon and realize that I may be insane, and that I may not be 

alone in this time sphere. It appears that I am alone, and therefore I 

must write this in the event that you might see it when again I warp 

time by sining the stone. I must do it again to give these stories to you. 

I promised myself that I wouldn’t sine the stone so often, that I might 

destroy everything, even animal life, although I may have destroyed 

everything already, and I don’t know it. Yes, I will do it one more time 

only to distribute these stories. 

∞ 

My flight instructor and I were airborne at the time of the 

first big mushroom-cloud bomb explosion, the Trinity Test. We were 

still hundreds of miles away, returning from a package-exchange with 

another complex, also called ‘The Labs’ in Berkeley, California. We 

had planned to spend the weekend with friends in Berkeley, but had 

a fight with them in an all-night conversation. Our friends objected 

32 



to the work at the Berkeley Labs and at the Los Alamos Labs. We 

defended our families. We took to the air. It was a quiet, calm day. 

The flight was uneventful until about 5:30 in the morning. The date 

was July 16, 1945. The blast was inconceivably huge, visible everywhere, 

spherical and other-worldly. We thought we felt the heat. The 

disturbed air knocked us free of controlled flight. We were spun full 

around and thrown into a dive. My instructor was not only beautiful, 

but talented. She pulled us right out of the spin. I liked the feeling 

of the dive. I get hard when I free fall, and when I jump from heights 

at every quarry and from every tree. 

We started to fly toward the blast, toward home, but several 

aircraft found us and warned us away. If the United States could drop 

bombs like that we would win the war — for sure. It was completely 

amazing to see. It also terrified me. I suddenly thought that it represented 

an incomprehensibly dark side of man. An anger festered. 

This ‘weapon’ wasn’t something that could be used against ships or 

planes, but something that would only be used against cities, and in 

cities, most people are innocent. The bomb was devastating. I didn’t 

like this bomb and I was starting not to like The Labs and my dad. I 

also heard that the Army shot holes through local ranchers’ water towers 

to harass them into leaving the area prior to the Trinity Test. The 

Army couldn’t understand why families who ranched the area would 

want to enjoy their homes. 

About a month after the blast our crew was told to go to the 

Trinity Site — about 120 miles south of Los Alamos near the town of 

Bingham in the Alamogordo Bombing Range. This area had been 

named Jornada del Muerto, Journey of Death, by Spanish explorers 

hundreds of years earlier. The area lived up to its name. We were doing 

roadwork and replacing road signs. We were creating a false path 

to a false bombsite on the wrong mesa. This was necessary, we were 

told, to keep the curious from getting close. 

My crew was closest to the real site, what they called ‘Ground 

Zero.’ We were covering up the real road. When the foreman took 

off to check on another crew, I took off to go check out Ground Zero. 

The foreman had warned us to stay away and not go near the bombsite 

because we would get sick and die, so I ran around the site like I was 

doing laps back at Eastside High in Paterson. I was running about a 

two-mile lap around the hole. When I saw the shiny glass I just ran 

by it on my first lap around. I passed it again and stared at how clear 

and bright it was. Much of the sand had been turned to glass by the 

33



fierce heat of the blast, but the piece of glass that I saw was clear and 

perfect looking, a diamond, I hoped. When I saw it on the third lap 

I picked it up. Rather, I tried to pick it up. 

I figured that it was part of a larger boulder, and didn’t think 

anything of it. I kept running. A few hundred yards later I saw another 

piece of clear glass that was very small, the size of a pea. I picked it 

up, but it weighed about 20 pounds. I ran back to the guys, who were 

lying in the shade. In the truck I found a small leather pouch with a 

long cord used by a survey instrument. I went back for the pea-glass. 

I decided to hide my find, slinging the strap of the small pouch onto 

my shoulder as I ran up the side of a hill. I didn’t want my moron 

crewmates to see me with my pea-glass, either, and chose a steep but 

hidden route up the hill. I climbed fast. I took one step onto the very 

top. It happened to be at the actual perimeter edge of the mesa. The 

weight of the pea-glass took my balance. I fell into the air at this very 

edge. I was sure I would die, but I didn’t panic. I thrilled in the fall. 

I just like the feelings you get in those free-falls. I spun myself around 

and around. I fell into a lake. 

∞ 

Falsifying the location of Ground Zero took some tricky road 

work. For Dr. Robert Oppenheimer and Dr. Edward Teller this was 

harder and more wrought with complications than the theoretical 

posturing and jousting required in the calculations of atomic physics. 

The hillsides of the Journey of Death were snaked with dirt roads, 

now radioactive, and the ranchers, ranch families, ranch hands, local 

Indians and the curious had to be kept at bay. 

Only Dr. Oppenheimer, Dr. Teller and the construction crew 

risked visiting Ground Zero after detonation. The radiation was 

high. They didn’t know about protection suits back then and argued 

with their peers that a visual inspection was necessary and that they 

alone should go. They reported back that, as expected, the soil had 

been turned to glass and Little Boy’s drop-tower had been vaporized. 

‘Little Boy’ was the name of their first bomb. That name bothered me. 

The name rang of a sick presumptiveness; it foreshadowed a ruthless 

arrogance, a magnitude of horror for which our languages have not 

provided the vocabulary and our philosophies have not provided the 

concept. 

The atomic doctors did not report back to their peers that there 

was a small hole in the ground of the exact size of the core device itself. 

34 



Sized exactly the same as a soccer ball, the dark hole went straight down 

into the earth. The walls of the hole, too, had turned to glass. 

To assemble discreet crews to do construction requires money, 

and the more money paid the more discretion you believed you were 

buying. The enormous pressure of actually producing this bomb was 

overwhelming to everyone, but no one internalized as much pressure 

as Dr. Oppenheimer, in charge of scientific development. He dropped 

a rock in the hole. It clinked. He dropped another, and he and Dr. 

Teller, with a stopwatch, estimated the hole was about 250’ deep. 

That’s where the product of the nuclear implosion was, 250’ beneath 

the surface. They had a problem. 

There was no way to justify to the government that digging a 

250’ hole was appropriate in order to examine the soil. They didn’t 

want anyone from the Manhattan Project close to the soccer ball, 

which they told everyone would be the first thing to vaporize. In fact, 

it would be the center of the implosion and it would not be vaporized. 

It would be recreated into a huge diamond due to the thick carbon 

lining of the soccer ball, and possibly, interior to the diamond surface, 

would be Metallic Hydrogen. 

Dr. Oppenheimer or Dr. Teller never expected this deep hole. 

Although they speculated that the device would be driven downwards 

by the explosion, they estimated the hole would be about 5’ deep. 

Now, at 250’, they knew it was Neutronium that caused the ball to 

drop through the glassing soil. If there was any of the highly desired 

Metallic Hydrogen, a material thought to be able to warp space — and 

therefore time and place — it would be a thin layer of egg shell surrounding 

the Neutronium. 

∞ 

Through Dr. Oppenheimer’s journal and that of a paint factory 

foreman I can tell you how I came to find the stone. Richard 

Scheckman, a Manhattan real estate developer, had opened an office in 

Albuquerque, and was overpaying his crew — substantially overpaying 

them. They built a few projects at a loss, although he told his wealthy 

friends the New Mexico projects were successful. The books were done 

back in New York — no one would know. Following the Trinity Test, 

Richard met with the crew — about 30 men. 

“As you know, a great bomb has gone off over the hill as part 

of our war research. Many of you asked when you came to work for 

me why there were so many signatures required regarding loyalty to 

the United States, and in particular, that you weren’t a member of the 

35



Communist Party. Please again confirm your oath to secrecy, and sign 

the papers we are handing out. If any of you has any doubts about your 

ability to keep these actions entirely secret from everyone, including 

wives and families and best friends, I have to ask you to leave now. 

You will receive a month’s severance pay.” 

No one moved. Everyone signed and handed in their ‘Oaths 

to Richard.’ 

“Now I will give you the real explanation as to why we are here. 

We are here to recover a device for the government. It will require some 

heavy machinery that I ordered, and it will require our construction 

expertise. Since many people think they know where the bomb was 

dropped, our first task is to recreate some roadways that will mislead 

observers to an alternate site. Secondly we will truck-in a high-voltage 

substation to melt some glassed soil, and then we will begin a deep 

excavation. 

“Look, you are all getting great pay. Any complaints?” Not a 

man moved, not even a blink. Richard did the crew assignments. 

“I have favors that I have to do for people. That’s part of business. 

One of these favors is that I have to provide part-time, after-school 

jobs for some of the children of the staff of The Labs. It’s crazy, I know. 

There is some radiation, as I have explained to you. But that’s what 

they want. Each crew is going to get one kid, so watch them carefully 

and if any of them gets hurt, heads will roll. I got two kids to assign 

now. There’s a small 15 year old, whose name I can’t remember, who 

I want back in supplies. This kid seems real smart and looks bright. 

There’s a thin, strong 17 year old wise-ass named Alby Chrisbach who 

looks like he could be good with a shovel. We’ll put him on lead crew 

under you, James. Chrisbach has a big mouth. He already gave me 

trouble but if you hit either of ‘em it’ll cost you.” 

∞ 

From Dr. Teller’s journal, many years later, and from subsequent 

readings, I would learn about Neutronium, an infinitesimal 

amount of which was encapsulated within the Metallic Hydrogen of 

my found pea-glass, my diamond. A greater amount was contained 

within the deep sinking soccer ball. Dr. Teller said that a cubical grain 

of perfect sand that is 5,000 th of one inch might weigh 140,000 pounds 

if it were pure Neutronium. It is so heavy because the neutrons achieve 

a near-perfect density. He explained the general issue of ‘Packing 

Density’ that helps determine the weight and signifies a critical mass. 

In his example, Packing Density refers to how many Ping-Pong balls 

36 



you can get into a jar. Theoretical Neutronium was thought to have a 

packing density of 80%, which is a lot. It makes it very heavy. If you 

calculate the weight per grain at 140,000 pounds of pressure it calculates 

out to 4 billion pounds per square inch. That would be perfect 

Neutronium. One cubic inch would weigh 64 billion pounds. At this 

density, it would probably suck the earth into itself. All matter on the 

planet, and well beyond, would be accreted, accumulated within this 

moment. It would be called an Event Horizon, a Black Hole, from 

which the escape velocity would equal the speed of light, and beyond 

which all matter would succumb. 

Dr. Teller and his peers gave me plenty of desire to try to minimize 

their technologies and develop an alternative world-view. At 17 

they only frightened me. At 81 I cannot explain the depth of my fear 

of their attitudes. I tried so very hard to eliminate the atomic scientists’ 

destructive technologies by time-travel, enabled in itself through 

the Trinity Test. What kind of Trinity might this be, what might Dr. 

Oppenheimer’s word mean? 

Through my interference in time, I quite naively gave the 

murderous automobile and paved roads a 50 year head start, camera 

technology about a 25 year jump and the economy a leap in prices. 

What happened was this. I was trying to find 1940 or 1941, to see if 

I could meet Dr. Oppenheimer and Dr. Teller and Dr. Einstein and 

influence the Manhattan Project somehow, and somehow preclude 

Pearl Harbor. I was new at sining the stone. I was learning that swinging 

the stone in precise sine waves moved you through time. Perfect 

rotations clockwise moved you slowly ahead in time; counter-clockwise 

moved you back in time. 

I threw myself into the air from a tabletop in my backyard to 

heighten my senses and excite me. I swung the diamond pea-glass like 

a discus. I found myself in Lawrence, Kansas in 1988 with William 

Burroughs. I was in his coal basement. I was buried in black soot; 

my head was under the coal, one leg was sticking out of the coal and 

I was panicking. The pea-glass had run its course and hit my thigh. I 

screamed in pain and was consuming coal dust rapidly. I was thrashing 

about in these nasty, powdery rocks attempting to extricate my 

panicked body. A raspy old voice screamed at me. Meeting up with 

this Burroughs fellow was terribly exasperating since he was convinced 

he was hallucinating. I, too, felt as if I were hallucinating, since we 

were screaming at each other through a hole in the upper corner of the 

basement just large enough for a coal shoot from a delivery truck. 

37



Mr. Burroughs thought the best way to deal with his hallucinations 

was to shout them away. He eventually was to come to think, 

because of the insistence of his secretary, that I was a black hobo. Black 

was my color at this time, and the secretary explained that I had slid in 

with his last coal delivery and had been there for some weeks stealing 

food from their kitchen when they were away. Later, some hours later, 

when Burroughs finally let me out, he wouldn’t let me go. He sent his 

big, blond male secretary shopping and engaged me sympathetically, 

discussing my plight. To my surprise, I disclosed all of my woes to Mr. 

Burroughs. He fully recalled meeting me in his past, and I had not 

yet met him in this particular future that was his, but not mine, as 

yet. This shockingly old, thin creature then talked me into bringing 

him back in time, an art that I was not yet good at myself. I told him 

we could end up anywhere and that the risk was very great. We, in 

fact, ended up just fine, right side up and on the outskirts of Detroit 

in late spring. This gave Mr. Burroughs the erroneous idea that there 

was beauty in time-travel. 

We needed a car to go Manhattan where we both wanted to go. 

We had arrived in a bit of an industrial neighborhood and learned surreptitiously, 

much later, that the year was 1853. Mr. Burroughs asked 

several people where we could rent a car, but they appeared to ignore 

this unusually dressed giant. I was wearing some of his big clothes, 

since mine had been ruined in his coal basement. In the next block we 

met a fellow who made small steam engines for machine shops to run 

their equipment from a series of pulleys. Mr. Burroughs asked again 

where we might find an automobile, and the word alone caused the 

shop owner to dance. He queried us rapidly about what these machines 

would look like, and Mr. Burroughs, who thought he could simply 

disclose future events openly, told him more than I would ever tell. 

He even described a single-lens reflex camera to the man, something I 

had never encountered, and something that was far more difficult for 

the man to grasp than a carriage driven by a steam engine. 

We learned the location of the train station and went off to 

Manhattan. We spent several days there, and then with only three 

tries I returned Mr. Burroughs to his actual present, which as I had 

assured him, was entirely different from its former reality. The gasoline 

automobile that he had known was long gone, and had been replaced 

by a computerized solar-electric pedal car with regenerative breaking. 

His house was a molded shelter made of ‘rotomold plastics,’ which Mr. 

Burroughs said had been used only in childrens’ outdoor furniture in 

his former timeline. 

38 



Mr. Burroughs and I said goodbye. We realized that the next 

time I would see him would be in my future and in his past, and that 

I would know of him next time, as he had known of me this time. I 

hurried along; I had to find the time prior to the Trinity Test, the time 

of The Light Makers. 

∞ 

Aside from physical risk, the most difficult aspect of time and 

place travel is to merge into the culture where you have arrived. Since 

people don’t really listen to one another often, it can be done. In my 

very first time-travel incident I landed or transported or transitioned 

into some fierce hunting era of primitive man. I had fallen from the 

sky into a lake from the top of the mesa in 1945. I dove like a spinning 

airplane, which spawned the warp, but I had spun so fast and so 

erratically that the warp took me into a distant geological era. The 

spinning was similar to a 4 year-old trying to make himself dizzy. I was 

seen by many. I was in the water and able to swim. They had never 

seen anyone swim before, never saw anyone with such few hairs, and 

never saw anyone more than 4 feet tall. They were quite animated; I 

think they wanted to eat me. My leather pouch was unmanageably 

heavy in the water and I was very dizzy. I swam away from the hairy 

people, arguing with myself that I must either be dead and in heaven 

or hell, or, possibly, that I had spun my way through time. As I sat on 

the far shore to catch my breath I began to believe that the magic of 

time-travel had taken place. I removed the pea-glass from its wet leather 

pouch and set it handsomely before me. I guessed that if I reversed 

my spinning direction with this pea-glass in its pouch I would restore 

myself into the future. I was right, although the process of returning 

to my former time took several months, a great amount of exercise and 

an even greater amount of experimentation with the leather pouch 

and pea-glass. 

Years later I understood that my first time-travel experience 

brought me back much farther in time than I should have been for 

the number of erratic swings of the pea-glass. Other such temporal 

anomalies, as well as ‘bad-landings,’ frightened me into the desire for a 

strong pod that would provide protection for this dangerous endeavor. 

I needed the pod to be made of a strong material that would protect 

me from the growth of rocks and that would float me if I were to find 

myself in a body of water. I thought that a giant, bronze bell might be 

the perfect shape for a time-travel pod. With some difficulty over a 

39



period of six weeks, I traveled to a foundry which made giant bells for 

cathedrals. After a few minutes I realized that a bronze bell weighed 

thousands of pounds, and that I could never move my pod to hide it 

or drag it from trouble. It would also be beyond my capability to figure 

out how to make it float like a steel ship. 

40 

In one of my early time-warps I found myself in 2011 where I 

met the owner of a plastics company in Ohio who manufactured the 

same rotomold plastics for childrens’ playground furnishings from 

which William Burroughs’ home had been created. It was necessary for 

me to disclose my time-travelling capabilities to this man. He treatws 

me like a son or like an old, lost, dear friend. At his own great expense, 

he designed a pod for me out of dual-walled plastics that was soft yet 

strong. The plastics were durable and warm to the touch. Inside the 

thick, dual-walls of the rotomold plastics was a foam that was formed 

during the molding process by using unground beads. 

I helped in the design process for my pod, too, and worked 

at the plastics factory for about six months in order to learn about 

the remarkable technology of rotomold plastics. I had never seen 

anything like this process, where room-sized ‘rock-and-roll’ machines 

shook the ground-plastic powder and unground beads around and 

around. The material melted as it shook into every groove in the 

mold. I designed a small, circular track into my pod for the pea-glass 

to travel, and requested that the pod be made spacious enough for 

two, if ever needed. I also requested a turn table on good bearings so 

that my guest and I would rotate together as I spun the pouch through 

the tracks. The mold designers made the track in a perfect sine-wave, 

as I had asked, and determined that they could incorporate into the 

design three intersecting sine-tracks to provide differing amplitudes. 

I greased the track thoroughly with an oil that dried — something new 

to me — Teflon. The pod tested out well. I stood in the center of the 

pod and swung the leather-pouched pea-glass inside the track following 

the perfect pattern of the sine wave. In this fashion, in the center 

of this pod, I was able to gain some control of time-travel and avoid 

fewer wild anomalies. 

I have read some things about dimensional space and the 

space-time continuum but it, like so many things, remain beyond my 

understanding. I will tell you what I know. Apparently, if conventional 

space has three dimensions — length, breadth and depth — then the 

fourth dimension is represented by time. The many issues relating to 

time and space, or in my case, time and place, offer me some under- 



standing, but it is empirical as opposed to conceptual. Conceptually, 

it embarrasses me to say that I have no idea what is happening. I just 

know how to make it happen. 

When I first fell with the pea-glass and found water below me, I 

knew I was incredibly lucky. I could have landed on solid rock. I swam 

to the side of the lake far from our ancestors and spun the pouch in an 

orderly fashion for the first time. I came to believe that the circular, 

sine-wave rotations open an aperture in the space-time continuum, and, 

since I’m within the swings of Metallic Hydrogen, I slide right through 

it. With less orderly movements the aperture fluctuates wildly. 

It is Metallic Hydrogen, and not Neutronium, that can lift or 

depress a plane of space as you might lift the center of a cloth napkin 

from a table. As with the napkin, you watch the flat plane grow into 

another, rather complex geometry, a conical warped plane. As this 

plane is lifted an aperture opens at its apex to another place, and, simultaneously, 

to another time. In other words, as the Metallic Hydrogen 

is rotated in orderly sine wave rotations, a corresponding aperture in 

the space-time continuum opens to a size and speed consistent with 

the patterns of the sine wave. The aperture itself rises and falls proportionally 

to the vertical distance of the peaks and valleys of the sine 

waves. Think of the rising of the napkin apex as distance traveled into 

the future, and the falling of the napkin apex as distance traveled into 

the past. Think of the size of the opening in the napkin apex as the 

extent of time traveled. The sining must be smooth for the apertureopening 

speed to be consistent. I believe most, but not all, of my difficult 

time-travels occurred through erratic movements. An aperture 

that opened too suddenly might cause a dimensional shift where the 

expected timeline was replaced with an entirely random one. 

This process is similar to the methods that a camera uses to 

control its aperture, allowing in more light or less light, as it opens 

and closes with various speeds. In two dimensions, a good camera 

controls the depth of the focal field as well as the volume of light. 

Through experience I have come to believe that the height and size 

of the sine wave controls how high the ‘napkin’ plane is lifted from 

the ‘table.’ The speed and the number of rotations seem to affect the 

fourth dimension, time. 

I imagine that the notable nuclear physicists who created these 

elements have so much Metallic Hydrogen and so much know-how that 

they can warp real space to travel through it. With their diamonds they 

41



have unlimited money. It must be exotic to plot a course through the 

galaxy, project a time, and with a machine technology open an aperture 

to such incomparable adventures. 

In the actual moments of time-travel there is something visible 

within the process, but I do not know what it is that I am seeing. I 

think of the images as highly magnetized static electricity. Within this 

fuzzy magnetic image you can identify enough of the environment to 

know if you are embedded in rock or above a body of water. 

In one of my early and more awkward falls resulting from the 

mishandling of the pea-glass, I believe I witnessed an instability in time, 

a reversal of time unto itself. The magnetic image in the open aperture 

seemed to fold violently onto itself. At other times, when I was sining 

the stone with great rhythm, a nearly perfect mechanical rhythm, 

I fully expected orderly behavior on the part of the time opening. 

Results varied. Occasionally, time seemed to decelerate or accelerate 

sharply, independently of my movement within the aperture. Strangest 

of all, I once saw myself, or a fragment of myself, converging upon 

me in what I assumed to be the reverse direction of my own. As my 

temporal fragments approached collision I imagined that I would be 

blown up in something like the great plume of the Trinity Test; yet, I 

suffered neither ill-effects nor anomalous arrival through the aperture. 

It made me believe that multiple timelines may exist within a resonating 

simultaneity and that intersecting planes — warped or otherwise 

— are a continuous occurrence in space. It seems to me these ideas, 

as unimaginable as they are, remain trivial compared to attempting to 

fathom the notion of infinity, a possible description of the universe. 

∞ 

Had I ever made it beyond a few months of junior college, I 

would have really enjoyed Cultural Anthropology. It’s safe to observe 

another’s world from within his world, since it is not your own. Had I 

been able to build a world for myself, I might have done so as a furniture 

maker or machinist in the 1800’s, the same 1800’s of my first timeline, 

and I would have had 7 kids. As it is, I have adventured, investigated 

and observed and have fulfilled my own life adequately. 

When there is quality to life, it is worthwhile, and some of this 

you will encounter in these stories. When life is petty and stupid, it 

may not be worth living, and this, too, you will see. I suppose I myself 

gave up on the human condition. Its pettiness came to disturb me so 

much that I started to want to be separated from it, and the leap into 

this lonely future provides this separation. I’m certainly not smart 

42 



enough to suggest what changes might be made to help. I now want to 

live out my few remaining years in this paradise, without the extreme 

idiocy of commercial culture, the stupidification process that the commercial 

worlds consider effective for profit and social compliance. I 

just don’t want to go back. As an ‘extreme-empath’ I have come to 

think that much of human thought is so trivial that I could not tell 

these stories unless I was outside of time. When I try to go back to 

try to change the haunting list of things that require changing, I shall 

remember this hillside in Santa Barbara for its commanding view of 

the diverse Channel Islands and this wooden shack for its warm nightly 

fires with my dear Tarigo. 

Ω 

43

~ The 57 th Parallel ~ 

From Latvia with Luck 

Rand McNally 

Forty-one years before the despicable murder of Father August, 

in 1900, Eastern Europe was a place to leave. Mark Isaac’s father, Heshie 

Rabinowitz, was known as a Litvak — someone from Lithuania or 

Latvia. Heshie, at the age of 26, stumbled across the gangplank out 

of steerage class from the Swedish freighter Skara in July, 1900, very 

weak and very scared. Though it sometimes took immigrants months 

to get off Ellis Island, a series of unrelated events moved Heshie off 

the Island on the day of his arrival. 

Heshie was herded onto a Ferry, robbed of his last scheckels 

and pushed into a room on the Lower East Side of Manhattan with 

about thirty men, thirty smelly men. They spoke a great number of 

languages, loudly vibrating the acrid air and forcing headaches onto 

everyone except the most brutal. For two weeks, Heshie looked for 

work in this free land, this filthy dirty, free land covered with horseshit 

and pig-shit and buildings reeking with piss in the hallways. He 

missed the shtetl, where he was near starvation, where the bastard 

police sometimes kicked him around with black boots and black clubs 

and where these police carried a hatred for Jews that was tangible. “I 

cannot live where I am hated, Mama. I will go to America and make 

money and send for you. You and Papa will live with me forever where 

we can live with dignity.” 

On the particular latitude of Heshie’s world known as the 

Baltic, from west to east at around fifty-seven degrees can be found the 

Hebrides Islands in the North Atlantic Ocean, Kyle of Lochalsh on 

the west coast of Scotland and Aberdeen on the east coast of Scotland. 

In the North Sea, proceeding east, is Alborg, Denmark, the rough but 

protected Bay of Kattegat above Copenhagen, the lower peninsula 

of Sweden, the east coast town of Oskarshamn, and the Baltic Sea. 

Within the Baltic Sea, on this same latitude, twenty miles west of 

Oskarshamn could be found the narrow Island of Oland. Sixty miles 

farther west is the large island Gotland, and one-hundred miles further 

west would be Heshie Rabinowitz’s hometown, the seaport town of 

Pavilosta in Latvia. 

North of Heshie’s town of Pavilosta, Latvia is the small country 

of Estonia, with its broad seafront on the Gulf of Riga, the Baltic Sea, 

and the Gulf of Finland. St. Petersburg, Russia can be found at the 

edge of a protected bay on the far eastern end of the Gulf of Finland. 

In seaport towns it is impossible to control borders, where fishermen, 

merchant seaman, dock workers and ship workers look alike, especially 

44 45



here. This particular area of the Baltic didn’t seem to have as much 

political interest as other areas, and Heshie had several times, with 

permission as a specialized tradesman, signed up on a merchant vessel 

and visited as far east as Oskarshamn. 

Heshie had been both a ship’s carpenter and a furniture maker’s 

apprentice with a fellow named Swede. Swede had work on both sides 

of the Baltic, since he specialized in making beautiful Captain’s quarters 

for merchant vessels at prices that were very low. He had a cousin 

with a shop in Oskarshamn; his was in Pavilosta. They bought wood 

from anywhere and everywhere and used many fine and varied woods 

for the freighters. This was important to no one but the freighter 

Captains, whose lives were immeasurably improved because of their 

fine quarters. Teak wine racks. Mahogany beds, ash chairs, white 

oak chart tables, African coca-bolo doors. Swede and his cousin had 

a thriving business on both sides of the Baltic. They billed the vessel 

owners whatever they could get, and got the rest from the Captains in 

cash or trade for wood. 

Heshie had seen an interesting chart on a ship where he was 

installing a new chart table, and thought that the Island of Oland was 

like a New York island known as Manhattan. This realization piqued 

his interest and made the famous New York a more reasonable consideration. 

The image seemed friendly, homelike. He had wanted a 

full time apprenticeship, where he could live with Swede away from 

the shtetl. Just a dream. Could it happen? Swede arranged a way out 

for Heshie. If Heshie were to sign up again on the vessel Jonkop and 

make his way to Oskarshamn, Swede’s cousin would get him passage 

onto the transatlantic freighter Skara. 

United States Immigration was a very busy department in 

the summer of 1900, and Ellis Island was the busiest. Getting off 

in one day never happens, but it happen to Heshie. About two days 

out in the Atlantic a rogue wave took the Skara at her stern, catching 

everyone without warning. The wave was only about 20’ — not as bad 

as other rogues that throw ships as easily as a wind tousles long hair. 

The Skara might have gone over if she was hit from port or starboard. 

Since it was my unreliable transport which was the cause of the rogue 

wave it was I who had been tossed around the most. The rogue hit 

from the stern, and at night, too. Almost everyone was in his bunk, 

and without safeties in place, they were at least relaxed. When they 

were thrown they bounced instead of breaking. Only 9 people broke 

bones, I not among them. 

46 



In the midst of the tumult on the Skara, I lashed and covered 

my time pod to an unusual-looking, orange bulldozer on deck and 

scampered below to find passenger quarters. One of the three Swedish 

Steel bulldozer blades, especially manufactured for tunneling Manhattan 

schist, and stored below, cut through its chains. The prized auxiliary 

boiler of the Skara was damaged and would have to be scrapped. The 

blade next flew through the small hold and penetrated the hull. The 

Skara listed to port with the new weight of a hold full of sea-water. The 

panic-free Captain and senior crew identified the breach, sealed the 

hold and dealt with the wounded. Passengers and cargo were moved 

starboard to balance the list to port. Heshie was uncomfortable enough 

in his port quarters with four other men, but now with ten men in 

the same small space on the starboard side, Heshie was near panic. I 

winced from my bruises and smirked from my good fortune to be alive. 

Heshie and I were next to each other in a corner. We stared at each 

other too long, then laughed hard and long. 

The Skara was listing enough to make it difficult to keep course. 

The radio operator, a fellow who couldn’t believe that sound could 

bounce off the atmosphere as this fellow Marconi claimed, sent his 

S.O.S. He, too, cried. He feared that the sea water would soon fill his 

lungs and his death would match the terror of his nightmares. 

The first ship to respond to the S.O.S. was a Canadian Coast 

Guard cruiser. The Captains agreed that the Skara could make the 

coast. Nonetheless, the Canadian ship provided an escort. Unable 

to keep course to Manhattan, the Skara made its way to central New 

Jersey. An Immigration Department boat met up with the Skara as it 

made its way into Manasquan Inlet between Brielle and Point Pleasant. 

Immigration Officers loaded the emigrants and steamed to Ellis Island, 

a crowded, long trip for this small, underdesigned craft which tossed 

passengers against each other and against the hard gunnels. 

Heshie’s dirty blond hair now looked deep-brown. He vomited 

over the side as the boat heaved toward Ellis Island in New York. 

Heshie began to laugh aloud at his bountiful misfortune, since he was 

looking at a dock on an island where thousands were running from a 

burning building, with flames of orange, and even blue, lighting and 

seemingly igniting the black New York night. He could only laugh, 

until he put his first foot on Ellis Island, when he cried. 

The fire destroyed several buildings and displaced many people, 

but the night was warm, the air clean from the sea and the encampment 

that was created was windward. The smoke and smells of the burning 

went leeward to the mainland. It was in this confusion of the small, 

47



special boat from Manasquan Inlet, and the fire, that Heshie made his 

way off Ellis Island without spending even a single night. 

∞ 

Heshie, in Manhattan, thought it was very wrong to have left 

his family in Pavilosta. Even the burning Ellis Island looked like a better 

place to be. He was crying his way across Avenue B and 7th Street, 

not looking for work, pretending mid-tears to be enjoying the new day. 

He filled with an anger and a hatred because he was so stupid to have 

left Oskarshamn on the Skara. Construction was going on everywhere 

in the City. The noise was deafening. The noisy, haphazard, wooden 

sidewalk was a minor annoyance compared to the street screaming 

with large, inexplicable machines. It seemed as if there were a million 

people on this one corner alone. Horses and carriages thrashed their 

way through the streets with ever-honking taxis. Street sweepers made 

horse-shit mounds mixed with hay. Kids were screaming. A baseball 

hit him hard on his thigh. He picked it up and threw it back to the 

kids, who began smiling, who were grateful he wasn’t a schmuck who 

would keep their ball, or worse. 

It was a good throw. Heshie was normally very coordinated. He 

wound up and stepped forward to another plank. This board slipped 

from its support-ledge on one end. Like everything else, it was plopped 

fresh with horse-shit. He saw the look on the faces of the kids when 

his body flew up from this diving board into the air like a stunt-man 

performing a cartoon scene. Most of the kids were laughing hard. He 

caught the frightened look of a chubby boy, a knowing look. Heshie 

was mid-air and yet he reacted to the deeply felt concern of this boy 

during the recovery from his air-born ride. He twisted unnaturally, 

since he was trying not to fall in the 4’ high mound of raked and piled 

horseshit before him. He landed right in it, dead center in the pile 

of shit, and the kids roared. He was a stinking godawful mess. One 

inch from his head was what the chubby boy had mysteriously seen 

that he did not, a steel section of curb, a rain sewer drain plate that 

had not yet been installed. 

Chubby came over to help to the scorn of his friends. He was 

about 10. “Come on, Stinky, I’ll hose you down.” Stinky followed 

Chubby over to 8th Street between Avenues A and B, through a gate 

and along a narrow cobblestone path into the brownstone’s yard. In the 

yard, Chubby said his name was Anthony Cinelli. Stinky introduced 

himself as Heshie Rabinowitz. A mutt with a very low and wobbly belly 

and little, if any, milk had good sized puppies who went wild at the 

48 



smell of Stinky. They all jumped him. He couldn’t stand, or didn’t 

want to, and the mother dog with the 8 large pups rolled him and licked 

his face and they were all caught in a Darwinian-unknown between 

horse-shit and dogs. Anthony grabbed the hose, stood on the stairs 

that went up to the kitchen and hosed the timeless phenomenon down 

like a proud fireman successfully extinguishing a raging conflagration. 

A dark, slim, athletic man looked out the kitchen window with real 

joy. Anthony’s father, Reguso, laughed hard from the stomach. Soon 

clothes appeared on the stoop. Heshie took the cue and stripped naked 

right there with the hose on him. Now it was Anthony’s turn to roar, 

and Heshie danced in the cool spray on that hot July afternoon. It 

was the happiest moment Heshie could remember. This was America. 

This was it, nice people helping. It was fabulous, and he wanted more 

of it. Anthony threw him a towel and he dried and dressed. Heshie 

wasn’t talking very much since his English wasn’t very good. He could 

understand it better than he could speak it. He remembered the words, 

and would practice them later. 

Anthony picked the best of litter, and said, “Please take Campy, 

he’s my favorite.” Black and brown supermutt Campy was too adorable 

to pass up. Heshie never had his own dog, though packs of them 

ran wild in the shtetl and fisher-dogs ran through the seaport town. 

Oddly, New York, too, was a seaport town but nothing like the Baltic 

towns. There were so many good feelings in this moment that it was 

inconceivable that he could not take the puppy. Could he manage? 

Heshie said, “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.” He started 

crying again, now for different reasons. He had been crying that whole 

day, missing home, missing mom and dad and hating, absolutely hating 

New York. Anthony petted Heshie, “Good dog,” chuckling supportively 

until Heshie calmed down. He taught Heshie to say “Campy,” 

over and over, and explained that this was a nick-name for the best 

bicycle parts maker. Silent Heshie hugged the boy, shook hands with 

Reguso, took the puppy Campy, grabbed string for a leash, wrote down 

Anthony’s address, and suddenly knew he was going to leave New 

York. “I leave now.” 

He walked west and didn’t think about his miserable suitcase. 

He wouldn’t allow the image of it into his mind, nor that awful building 

on Avenue C stuffed with people, nor the smelly stairs, nor the smelly 

streets. He just wanted Anthony in his mind. He was near the New 

Jersey Ferry, hitching. The coal fumes were black, his eyes hurt, his 

nose was irritated. Heshie thought in Yiddish, “What kind of place 

is this city? It stinks from hell everywhere, and everywhere you think 

49



you are going to die. OK, so some buildings are big and beautiful, 

and many people are rich. I will never make it, never.” The wagons 

and coaches ignored his thumb, though his clothes were now very fine, 

thanks to Papa Reguso Cinelli. Time marched. No one would pick 

him up. Perhaps his hair was a mess, perhaps the puppy, perhaps there 

were too many immigrants. Perhaps the horses, too, were afraid of him. 

Wait, it was the puppy, that was the problem. He thought again of 

Anthony and how his eyes said so much. Again, time marched. The 

fumes aged blacker in the darker sky. The coachmen looked away from 

him, pretended not to see him, pretended he wasn’t alive. 

A furniture maker’s wagon moved slowly in the line of bicycles, 

carts, horses, combustion quadracycles, penny farthings, sprung pushcycles 

and even mules. There were more designs for wagons and transportation 

devices in this city than Heshie ever thought possible. He 

was on a narrow, 18” wide sidewalk backed up against a tall, 15’ brick 

wall. The man in the furniture maker’s wagon looked nice. Heshie 

was not going back to Avenue C, so he got brash, and walked up to 

him, but said nothing. 

The man chuckled, and said in Yiddish, not in English, “You 

look like you could work wood?” 

Heshie could not believe his ears, and again, again, he cried 

and said, “Yes, I apprenticed 9 years with a big Swede in Pavilosta, 

Latvia!” 

They laughed, and the man said, “Where are you going?” 

And Heshie Rabinowitz said, “Anywhere. It is too dirty for me 

to be here, this city, it is all garbage and shit.” 

“So you need work, I have too much now, are you good?” 

“Yes, oh yes, please, I will work like you never saw. I am a 

furniture maker’s apprentice and a ship’s carpenter’s apprentice, not 

cabinets, not carpentry. But I will do anything, anything.” 

“So get on the wagon already why are you standing on the 

street?” They laughed. “I’m Vladimir Weinstock, call me Vladi. 

Russian first name and Polish last name. I’ll tell you why on our way 

home. We will try this a day or two. If it works, you stay. If it doesn’t, 

you have found yourself a new and beautiful town where you can look 

for other work. Meanwhile, you stay in the shop, above the office. 

There is a loft. My wife will feed you like you never ate before. I do 

architectural woodworking, and my shop is in Princeton, New Jersey, 

south of here. I met an architect there, a fine goy, and he loved my 

work. There are very few Jews there; it is all Christian. They call them 

White Anglo Saxon Protestants, and in English, we call them WASPs, 

50 



like the bee, for the letters. You will see, don’t worry. They give us 

no trouble, they love our work, and they are good people. In many 

ways, better than most, and certainly better than a few Jews I know. 

Some hate us, sure, maybe many, but they don’t show it — they like 

our workmanship. It’s good enough, better than this, that you will 

see. There is good and bad in every group, handicapped or healthy, 

Muslim or Baptist, Negro or Caucasian, German Shepherd or Irish 

Setter. Princeton is a rich place with a big University. It is very, very, 

very beautiful. More beautiful than you can imagine. You will not 

leave. You will do well, my boy.” 

Heshie couldn’t believe his constant tears. He was tough in 

the shtetl, took the kicks and humiliation, and was never a wimp. On 

this day Heshie was a total wimp. He was crying again. Vladi had to 

make a stop in a place called Secaucus. It was the worst place Heshie 

ever remembered seeing or smelling. It was beyond rude, beyond shit, 

it was a disgusting, vile, inhuman smell. Heshie suddenly missed New 

York. 

Vladi said, “Don’t worry, Princeton smells only from lilacs 

and roses and oak and walnut. I have not lied to you. This will be 

over soon. It is perfume they make here, that is the smell. And we’re 

supposed to be attracted to perfume? That is ridiculous, it all makes 

me sick, and especially when you know this smell.” 

“Yes, women do not attract me with smells on them, I like 

clean, from swimming or bathing, not smells.” 

Princeton was everything — more than everything. Heshie cried 

again. He committed himself to learning an accent free English immediately. 

He would never speak another word of Yiddish, except to 

his parents or to help new immigrants. In America, English is correct, 

always English. As if there were a God, the Weinstock house was as 

perfect as the other Princeton homes, just smaller and older. Between 

the land and barn there were 2 acres with fine old oaks, far too beautiful 

to ever be cut. The barn was huge, and Vladi’s shop wonderful, 

with machines labeled Rockwell, and tools labeled Milwaukee and 

Stanley, and perhaps 1000’ of oak stickered in the back of the barn, 

and probably 500’ of walnut and 350’ of maple stickered, drying, on 

the side. Two table saws, two. Heshie cried just a little more, and 

thought perhaps he was dead, it was much too good. 

A girl of about 23 walked into the shop. The attraction was 

immediate, and although he was certain he was dead, he stopped 

crying anyway just in case he was wrong — she shouldn’t think him 

a putz. She hugged Vladi so tight you heard him groan. Brown hair 

51



long, curly and wavy, 5’ 6” & 105 pounds, electric brown eyes, bright 

innocent eyes, no make up, small breasts, big butt, Gladys Weinstock 

said with quiet concern, 

“Daddy, introduce me please. Be polite.” 

Vladi wasn’t quick on the uptake about this boy-girl thing. He 

was thrilled to have met a young and strong apprentice, and was thinking 

about all the work he had, several lobbies in Manhattan, a lobby in 

Newark, a conference table in Princeton, an armoire in Cedar Grove. 

For a photographer in Armonk, wherever that was, he had to make 

an unusual piece of solid oak furntiture. It was to be a wine rack on 

the top, a huge fish tank stand below it, and below that a set of oak 

drawers. Like a fine suit, he decided to line the drawers. He had some 

very special rainbow colored veneer that had been made by injecting 

the roots of a tree each season with a different color. Such a job. 

Is this OK, Vladi wondered, to bring a young man into my 

household with my daughter? It looks like my baby Gladys thinks so. 

Faye will kill me, he thought, introducing them. “Gladys, this is a boy 

from the old country, who lived on the sea and made furniture, like 

in a story book. It was bad there, so he came to New York, where he 

thought it was worse, and he was lonely. So he and his dog have come 

here to make furniture with us. Gladys, this is Heshie Rabinowitz; this 

is the dog, Campy, or something.” 

∞ 

Mark Isaac Rabinowitz was born two years later, and grew up 

knowing little of the old country. He had no Jewish friends. The 

Rabinowitz’s landlady, who lived next door, gave birth to a boy in 

the same month, Rob. They seemed to carry with them the love of 

lifelong friendship by the age of 1 year. They really laughed together, 

and wrestled and hurt each other and laughed harder far before other 

children learned to make each other black and blue. Mark was a bright 

eyed and adorable kid, but wasn’t learning to talk. He was silent. The 

landlady’s son Rob talked up a storm, and by four years old Heshie 

and Gladys and Vladi and Faye were genuinely concerned. They were 

taking him to several of the many fine, very caring physicians in the 

town of Princeton, and to specialists at the University, and to specialists 

at Mount Sinai in Manhattan, and to specialists at the Columbia 

University School of Physicians & Surgeons. They thought he should 

talk. He seemed normal. 

By 6, Mark loved swimming and canoeing and running around, 

and was popular. Most of his friends’ parents thought he was retarded. 

52 



His friends didn’t care, and his next door neighbor always protected 

him, loved him, and beat the shit out of any kid that even thought 

of picking on Mark. Mark failed First Grade. His parents received a 

sad lecture from Mark’s teacher that he was probably retarded. Mark 

received grades of ‘0’ in arithmetic. During the whole year every member 

of the family tried to work with Mark, even the landlady. Mark 

seemed interested in other things. He was perceptually tuned into 

the world, so the Weinstock’s and Rabinowitz’s didn’t really think he 

was retarded. He did everything well and his smile and eye contact 

and body language was communicative and very cute. Some doctors 

used words like autistic. They said he wasn’t deaf. The Rabinowitz’s 

and the Weinstock’s were in a special kind of denial, a special kind 

of quiet panic. 

Mostly they waited, and hugged. The Weinstock’s hired a tutor 

from Lawrenceville who had a retarded child. It was bad; she treated 

Mark with inappropriate condescension. They thought about looking 

for a Jewish student this time. There were few; they were intolerably 

stuck-up. Paranoia was part and parcel of being Jewish. There was 

both real anti-Semitism in Princeton and those in Princeton that 

hated anti-Semites. There was little hatred on the surface. Everyone 

likes to be with their own, that’s all. Finally the Weinstock’s kicked 

themselves and thought of Anthony, who had always visited Stinky 

and Campy for long weekends and vacations, and who had since gotten 

into Princeton, a campus that Anthony had fallen in love with on 

his visits. Maybe Anthony would be interested in tutoring, since now 

he was in his second year. Anthony, who had been born in Sicily in 

1890, was now a Sophomore and a member of the Princeton Bicycle 

Club, where there were a few other Catholic Italians. His father rode. 

He had taught him. Anthony tried competing, but wasn’t aggressive 

enough, though he was stronger and taller than most. Years later, had 

he been more aggressive and one of the cut-throat racers, he might have 

had his pump in his hand to defend himself when he wheeled beyond 

a suspicious looking vehicle. 

Anthony Cinelli was always nice to silent Mark, but his friendship 

was focused on Stinky Heshie. In his new role as Mark’s tutor, 

Anthony planned that the first day should be bike riding and swimming 

near the Lawrenceville School. On their second meeting, two 

days later, Mark was very happy to see Anthony. Mark expected to 

go swimming and had on his bathing suit. Anthony sat at the table 

in Mark’s room, and wrote out 3 + 9 and drew a line. Mark stared at 

him, a blank look. So Anthony wrote 12 beneath the line. 

53



Mark, liking Anthony, picked up another pencil and wrote out 

3,432,932 + 98,234,981 + 23,762,909 and drew a line, and gave the 

pencil to Anthony. Now Anthony offered the same blank look, and 

Mark smiled, and Anthony laughed and started to add up the numbers. 

Mark, 7, picked up a crayon and wrote on the side of the paper: 

125,430,822. Mark ran outside and hopped on his bike. Anthony 

dropped his addition and went after him, and brought him back inside. 

Mark took out his new erector set, a stamped sheet metal model set 

consisting of steel girders, bolts and pulleys. Anthony sat and added 

up the numbers, and then sat on the floor to play with Mark and the 

erector set. Mark was making a bridge, and Anthony tightened the 

nuts with a small wrench. When it was finished, Anthony sat at the 

table again and looked at the numbers. He saw something. He stared, 

saying nothing, barely breathing. His heart raced. He sweated, he felt 

lightheaded. Mark’s crayon numbers were the same as his own careful 

long addition that took him minutes, which Mark wrote in crayon as 

a vision. He couldn’t move, didn’t look at Mark. 

Mark got up off the floor, smiling, knowing what Anthony 

was seeing, enjoying it spectacularly. In pencil he wrote out a large 

column of random numbers for Anthony that filled the full length 

of the page, and without visibly adding them, drew a line and wrote 

1,000,000,000,000. One trillion. 

At this moment, Anthony Cinelli’s breathing was too shallow, 

and he was feeling faint. Mark returned to his erector set and began 

making an inventory of triangles. Anthony set out to solve the problem, 

343,989,300 + 3,999,987 + 5,989 + 17,921,051 and on and on. 

Anthony added up column after column and he kept getting zero’s in 

his answer, all zero’s, 7 zero’s, 8, 9, 10 zero’s, my god, what is happening, 

and 11 zero’s and a 1. One trillion, oh God. Anthony Cinelli 

pissed in his pants for about a full second, maybe more. He was wet, 

humiliated, couldn’t believe his own reaction, couldn’t believe he 

had done such a thing. He had not done that before, ever. He didn’t 

look at Mark, and went into the Rabinowitz’s bathroom and took a 

shower, clothes and all. He had worn his bathing suit, too, thinking 

that’s all he could successfully get from the retarded kid, another bike 

ride, another swim, not imagining that he himself would piss in his 

pants, not imagining that the retarded kid who his rich friends mocked 

would turn out to be some kind of genius or prodigy. 

He left his wet clothes in the shower unthinkingly, left Mark 

unthinkingly, passed Gladys and Faye in the kitchen in his wet bathing 

suit and said nothing. He got on his bike and rode, rode out past 

54 



Lawrenceville, and rode the Bike Club’s Century, the 100 mile trail he 

had done slowly several times before. The route escaped town through 

a back road which wasn’t completely paved, went east into the morning 

sun, then into the hills. He rode over toward Weshanic Creek, down 

Stony Brook, and across Millstone Kill. 

Anthony was really a Criterium rider, a tough event within a 

city, good for spectators, but it was a very different ride than the 100 

mile Century rides. This fabulous route was carefully mapped and 

picked for its extreme beauty and good, tough hills. Anthony was not 

thinking, his mind was stopped. He spun like the good riders, and 

plowed through the countryside amidst ancient trees and wealthy estates, 

stopping at streams to refill his water bottle, and riding, spinning 

through 100 miles as if it were 10 miles, spinning through a Century 

as if it were a few laps on a Criterium. 

He rode up to the dorm, put his bike on his shoulder and took 

the stairs two at a time. He said nothing. He told no one about his 

fast Century. He told no one about the retard. He slept all night. He 

didn’t talk the next day; his friends thought he was sick. On the day 

following, Saturday, he stood in the barn staring at Heshie Rabinowitz 

and Vladi Weinstock. He stood there, in the morning light, smelling 

the fresh sawdust from the red oak kerfs and listening to the slim whine 

of the three-phase motor of the Rockwell Unisaw. Heshie and Vladi 

eventually came to him. Anthony stared them down, and stated with 

a deep and inspired voice that would one day become a trademark of 

the Church, “Mark isn’t normal. He is also not retarded. Mark is 

brilliant. Mark is a child prodigy.” 

A lot of weak knees began to fold; tears were abundant. They 

grabbed one another by the shoulder and squeezed hard. They pressed 

forehead against forehead. The joy was deep, from good people. They 

walked to the 150 year old oak, and sat on the picnic table beneath 

her longest, most extended horizontal branch. The gray-brown of the 

bark was deeply textured, covered with a light green moss. The leaves 

pranced with the penetrating light. Anthony Paul Cinelli told a great 

story of discovery. It was a slow go. 

∞ 

Anthony had been an over-achiever from Little Italy in Manhattan. 

His dad’s grape growing and wine making experience in Regusa, 

Sicily — and later farther inland in Paterno — made him a very knowledgeable 

restaurant supplier. He stocked the wine cellars of about 80 

Italian Restaurants in Little Italy and Manhattan personally, employed 

55



no one, but did have people to pay for his ‘route.’ Cinelli was the name 

of an established frame-making and bicycle manufacturing company 

in Milan, distant relatives. He bought many bicycling hats that said 

‘Cinelli,’ and gave them freely to his Mafia friends. Reguso had learned 

about both Little Italy and the possibility of getting a lucrative wine 

‘route.’ Reguso, who bicycled the mountains in Sicily, sometimes rode 

with his same childhood friends in Central Park. Sometimes these 

same friends would spend part of the summer back in Sicily. Once, I 

rode with both of these groups on the very same day wearing the very 

same clothing. It was my most accurate time-warp. In one timeline 

these men were young teens in Sicily; in another timeline they were 

men in their 40’s in Central Park. 

Anthony repeated endlessly, “Do few things and do them well.” 

Reguso developed a similar obsession. Reguso knew very little English. 

Anthony was translating from a coffee-table book on French vineyards 

he had given him for his birthday. Reguso was particularly interested 

in one picture of a tall and proud man in a richly over-done, old-world 

wine cellar. Reguso asked Anthony to read the caption, which said, 

“I am a viticulturist and enologist.” The large-format book had a fine 

glossary. Anthony looked up the terms and explained that this simply 

meant that the man was a grape-grower and wine-maker. Reguso asked 

Anthony to repeat the phrase again, and he did. In nearly perfect English, 

Reguso said, “I am a viticulturist and enologist.” And he said it 

again, and again, and said the same to each of his customers. Ninety 

percent of Reguso’s restaurateurs were first generation Italian. There 

were many English words they didn’t understand, especially medical 

terms. Most assumed Reguso was sick and was describing something 

like liver or kidney failure. A few asked what this meant. Others assumed 

he was having trouble with the IRS. Reguso’s sales went up 

strongly. He was proud to be a viticulturist and enologist. 

For young Anthony to get into Princeton was beyond the hopes 

of the family, such a beautiful and famous WASP university. Anthony 

worked hard at school. It didn’t come easily, like math. He had placed 

highly in a few national math competitions. The rest was difficult. 

New York public schools weren’t always so good, and he was Italian, 

and he was Catholic. Strikes against him, he thought, but he hit a 

homer, and was grateful to God. He made Princeton, and with luck, 

would make a good seminary to thank his Mother, his dear Mother, 

a memory fading, a slow and painful death. He was 5 then, still in 

Paterno, Sicily. 

56 



With Anthony as a guide and best friend, blond Mark Isaac 

Rabinowitz completed all of the undergraduate mathematics courses at 

Princeton by the age of 11. Graduate math classes were less interesting 

to Mark. He wanted to study something other than math. An obscure, 

theoretical geometry class held his interest because of a young Professor 

out of Mechanical Engineering. This professor seemed interesting 

and was very casual. He made him laugh and dragged him all around 

Mechanical Engineering for weeks showing him everything and everyone, 

especially the mechanicians who ran the shop. Mark developed 

a freakish interest in the word “mechanician.” Anthony was already 

overdoing the phrase he got from Heshie, “Do few things and do them 

well.” Between the two of them, smart they did not look. Girls at soda 

shops would listen to them babble, “Mechanician”, “Do few things 

and do them well”, “Mechanician”, “Do few things and do them well.” 

After 6 or 8 of these accusations people at adjacent tables got up and 

left. You have to wonder why everyone doesn’t know they are slow in 

some way, brilliant in others. We are a species of idiot savants, perhaps 

more idiot than savant. We have so much more than we know. We 

have so much less than we have been trained to believe. 

Through Anthony’s efforts, Mark was accepted by the students 

in the Princeton Bicycle Club, and became their unofficial mascot. 

Mark also became the best wheel builder. Mark was beginning to design 

bicycle components and to learn the milling machines as he built 

these components — parts that would have gained him instant respect 

at the Campognola factory in Italy. Anthony justified Mark’s passage 

into various classes at either the Lawrenceville School or Princeton 

University. He got along very well with kids his age, and younger, 

and older kids and even adults though he rarely spoke. He didn’t fit 

into the category of maladjustment that befell kids who didn’t hang 

out with their peers. Dirty blond and fair-skinned Mark was calm 

and thoughtful. Mark had started talking within weeks of Anthony’s 

tutelage; it was neither strained nor abnormal. Mark had learned to 

navigate his community with cute looks and stares and actions, and it 

worked. He needed to talk in math classes, so he did. There he found 

some interesting people. 

MIT got Mark, gave him a full ride, and, while Mark was 13 

years old he launched his own academic career, leaving the considered 

tutelage of Anthony Cinelli. He entered the freshman class and 

watched his emotions flail and bounce through the depression of not 

having Anthony with him and the thrill of meeting older kids that he 

respected immediately. He received his BS in 2 years, and in another 

57



2–1/2 years he earned his Ph.D. in Mechanical Engineering, again from 

the incomparable Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Anthony and 

Mark wrote voluminously and spent every vacation together, both in 

Little Italy and Princeton. Life was their secret mystery which they 

investigated together. “Mechanician.” “Do few things and do them 

well.” 

In the week of his defense for his Ph.D., Mark learned that his 

grandparents had been killed back in Latvia in a pogrom, where thousands 

of Jews were killed in their shtetls, their fenced-in and locked-up 

communities. Heshie had tried every year to get his parents out since 

he himself arrived. By now he had saved enough money to get them 

out in comfort. There were always problems, reasons in Latvia why 

they couldn’t go, endless excuses, endless bullshit stories as to why they 

couldn’t leave. Actually, they didn’t want to leave. The news of the 

tragedy rang hard through the Rabinowitz family. Heshie was depressed 

and blamed himself repeatedly, “I, I have killed my parents, me, my 

own parents.” Mark, fearful of Heshie’s attitude and depression was 

also tired of student life, needed a break and decided to move back to 

Princeton to work in the shop, which by this time was 30,000 square 

feet outside of Princeton. Vladi was sick, too. Heshie relaxed a little 

in the time with Mark, but was aging and slowing considerably from 

guilt alone. 

Vladi died that year, in 1919, in his sleep, fortunately. He 

had always wanted an Irish Wake, a party to celebrate his life, not a 

mourning for his death. His funeral and sitting shiva were extremely 

depressing. Even the great one-liners of this household barely generated 

a smile. For now, the humor was gone. Heshie aged more with the 

loss of his dear friend Vladi, and now, for the first time, wasn’t a kid, a 

kid who cried too much. Anthony, at Union Theological Seminary on 

Morningside Heights, came down to Princeton from New York often. 

The trains were very good, fast and clean. On the train to Princeton 

Anthony recognized a face from the Columbia dorm, Furnald. Mark 

and Anthony had visited other friends at Furnald several times. They 

re-introduced themselves to JD. They chatted briefly, and promised 

to bump into each other on Broadway. Bad luck would disguise JD in 

later years, and although Anthony would see him often, he would never 

recognize him again. JD would recognize Anthony, however, not only 

as the generous Catholic Bishop from the Episcopalian Cathedral, but 

he would see Anthony’s body transferred from a truck to a limousine 

in an abandoned parking garage on 130 th Street. 

58 



With Heshie’s self-torture, Gladys only got stronger, and ran 

the family with a kind and thoughtful hand. She cared for Heshie, 

and cared for Faye. Heshie’s guilt never went away. The old humor 

could be seen and heard. It just wasn’t the same. 

The family was nagging Mark to leave the shop. They didn’t 

need help or money and the young and aggressives who now ran the 

shop would either make them a profit and keep their jobs or they 

would close the shop, which was the most likely. MIT was pressing 

Mark to teach, and Columbia Engineering’s Mechanical Engineering 

Department was romancing him with promises of endless freedoms 

for life if he would come to Manhattan to teach and work part-time 

with the Physics Department, which was in need of a good Mechanical 

Engineer. 

∞ 

Mark had breezed through MIT with lots of friendships with 

guys, and few with girls. Not uncommon for boys at MIT. A few 

professors from his dissertation committee discussed this informally, 

and thought that perhaps Mark needed to ‘beef up his writing skills.’ 

Mark’s dissertation advisor had a friend who annually taught a pretty 

good freshman writing seminar at Radcliffe for girls who placed out 

of Freshman English, and were seriously interested in writing. He 

published poetry, kept his classes small. In this class, Mark — one of 2 

boys, the other a poetry student from Harvard — met the unlikely 17 

year old Marcia Scheckman. Unlikely because many of the Radcliffe 

women of this time dressed to kill, wore lots make-up, gave boys a very 

hard time, and pretended to have never heard of socialism. 

Mark stayed in Princeton for a year and a half. He left not 

knowing where he was going, to Gladys’s anger and Heshie’s pleasure. 

He went to see his curly-haired Radcliffe misfit Marcia Scheckman, 

a New York socialist schooled with a hotbed of Republicans from a 

family that probably originated the word dysfunctional. The Scheckman 

triple mischoogana patent was that the family worked like a suicide 

generator. If you needed the family or spent a lot of time with them you 

were sure to consider killing yourself. A string of deaths engulfed the 

Scheckman family. And they were not above suspicion in the murder 

of Anthony Cinelli. Many Scheckmans spent three days at St. John’s 

for the Weekend of Hope. Even New Jersey Scheckmans showed up 

year after year. It worked well as a neutral reunion setting for them, 

and they did feel good about helping the needy. 

59



∞ 

Marcia Eve Scheckman married Mark Isaac Rabinowitz on a hill 

in Riverside Park where two gray, curving schist staircases descended 

onto tree-lined winding paths. About 250 people dressed in requiredwhite 

for a hickory-smoked barbecue. Mark and Marcia were 19, both 

already tired of their student lives. Mark looked forward to working 

with the Physicists at Columbia. 

Anthony performed the ceremony. Mark’s best man was his 

next door neighbor, Rob, from Princeton. Rob gave about 20 wild 

toasts and told funny, childhood stories about his poor, retarded friend. 

Anthony had a simple, thick frock made, the same style of simple robe 

and rope that he imagined St. Augustine would have worn. But this 

frock was a luxurious, thick threaded white. The soft, thick, handmade 

rope came from Marine Supply on Canal Street. At 6’ 4” and 

with black hair, Anthony himself looked like a god. He didn’t intend 

to project such an image, especially since this ceremony would essentially 

be a spoof. It was an entirely agnostic and atheistic affair. Hairy 

Uncle Moisha played the role of the singing Kantor. He surprised 

everyone with his deep, long-reaching voice. He had good connotative 

command of about twenty words in Hebrew, and made sounds 

that authentic Kantors made with words that sounded very much like 

Hebrew words. Anthony didn’t expect that the wedding would be so 

deeply emotional. He didn’t expect that Riverside Park could display 

fall colors with the near-brilliance of the unfettered Upstate hills that 

ascended from the Hudson. 

Anthony also didn’t know that the charming and smart JD, 

brought as a date by one of the bride’s maids, would one day be witness 

to his own abduction. JD was a hit at the wedding. His endearing 

warmth tantalized the virgin-looking Radcliffe, Barnard and Smith 

girls, and Marcia loved the sound of his name. 

Jonathan Jeremy Rabinowitz was born seven months later — not 

early. No one would remember. Such an adorable couple, such good 

kids. Marcia quit Radcliffe, ecstatic. Jonathan was healthy. Unlike 

his father, he even learned to talk before he was 8. 

∞ 

Mark’s wedding day was filled with learning and surprise for 

Anthony. His expectations were truly challenged. He suddenly thought 

he was terribly bad at guessing about events, and he promised not to 

60 



mark his life with pre-conceptions and false expectations. One expectation 

he didn’t have was that in twenty years he would be entombed in 

concrete and taken on an old flatbed truck to an empty warehouse in 

the Meat Market. He couldn’t know that his body would be extricated 

by 8 volunteer police officers and detectives. Other than Londonderry, 

they were all Italian. They worked for two days with hoses, chisels, small 

rock hammers and hack saws to cut the rebars — the steel reinforcing 

bars that gave concrete its tensile strength. The men had chipped away 

and sawed at the rebars that trapped the body. They soon realized 

that if they were to lay a hose across the length of the column, and put 

some nail holes in the hose, and tie the far end, that they could keep 

the concrete nice and wet while they worked. Later they made a hot 

water connection. It made the winter task easier. And somehow, they 

thought it might make it easier for Father August, too. 

After 52 hours of nearly no sleep, the police group had freed 

Anthony Cinelli from his tomb. It was evening, cold. Anthony was in 

his favorite, simple black cloth of his namesake. One arm was raised, 

toward God, and he held one end of Heshie’s Beads tightly in his fist. 

The Cross had floated to the very top. There was a small hole in the 

middle of his forehead. 

The fresh concrete was fairly easy to chip away. It was also a 

bad mix — too much water. They lifted the Bishop carefully to a workbench, 

and called Chief Shawnessy. One of the cops in the volunteer 

group was Detective Stagnoli, who knew concrete. He moonlighted 

for extra money. He guessed the pour had been under spec, perhaps 

not for this job. He guessed there were too few stones in the mix for 

a column, and much too much water. Stagnoli said that cement and 

concrete is a very technical business, that every mixing plant bought 

different cements, and that each cement was made in different kilns 

and had unique properties. This would be good for the investigation. 

A cement expert would be needed. He immediately thought of Mikey 

Martinelli, New York’s toughest building inspector who developers 

wanted to kill since he couldn’t be bribed. Stagnoli told Shawnessy. 

Shawnessy sent a car for Martinelli. 

Mikey grew up in the concrete business. His dad had owned 

a plant in Brooklyn, sold it, and died a year later. Mikey was a child 

when his mother died, like Anthony. Mikey had no brothers and 

sisters. He got all the money from the business and insurance at 26, 

and became a cop, then a detective. During one of the many bribery 

exposes of New York Building Inspectors, Mayor Rinato asked Mikey 

if he would become Chief Building Department Inspector and try to 

61



clean up that department, which Georgey Rinato thought could never 

happen. But Mikey had money already, so at least he was one guy who 

might not accept bribes. 

The body was on the workbench. Shawnessy turned the body 

over. He had one of the special group go to the car and call the Medical 

Examiner. The Detectives didn’t inspect the body. Nothing was 

apparent, just a hole in his head. The Medical Examiner brought 

Father August back to the morgue in a truck so old it looked like it 

wouldn’t make it. 

Shawnessy, Londonderry, Stagnoli and Martinelli went to the 

Gold Rail, a bar between 110 th and 111 th on Broadway, near St. John’s. 

They drank too many shots of cheap rye, and ate good, generous dinners 

that only heavy drinking bars could afford to give you. This would 

give the Medical Examiner some time. They weren’t going to watch 

the autopsy. They wanted to look around the church. It was minus 

1000 degrees in New York that February morning. You were afraid 

to open your mouth thinking your tongue might freeze. Stagnoli was 

born in Chicago. He thought he was home. 

St. John’s revealed nothing. Shawnessy had been there 10 times 

in the two days since they found the Bishop. It was good, though, for 

Stagnoli and Martinelli to look around, and Londonderry needed a 

broader look, too. These guys chiseled the Bishop out of his tomb. 

Shawnessy re-assigned them to him since he was the lead investigator. 

Anthony’s house on the St. John’s grounds was roped off. Teams of 

men were still there, still walking in and out. Floorboards had been 

ripped out. Fingerprint experts were everywhere, including the attic. 

Nothing. There wasn’t a single clue. The Bishop had been a simple 

man. His storage room, too, in the Church, also revealed little. Personal 

items, besides clothing and bicycle paraphernalia, included Mark 

Isaac’s long letters, Anthony’s mother’s ring, a few pictures of both 

parents back in Sicily in their youth, a few pictures of boys riding road 

bikes in Sicily, and a small, pointillist painting, presumably a landscape 

of tiny Mediterranean Islands off Sicily. 

The Medical Examiner came out to the waiting room. None 

of them wanted to go into the autopsy room. None did. 

Shawnessy, “So whaddya got?” 

M.E., “Drowning.” 

Shawnessy, “What?” 

M.E., “He drowned, the Bishop drowned.” 

Shawnessy, “Where? Salt water or fresh water or bathtub 

water?” 

62 



M.E., “Guess again.” 

Shawnessy, “Fuck you, where?” 

M.E., “He drowned in the fucking concrete. The bullet never 

killed him.” 

Londonderry, “Jesus fucking Christ, I don’t want to hear this.” 

Londonderry and Shawnessy were red in the face, flushed. The red 

was volatile, eruptive. Stagnoli and Martinelli were pale, the white 

that precedes passing out. 

M.E., “The concrete came down on him. He was buried 

alive.” 

Londonderry, “My God.” 

M.E., “He may have been unconscious. He had a bullet in 

the head. He wasn’t in a coma, however,” said the Medical Examiner, 

more like a family physician now. He was glad this group hadn’t come 

into the autopsy room. 

Stagnoli, “He might have been conscious?” 

M.E., “Yes, I actually think he was. There was a lot of concrete 

in his stomach. An unconscious person would have just suffocated.” 

Shawnessy, “Is that it?” 

M.E., “No.” 

Shawnessy, “Go on.” 

M.E., “He wasn’t wearing underwear under his frock. He 

was wearing sweat pants a T-shirt and a long sleeve flannel shirt. He 

was wearing athletic clothes. They were sweaty, too. He was working 

out.” 

Ω 

63

~ Morningside Heights ~ 

New Jersey 

Harlem 

Morningside Heights 

Riverside Park 

Columbia 

University 

Northern 

Central 

Park 

The Steps 

The white light in Manhattan on that late April afternoon 

baked the campus like a white cake. April, sometimes snow, sometimes 

sun. Jonathan’s elbows were on the step behind him, his shirt off 

and his sailor hat too low on his forehead. People stared and smiled. 

The Columbia steps were designed for slouching, for hanging out, for 

meeting people. It was on these steps that I first met Jonathan. With 

about a 6” rise and a 14” tread, the 200’ x 100’ array of tan granite 

steps required you to sit on them, lunch on them, study on them, and 

make-out on them. Jonathan Rabinowitz was slouching against the 

steps, and tightened his pecs and his lats for Eileen, oh Eileen, bouncing 

down the steps from Kent Hall, panties in a bunch. Two steps at 

a time, precious Eileen descended the steps with a water filled coke 

bottle in one hand, and far too many philosophy books in the other. 

By April of 1941 humans had evolved to a perfection represented 

by Eileen, thick black hair sailing the entire length of her back 

all the way to her jeans, a single wave of black light. Eileen was officially 

a tomboy and filled out her brother’s white button-down with breasts 

that far outdid descriptives like voluptuous and enticing. Eileen was 17, 

the most unique girl at Barnard, not fitting in with her socially minded, 

fancy dressed classmates. She sported a tight, athletic body produced by 

long summers of intense Delaware River swimming, arduous bareback 

riding and long camping trips through the Catskills. Hard and tight 

may not be everyone’s desire, but Jonathan couldn’t stay soft when he 

saw Eileen, or when he thought of her, or when someone said “I” in 

a slightly drawn-out fashion, “Ei...leen.” 

Jonathan Rabinowitz’s hardon throbbed while he slouched 

next to dear bronze Alma Mater in front of Columbia University’s Low 

Library. He pretended not to see Eileen as he pretended to read the 

names that surrounded Butler Library, one of 26 libraries on campus, 

many of which had enough leather furniture and wood wainscoting and 

brass lamps to make a fine men’s club. Butler was across lower campus, 

the main library with 14 floors of phenomenal stacks of the world’s 

classics and a myriad of hidden places for making out and more. He 

mouthed the names carved in the light granite high up on Butler as he 

had done so many times before — Plato, Aristotle, Heraclitus, Euripedes, 

Herodotus, Homer, St Augustine — a few of the glorious founders of 

Western Civilization, the heroes enshrined by architects McKim, Mead 

and White, the heroes taught by Columbia’s finest faculty since 1754. 

Jonathan’s eyes darted between the names on Butler, a queer checking 

64 65



him out, Eileen’s fabulous approach, smiling old people acknowledging 

youth, and the band of his underpants. He realized anyone sitting close 

behind him could see a bit of throbbing white cotton since his loose 

chinos were spacious, and quite low. He thought, “Good, why not, let 

me bring spring to New York.” Eileen was coming closer, across the 

fountain plaza, up the steps toward him. He suddenly wanted it to be 

summer at Camp Tarigo up in Fleischmanns so he could nail Eileen, 

or more accurately, beg her for something, anything. He squeezed his 

knees together, he thought he was going to come, and was glad his 

boner was safe between the layers of his underpants. 

Eileen was coming at Jonathan from his left, moving in fast 

in her time scheme, in slow motion in Jonathan’s time scheme, her 

narrow, almost Japanese eyes mischievous and nasty. She was squeezing 

in her boy’s butt, as was he, emphasizing her strength in her tight 

Levi’s, bouncing her shirt so absolutely everyone would know there 

was no bra worn here. She walked like she thought she was galloping. 

Jonathan saw a horse between her legs, her Palomino that her dad’s 

American Indian friend gave her in Santa Fe, New Mexico, when she 

was 10. He watched the light refract in the phallic fountain on the 

plaza, then squirt from its mighty head in the rhythms of dreams. He 

wanted to bronze her, on the steps, horse and all, to celebrate her 

forever, through this war and all others. Eileen. 

Eileen bounced toward him and took a long forearm shake of 

her coke bottle filled with water and soaked him across his face, his 

swimmer’s chest, tight stomach, and his tan chinos, which were now 

dark spotted near his zipper. He spread his legs. 

“Fucker,” said Jonathan in a warm sway as if he were saying, 

“I love you”. 

“You deserve it, Rabinowitz,” said Eileen. 

“Hey Bechsler, you wanna eat over? Uncle Albert is coming 

and all the crazies are coming and mom has been cooking since yesterday. 

She made little Joshua set the Round Table before school, and 

she told me to get Uncle Albert and Teller and Oppenheimer over 

at Pupin so they won’t be late so they can see the sunset because the 

pollution is atrocious over New J and the sun will set as never before, 

so says Mom.” 

Eileen dropped down between Jonathan’s legs and rubbed her 

index finger down along his pants, pressing his pants down onto his 

hardon. Certainly no one saw. She rubbed the beading water into his 

stomach with the palm of her hand, pressing too hard. She was wet, 

inside. He tightened his muscles, and she laughed, and he relaxed 

66 



completely, and she pressed harder. She was driving him far over the 

edge. The center, vertical double ridge of his elongated stomach rose as 

the sides of his stomach disappeared, waist narrowing to prepubescence. 

His arching hardon throbbed to its own accord, just a little shudder, 

quiet, out there on the steps, wet underpants, my Spring, Eileen. 

Their stare was locked in immutable timelessness. 

“Oh, you are bad, Jonathan.” 

“I am.” 

“You are.” 

“Come to my house.” 

“No.” 

“Yes.” 

“Jonathan, I eat there too much and I don’t want your parents 

to get the wrong idea. There’s nothing between us and I want a rich 

lawyer and you are a stupid kid with crazy socialist ideas, and you could 

never, ever give me what I want.” 

“Eileen, I want you to get the wrong idea, I love wrong ideas, 

and there’s no place better than our Round Table for wrong ideas. Eat 

over. I not only can but will give you everything that you really want, 

though you are eons away from knowing what that really is, but I’m 

ready to show you now.” 

“Never.” 

“Now.” 

“Never.” 

“Come, Miss hard-to-get, let’s get Uncle Albert. We have to get 

a Spectator so he can bring our rag back to Princeton and show them 

that there really is a Peace Movement in New York, and that there 

really is a college newspaper where thinking is allowed. I think the 

Columbia Spectator is doing a better job reporting Anthony’s murder 

than the Times. ‘All the News that’s Fit to Print’ sometimes scares 

me as a slogan. To them that is ‘socially acceptable’ news only and 

they aren’t printing everything they know. The Catholic Church and 

Mafia are even scaring the Times. Meanwhile, it’s stupid for Albert 

to be at Princeton with everyone here. Oppie grew up right here on 

Riverside for God’s sake. He belongs to the City. They belong in the 

City. Albert should live with us, too, he’d love it.” 

Eileen thought aloud, “If they would have faced the campus 

west to the Hudson, he probably would have come. With the campus 

on the North-South axis, it just isn’t spectacular enough for him.” 

67



“You mean not pastoral enough. You are probably right. This 

place would be endearing overlooking the Hudson.” 

“Not so bad now.” 

“No, not so bad. Come on Eileen, let’s check out the basement 

of St. Paul’s, and see who’s playing tonight. Some anti-war group I hear. 

Hey, there’s a Peace Rally at 6 at the Sundial, and we can take Crazy 

Hair and the other hopeless ones before dinner — they’ll love it. And 

tonight let’s go to the movies and see “The Lady Vanishes” with Margaret 

Lockwood and Michael Redgrave and Dame May somebody.” 

Jonathan would have 9 year-old campers this summer, if he 

counselored at camp again. A big war was on in Europe, and everyone 

was discussing it, and many thought we would get involved. He still 

wasn’t sure, he had never missed a summer at Tarigo, at least not since 

he was 4. If Eileen goes he will go. The camp’s owner, Uncle Pacy, 

said Tarigo might not open if we were to go to war. 

Eileen took Jonathan’s white T-shirt and wiped the water and 

sweat off him, adoring him, wanting him, thinking at 17 that this 19 

year old would never be for her. She gave him his flannel shirt and 

kept the wet T-shirt, and Jonathan straightened his sailor hat and put 

his shirt on. He didn’t button it, letting it flap loosely around him. 

Eileen’s shirt was tight. His pants were loose, hers tight, oh so tight. 

The afternoon sun was cooling down now, and you could feel the 

breeze climb up 116th Street from the Hudson. 

Jonathan took Eileen’s hand. Jeremy the Panhandler was walking 

by, and shared the warm day, 

68 

“Some boys make bombs. 

Such boys are beans. 

When I was a bird I wished I was a beast, 

So to all you green bananas - birds.” 

They walked up the Low Library steps to the east side of 

campus and over to the small and intimate, very carefully detailed St. 

Paul’s and down to the basement. On the cold, winding stone stairs 

he thought of Anthony Cinelli, and that it was his little brother who 

discovered his burial tomb. He thought of his father who lost his best 

friend, and thought how quickly life changes. In the curving cold of 

the tightly arched basement stairs, Jonathan aged up a notch. There 

was no music in his heart at the moment, and none tonight at St. 

Paul’s. Some guy named William Burroughs would read something 

called ‘Cut-Ups.’ It sounded lame. They walked around Avery, the 



Architecture building, and across to Pupin Hall, the Physics Building. 

Albert Einstein’s office was on the 3rd Floor. He took the steps three 

at a time. She raced with her tight pants, one step at a time, yet with 

neither seriously out of breath, they pounced into Uncle Albert’s office 

and sat on his desk. 

Dr. Einstein was, characteristically, scribbling on the blackboard, 

muttering. Having made enough noise on their entrance to 

awaken a battalion of exhausted men, they said nothing, and sat with 

their legs hung over the desk and rocked lazily. Jonathan and Eileen 

played with each other’s fingers, and danced and darted finger songs 

into one another’s palms as if the species had been communicating 

this way for millennia. 

Uncle Albert must have heard the finger song, and with a bit of 

a boner of his own lost interest in his blackboard hieroglyphs, “Quiet 

and polite children, is it time already? What, you think I wouldn’t 

remember your mother’s matzah ball soup and chicken fricassee dinner 

unless you came to fetch me? You are probably right, I wouldn’t. 

I hear the Round Table is full tonight with 20 mischooganas, such a 

night we will have.” 

Jonathan looked at the tiny folding ripples of his stomach, at 

the tops of Eileen’s nearly visible breasts through her white cotton 

button-down, at the wrinkles in his Uncle’s pants and face and hands. 

He said with the stutter typical of so many Columbia English Majors, 

the stutter that assured life long unemployability, “20 people and 80 

conversations covering 320 topics. These nights are designed to confuse 

our dreams, nothing more. Oh, Uncle Albert, there’s another Peace 

Rally at the Sundial. Come, you can shake your hair at them. We’ll 

sit on the steps a little before dinner, and walk home and eat in the 

sunset. The sulfur dioxide and the rest of the periodic table have a 

special atmospheric treat for us tonight over New Jersey.” 

A walk through Pupin Hall was a walk through history. “Come 

Edward,” Albert Einstein said to Edward Teller, driven physicist and 

nuclear supremacist, “we need to eat now. Tomorrow we have an important 

meeting with everyone, we need nourishment. There’s talk 

of building a device. Where is Oppie?” 

“Oppie went to see his folks on Riverside then over to Geology. 

He has maps on the brain. He is obsessed with maps these days. So 

Albert, you bring Mark Isaac Rabinowitz’s son and girl friend through 

our offices to cheer us up, do you? Because Marcia feeds us like Grand 

Knights on the Rabinowitz Round Table doesn’t mean that we should 

69



have to bore these young people who treat the burden of springtime 

as seriously as we treat our own mission.” 

“Edward,” said Albert, “please let’s go. We have the Round 

Table for talk. Let’s walk over to Lewisohn Hall and get our Robert 

Oppenheimer. We must eat.” 

Jonathan, Eileen, Albert and Edward crashed into Robert in 

the vestibule of Pupin; they turned him around like a thin wooden 

soldier and ushered him into the group. Father Spoon O’Reilly and 

a hard-looking priest in ill-fitting clothes were just getting on their 

clunker bikes; they had been walking with Robert. There were maps 

under Robert’s arm, rolled with property stickers, ‘Columbia University 

Department of Geology.’ Robert had deep brown hair, brown eyes 

and carried himself like a kid in junior high school who suddenly grew 

8 inches that year. Robert Oppenheimer was crushing a note in his 

hand, looking agitated. 

Why would these somewhat seedy and hard-looking priests 

bother him on campus? He was prissy about his time, but this caused 

genuine anger. The note said, “Tell Rabinowitz the son of one of 

Richard Scheckman’s lieutenants was kidnapped.” Oppie felt like 

an errand boy. It also bothered Oppie that he was so obsessed with 

his time that he would not help out more with the Anthony Cinelli 

murder issue that held everyone else’s interest. He realized that these 

contradictory feelings caused the anger, and he calmed. Robert Oppenheimer 

was close to Anthony. They had known each other for 

countless years. Oppie hoped that Anthony’s death was peaceful, an 

instantaneous chain reaction, and that he felt no pain in his passing. 

Anthony’s death, however, was slow. 

Anthony found himself standing upright inside the cold 

wooden concrete form. It shook him from unconsciousness. Temps 

— temporary naked light bulbs — were strung across the construction site 

for some workers who started at 5 AM. A temp over Anthony glittered 

the rust of the reinforcing bars. Little Anthony was in his crib; he had 

a bad headache. Mama walked heavily across the bedroom floor. The 

bucket poured gravel and cement, wet and dark with mother’s hand. 

Anthony sat at Mark’s Round Table, the benches full with laughter, 

the maple shiny, the oak warm, the walnut rich, the low sky above 

New Jersey puffing orange-pink clouds so orange and so pink and so 

opulent that only God could show these, and only to Anthony, only 

from this view. Here in the spin of the Round Table and the heavenly 

estuary of the New Jersey riverbank, Anthony raised his hand to God 

and presented his Beads and Cross. “I laugh with my loves’ clapping 

70 



at your sun’s touchdown. Ah, what’s this I’m drinking, crushed ice 

with gin and too much lime, perhaps? Oh, that gasoline boy again, 

blowing fall leaves, I can’t see, he must not see me, no. I must hide. 

Mark Isaac, I see you, I love you, please, please ask him to stop. Maybe 

I will just sleep in these warm autumn leaves, I fear, just now.” 

∞ 

From afar I recognized Dr. Oppenheimer in this timeline, since 

I knew him in the future; he had not yet met me. He was walking with 

Jonathan, whom I had met earlier in the day. 

“Why does that panhandler always talk about bananas and 

beans and birds?” asked Robert Oppenheimer. 

“Oh, you mean Jeremy,” said Jonathan. 

“Yes, you know him by name?” 

“Everyone does. Entirely harmless. A guy named Ginsberg 

in my poetry class says he speaks in fragments of sestinas or doublesestinas. 

What did he say to you?” 

Robert tried to recall. He started scribbling and scratching out 

what he had written. Then he said, “I think this is it: 

‘Orange and mean, the bomb is a boy. 

But no banana is just a banana 

Just because each beast is a beast. 

No, some bananas are bombs.’” 

“Not bad, Oppie,” said Jonathan warmly, “You sound just like 

‘im.” 

“I understand the form of the sestina, Jonathan, and I’m sure 

I could assemble any fragments you can collect.” 

“I accept the challenge.” 

“So do I.” 

Robert was a bit stooped, shoulders a bit round, and he took 

extra long strides as if there was an extra knee joint enabling his gait. 

Albert’s legs were short. Edward was slow. Robert was muttering about 

the West and Cowboys. I was hobbling along on one of the bricked 

garden paths surrounding Low Library on Upper Campus. Jonathan 

and I smiled when we saw each other, then laughed, 

“Alby, come to dinner.” 

“I couldn’t.” 

“You could.” 

“Where?” 

71



“My house. Lots of people. Tag along.” 

As we walked around the west side of the domed Low Library 

the full image of the multiple majestic staircases presented themselves. 

A kid screamed, “Rabinowitz you swimmer fag, go long.” Jonathan 

sprinted out and over a set of steam escapement grates and around 

toward Dodge Hall. A football dropped into his arms. He jumped 

down four stairs at a time on the staircase next to Dodge, opposite the 

staircase at Kent Hall, and threw badly to Jack Kerouac. Jack threw 

back a perfect spiral as Jonathan ran up another set of stairs to where 

Eileen and the nuclear boys were about to sit. Jack ran up the stairs 

too, since Jack wasn’t going to ignore Eileen. He was with two ridiculous 

nebishes, the strung out giant William Burroughs and the pathetic 

schlimazel from his poetry class, the guy who knew about sestinas, Allen 

Ginsberg. They followed along. 

Jonathan sat next to Eileen, close, and Jack, staring obviously, 

puffing his chest, said “Hi, Eileen.” As if the professorial, disheveled 

men were transparent and there was never an Honor Code at Columbia, 

Jack said, “Hey Jonathan you have to help me get through English, 

man, will you write something for me? I can’t fail this one too. You’re 

a smart Hebe, help me write my paper or do something will you, and 

I’ll take you to the West End every night next month. My Sophomore 

Essay is due now, and I’m sweating seriously. Hey Mr. Billy Boy here is 

reading tonight at the St. Paul’s Coffee House, wanna come hear him? 

You can all come. Hey, by the way meet my friend Bill Burroughs and 

my friend Allen Ginsberg. These guys think they write a bit. This is 

Jonathan Rabinowitz, Swimmer Stud, Poet and Cyclist.” 

Jonathan returned the introductions, “Eileen Bechsler, Albert 

Einstein, Edward Teller, Robert Oppenheimer, and the plaster cast 

here is Alby Chrisbach.” 

The poets were genuinely impressed by the notables, and did 

little eyebrow cha-cha’s for all to see. I found myself in the middle of 

the group. Albert Einstein said, “So young man, you have acquired no 

signatures on your new cast? How did you earn your plaster?” 

“A bicycling accident over in New Jersey. I had to avoid a 

truck,” I lied, and to Albert Einstein, no less. I had searched for this 

time in history for 5 years, and at this age, 22, I had learned enough 

about time-travel to say as little as possible since even the slightest hints 

seemed to have large effects on future realities. A pen in a large hand 

passed through my peripheral vision. Jonathan reached for it, bent 

down, and signed my cast. I was surprised to see that Jonathan was 

the fourth to sign. Burroughs and Oppenheimer and Kerouac were 

72 



already there. The others followed, making me feel very welcome and 

very lucky. This cast, today, nearly 60 years later, hangs above my bed 

in my shack in Santa Barbara, though each time I look at Dr. Einstein’s 

signature, the lie appears. 

Burroughs, stammering, invited everyone again to his reading, 

“It would be excellent if you could come, I have developed a method of 

cutting newspaper articles vertically in half in the middle of columns 

and juxtaposing the sentences mid-column, one article to another 

article. Makes for interesting reading.” 

The quiet Robert answered for all, oddly. Robert was similar 

in stature to Bill. He said, “We can’t. We have a dinner tonight at 

the Rabinowitz’s.” 

Bill, “Perhaps we can get together afterwards.” 

Jonathan, “Jack will bring you over later, he knows all too well 

where I live, and it’s better than another drunk at the West End, Jazz 

or no Jazz.” 

Bill, “What are the maps?” 

Robert, “I’m looking to buy a ranch out west, I love horses.” 

Eileen and Jonathan seemed to say, at once, “Horses, yeah.” 

And Jack said in a voice that seemed to project from his dick, 

“Oh, Eileen, do you ride?” 

Everyone laughed at his sarcastic, over-emphasized and heated 

passion and Jack blushed, smiled, and slid the sole of his sneaker 

backwards, twice, like a hoof. 

William Burroughs said to Robert Oppenheimer, “I went to 

prep school on a ranch in New Mexico, a place called the Los Alamos 

Ranch School for Boys. It’s near Santa Fe. They threw me out, of 

course — special country, spiritual beyond the structures of belief. If 

you like Cowboys and Indians, horses and sunsets, New Mexico is 

colorful country.” 

If Robert Oppenheimer and William Burroughs had a similar 

gait, they did not have similar minds. They felt both a need to talk 

and a need to snarl. They were magnets rotating at their own speeds, 

sometimes repelling, sometimes attracting. The group stood. A 

reaction seemed to be in process, inexplicable, unlikely personalities 

driving wild energies to merge upon an expansive staircase. The Peace 

Rally was discussed. All would attend briefly. Burroughs, Ginsberg 

and Kerouac walked first toward the President’s House, which, when 

Columbia was formed, was an asylum for the insane. Einstein, Teller 

and Oppenheimer walked directly down to the Sundial. The poets 

73



walked down and joined physicists. A crowd was forming. It was 6 

o’clock. Jeremy the Panhandler joined the Rally, and said loudly to 

the crowd’s laughter, 

74 

“In meat there were beads, 

Interstice of brick, my tree by the meat. 

Limousines without heat, 

Freezers without kerosene.” 

Oppie and Jonathan stared at each other. This would be challenging 

to interpret. Professor Mark Isaac Rabinowitz, Jonathan’s dad, 

was walking across the 116th Street Plaza with two graduate students 

who were carrying an 8’ long shiny, sleek aluminum double-walled 

cylinder, tapered and with rounded edges. Mark Isaac’s eyes were 

twitching, unusually, unexplainably. His usually rich and thick hair 

was standing with static, frayed in the wind like puff-balls about to be 

released for pollination. 

Manolo Fernando Eusabio Hernandez Ramirez, III was sitting 

on the lower steps in front of Low Library, directly across from the 

Sundial. He and Mark nodded to one another. Mark knew him by 

his nickname, “Rican.” Superintendents on the Upper East Side and 

Upper West Side of Manhattan would commonly say, “Hey Rican, how 

did a fuckin’ Puerto Rican like you get smart enough to fix boilers?” 

Manolo would answer, “No hablo Ingles.” Or, “Hey Rican, pick up the 

dogshit and eat it.” “No hablo Ingles.” Somehow, the boilers would 

be fixed. Occasionally, Manolo needed some specialized machinery 

in order to mill an unusual part for an old boiler. His friend was the 

Senior Mechanician at the Mechanical Engineering Mill Shop in the 

basement of Schermerhorn. Mark was in charge of the shop and saw 

Manolo there frequently. Manolo was a master machinist, as good as 

Mark and the Senior Mechanician. They all helped each other out 

on various projects. Manolo almost never spoke, a characteristic that 

didn’t estrange Mark, although it worried his friend. 

On Friday, February 21 st, , Manolo was in the Mechanical Engineering 

Mill Shop working on a boiler-header rig that routed various 

control valves to a control plate. A brass plate riveted to the control 

plate said, ‘Skara, Oskarshamn, Sweden.’ Mark stared at the plate 

for a moment, and said awkwardly and stumbling in Spanish, “My 

god, Rican, where’d you get that? I can’t believe it, my father came 

from Eastern Europe on that very ship. He said it was damaged by a 

rogue wave.” Manolo was deeply involved in setting up the milling 



machine, and said, unthinkingly, in perfect English, “The boiler on 

a tenement on 112 th Street blew, and the only replacement I could 

get immediately was this old ship’s boiler. It’s been around for years. 

Pretty good match in size, and it will save the building at least two 

weeks of freezing temperatures. We’ve moved most of the tenants out 

already — too cold for them to stay. I will be there for days yet.” At 

this point, Manolo was aware of having made a mistake, and Mark was 

staring at him, pleading for an explanation for this suddenly perfect 

command of English. 

116th Street divided upper campus from lower campus. Arrow 

tipped 14’ tall cast iron gates guarded the Broadway end and 

the Amsterdam Avenue end so neither taxis nor undesirables would 

enter. Board of Trustee limousines were OK, though. The classical, 

overscaled, brick and stone campus was resplendent with great walking 

paths and stairs to lounge upon. Upper Campus was primarily 

academic buildings for graduate students, about 4,000. Lower Campus 

was primarily undergraduate, about 1,000 boys. Barnard, across 

Broadway, was about 1,000 girls. 

On the south side of the Plaza, in the middle of yet another 

150’ long staircase, was an 8’ round bronze sundial set in brown 

speckled granite. People met at the Sundial all the time, and it was a 

focal point for small rallies. There was a Peace Rally forming now, a 

speech in process outlining the values and procedures for becoming 

a Conscientious Objector, a military classification for not participating 

in war. The Great European War, which was already being called 

World War II in Europe, was generally considered a righteous war for 

the United States. There were few places in the United States where 

anti-war rallies or peace rallies were held. The Sundial was one of 

those places. 

Columbia was traditionally a pocket for socialist and alternative 

views, with every possible left political leaning represented. 100 

flavors of Marxism, Socialism, Communism, Maoism, Trotskyism, 

Leninism, Laborism and Unionism could be heard in every coffee 

shop, deli, bookstore, chess club, restaurant and theatre on Broadway, 

Amsterdam and Columbus Avenues. 100 more flavors of Anarchism 

were discussed. 10,000 flavors of personal philosophies and alternatives 

or enhancements to Capitalism were endlessly, always, under discussion. 

The Upper West Side, if not as elegant as Paris, was certainly 

as political. There has been hell to pay in the multi-millennial query 

to develop a trade system for people committed to dignity and health 

75



for all. There was no better place than the Sundial to project your 

group’s views of the very best system, and how your newest system 

should be attained. Fist-fight arguments developed over theoretical 

delimiters between Means and Ends, Strategy and Tactics, Limits and 

Bounds. There were so many fights on the left it was obvious it was 

over-infiltrated from the right. 

About 200 students, teachers and community politicos gathered 

and listened to the priest who was speaking on the Sundial itself. 

The round bronze dial and granite base made a fine and friendly little 

podium. A rabbi was visible on the step next to the Sundial, and a 

few less frocked ministers were nodding in concert. The crowd was 

dominated by corduroy jackets with patches, and dark flannel or cotton 

shirts beneath the jackets. Dark chino’s or wool pants were more common 

than jeans. Jonathan’s open red flannel shirt flapped in the light 

breeze, not a hair visible on his chest or stomach, and Eileen’s white, 

tight button down celebrated her one-hand wide waist, her breathing. 

The brass button on the top of her jeans seemed to bounce in the light 

wind, saying, “Open me, open me.” Jonathan and Eileen were show 

offs, and they liked it that way. Jonathan was focusing on making out 

with his Eileen, sharing tongues long into the night. Eileen wanted 

to eat his breath, to munch on his endlessness. 

People at the rally recognized Dr. Einstein. The priest stopped 

what he was saying and welcomed him very respectfully. Someone 

from the crowd shouted that his colleagues were the famous physicists 

Robert Oppenheimer and Edward Teller. Another shouted, “Is fission 

around the corner, Professor Einstein?” 

Another, “Will a bomb be made from your work, Dr. Einstein?” 

Einstein said, wondering if an attack was before him, “Please, 

go on with your rally and let me learn from you. We, too, seek nothing 

more than the quickest end to the goings-on in Germany and Europe. 

Please, we have come to hear you talk of Peace.” 

They clapped slightly and murmured quietly at what Albert 

said and appreciated his characteristic warmth, leaving the arrogance 

of anti-weaponism to another time. Albert was a real crowd pleaser. 

Jeremy shouted, 

76 

“Silly beasts, go climb a banana, 

And don’t bean more boys.” 



An older man with a German accent, wearing a worn, charcoal-gray 

overcoat, shouted, “Dr. Einstein, can the same frightening 

compliance that Germany now exhibits happen here?” 

Albert Einstein, quietly in a deep, slow tone, let the breeze 

carry his thoughts, “Propaganda machines are organized advertising 

campaigns. Many campaigns are globally effective, and others intentionally 

ineffective. Hitler’s campaign is very effective. He has achieved 

very thorough compliance. Other campaigns are intentionally ineffective. 

For example, if we wanted global population control we would 

manufacture the tools of consent to enable this process. We do not 

want this. Economic imperialism requires a growing population, so 

we have not manufactured a methodology through which population 

control would be implemented. But I only look into physical truths. 

And I, too, recognize some of you, and know you, too, contemplate 

issues of social-compliance and resource-abundance more than I, and 

I would imagine your visions of culture to be more full than mine of 

science.” 

While crouching, and his head low to the ground, Jeremy 

Davidson said loudly, “Technology and Culture progress or degrade 

as independent manifestations.” 

The crowd, uncertain of the voice, responded to the quip as a 

professional panel to a notable: 

A flannel shirt said, “A culture may decline while its technology 

progresses.” 

A patched jacket said, “Economic health is not a sign of cultural 

health.” 

Kerouac said, “Political buy-in represents manufactured consent.” 

Jonathan said, “Continuous abundance to the individual 

enables acquiescence.” 

Again, low to the ground, Jeremy said, “Manufactured consent 

fails as all products fail.” 

A dark, pin-striped suit, disheveled, with a bookbag, said, “A 

compliant mass consenting to its own economic degradation will eventually 

exhibit Kafka-esque degradation and self-destruction.” 

This rally was small and otherwise quiet. Not all of them were 

peaceful. If there was a place for fanaticism to fester and grow, and to 

be nurtured with figures and facts, it was here. Many anti-war activists 

populated this community. Civil Disobedience culminating in arrest 

77



was frequent. The Upper West Side, and within it, the Columbia 

University Campus on Morningside Heights, was a world unto itself, 

capable of addressing at length the social hell of human life, the social 

graces of human life, and the power of physics to bring it all to an end. 

Or at least to reorder the world according to specific persuasions. There 

were many ideals from many ideal institutions on Morningside Heights. 

Columbia was a comprehensive university with many good departments 

and schools, small in enrollment numbers but large in established faculty. 

There were also special places like the Julliard School of Music, 

Union Theological Seminary, St. Luke’s Hospital Center, St. John The 

Divine, and the incomparable, towering Riverside Cathedral topped 

with a multi-toned set of enormous bronze bells to chime forth song 

into Morningside. The people from these institutions had opinions, 

and were not shy. They rallied for their beliefs. Right-wing opinions 

were strong and robust as well. Right-wingers who infiltrated the left 

were numerous with tuitions or positions sometimes paid by federal 

agencies or other status-quo power enforcers. 

The Rabinowitz family looked Swedish and Christian more 

than Russian and Jewish. Mark Isaac had very long hair, usually not 

like Albert’s hair, which stuck out like it had been electrified. Mark 

Isaac Rabinowitz’s dark blond hair was full, rich, and was typically 

wind blown as if he just sailed in from Shelter Island out on the end 

of Long Island. Mark Isaac was a dedicated Mechanical Engineer and 

Superb Craftsman. He could cut walnut or oak to 128 th of an inch, 

and maple to 256 th . Mark Isaac’s work was tight, and he was in the 

woodshop all of his free time, which, in the last few years, didn’t exist. 

He was working on airplanes and special air-flow assemblages over in 

Physics. 

Mark’s twitching grew to involuntary face contortions throughout 

the rally. He was only there because he and his students happened 

to be walking by when his son Jonathan with his special entourage 

showed up. Mark Isaac didn’t like all the politicos, couldn’t understand 

them. He thought all of the rhetoric was an enormous waste of time. It 

amazed him that his physicist coworkers and friends found it tolerable, 

and apparently interesting. Mark couldn’t imagine the circumstances 

that would cause him to become a Conscientious Objector, and knew 

Jonathan would want to fight if he had to fight. No, bad idea. On 

second thought, he hoped Jonathan would remember how to prepare 

his own dossier showing himself at Peace Rallies, and showing his deep 

religious commitment to not harm anyone. No, Jonathan must never 

78 



fight, he can be contributive in more significant ways. He couldn’t 

lose Jonathan, especially after Anthony. 

The Rabbi spoke about his life in Germany, his family’s awareness 

of the rise of Hitler and their need to leave. He knew many 

outstanding people in Germany that he felt could bring down Hitler, 

powerful Germans that hated Hitler, German Generals, German 

Priests, German leaders, German statesmen, all of whom were proud 

to be Germans Against Hitler 1 . The Rabbi said it was his commitment 

to peace and his assurance of a continued peace that made him leave 

Germany, and that you cannot attain peace with war. One of the 

Ministers stood, and shook the Rabbi’s hand, and said, “if we carry 

guns into war we will use them to destroy. We must carry the message 

of our one God. We must make peace not with weapons but with the 

penmanship of our intellects.” 

A patched, corduroy fellow from the Socialist Labor Party 

spoke next, saying that American workers did not want war, and that 

the United States has no role in the European conflict. It was late 

April, 1941. 

A frocked fellow from Rome, complete with age and accent, 

apologized for taking time from the rally. He introduced himself as a 

Vatican Investigator. “Thank you all for extending your condolences 

regarding Bishop Cinelli. We still need him; we will always need him.” 

The rally dissolved as a political meeting and became a community 

meeting. Mark looked away. He didn’t like public gatherings, especially 

ones that threw daggers through his inner peace. 

“The police and mayor’s office call us daily, but give us nothing 

specific. They know the Bishop was murdered on the Friday evening 

before the Day of the Harps either before or after the trucks were 

loaded for the Poor Dinner. We also know that before daybreak on 

Saturday morning a concrete truck came and two laborers rigged the 

bucket to fill the column containing the Bishop’s body, God forgive 

me. We need to find someone who saw this scene just before sunrise 

on Saturday. Please, ask around. This is a community effort.” 

Several of the demonstrators were involved both in the St. 

John’s and Columbia communities, and the others were respectful, 

aware and sensitive to politically active Anthony Cinelli’s murder. A 

very young, very bald demonstrator asked, “Where was the Bishop just 

before he was murdered?” The Vatican Investigator took a list from his 

pocket. He had prayed that the rally would stick to his topic. He read, 

“Bishop Cinelli was involved with the following groups. We believe 

his death was, as you say, an ‘inside job.’ I will read the committee 

79



names slowly so you can takes notes. This is a community problem, 

not just a Church problem or a legal problem. We need your help.” 

He read from his list, 

80 

Poor Dinner Steering Committee 

Day of the Harps Organizing Committee 

Central Park Bicycling Committee 

Weekend of Hope Transportation Group 

Day of Remembrance Work Group 

Ad Hoc Morningside Planning Group 

Italian-American Benefactors Group for Children 

Friends of the Park 

Morningside Air-Rights Rezoning Coalition 

Street Gang Education Committee 

Urban Shelters 

Carpenters’ Union Apprenticeship Group 

Christian Old Age Homes 

Interdenominational Outreach Alliance 

Air-Rights Allocations Committee 

Nutrition Anonymous 

Crisis of the Aging 

Little Italy’s Wine Association for InterBorough Churches 

Continuing Catholic Education 

St. Luke’s Children’s Wing Committee 

Mark Isaac didn’t’ like listening to this long list, didn’t like treating 

Anthony’s death as a fact, didn’t like the idea of the whole City’s 

involvement. He assumed Father Spoon O’Reilly would feel quite the 

same way and looked over at Spoon for a nod of acknowledgement, but 

Spoon was deep in a daydream. His eyes were glassy. He was forming 

little spit bubbles between the roof of his mouth and his tongue, then 

blowing them into the air. 

∞ 

Manolo — known as Rican — was a short Venezuelan with long 

black hair, of European descent, and was in the United States as a student 

from the Sorbonne in Paris. He was writing an ethnography on 

the New York Puerto Rican Community for a Masters in Anthropology. 

His task was to delineate Puerto Rican cultural and racial struggles in 

New York. Initially, he took a job as a janitor in a large tenement, but 

found it impossibly difficult to be treated like a dog. He purchased 



a small boiler repair business from an older Hungarian, in cash, and 

continued his research in this manner. 

While removing the defunct boiler at about 4:30 AM on Saturday 

morning in preparation for the installation of the old boiler from 

the Skara, Manolo saw a light penetrate the knothole in the wood that 

covered the basement window. Manolo thought it might be a flashlight 

from his men who were expected at 5 AM. Instead, he witnessed a 

limousine pull up at the adjacent construction site, drop some things 

off, and quickly pull away. A man pried open a column’s formwork, 

shoved a large body into the column space, and pressed the wood back 

into place with great difficulty. Another man joined him. They did 

not hammer. The second man ran a bicycle across the street to the 

side of St. John’s, and left it there. 

Manolo said nothing about what he had seen. Manolo was 

friendly enough. He had made Mark’s dad a desk triangle out of walnut 

with the brass plate from the Skara. Where Manolo came from, 

in Caracas, murders like this were more commonplace, and those who 

saw, those who wanted to live, said nothing. 

In Caracas, Manolo’s father had the government’s ‘franchise’ 

for all bottling in Venezuela. 100% of all bottled ‘pleasure drinks,’ 

including Coca-Cola, beer and liquor could only be bottled by Manolo’s 

family. Manolo attended prep school in Switzerland and spoke English, 

French and Spanish fluently. His expertise with machinery came 

primarily from training by the Master Machinist at his dad’s bottling 

plant near Caracas. He received more formal training as a mechanician 

at the Mechanical Engineering Mill Shop at Oxford where Naval 

Architecture students were required to build various models, including 

mechanical systems models. Manolo acquired a BS in Naval Architecture, 

and after returning to his estate outside of Caracas became bored 

designing naval ships that would never be built. 

Manolo and his father headed out of their private and protected 

port in La Coca-Cola Fria, a 103’ three-masted tall ship with a crew of 

17. They spent about 8 months stopping at many of the Caribbean 

hot spots. Manolo liked the desolate Island of Andros best of all 

with its curved and unusually shaped beaches, pine forests that grew 

into the sand and shallow-water reefs. Their favorite port was in Fort 

Lauderdale at the Swimming Hall of Fame, a protected, deep water 

port on the Intracoastal, 100 yards from a beautiful, expansive beach 

on the Atlantic. 

Manolo again became bored, didn’t want to travel anymore, 

and didn’t want to work in any of the bottling plants. He applied to 

81

✑ 



the Sorbonne, intending to pursue a career in Anthropology. La Coca- 

Cola Fria dropped him off at a yacht club just south of Normandy, and 

he bought a car to drive to Paris. His father was incensed at this decision, 

since he feared Hitler. Less than a year later, upon his father’s 

insistence and only a month before Hitler invaded France, La Coca-Cola 

Fria crossed the Atlantic to Normandy. The ship returned with Manolo 

to the United States. Manolo’s thesis was nearly complete. He would 

visit his sister in Berkeley before mailing it to Paris. He had played 

victim long enough. Manolo thought that if he stayed in Manhattan 

any longer that he, too, might be entombed in concrete, but by men 

in less expensive suits. 

Ω 

82

~ New York Glossary ~ 

a priori 

- Not the misspelling for ‘a prior’ arrest, but Latin for a wellestablished 

premise which, in all probability, will soon be 

marred with presumptive and supercilious projections. 

Bar Mitzvah - A Jewish confirmation for 13 year-old boys. A major gorging. 

A time for kids to laugh raucously at schmucky grownups for 

telling the ‘Bar Mitzvah boy’ he is a man and for giving him a 

lot of cash. Ancient rite of adherence; creates a lot of buy-in 

from generation to generation. 

Fettuccini Bolognese - Not served at Bar Mitzvahs, but it should be. 

bolognese 

- Haughty for ‘meat sauce’. 

boychicks 

- A schlemielly way to say ‘boys’, often said by grandmothers 

or by sarcastic peers imitating a Jewish Mother. 

Caccaetore - Pronounced Catch-a-Tory, but way better than any British 

dish. 

ciao 

- Shalom. 

chazerri 

- Tasteless. 

chutzpah 

- Balls, nerve, gall. 

donkey bite - Set the palm deep into the thigh, fully extend hand, dig 

deep with the fingertips and squeeze until victim gives. 

faygalas 

- Gay Boys. 

fettuccini 

- Long, anorexic lasagna noodles. 

goy 

- A condescending term for someone who isn’t Jewish. 

goyisha 

- Mayonnaise on white bread. 

Haftora 

- The section of the Talmud that you learn for your Bar 

Mitzvah. 

Rabinowitz Jab - With fingertips bent and fingers tense, punch quickly into 

soft tissue with knuckles. 

Kabala 

- Jewish Book of Mysticism. 

lekvar 

- Prune paste. 

Lubovitch 

- A mischoogana set of Orthodox Jews who take themselves 

far too seriously. 

mischoogana - Crazy. You, or something, can be double or triple mischoogana. 

Only nuclear weapons can be quadruple mischoogana. 

mischpucka - The whole family. 

nebishes 

- Soft core nerds. 

nebuch 

- A plead for someone sad. 

nerd 

- Hard core nebish. 

New York Glossary - What you say if your Glossary is mostly New Jersey words. 

noogies 

- Put a person in a half-headlock with one hand and press and 

drag your knuckles across his scalp with the other hand. 

nudnik 

pais 

pogrom 

putz 

rigatoni 

rogatini 

ruguluch 

- A bizarre character with disturbed behavior. 

- Long hairs that Orthodox Jewish men grow that dangle next 

to their ears so that they can make excuses for not hearing 

Orthodox Jewish Women. 

- Wholesale ghetto murder of those who act differently. 

- Officially a penis; usually, a pathetic schmuck. 

- Ribbed pasta tubes to make it feel sexier when it goes 

down. 

- Slick pasta tubes that slide and glide. Only your mood 

should decide how you want it. 

- Crunchy, rolled cookies that fold big sugar grains onto 

themselves, like a universe exploding; filled with goodies you 

can see in the rolled layers. 

saussa 

scheckels 

schlemiel 

schlep 

schlimazel 

schlock 

schlub 

schlump 

schmoe 

schmuck 

shabis 

Shalom 

Shfvitz 

shiva 

shivas 

shtetl 

tallis 

Talmud 

vermicelli 

yamaka 

Yiddisha 

~ New York Glossary ~ 

- When you ask for more sauce, and you pretend you have been 

born and bred in Rome, as in, “You gotta mora saussa?” 

- The root of all evil. 

- Not as bad as a schlimazel but worse than a schmuck. 

- A disheveled, disorganized and frazzled person. 

- The worst of a dozen ‘S’ words that help Jews identify the 

level of schmuckiness that another (or oneself) is achieving 

at the moment. As Eskimos have many words for snow, Jews 

have many words for schmoes. Schlimazel is the highest 

achievement for hopelessness. 

- Chazerri that no one should buy, junk. 

- A double-schlep 

- A disheveled chump. 

- A schleppy schlump. 

- Officially, again, a penis. Americanized: a dick; a fool; a 

jerk. 

- Friday night eating; the beginning of the day of rest in 

preparation for a week-end of intense eating. “Live a little,” 

is said by Jewish women to encourage their men to eat what 

they want. Jewish women live far longer than Jewish men. 

- Ciao. 

- A Steam Room. 

- Sitting with your relatives and crying over someone’s death; 

the absolute opposite of an Irish Wake. The process of removing 

all of the various ‘S’ words from the dear departed. 

Eating profusely for 10 days and not exercising so that you, 

too, will die soon, so that the rest of the relatives can eat 

more and inherit your scheckels. 

- The chills you get from sitting so long with the same relatives. 

- Ghetto. 

- A silk shawl that makes Bar Mitzvah boys feel like they are 

wearing some creepy parts of old lady’s clothes. 

- Jewish Book of Laws. 

- A choice, number 10 pasta, fairly thin; doesn’t turn to mush 

like Angel Hair; you aren’t starved when you finish it. 

- Phonetic for Yarmulke, the little beanie that you wear inside 

a temple or outside at a wedding to show your compliance. 

Similar to wearing a tie in a business meeting. 

- Yiddish is a German dialect used by most old European 

Jews. Hebrew is the modern Jewish Language. Yiddisha is 

a term that characterizes something or someone as Jewish. 

84 85

The Round Table 

✑ 

Jonathan’s entourage walked west toward the orange sky after 

the rally. Some old people, sitting on the benches on the landscaped 

island between Broadway’s north and south traffic lanes, stood slowly. 

One rose with her hand pressing hard on the armrest of the greenpainted, 

wrought-iron and oak bench. Another rose with both hands 

on his walker, and two other men smiled more broadly and more fully 

than their ancient face muscles were accustomed. Dr. Einstein was 

deep in conversation, low-toned and intense. He heard his name. 

“No, no, please do not get up.” They thanked Dr. Einstein for his 

contributions to peace, for helping Jews everywhere and for bringing 

in a new era. He thanked them for their kind words, and would hope 

to see them again, and said, “There are no new eras, only old ones 

that become young again.” 

The Rabinowitz’s lived in a corner building at the bottom of 

116th Street and Riverside Drive, a short walk downhill from Broadway. 

The Oppenheimers lived only a few blocks north on Riverside, 

overlooking Grant’s Tomb. The corner building’s lobby windows and 

doors were adorned with curly wrought iron, painted gloss black. The 

lobby floor was highly polished white marble with green striations, 

24” Vermont marble squares. The lobby was detailed in black marble 

and brass. They pressed the elevator button, heard a dog bark, then 

another, and the elevator stopped to let out Mrs. Krauck, the super’s 

round wife, with her prehistoric, wolf-sized, immensely fat German 

Shepherds. The walnut elevator, with continuous scrollwork in brass, 

smelled from wet dogs. The elevator man, Mr. Gretsky, smelled from 

dogs, too, and from a bit of a sip, and from a cigar. 7 th , 8 th , 9 th Floor, 

10 th Floor and the smell of the chicken fricassee began, 11 th Floor, 12 th 

Floor, very strong now, 14 th Floor, this was it. Fatty delights, another 

button to press, chimes, a knob turning and then... 

“So my god the Chicken Soup is cold, and so many people 

are here, what is wrong with you, late all the time, such a family do 

I have, such terrible, terrible friends, everyone is starving to death, 

we are waiting and waiting and look the sun is already getting set to 

set, my god, a shabis dinner and here we have all the advantages of 

this view of New Jersey to the west, and oh what it does to the light, 

you must sit down and watch and we will drink with the oranges and 

purples, with the blues and indigos, with the greens and chartreuse 

dances of color like you get no where on this planet, please hurry up 

and Jonathan Rabinowitz you button your shirt and tuck in your shirt 

87



and wash your hands and Eileen, Eileen how are you, dear Albert, 

please take off your jackets, make yourselves at home, Robert, hello, 

Edward wonderful to see you both, please sit, eat.” That was Marcia 

Rabinowitz, not Catholic. 

I was laughing so hard at this greeting that I dripped tears 

onto my leg cast. Jonathan introduced me to his mother, Marcia, 

who, with an astounding warmth, leaned forward and hugged me 

with surprising power, our warm cheeks lingering a moment too long. 

Awkwardly, recovering, she pinched my cheek as if I were 8, and said, 

“Such a boy.” 

For the community of Morningside Heights, which for the more 

creative night-people should really be called Sunset Heights, the westeast 

world is configured thus: New Jersey, the Hudson River, Riverside 

Park, beautiful Riverside Drive, Broadway, Amsterdam Avenue where 

Bishop Anthony Paul Cinelli, Father August, was murdered, Morningside 

Drive, and a 200’ geological rock-drop called Morningside Park. 

Beyond that, where no one went, was Harlem, the East River, London 

and Moscow. Barnard College could be found between Riverside Drive 

and Broadway; Columbia was between Broadway and Amsterdam. 

In Manhattan, Avenues run north-south, and Streets run 

east-west. Broadway, which used to be the old dirt postal path, the 

Albany Post Road, diagonals south-east from the top of Manhattan to 

Downtown. 116th Street on Morningside Heights is one of the shortest 

and widest streets in New York, even wider than an Avenue. On 

the south side of the corner of prestigious Riverside Drive and 116th 

Street lived the Rabinowitz’s. After his second year teaching, when 

the Columbia Faculty Housing Office finally bestowed a 14th Floor 

apartment to Dr. Mark Isaac Rabinowitz, he got hard, went home still 

hard and surprised Marcia. They made love as if it was their first time 

back at Radcliffe. He was fully inside her, grinding pelvis bone to pelvis 

bone, so deep, throbbing, not thrusting. Marcia was exploding with 

heat, her legs encapsulating him, locked, squeezing him harder and 

harder with a power which made her scream, made them come, made 

them sleep in that special dream of afternoon love. 

They bought fresh ruguluch for their new superintendent, Mrs. 

Krauck, who let them into their new apartment. They made love again 

on the oak floor, and danced what they imagined to be a formal Waltz. 

They went back for weeks to dance, dressed up like the Roaring 20’s 

several times, and several times forgot their clothes. Wrap-around 

windows faced West and North, round windows with real curved glass. 

2,500 square feet with lots of bedrooms and a maid’s room and a formal 

88 



living room and formal dining room and den. Oh, how Mark Isaac’s 

father Heshie loved this apartment, with 25/32” tongue and groove 

eastern red oak floors, so warm and soft on your feet. French doors in 

aromatic cedar were everywhere, walnut wainscoting and round, oak 

trimmed soffits, a foot off the 10’ ceilings. Wood here, wood there. 

Anthony Cinelli stayed at the Rabinowitz’s apartment often, 

although his private house and yard — yes, in Manhattan — was on the 

St. John’s grounds just a few blocks away. There were three guest rooms 

at Mark Isaac’s. One had Anthony’s name on it. He even had a phone 

installed there, a home away from home, a way to be away while he 

was close, since he was needed often. Sometimes Albert stayed over, 

sometimes Oppie even though he lived only a few blocks up, and many 

of the boys’ friends. Richard Scheckman, Marcia’s first cousin and her 

brother Rusty’s best friend, stayed over sometimes when he was feeling 

down-to-earth, or when his family was away and he was lonely. For a 

busy man Richard was contributive to the community. He chaired the 

Ad Hoc Morningside Planning Group and co-chaired the Morningside 

Air-Rights Rezoning Coalition with Spoon O’Reilly. Richard also 

quietly participated in the Air-Rights Allocations Committee. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac did some work, some very, very careful work on the 

apartment. He made the living room and dining room and ante-room 

into one very large space. He opened a pass-through by cutting the 

kitchen wall in half horizontally and exposing the kitchen to this large 

room with breathtaking views of the Hudson River, Riverside Park, 

Grant’s Tomb, Riverside Drive, Riverside Cathedral, Julliard School 

of Music, Union Theological Seminary, Columbia Teachers’ College, 

116th Street and Barnard College. Mark Isaac then designed, drew 

and built the oak, walnut, maple and teak Round Table, about 12’ in 

diameter. It sat 10 to 30 people, depending on the width of the guests. 

The table was solid oak on the outer 2’ perimeter with a 3” quartersawn 

oak bullnose to round the edge. Flush with the outer oak rim 

was an inner 8’ walnut Lazy–Susan. Each of the many angled pie-cuts 

of walnut were perfectly executed and meeting at an exact pinpoint 

in the center, a point where everyone stared more often than anyone 

knew. The walnut Lazy–Susan was electric and completely silent. The 

base of the table provided a continuous, angled footrest. At the top 

of the rest was a brass bar. If anyone at the table put his foot on the 

bar, the Lazy–Susan rotated, silently. When it came to tables, this was 

THE table. 

89



There have been hundreds of pastrami and corned beef sandwiches 

served at the Round Table. Marcia had her own steamer for 

Pastrami that her father Daniel gave her when he lost Harry’s Deli, one 

of his many businesses. Hundreds of brusts, hundreds of goulashes, 

hundreds of knishes and thousands of hamburgers and hot dogs. 

There have been endless spaghetti and meatball birthday parties not 

only for Mark Isaac and Marcia and Jonathan and Joshua, but also 

for many friends and relatives. Many committee meetings — of which 

many of the Scheckmans belonged — were held at the Round Table. If 

a people were ever to be barren of community, then they should know 

that such a table with such a view would create instant community. As 

the most recent guests were pushed to the table by Marcia, the greetings 

and conversations got very loud, since there were many present. 

Many Jewish households were not quiet and refined like, for example, 

Christian households in Victorian England. Loud, brash and very 

often very funny, the value of life for many Jews is the amount of time 

you spend laughing — the more laughter, the better your life. Anthony 

Cinelli liked this most about the Rabinowitz’s. 

As Mark Isaac sat at the Round Table this evening, and watched 

how people used it, he thought he would add another electrical feature 

to the Lazy–Susan, a slow constant on, or better yet, an adjustable speed. 

When Mark Isaac designed the Round Table, he could not know how 

many people would use it. He designed a flexible seating arrangement 

by working from maximum to minimum. In maximum usage, the seats 

were a series of continuous round benches that surrounded the table 

entirely, a concentric circle of red oak benches. In this way, you had 

to ‘leg over’ the bench to crowd in. The women hated this. If there 

were fewer people, you could remove one or more benches and space 

out the other bench sections. It was then no longer necessary to leg 

over. When legging over wasn’t done, there were robust, insertable, 

well curved maple backs that dropped into the backs of the benches 

to provide high, full backrests. Finally, if there were few people at the 

table, black oak armrests could also be dropped into place creating 

large, spacious and comfortable dining chairs. 

∞ 

Chief mischoogana and Scheckman family crazy was Uncle Moisha, 

who worked in the Diamond District, lived on West End Avenue 

and was active on the St. Luke’s Children’s Wing Committee as well 

as the Friends of the Park group. He liked the people from the Poor 

Dinner Steering Committee and the Day of the Harps Organizing 

90 



Committee. He was uncomfortable working with his Great-Grandfather 

Chaim on Friends of the Park, and hated, totally hated, stupid 

Roy and his ridiculous sister Sally, both on the Morningside Air-Rights 

Rezoning Coalition. They were big mouths, had few good ideas, and 

precluded Anthony from talking. Spoon O’Reilly liked them, somehow. 

A bad mark for Spoon. 

Moisha, 34, didn’t believe in gods of any kind, and wore long 

curly hair hanging down from his ears. These are called pais, which 

he said is good for buying and selling diamonds to other Hasidic Jews, 

which atheistic and agnostic Moisha certainly was not. So Moisha wore 

black too, and a yamaka, too. And Moisha did business with pieces 

of his tallis, or shawl, hanging out of his pants. Also, Moisha was 

convertible. In his briefcase, which was a bookbag, he kept not only 

a few diamonds that he was buying or selling, but jeans and a T–shirt 

and Red Keds. Moisha was also a muscley character, a hairy, almost 

beastly handball player so aggressive that the best players in Riverside 

Park were honestly afraid of him. Several guys ended up with broken 

wrists when they played Moisha, since Moisha hit ball to wall with a 

fierce accuracy. Players crashed hard into the side walls of the courts 

while lunging for the small, hard black ball. They sometimes missed, 

and stopped the impact of their bodies with their hands, breaking their 

wrists. From the future, on a separate occasion, with my leg strong 

and my body in its best shape, I returned to play Moisha. He won 21 

points to my 0. I was exhausted, and he, barely out of breath. 

Moisha thought many of the world’s problems would have 

never happened if the many bibles had never constructed their real 

estate schemes which gathered wealth in the hands of the few religious 

characters who controlled much of the world. Moisha hated religion 

and was desperate to make a lot of money and change his name to 

something like Steven Billingsford Robinson, where he could live in 

a WASP suburb forever. 

From Albert, “Moisha, you look good, you look like a kid, like 

you hang out with Jonathan and play all day.” 

From Jonathan, “Uncle Albert, you have the wrong Jonathan.” 

From Moisha, “Albert, you look like you just put your fingers 

in the socket, have you never combed your hair once? Albert, how are 

you, how are you? You look tired, you have chalk on your suit, you 

shouldn’t think so much. Albert, please, sit far away so we can fight 

good tonight.” 

91



∞ 

Jonathan’s nickname was Cosmos. He pushed many things 

out of his life since he carried with him a mission besides getting laid. 

He grew up listening to an endless series of Round Table conversations 

about building shelters for people, shelters which were small and 

self-shipping and fully self-contained and could be hosed down inside 

and out and would be made of strong materials that last forever. He 

knew this was going to be his career, making these things. It allowed 

him special spaces, cosmic spaces where he could withdraw entirely 

where few people had any serious interest. Erratic spacey swimmer 

poet Jonathan popped into his room and came out in a white shirt to 

match Eileen’s and jeans to match Eileen’s. Joshua stared and smirked. 

He contorted his face with the same Rabinowitz look that Mark Isaac 

used at the Peace Rally, then cracked-up and rolled on the floor. Jonathan 

jumped him, gave him two noogies, a donkey bite, and a Howie 

Rabinowitz jab. That was a jab he learned from a counselor at camp, 

not related. Joshua was laughing so hard he was crying and as always 

Marcia misinterpreted brotherly love. She kicked Jonathan authoritatively 

on the butt, and Joshua got in a good punch to Jonathan’s 

stomach, which hurt Joshua’s hand, literally, since Jonathan did 1000 

sit ups every morning. Legs and body flat and tight on the ground, 

legs spread, hands behind your head. Right elbow to left knee, touch, 

return tight, flat. One. Left elbow to right knee, taut. Return. Two. 

Three, Four … One Thousand. Jonathan took his brother’s hint and 

put on a navy T-shirt and a light tan corduroy jacket that he kept on 

for 5 minutes. 

∞ 

Mark, during the rally, concluded that by understanding the 

dynamics of the various committees that Anthony’s murderer would 

be exposed. 

Uncle Horace was at the Round Table, the paint maker with 

a few factories in New Jersey. Mark Isaac pumped Horace for information, 

and learned that he had set up all of the Scheckmans in the 

paint business. Each of the 6 factories in the family made specialty 

products for one another under different brand names to flood the 

market with their products. This assured the family of a monopoly 

position in the northeast. 

Horace was an active committee member of the Crisis of the 

Aging group and the Urban Shelters group. Horace was also a man 

92 



who could take personal pride in the quality of the sunsets. He was 

partly responsible, since paints used many chemicals that required 

processing to achieve certain qualities suitable for mixing. Oil, the 

base of paint, cannot dry without cobalt and zinc. Mercury is common. 

Lead was used to assure good coverage, many turpentines and 

minerals spirits were used to extend the mixture. Oils such as linseed 

were used as primary carriers, and ground powders of color pigments 

and various kinds of thickening agents were also required. The paint 

industry was the primary purveyor of heavy metals into the water table. 

Uncle Horace was spending time in Utah, too. He built a new factory 

which made something called yellow cake, a powder that was extracted 

from uranium ore. The powder looked the same as a paint pigment, 

and the conveyors and mixers were all the same. His customer was 

the U.S. Government. Yellow cake is the basic ingredient for fission 

grade uranium. 

Richard knew the ‘boys’ from his father Horace’s paint factories 

since he was a kid. He worked in one factory or another as a child. It 

was neither hard-work nor child-labor. The boys in the factory were 

great to him, and it was totally fun. Horace was a nurturing and proud 

father, and he was thrilled to see his son learning to get on with the 

boys and to be useful. Richard hated playing kids’ games with little 

military men and wasn’t good at sports. The factory was fun. He filled 

wallpaper paste at 7 years old into small brown bags from a 2’ funnel 

with a guillotine cutoff. After each bag was filled, he pasted a label 

onto it, and a price, and put it into a box. 

At ten years-old Richard learned to fill glass jugs with Paint 

Thinner. Thinner was mintrol spirits with perfume. He filled the 

Thinner from a 2,000 gallon tank. He sat on an upside down 5 gallon 

pail, and filled the jugs one at a time. Horace used to buy the 

used jugs from an apple cider trucker, though many of the bottles were 

wine stained. $10 for a truck-load of used bottles. Still later, Richard 

learned to fill the cans of paint on what was starting to become an 

assembly line with conveyors. Amalayus Harraka was the Weehawken 

foreman, and Richard’s babysitter when Richard was in the factory. 

When Richard was very young Harraka kept him in the 100 gallon dry 

paint vats to keep him out of trouble. Warnings were in effect about 

lead and other heavy metals, but the Scheckmans thought they were 

nonsense and Horace loved his boy to be in the factory. As Richard 

got older, he learned about the little business Harraka was running on 

the side, a little embezzlement scheme that Richard chose to hold to 

93



himself. He didn’t think Harraka was stealing very much, and knew 

that one day this would be useful to him. 

By 1941, Harraka’s lungs were bad from ingesting entire arrays 

of paint chemical poisons. He wasn’t working in the factory anymore. 

He was driving one of Horace’s 250 trucks designed for painting white 

lines on the roads. Horace managed to get the contract yearly for 

painting the lines on the roads in many, many cities in the northeast, 

since he didn’t have to buy the paint from anyone and had designed 

an effective truck. Anyone else who bid on painting the lines would 

have to buy the paint from Horace in one way or another and no one 

else had a fleet of trucks. 

Harraka, who started out as a quiet and gentle boy, later became 

a tough teen, and finally grew into a true scumbag. Richard loved 

holding the embezzlement over his head, and Richard found Harraka 

useful when he needed some one or some thing handled. Harraka was 

smart enough not to disclose any details to Richard about how he did 

jobs, whether it was below the knees or above. He was prompt enough 

to do all jobs within a week. Harraka was living very comfortably in 

a large house on a working farm in New Jersey, paid for by his sidebusiness. 

Harraka had no desire to talk or act like a big shot. Richard 

paid Harraka well for the special jobs, but told him he must not quit 

driving for his father if he wanted more. 

Harraka did a small job for Richard at a hotel renovation site 

on the East Side. The project was turning out to be a financial disaster, 

and Richard vowed never, ever, to do a renovation again. He needed 

the fixed-cost and quality-per-foot that new construction provided. He 

also had investment money from too many partners, all with too little 

invested and too much to say. He vowed that he would have fewer 

partners in the future. Benjamin Poinstein and his brother were two 

of the partners on this hotel renovation deal. His brother had been 

working the low-income housing projects alone, and very profitably. 

Somehow he found himself with a broken leg while visiting the renovation. 

He must have had an accident. 

∞ 

The Cardinal, Chief Shawnessy and Pauli Prito from an Italian 

Mafia family that specialized in concrete rang the bell and apologized 

to young Joshua for coming at a time when there was a party. “We’re 

not having a party, just come in.” The authoritative triumvirate was 

ushered into a household unfamiliar with uniforms. Anthony had 

almost always arrived in bicycling clothing after a ride in Riverside, 

94 



never frocked. The sudden presence of the large men in heavenly 

red, legal blue and shiny concrete black quieted each in the raucous 

crowd as personally as a water moccasin dropping from a tree into your 

canoe. 

“There is nothing wrong everyone, we are sorry to have come 

without calling,” said Chief Shawnessy. “Professor Rabinowitz, may 

we speak to you outside?” 

“Come,” Mark Isaac said, “let’s go into my office.” 

The office was small, walnut and dark. A green shaded reading 

lamp glowed with a yellow light. 

Chief Shawnessy, “You know the Cardinal, and this is Pauli 

Prito, from Staten Island. We have come to ask you a favor.” 

“Yes, Professor Rabinowitz, please,” said the Cardinal, “we must 

ask you a favor, and since you were so close to Anthony, we hoped you 

would not consider this an unreasonable imposition.” 

“Please, how may I help?” 

“Our family has promised to find the murderer of Father August 

if the police did not,” said Pauli, “and the police have not. And 

we have not. And there is blame going around, blame that is causing 

deaths, deaths and broken legs that probably should not happen. Too 

many are angry.” 

“I trust the Mayor,” said the Chief, “and now I trust his friend 

on my force who I didn’t know at all before, Londonderry. The three 

of us trust each other and we trust you. We would like you to put your 

mind to this affair. See what you can do.” 

Shawnessy was pleased. He knew this apartment was the center 

of so many committees and so much Morningside Heights activity 

that they might actually make headway on the case by centering the 

investigation here at the Round Table. 

“I am not a sleuth, Chief, I am primarily the victim’s best 

friend and secondarily a craftsman. How do you know it wasn’t me 

that murdered Anthony, or how do I know it wasn’t you?” 

“Please help us, the march of time is terrible for all,” said the 

Cardinal. 

“The march of time doesn’t matter to Anthony now, nor to 

me,” said Mark Isaac. 

“But you, Professor Rabinowitz,” said the Cardinal, “you 

understand the magnitude of pressure that we are under — a Catholic 

Bishop killed in an Episcopalian Cathedral. Although you have been 

ultimately cooperative with everything the Chief is trying to do, the 

95



reality of it is that he’s stumped. We’re all stumped. It is looking like 

the perfect murder.” 

“Professor Rabinowitz,” said the Chief, “we trust you and we 

know you are on a few of Anthony’s committees, at least the Central 

Park Bicycling Committee. We know, too, that your wife’s family is 

active and responsible and on nearly all of the rest of his committees. 

You can help.” Chief Shawnessy took a package from his overcoat. 

“This is for you, Professor Rabinowitz. I understand your 

father made these for Anthony as a boy. These are his Beads, and 

his very fine Cross. We didn’t need them in the evidence room any 

longer. We tried to get prints, but couldn’t. We photographed them 

and Londonderry polished them for you. Now they are yours, or your 

father’s, again.” 

Afraid of his emotions, Mark put the package down on the 

desk, unopened. Walnut bookcases were filled with books from floor 

to ceiling. They outfitted the full length of two adjacent walls. A 

drafting table with multi-armed lamps filled the length of a third wall. 

When Mark Isaac opened the door, a rush of noise and belly laughter 

poured through the better-lit hallway. The Cardinal suddenly fell into 

the dark brown leather chair, almost knocking over the tall reading 

lamp. 

“Sir, are you alright, Cardinal, Cardinal?” asked Mark Isaac, 

“is something wrong?” 

Everyone hovered. Tears filled the Cardinal’s eyes, and for the 

first time this prestigious man looked like a little boy in a Halloween 

costume, just a nice kid who didn’t know where he was. Mark Isaac 

closed the door again. 

“Yes, I’m fine. Forgive me. I have heard so much about you 

and your family from Anthony, about the humor that envelops this 

household, about the community activism of your wife’s family. I 

simply felt that it was Anthony who had brought the laughter in with 

him. You see, I don’t believe in god myself, though you must never 

repeat that to anyone. At least I don’t believe in the kind of gods that I 

represent. I think I believe in the kind of god that scientists celebrate, 

that Albert Einstein there might celebrate. But when the door opened, 

forgive me, I saw Anthony. I miss him, too, he was my closest friend 

as well as yours. And as you gentlemen are now my Father Confessor, 

I can tell you that he was laughing, loudly, and I, for the first time in 

my aging years, felt that I must be wrong, that there well may be the 

God from my teachings.” 

96 



∞ 

Cousin Sally and her husband Roy were at the Round Table, 

hot, ever so hot Sally, Sally who liked Jonathan so very, very much. 

Roy was an investment banker, a pedantic market analyst who talked 

like the Pope himself and was active on a few of the zoning committees 

with Richard and Ronnie. Roy was a total bore, fun to insult. 

Sally Scheckman was not quite smart enough to understand 

the fullness of her actions. Many animals have what appears to be 

some kind of taboo instinct and they seem to be able to communicate 

their inbred taboos from generation to generation. Sally didn’t seem 

to have a faculty for taboos. She could walk down the street and it 

would appear her knees were in the air. When sitting, it appeared both 

knees were over her head. Sally loved to get laid. As a Freshman at 

Smith she was very athletic and became well-known. One of Sally’s 

records was that she was the human with the lowest IQ ever to walk 

Smith’s hallowed halls. She was only accepted because of a generous 

Scheckman gift. The semester ended in February, but she managed to 

accumulate 5 Incompletes prior to ‘dropping out’ at Christmas time. 

Another school record was the number of hot dogs, carrots and 

cucumbers that Sally stole from the dining room and kitchen and took 

to her room. She started such a trend that Smith’s Dining Service 

soon had these particular foods cut up into small pieces prior to serving 

them. The theft dropped off entirely. Some girls liked Sally. She 

was very pretty and so athletic. She shook her hair like the actresses 

in Hollywood, which offended the older girls, but not her freshmen 

peers. Sally’s roommate was attracted to her and while pretending to 

be asleep she watched Sally play with her dining hall treats. 

“Come on over, you can try, too.” 

“You don’t mind?” 

“Come on, sweets, it’s fun.” 

Both girls wore pajama tops and underpants to sleep, but frequently, 

and on this night, the pajama tops found their way to the floor. 

Her roommate got out of bed and walked to Sally’s bed. She slid in. 

The enormity of good feelings of their warm, soft skin immobilized 

them. Their cool legs soon intertwined, heated, and they squeezed 

into one being. She felt the cucumber resting in Sally’s underpants. 

She pressed against it. Sally liked the feeling. She pressed, too. She 

97



kissed Sally, then Sally kissed her, then they frenched forever, a very 

long, very loving frenching while squeezing together and wedging up 

each other’s panties. Their breasts fascinated them. They massaged 

and bounced and played with their breasts as if they had bloomed 

yesterday. Sally liked the word ‘boobs,’ since boys called them boobs. 

The girls got around behind each other and held each other, and 

said to one another, “Hold my boobs, I love you.” They kissed each 

other’s boobs and soon, too, the lonely cucumber of the world found 

love, first by tongue, and later, more. They acted like boys, and made 

fun of boys, and talked about what idiots boys were, so dumb and so 

single-minded. Sally showed her roommate how one boy licked her 

from head to toe, and she showed Sally. In each other’s arms, naked, 

they slept in a depth of friendship that Sally would think of often. 

Sally earned a third school record while over at Amherst. The 

Amherst Dean had heard that Sally had been gang-banged in the 

Freshman dorm. He hadn’t quite figured out how to handle this, and 

before figuring out who to accuse of what, immediately drove over to 

Smith and informed the Dean personally. Concerned what scandal 

could mean to either or both prestigious schools, they set out to find 

Sally to see what they could learn and if she was OK. Sally had not 

been to the infirmary. She was at the Student Commons with several 

boys who were visiting from the University of Massachusetts. When 

the Deans went for a walk with Sally she laughed at them, and said 

“You poor frustrated little men, I can’t wait to do it again.” 

Sally was asked to leave Smith ‘For Conduct Unbecoming That 

Of A Smith Woman,’ an event which had no impact on her life. 

∞ 

Jared was at the Round Table too, another Scheckman, another 

Wall Street type, zero aptitude for anything but money, money, money, 

money. “Society revolves around the buck.” Memorable, but not for 

a book of aphorisms. Jared participated in a little community work 

with the Street Gang Education Committee and with the Nutrition 

Anonymous group. Jared was married to Doralyn. Jeffrey was their 

son. 

∞ 

Eileen was very quiet, loving the excitement, feeling a little ignored, 

and wishing her family were this crazy, this nuts. Eileen’s family, 

like many, lied to children. Like most adults afraid of themselves, the 

98 



Bechsler’s told what might be called ‘white lies’ to children to protect 

themselves, in the name of protecting the children. Since there’s no 

protection in lies, only a loss of credibility, the adult kills the wonderful 

opportunity to extend the culture to the next generation. Some 

hope that the church or school will purvey values, or the radio or the 

movies. Ridiculous. Values, and more importantly, tricks — the tricks 

that make life work — are passed on by generations of people living 

together within both families and communities. If either the family 

or the community goes away, the tricks cannot be passed down, they 

are lost. Some tricks take thousands of years to develop. The tricks of 

the great men who could read the ways of the rivers are disappearing. 

The tricks of the great people who could read the healings of the roots 

are disappearing. We should not lose too many of these people and 

their skills. We have already lost many. 

Mark Isaac thought very much like Eileen. He thought that 

intimate human families within intimate human communities may 

become squashed by capitalism and that one or the other of these 

two critical components might disappear. He thought that pervasive 

material control, manufacture and distribution were necessary in any 

system, but that capitalism represented a concentration of wealth and 

was compulsively spreading of its tentacles. Sustainable agriculture, 

appropriate technology and independent living, on the other hand, had 

been a commodity skillset for people of many cultures, now entirely 

obscured and perhaps lost forever because of our growing inability to 

purvey tricks to the young. 

Mark Isaac thought the Scheckmans were bizarre because of 

money. He genuinely thought something was wrong with them, but 

then again, it might just be greed. As he came to know them better, 

he assigned different poisons to each one. He would see them come 

through his apartment and would think, “That one has been poisoned 

by the radioactive element Technetium, that one by Polonium, that one 

by Astatine and that one by Radon.” He thought that when money 

corrupts the soul of a family, the life-arming, self-preservation need 

is dissipated. A culture which perceives itself as capable of surviving 

through family intimacy without community intimacy befriends not 

only self-deception but also the dark sides and the infernos that we fear 

most in ourselves. And certainly, you cannot pronounce the value of 

family or the value of community, and believe that these pronouncements 

would generate a following. These phenomena must be ulti- 

99



mately attractive unto themselves so that there would be no need for 

proselytizing, no need for advertisement, no need for propaganda. 

Mark Isaac was not a socialist or communist. He loved what 

this country had given him. But he saw the dangers of capitalism in 

the Scheckmans, symbols of a system gone bad, worms of greed eating 

through brain tissue. Personally, for Mark Isaac, he loved no one more 

than the anomalous Mrs. Marcia Scheckman Rabinowitz. Her philosophy 

of life could be summed up by this alternative balance sheet: “Live 

with 95% humor and 95% of your life will be happy and good.” 

∞ 

Nodding to Marcia and glancing around the Round Table, 

Mark Isaac and Shawnessy left the apartment and walked over to St. 

John’s. Mark Isaac hadn’t been there once since Anthony was killed. 

It was May, three months since 100 Harps played. Shawnessy, who 

had a full set of keys, took him up to the little room where Joshua 

and his friend Andrew first spotted Anthony’s cross floating in the 

concrete. Mark Isaac resolved not to get choked-up, not to cry like he 

did privately, to do as he was asked, to be helpful, to be useful. The 

Chief pointed out the new column in the old space where Anthony 

had been entombed. The new building had just topped off, 24 stories 

on the full street front between 111 th and 112 th on Amsterdam. 

In Manhattan, concrete floors are poured at a rate of one floor 

every other day, if the weather allows. Carpenters build the wood forms 

for the concrete. Electricians place conduit into the wood forms for 

their wire and drop a ‘Hague,’ a loose phone cable of several pairs, 

around the form for phone jacks. Plumbers run their supply, drain, 

waste and vent lines. If all goes well, the concrete trucks show up on 

time and pour their whole 9 yards. 

Although February was brutal that year, the rest of the winter 

was mild. Mark Isaac had seen the building at its full height elsewhere 

around campus, but not from here. He was shocked at the size of the 

tower, horizontal concrete floors not yet glazed. Why did they make it 

so freaking big? It was going to be a solid wall dominating St. John’s 

entirely. No western sun would twinkle through the stained glass 

themes. 

They walked through the huge nave, its beauty endless, its curvaceous, 

robust, staggering columns built only for gods. They began 

walking through the rooms on the first basement floor in an orderly 

fashion. It was emotionally difficult for Mark Isaac to enter the fourth 

100 



room. It had a special key. It was Anthony’s work room, his personal 

storage room. They flipped on the light and Mark Isaac walked over 

to the bikes. Mark Isaac and Anthony spent hundreds of hours here 

working on bikes. Mark and Marcia’s tandem was there. Eight bicycle 

hooks were anchored into the stone wall for bikes to hang vertically. 

Anthony’s very large bike was there, but it was hung upside down, 

hung from the rear wheel instead of the front wheel. 

“Chief, who dusted the bike for prints?” 

“It hasn’t been dusted. This room has been locked, like 

Anthony’s house, and only I have the keys. Although a part of the 

house, Spoon only has access to his room — there’s no door between 

his room and the house. It has its own exterior door. At the time of 

his death, Anthony was wearing his frock and he wasn’t with his bike. 

You know where his body was.” 

“Get it dusted, please Chief, there are several things that are 

wrong.” 

“Wrong with what?” 

“Things are wrong here. The bike was not hung by Anthony. 

He hung it by the front wheel. All bicyclists do it that way unless the 

storage situation is terribly tight.” 

“There’s more?” 

“Yes, several more things, much more important. Anthony’s 

wheel is missing.” 

“Both wheels are there, what do you mean?” 

“Yes, they are there but the front wheel has a Schwinn hub, 

American spokes, a rim I don’t recognize and a good, brand-new sewup.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Anthony would never put a Schwinn wheel on this bike. This 

is a Cinelli Bicycle with Campognola parts. He has relatives from the 

Cinelli Factory in Milan.” 

“Maybe he damaged his wheel and bought a new one.” 

“No, it’s not like that. He would not put a Schwinn wheel on 

his bicycle any more than you would put a green water pistol in your 

holster or wear yellow pants to a City Council meeting. It could not 

possibly happen.” 

“That’s it?” 

“No, there’s more. You see the angle of that tube? It’s called 

the head tube. The top of the fork should be exactly perpendicular 

to it. It is off slightly. The entire fork is off half of a degree. It’s not 

the correct rake angle for his fork.” 

101



“How do you know this?” 

“I build bicycle frames. And you see these little parallel impressions 

on the paint, one on each fork blade?” 

“Yes.” 

“Because of the new wheel, the rake in the fork and the scuff 

marks on the fork blades we know that a wooden tubular device was 

shoved into the spokes of the old wheel while the bike was rolling. 

Whoever was riding this giant bike — someone with legs as long as 6’ 

4” Anthony — would have been knocked off the bicycle and likely hurt. 

He probably would have done what’s known as a header, where you 

are tossed over the handle bars by the suddenly stopped bike. In such 

a situation, the wheel would have required replacement or at least all 

new parts except for the hub and the tire.” 

“Then you think he was killed on this bicycle?” 

“Well, people die from headers, but he died from a bullet to 

the head, right? We should look at this more. I have ridden Central 

Park, Riverside and up to Mount Kisco many times with Anthony. He 

is, was, a strong rider. He was a strong man. A stranger, a mugger, 

wouldn’t have been able to do this. If he had been approached by a 

mugger on an uphill, he wouldn’t have risked being knocked over. He 

would have ridden downhill or would have stopped, put his feet on 

the ground and maybe grabbed his pump to defend himself.” 

“There are more possibilities. Another cyclist or someone on 

an unusual type of vehicle could have jammed a piece of wood through 

Anthony’s spokes, almost at any speed. After you dust the bike for 

prints I would like to take it to my lab and calculate the bending forces 

on the fork. I may be able to construct exact scenarios, such as the 

shape of the wood piece in question and the speed the bike was going. 

I’m going to guess now that this happened on a steep uphill climb and 

Anthony did not do a header.” 

“Why do you think it was wood that was shoved between the 

spokes, why not metal?” 

“The paint is compressed slightly. A metal object would have 

chipped it. Wood is soft.” 

“Is that all?” 

“No. There is white paint splattered here on the bottom bracket 

and crankset. I don’t understand that. This orange Cinelli is a very 

expensive Road Bicycle. Not something that Anthony would allow to 

be dirty, never mind splattered with paint.” 

Humbly, Shawnessy said, “Excellent, Professor Mark Isaac Rabinowitz. 

We made the right decision in officially asking you to help. 

102 



I’m getting you a P.I. Card tomorrow. Mark Isaac and Shawnessy left 

St. John’s. Amsterdam Avenue was especially loud that night. Jeremy 

was out, too. Mark nodded to him, and gave him some change. Jeremy 

always looked so familiar to Mark, as if he had seen him in Princeton 

as a child. 

“Bean boys are banana beasts 

And banana bombs are bean boys. 

Beans to all you boy bananas and bomb birds.” 

Shawnessy gave change to plenty of bums, but he figured Mark 

would have ignored him. Mark gave Jeremy a weighty handful of 

change, mostly quarters. Walking sideways with a limp as if he were 

an old man with a damaged back, Jeremy intermixed loud and soft 

words, saying, 

“The change be me life, 

No strife, no gripe. 

I be ripe in my vision, 

He be sleepin’ with wheels, 

The father, no derision, 

My decision. 

From truck to trunk without precision 

Two men on the meaty mission.” 

Mark Isaac and Chief Shawnessy walked across 114 th Street to 

the Butler Library campus entrance, next to John Jay. Kids were throwing 

a football. A couple was staring at each other in front of Hartley, 

caught in a fight, a misunderstanding, a trap amidst the confusion of 

difference that electrifies the dissimilarities between human males and 

human females. 

∞ 

Teller and Oppenheimer were quiet and looking at maps from 

Mark Isaac’s National Geographic Atlas and the ones from the Geology 

Department. Oppie said, “Eileen, what is your father doing tonight, 

how is he, how’s your mother?” She had been looking at Teller but was 

listening to another conversation about the invention of grass lawns in 

England in the mid 1800’s, which proliferated with rampant obsession 

in the United States like a vast plague, a crop that was nurtured, loved, 

103



and trucked to huge dumps to rot. It took her a while to answer. She 

was surprised Oppie had asked her a question. She reviewed the moment 

and got it together. Her dad taught Contemporary Civilization 

at Columbia College and English at Barnard College and she did not 

that think he was that interesting a guy. 

She said, “Fine, he’s fine. He’s reading tonight, as always, for 

sure.” 

“Eileen, I know he goes to New Mexico often, and your horse 

is from Santa Fe, would you call him, perhaps invite him and your 

mom, if the Rabinowitz’s wouldn’t mind. I want to buy a ranch very 

badly, somewhere wonderful, and that fellow Burroughs thought New 

Mexico would be a good idea.” 

“It is a good idea Dr. Oppenheimer, and I know that snobby 

school that Burroughs went to, it’s up in the hills and totally a little 

rich kids’ place. It’s more than that, it’s a compound for robber-baron’s 

offspring. Anti-Semitic, too. Actually, I think that guy Bill Burroughs 

is from the Burroughs family that makes those adding machines and 

bookkeeping machines, THE Burroughs. Between Bill and me you 

will learn more about New Mexico than from my dad, oh wait, except 

that he’s somehow friends with the anti-Semitic headmaster of that 

ranch school. I will call dad.” 

“Eat, soup, please. Finish your soup, I want to serve already,” 

said Marcia, a plump, alive, very feminine, funny, 5’ 5” nurturing 

jokester with wavy hair, and very, very warm chocolate brown eyes. 

Both Joshua and Jonathan had her eyes. And they carried the look 

adorably. Marcia co-chaired the Central Park Bicycling Committee with 

Anthony, a committee that Mark Isaac sat in on. She also sat in on 

the St. Luke’s Children’s Wing Committee. The Chicken soup with 

noodles and matzah balls was ready, and she put out a wonderful dark 

bread, not quite a pumpernickel, made by her friend Annie. Annie’s 

breads were remarkable, all you really needed, Annie’s breads. Some 

light, some heavy, many with ounces of seeds, all making your mouth 

water for more. Round, 5 pound breads, hmmmm. People were still 

walking around, some sitting occasionally to sip on soup. 

More often than not, the physicists tuned out the world of 

others, and engineered force fields around their own. They were 

involved in a talk about atmospheric ignition where fusion reactions 

might continue indefinitely to blaze consumptively through available 

oxygen resulting in the conflagration of the entire atmosphere of the 

Earth. 

104 



Chutzpah, these people had it. Guts, power balls. 

Then Marcia, “Matzah Balls, eat.” While dripping soup they 

discussed compaction techniques within fission reactions through 

which diamonds could be created. Everyone found this more appealing 

than global conflagration. The Cardinal was celebrating each facial 

movement of the scientists, and was appreciative to be at the same 

table with these men, so relaxed, so casual. They were all appealing. 

Einstein was so good-natured and humorous, Oppenheimer, so studied 

and careful, and Teller, extreme perhaps, but charming like so many 

Eastern Europeans. 

If fission was advertised as a secret by the United States 

Information Agency, and believed to be a secret by the military, it 

certainly wasn’t a secret to anyone who could read, or anyone living 

on Morningside Heights or any other campus who knew what was 

going on. For years trade journals were resplendent with the possibility 

of creating a fission reaction, and all physicists from around the 

world were well aware of these publications. Open conferences were 

held discussing fission. The decision to declare fission a secret never 

happened, though subsequent security issues made it appear as if the 

entire concept was new and secret, not just the bomb. Fission was 

a very well publicized discussion where many hoped that the burden 

of intelligent life might be something other than self-destruction or 

26,000 years of waste-management. 

∞ 

Shawnessy’s approach in this investigation was to make himself 

Chief Investigator and to let the other Police Captains play Chief 

— those who were vying for his job upon his upcoming retirement. 

He took the three most interested parties in the Cinelli Case and gave 

them each four foot patrolmen. He took four cops for himself to do 

telephone work and chart the case. The guys on the street consisted 

of Patrick Londonderry, Stumpo Stagnoli, and Mikey Martinelli. 

Londonderry had been passed over twice for Detective, and after the 

Chief took a brief look into this he found that someone on his own 

staff didn’t like him, and he had never even seen Londonderry’s application. 

Londonderry got an instant field promotion, while someone 

else received a very early retirement. 

Stumpo Stagnoli was the shortest guy on the force, 5’ 6” tall.He 

looked to be 5’ 6” wide at the shoulders. Stumpo was a Sicilian bull, 

broad and tough. Shawnessy paid him more than any other detective 

in his grade, not because of seniority, but because he had to have all 

105



of his clothes custom-made. Martinelli was no longer employed by 

NYPD, but was still with the City, and was especially reassigned and 

sworn in. 

Mark Isaac Rabinowitz wanted Anthony’s old bicycle wheel, 

and he was going to get it. Stagnoli had one of the police artists draw 

up a flyer describing the Bishop’s missing bicycle wheel. After an edit 

and approval by Mark Isaac, the flyer was distributed systematically to 

every bicycle shop and club in New York City’s five Boroughs. Mark, 

who was 5’ 11”, liked Stagnoli, and identified with him. 

Mark, although much younger than his classmates, had always 

been the shortest guy in his schools. He felt the older kids in his class 

laughed at him more because he was ‘short’ than because he was young 

or smart. Mark knew that he wasn’t short for his age, but felt the cruelty, 

the aggressive cruelty, that befell kids who were even slightly shorter 

than other kids. By college, Mark knew that continued harassment 

did permanent damage to shorter kids in general, and clearly caused 

them to overcompensate for their perception of themselves as short. 

Mark was free of this feeling himself, since he was comfortable with 

the idea that he was younger and would grow to be as tall or taller than 

Heshie, as he had been told. 

In Mark’s first year at MIT, he remembered visiting the homes 

of George Washington and Betsy Ross. The low doorways and short 

beds indicated that these people were ‘short.’ With a half-hour of library 

work he made up a graph of the heights of the Presidents of the 

U.S. charted against the years of their office. With the exception of 

Lincoln and another, the upward climb on the graph showed people 

were growing very rapidly. This also explained why old people seemed 

to be so short. But it did not explain why kids were so mean to short 

kids. He extended his graph another 100 years to 2041, which showed 

average male heights to be 6’ 6”. When he heard MIT students berating 

other students over their height, he went up to them with his chart 

in hand, and said, “Hey, you don’t like short people? You are short. 

Look at this.” Since Mark was 13 or 14 and considerably shorter 

than most, this at least changed the conversation and precluded the 

abuse of people who were a few inches shorter. In that same year, he 

listened to the ridicule of a very tall kid and looked at the hurt in his 

eyes. For the first time, Mark listened to the ridicules against the fat, 

the skinny, the red heads, the green eyed, the smart, the high-pitched, 

and on, and on, and on. Could this be? Is ridicule natural to the 

species? Did dogs or wolves or apes or bears act like this? The shorter 

106 



Sicilian men, who didn’t seem to act as if they had been wounded by 

attacks on their height, exhumed a taller Sicilian man. Was Anthony 

ridiculed for his height? Were the strong men who exhumed him 

ridiculed? Was there a point to this endless ridicule? 

∞ 

The Detectives and the patrolmen held conversations with 

every working bicycle mechanic, salesperson and shop owner. The 

aging velodrome — a racing track for track bikes — in Central Park 

was manned during all of its open hours, about 80 hours a week. 

Track bicycles, the NYPD was soon to learn, had neither a freewheel 

nor brakes, and each pedal rotation resulted in forward, or rearward, 

motion. Manhattan was one of the hottest track bicycling places in 

the world. The track bike was the lightest possible bicycle making it 

easy to carry up the stairs or into stores. Locking bicycles on the street 

didn’t work in New York, since bicycle theft was a big business. The 

Track Bike was the easiest bicycle to prop vertically in elevators, too, 

important in New York. Most Track Cyclists, when not competing, 

added a bit of weight for a front brake and rear freewheel so that they 

could control their steeds in traffic. Later, on another trip to New 

York, when my leg had recovered and I played Moisha in handball, I 

purchased a track bike with these additions, and personally found this 

to be the best way to get around New York. 

While Stumpo Stagnoli’s boys were working the velodrome, 

Patrick Londonderry’s boys were undercover riding brand-new Road 

Bicycles to places like Chelsea and the Meat Market, hot areas for stolen 

bikes. To the loud, humorous and sarcastic derision from the 114 th , 

Londonderry’s boys rode out of the blue locker room every morning 

in little bicycling tights with tight-fitting shirts. 

Ω 

107

Children of Manhattan 

✑ 

Columbia’s undergraduates were in three schools at this time, 

one called Columbia College, for boys; Columbia Engineering, for boys; 

and Barnard College, for girls. Columbia College was in the athletic 

conference called the Ivy League. Three separate English Departments, 

three separate faculties, three separate everything, unless the individual 

students chose to cross a line, which was encouraged. The lines could 

be crossed into the Graduate School, as well, which was quite easy for 

Columbia College students to do. Jonathan was taking a graduate 

class on William Blake and another on Charles Dickens. He was also 

taking a graduate Biology lecture series in Neurobiology. 

Jonathan was born in Manhattan. The children of Manhattan 

of this era were not sheltered, not overly protected from the 

world. Bright-eyed children in Manhattan had the ability to exercise 

their curiosity about the world in every way — academically, sexually, 

athletically. Manhattan supported many world class players in many 

disciplines. You could run within science circles or within theatre 

circles. You could run with sportsmen or with financiers, craftsmen 

or developers. You met the richest people in the world, and some of 

the poorest. You learned very early that sex was available to you with 

people of the opposite sex and people of the same sex. You knew that 

there were younger people and older people who might be interested 

in you, or you, in them. In Manhattan there are so many seedy people 

and street people and scary people and bad people, that you learn when 

you are very young what to avoid. And there are so many fabulous, 

wild, wonderful people that you learn immediately to follow your heart 

and your instincts. You learned judgment. For those with deficient 

egos, and for the masochists, and for those who received excessive 

discipline, and for the martyrs, Manhattan could be a nasty place to 

grow up. For the bright-eyed, well, it’s terrific. 

Jonathan was punted out of 8th grade in Clairmont Fuckademy 

by the Clairmont Headmaster, Lyndon Rich, yelling at him that life 

will punish the undisciplined, and that he, Jonathan, was certain to 

have no career, no friends, no family, no money and would probably 

become a criminal. Nice Headmaster. Prep schools are college feeds 

by design, intention and financing. Clairmont was an Amherst feed 

school. Lyndon Rich had the habit of not sending out transcripts of 

Clairmont students he didn’t like, assuring rejection. Several committed 

suicide, one while visiting a former classmate at Amherst. 

In later years, the parents of Headmaster Rich’s victims arranged a 

109



timely ‘pickup.’ During a school ‘morning meeting’ of students and 

faculty, the men in the white coats came and put Headmaster Rich 

in a straight-jacket and hauled him off. The faculty clapped, and the 

students, very slow to understand, soon came to consciousness and 

cheered raucously. 

Expulsion wasn’t a surprise to anyone, since Jonathan Jeremy 

Rabinowitz’s young academic experiences were far from good. Kindergarten 

was good, and 2nd, and 5th, because in those years Jonathan 

had very smart teachers. In the other years, the teachers weren’t 

the rocket-building types. He earned F’s, many, many F’s. The only 

reason he was promoted at all was because a gift to the endowment 

fund enabled progress. By 8th grade, Clairmont Fuckademy was over. 

Expulsion upset no one. On the night of the expulsion, Uncle Albert 

came over to dinner to celebrate, hugged him, kissed him, and said, 

“Jonathan, you will do wonderfully without that burden on your back. 

If I were as smart as you I would really be somebody today, like your 

father. You’re already somebody, somebody we all love, a wonderful 

swimmer and bicyclist, a charming and talented poet. A student of 

Blake. A student of ours.” 

Jonathan was happy and didn’t think for a second he wouldn’t 

get into Columbia, even without high school. Since 5th grade Jonathan 

had been sitting in on classes at Columbia, at the City College 

of New York twenty blocks above Columbia, at New York University’s 

Uptown Campus on a treasured, hilly estate in the Bronx and at the 

NYU Downtown Campus in Greenwich Village. Cutting snobby, 

offensive and stupid Clairmont Fuckademy with its especially dumb 

teachers was easy to do, since they didn’t really want him there anyway. 

And the university professors thought it was just fine to have a smart 

kid like Jonathan sit in on their classes. 

A genuine appreciation of freedom of the spirit was enabled 

through Jonathan’s bad experience at Clairmont, and the good experience 

he gained in his Judaic Studies. The readings from the Talmud 

which were designated to Jonathan for his Bar Mitzvah were known 

as a Haftora. It was necessary to learn Hebrew, take various history 

classes, and learn to read or sing his Haftora from the Talmud as if he 

were a grand old Jew. His Hebrew School days at a converted Catholic 

Church followed a simple pattern. Mom walked him to the front 

door of Hebrew School. He walked in the front door. He walked out 

the back door. He ran over to the YMCA. He swam competitively at 

the Christian Y from 8 to 13, which later helped him to get onto the 

swim team at Columbia, since he had great endurance and swam fast 

110 



1650’s. Jonathan didn’t know a word of Hebrew, necessary for the 

reading of his Haftora. For this, Jonathan’s Hebrew School teacher, Mr. 

Rohold — who used to come to his swim meets — wrote out his Haftora 

in English, phonetically, so that Jonathan could just read it and look 

like he knew it. A Bar Mitzvah is an event where you read your Haftora 

in front of family and friends, which in Judaism signifies when a boy 

becomes a man. Jonathan thought that the transition to manhood 

might be better achieved in other ways than reading 6000 year old 

Hebrew. Jonathan was a devotee of blow jobs, and vowed that by his 

13th birthday, his Bar Mitzvah day, he should have acquired 13 such 

experiences. He succeeded, and read his Haftora hard and smiling. 

∞ 

Mrs. Krauck, the Super, barked and snarled and growled like a 

German, but she was Irish. After Jonathan’s Bar Mitzvah she started 

calling him up on the phone. 

“Aye, Jonathan my dearest, with my poor husband dead might 

you be givin’ me a hand with takin’ me wee ones for a walk, might 

you?” They love you so.” Her wee ones were Princess and King, the 

two biggest German Shepherds to inhabit New York. They intimidated 

the Street Cleaning machine. Princess weighed about 100 pounds 

and looked to weigh 150. King weighed about 110 and looked about 

200. 

Nearly all the kids on Morningside Heights knew Jeremy the 

Panhandler since first memory. He was never aggressive, always a 

fixture, always belonged. His shack was buried between the backs of 

four buildings in the Meat Market. Only a few knew of it. Jeremy 

bothered no one. He kept his shack and grass area meticulously clean. 

He swept and cleaned the 4’ and 6’ and 8’ inter-building spaces so the 

building supers didn’t have to do it. Sometimes he would find fruits 

and vegetables at the door of his shack. He had his own broom, a 

good stiff one with thick brown 5” bristles. He also swept the front 

sidewalks and street gutters of ‘his’ four buildings daily. 

The City of New York sold steam throughout the City for both 

residential and industrial purposes. It was a very reliable system. There 

were thousands of miles of steam lines and it constituted a principle 

utility. Participating buildings had a room where steam entered and 

was then rerouted through the building. Next to Jeremy’s grassy area 

was a thin layer of concrete, beneath which there was the steam utility 

room for the large building behind him. The concrete was always very 

warm. Using the short pieces of lumber from scrap oak pallets — oak, 

111



not spruce, pine or fir — that he found about, and there were many, he 

built the floor, four walls and roof he needed to make himself a good 

shelter. He also cut down an old door and bought a padlock. One 

of the building owners saw it once, and the super told him he built 

the shack for supplies. He said it was much cheaper to buy cleaning 

supplies in volume, so the little shack wasn’t challenged. 

Saul’s Junkyard on 130 th Street thrived. Jeremy kept both the 

Meat Market and Morningside Heights free of metal junk by carting 

it down to Saul’s where he received more than market price. He also 

earned more than an occasional steak for cleaning the shower room 

of one of the purveyors, where he was able to shower in comfort when 

everyone was gone but the guard. There were plenty of fallen twigs 

and branches from Riverside Park for his little hibachi. About 11 PM 

every night, Jeremy made himself the same aged steak that would be 

found at Dan Stampler’s Steak Joint in Greenwich Village or Henry 

Stampler’s on Central Park West. 

Jonathan was walking Mrs. Krauck’s wee dogs, Princess and 

King, in Riverside Park. He usually walked them up to the end of 

Riverside, where it dropped sharply down into the Meat Market on 

125 th . Sometimes he walked them through Morningside Park, and most 

often he walked them through campus. On this day in Riverside he 

heard some young mothers yelling at Jeremy the Panhandler who was 

dragging a heavy truck bumper across the MacAdam. It made a horrendous 

racket. Jonathan picked up the other end of the bumper. 

“Where we goin’?” asked Jonathan. 

“Saul’s Junkyard. You know where that is?” asked Jeremy. 

“You know I do, you have seen me there about 5 times.” 

“I know.” 

“So why ask?” 

“Because I’m invisible.” 

“Congratulations.” 

“No problem.” 

Jonathan walked Jeremy to Saul’s. Jeremy knew perfectly well 

who Jonathan was, who Joshua was, who Mark and Marcia were. When 

it’s your full time job to be on the street, you get to learn a lot. He 

watched all of the kids grow up, and was found more than once crying 

in a doorstep on Broadway when he learned about a neighborhood 

death, and in particular, a suicide. On the way to Saul’s, Jeremy told 

the stories of a few of his reversals of luck, and gave Jonathan a few 

moments of fragmented, double-sestina hell, 

112 


“The bomb ate across the banana, 

And the beans flew onto the beast. 

The birds exploded into beans 

As wooden bananas sang to boys.” 


Jonathan thought there was a distinctly similar characteristic in 

both Jeremy and his Uncle Daniel. Both seemed like incredibly nice 

guys who wore that little sign on their foreheads, ‘Fuck Me.’ Jeremy 

was a welcome fixture on Morningside Heights. In the same way that 

some people went out to feed the pigeons with leftover scraps, people 

saved little bits of change for Jeremy who rarely put his hand forward 

first to ask for money. 

Jonathan liked to play act with a naïve demeanor to learn who 

was sincere and who was manipulative. It encouraged nice people to 

be nice and enabled bastards to make themselves apparent. When 

alone with acquaintances of his rich relatives, who assumed he was 

wealthy and shared their attitudes, he learned that they would laugh 

directly at him when he talked about doing something for the needy. 

Even helping someone to find a food line, or informing someone of 

the location of a shelter would generate ridicule. To discuss Cottage 

Yachts might bring down the house at a family event. Jonathan, his 

gracious family perceived, might grow into the biggest schlimazel of all. 

With many rich people you suffered an immediate loss of credibility 

the moment you showed genuine compassion for the poor or homeless, 

unless, of course, you were at a cocktail party or haughty dinner. 

At such affairs those ‘in the know’ would openly lie to one another 

regarding their humanitarian positions, and adopt socially conscious 

postures. 

To Jonathan, the allowance of the brutal series of indignities 

that pound at the hoboes, tramps and other homeless was unforgivable. 

15 to 20 million people are displaced annually because of natural 

disaster and war and economic bad luck. Very, very few people were 

dysfunctional psychologically before they became homeless. Once 

achieved, each person’s normal difficulties with life would compound, 

fester and grow out of control. Uncle Richard and his other uncles 

said the homeless people wanted to be homeless. His uncles thought 

they were immune to hardship. 

When Jonathan considered the issues that plagued the homeless 

he tried to determine their greatest need. A professor at Hunter 

College said that he felt the homeless are in shock and that psychological 

devastation follows their personal economic devastation. Jonathan 

113



knew that most everyone thought the biggest issue was food, but he 

wasn’t so sure. He thought shelter might be more important. You 

would be less likely to be sick and less likely to need medical care if you 

had a decent shelter. With a good shelter you might need less water 

and possibly less food. He thought there were six critical elements for 

displaced persons: shelter, water, food, health care, waste management 

to minimize disease and communication to rebuild their lives. 

Jonathan didn’t think you could really give up any of these, 

and you couldn’t really list one before another. He wondered how 

you could make and ship and clean and re-ship many, many millions 

of shelters that would provide all of these things. Jonathan wanted a 

real solution that provided a package to resolve all of these essential 

items. He thought that after so many years of civilization that there 

would be many houses already in existence that people could use for 

the asking. He thought by this time homosapiens would have left for 

its children houses such as log cabins that could last 500 years without 

paint. Jonathan believed that for modern society, manufactured shelters 

would be worth building. These would be self-shipping and very 

easy to clean and would not require any setup on site. Many designers 

and fabricators were manufacturing light-weight ‘stick’ buildings, but 

they were complicated buildings that were tough to ship and tough 

to setup. 

Jonathan didn’t know what his shelters would look like, but 

he knew he would call them Cottage Yachts. Then he could sell the 

design to others who would create companies called Shelter Latvia 

and Shelter Ukraine and Shelter Poland. Through the Rabinowitz 

Round Table, and primarily through Jonathan’s obsessive interest, I 

made use of my days in this timeline, and worked with my new friend 

Jonathan to draw and build a mockup of an ideal, manufactured device 

for emergency housing. Since it is fully manufactured, and so unlike 

manufactured housing, I would prefer to think of it is a device rather 

than the common view of manufactured housing. 

Mark Isaac, at the time, had extra space in a Columbia building 

on 125 th Street, Prentice Hall. Jonathan arranged for a special credit 

course from the School of Architecture, credits that Columbia College 

would honor. With a group of six eager students with endless energy, 

time and sincerity, we sloppily built a proof-of-concept mockup. We 

learned that 160 square-feet can comfortably provide clean and safe 

shelter, including a bathroom, kitchen, bed, couch, table and chairs, 

for one person or even a young family of four. 

114 



I cheated time here a bit, since I knew two things that my 

younger friends could not know: 1) The container industry would 

standardize shipping containers more successfully than any other international 

standard in history. 2) A revolution in plastics was about 

to occur that would eventually introduce dual-walled rotomold plastics 

with self-filling foam insulation. When first introduced, these plastics 

were used to make childrens’ outdoor furniture. My pod is made of 

the same material. 

Our design students weren’t particularly concerned about these 

two issues, since I kept the discussions oriented toward the making 

of great spaces that would work well in emergency conditions created 

by war, natural disaster, homelessness or a lack of ordinary low-cost 

housing. We discussed a myriad of ideas for the many possible uses of 

these shelters. The units seemed ideal for military bases and research 

projects where solid housing was needed, and where transportability 

would be an economic advantage. Jonathan addressed the complex 

issue of plumbing almost on his own. 

When I drew up the steel corner blocks that the future container 

industry would use, I told our design group that these blocks 

were already standard in containerized shipping. The corner blocks, 

however, were from a bit in the future, although containerized shipping 

itself goes back to the stage coach days, if not to the Romans, and was 

put into serious practice by many early railroaders. 

Jonathan and his friends rigorously penetrated every design 

issue. We built a cabinet or wall, destroyed it, and rebuilt it, over and 

over, until we created spaces and details that worked. Originally, we 

thought scale drawings would be effective and we would build our 

mockup from the scale drawings. The drawings didn’t work so we tried 

scale models; these, too, failed. After far too many discussions about 

what would and would not work using both of these design techniques 

we began to build full-size, and found this to be easy and fun. The 

results were immediately gratifying. When we designed in actual-size 

the hidden solutions rose to the top like cream; few discussions were 

required. The solutions were obvious. 

We began the design process with long, continuous paper 

— roll-ends from a newspaper web press. We taped out a floor plan 

with masking tape, moving the tape around and around until we were 

satisfied functionally and aesthetically. I was having a wonderful time 

and appreciated Jonathan’s obsessiveness. We built walls, cabinets and 

beds from cardboard and painted them in light colors. We painted 

115



other cardboard in a dark color to represent the steel, industry-standard 

corner-cage and the all-important steel corner blocks. 

Jonathan insisted that to be effective, emergency shelters would 

have to address issues dealing with scarcity of water and the management 

of waste water. We isolated 5 water sources: 

1) from a cistern roof, pre-filtered, collected in a holding tank 

and triple filtered for consumption or for gray-water; 

2) from a delivery truck, pumped into the holding tank; 

3) from a five gallon water bottle for drinking; 

4) from gray-water not for drinking, but for the toilet; 

5) from a city water supply or central, elevated industry-standard 

Tank Containers. 

Under Jonathan’s leadership we plumbed one end of the 8’ x 

20’ unit with these 5 different water sources and addressed all of the 

complex issues of plumbing fixtures and supply lines, water storage, hot 

water, pre-filters, post-filters, drains, wastes and vents. Jonathan insisted 

that we provide cut-off and transitional valves to switch through all 5 

water systems on the fly; filtered or non-filtered as appropriate. These 

additions only amounted to a few dollars of the total bill of materials. 

This resolved the final problems associated with short-water supplies 

found in emergency conditions. Plumbing fixtures included a kitchen 

sink, bathroom toilet, sink, shower and hose bib. The bathroom was 

a ‘wet-bath’ where you can clean the entire bathroom from the long 

shower hose-head. Both the bathroom and kitchen had floor drains. 

The entire unit, inside and out, could be pressure-hosed from an internal 

hose-bib. Outdoor electrical fixtures were used on the interior 

as well as the exterior of the shelter. 

We calculated that about 2,540 of these houses could be stacked 

8 high and stored in only one acre of land. Theoretically 1,600 of our 

shelters could be pulled by a long train with 200 well-cars. Each car 

would hold 4 shelters lengthwise and 2 high. I was unable to tell our 

group that in the future 13,200 shelters could be shipped simultaneously 

in one container ship, and that all our discussions about materials 

were nonsense. Rotomold plastics would make such a shelter feasible, 

with much of the credit going to the mold-makers, since these would 

be the largest molds ever made. 

Had I not volunteered to help Jonathan with his quest, I would 

never have developed such intimacy and knowledge within this community 

. Although I am five years older than Jonathan, my friendship 

with him has been one of the most important of my life. I am grateful 

116 



to him for his simple warmth and clear mind. More importantly, I 

am grateful to him for Cottage Yachts, since it has helped millions of 

people annually wherever disasters have occurred, and has saved countless 

lives. More than that, for millions, dignity has been maintained 

despite disaster. 

Since all major cities purchased 10,000 units each they have 

been shipped, used, cleaned and reshipped over and over, time after 

time, for decades into the future. Organizations such as the American 

Red Cross, the International Red Cross and Red Crescent Societies, 

the World Health Organization, and the Federal Emergency Management 

Agency campaigned vigorously to see that these units would be 

purchased in volume. They successfully negotiated a global contract 

that came with the purchase of the shelters. The contract outlined 

multiple conditions to ensure equitable sharing of stored shelters at 

the time of disaster or war. They have recommended that each city 

accumulate its own shelters, and for each county, each state, and each 

country to do the same. The military branches of each country needed 

no encouragement to purchase these units, since the economic advantage 

of solid, transportable housing was very apparent. 

For years finding a company with adequate vision to sponsor 

the development of the project seemed impossible. Few people had 

adequate perspective to think in such large terms. With the encouragement 

from some former U.S. Presidents and a large, vocal following 

from Canada, a multinational plastics corporation formed a new 

corporation for Jonathan’s Cottage Yachts. This auspice gave Jonathan 

free reign to bring his project to life. Suddenly, millions of unsolicited 

dollars found their way to Cottage Yachts, Inc., mysteriously, from 

contributions made from the diamond industry. 

The difference that readily transportable, no-assembly-required, 

long-lasting plastic and steel shelters have made to humanitarian 

interests has been profound. Disasters that would occur after the development 

of Cottage Yachts were managed with the grace of modern 

technology instead of the toil, disease, physical devastation and death 

otherwise associated with disaster management. The encampments 

established for emergency purposes were far less harmful to the local 

environment, since Tank Containers were used for black water collection. 

Other Containers provided generators, fuel for the generators, 

and communications. Camp deployment was thoroughly systemized, 

where the number of the various community-support Containers was 

pre-established for the encamped population. 

117



∞ 

Shabis evening became night. Jonathan and Eileen weren’t 

around. Marcia looked at Mark Isaac. Mark Isaac walked down the 

hall. “Jonathan, Eileen, now please, please come to the table and sit 

down and talk to your uncles and our guests and be polite for god’s 

sake,” said Mark Isaac to a closed door in his best, most fatherly tone. 

Secretly, he hoped Eileen was finally coming around to Jonathan, and 

that when he knocked slowly, and more slowly opened the bedroom 

door he would find them making out. That Eileen wouldn’t go steady 

with Jonathan surprised everyone, since it was one of those magnificent 

matches that everyone knew was right. There was a poster on the wall 

up at Camp Tarigo in Fleischmanns, a somewhat famous print that 

the photographer sold and signed. Both Eileen and Jonathan were 

bare and bareback on two very large black horses, jumping the Little 

Red Kill, a swift stream. They were silhouetted by the sun behind 

them, and Eileen’s black mane was high in the air as were the manes 

and tails of the horses. The light filtered through all of the airborne 

hair, sparkling. And Jonathan’s hair, white in the summer and longer 

than anyone found acceptable, picked up the light in a wave. Light, 

silhouetting Eileen’s young and firm breasts, light, filtering the copious 

manes, and light, outlining some very fine, very tight creatures. 

Soup was done and the bowls gone and everyone was helping 

to fill up the 8’ walnut Lazy–Susan with new plates and platters of food 

from the counters on the pass-through. It was enough to feed that 

same crowd for days. It kept coming, and by the end of the evening, 

the end of this night’s conversation, much would be gone. During the 

evening, Mark Isaac closed his eyes many times for Anthony, attempting 

to fade his image. 

~ Cottage Yacht Mockup ~ 

Before MIT, at Princeton, dear Anthony read William Blake to 

Mark Isaac who learned to like making aphorisms, cool little sayings 

like “Do few things and do them well.” On the Table’s underside, 

inside of the 3” oak bullnose on the outer perimeter, Mark Isaac ran 

a continuous hidden switch series, which, when pushed, rang a teeny 

little bell from the inner guts of the table, one click on an old bike 

bell, a ping. The meaning of this, in the custom of the Round Table, 

was that a new aphorism had been written, and the author was ready 

to state his creation. He would stand, say it with dignity, suffer the 

criticism, and write it down in the ‘A Book’ that always remained on 

the walnut Lazy–Susan. 

118 

119

~ Cottage Yacht Mockup ~ ~ Cottage Yacht Mockup ~ 

120 121

~ Cottage Yacht Mockup ~ ~ Cottage Yacht Mockup ~ 

122 123


Some original aphorisms from the A Book: 

A ~ Depth is celebrated privately. 




A ~ Hatred is what a son feels when his father dies. 

A ~ One boy — one poem; one man — one book. 

A ~ It’s the Craft in the Art that distinguishes excellence from 

mediocrity. 

A ~ Those who equate success with money predicate their 

credibility on luck. 

trade. 

A ~ Never underestimate the difficulty of another man’s 

A ~ Battles are won with loyalty and lost with deceit. 

A ~ Sticks and stones will break my bones but names will 

crush me forever. 

A ~ The fool asks questions to gain power; the scientist, to 

open queries. 

A ~ No faculty of the mind is as pure as friendship; it is our 

only rightful claim to decency. 

A ~ Precious, the body. 

Sometimes, non-original aphorisms found their way into the 

A Book, such as these: 

A ~ Be good to those on your way up; you will see them again 

on your way down. 

A ~ Do few things and do them well. 

A ~ Proceed from the known to the related unknown whether 

you are the teacher or the student. 

A ~ From a gravestone: Remember man, as you pass by, as 

you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you shall be, remember 

man, humility. 

Then, entirely out of place, sat this lone aphorism signed with the quick 

hand of man who couldn’t be bothered with a readable signature. 

A ~ Integrity, simplicity, consistency and thoroughness are the 

four cornerposts of good design. 

A ~ I’m a prick and I’m proud of it. 

— Richard Scheckman 

A ~ The weak are condescending; the strong treat you equally. 

A ~ Build models of extreme clarity; it is only the arrogant 

who demand that others see their vision. 

A ~ When dogs civilized man they retained loyalty for themselves. 

A ~ Position yourself fairly in the deal for the good of all; all 

deals change. 

A ~ The great strategist empowers his lieutenants and makes 

them successful; this tactic defines loyalty. 

124 

125



Mark Isaac loved army khaki’s, and loved his Cambridge made, 

hand-tooled leather belt with the brass Campognola bicycling buckle 

that he polished like an army buckle. It was a wedding present from 

Anthony. Marcia received a smaller, woman’s version. Mark Isaac 

wore flannel shirts and a popular tan corduroy jacket with patches. His 

face was a bit pocked from too many zits as a kid, a malady that thankfully 

didn’t seem to be attacking Joshua, at least so far. Jonathan had 

escaped with few zits, although Mark was strong about this: “If I had 

done cotton balls and alcohol 10 times a day I wouldn’t have a single 

scar today.” Mark was a bag of tricks for the kids. He gave his tricks 

generously to Jonathan and Joshua as Vladi and Heshie and Gladys 

and Faye and the Master Woodworker and the Master Metalworker 

and dear Anthony had so generously and genuinely given their tricks 

to him. “From the known, to the related unknown.” This was how 

to learn. This was how to teach. This was how to give. 

Mark really hated ties and formal meetings, and found it impossible 

to work at all after such a meeting. On the day of a meeting, if 

he wore a tie, he was a bumbling, uncoordinated idiot. He couldn’t 

function, couldn’t cut to 1/4” tolerance, couldn’t envision a truncated 

cone. Formal meetings or formal affairs represented a forced and false 

world to him, a world that wasn’t his, a world of social demands that 

he always had to ignore. All of Anthony’s many committee meetings 

were informal, and many were held at the Round Table. For many 

meetings Anthony was in his bicycling clothes — cut-off sweat pants and 

T-shirt. He couldn’t stomach the expensive Italian skin-tight schlock his 

racer friends wore. He wanted comfort, and a flat diamond stitch in 

the crotch of his sweat pants was what counted. The racer shorts had 

a raised seam with chamois on the top. You still felt the raised seem. 

Dumb. Sweats were cheap and comfortable. Navy blue sweats and a 

yellow cotton T-shirt for safety, perfect. 

Albert was considering the bicycle Mark had made him, and 

was talking about the flawlessly brazed joints, the wonderful handwork 

on the lugs, and the perfect fit of a custom frame. 

Jonathan, “I don’t think anyone builds Touring Bicycles in this 

country except my dad — that’s just for old Germany.” 

Albert Einstein, “So what’s wrong with German Bicycle Touring?” 

Edward Teller, “I rode my bike over cobblestones without damage.” 

Robert Oppenheimer, “I ride my bike on week long trips.” 

126 



Horace (Richard’s father), “I ride my Cadillac on two week 

long trips.” 

Marcia, “The sunset had colors tonight that I never saw before.” 

Horace, “All mine, all the colors are mine.” 

Sally, hot Sally, “You mean you sell those colors in your 

stores?” 

Horace, “No I mean I think the colors are the result of my 

chemical processing.” 

Eileen, “What chemicals?” 

Albert, “Such a recipe. Heavy metals from the earth. I imagine 

printers’ inks and dyes are the same.” 

Horace, “Just about the same - better grinds, of course.” 

Albert, “So if in processing the paints you make so many compounds, 

how many compounds are made in all industries and put into 

the air and water?” 

Robert, “Tens of millions — and growing geometrically.” 

Edward, “Soon hundreds of millions.” 

Jonathan, “How can the atmosphere and water tables support 

all this?” 

Roy, the idiot, “I love it, the more the merrier.” 

Mark, “I think the water table is a less obvioius issue. How 

much chemical intrusion can the water table take?” 

Albert, “Maybe we are monsters.” 

Roy, “I’m glad, I love monsters.” 

Jeffrey, “Daddy, maybe Uncle Albert is right.” 

Joshua, “Of course he is right.” 

Sally, “All boys are monsters.” 

Mark, “We will have to make water filters to clean the water 

and air filters to clean the air that are the sizes of entire states.” 

Robert, “We have a race on our hands, industry versus survival. 

We’re killing all species, not ours alone.” 

Marcia, “Chief Shawnessy is on the phone.” 

Mark, “Thanks. Shawn, thank you for returning my call.” 

Shawnessy, “What can I do for you?” 

Mark took the call in his study. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac Rabinowitz was losing interest in numbers and 

formulas and blackboard jousting. His three dimensional visualization 

aptitude was soaring. He could see all of the bolts and cables of the 

127



George Washington Bridge in his mind, while understanding the structural 

implications and how the design could be improved. Although 

not a structural engineer like Marcia’s brother Rusty, Mark designed 

several bridges and was most interested in the Tacoma Narrows Bridge 

in Washington State that had recently twisted in a wind that modulated 

the frequency of the bridge to sway in growing contortions until failure. 

A passerby’s home movie showed the bridge undulating with the wind 

and finally collapsing. This was especially interesting to Mark, who 

wondered about converting wind to energy without propeller-based 

windmills that have so many moving parts. 

One Sunday around the end of Marcia’s first pregnancy, Mark 

was making the bed. He lifted the spread into the air, and as it fell 

to the bed a single sheet of 20# Erasable Bond typing paper began to 

undulate. The paper was standing on its 11” side between the legs of 

a sitting steel woman Marcia had welded in her sculpture class. The 

sculpture was made of four rough cut pieces of 1/4” steel. A head 

of about 5 sides, a fairly rectangular body that sat vertically, and two 

horizontal legs about 16” long, each of which was a solid, uneven triangle 

where one leg was several inches higher and more forward than 

the other. The piece of paper sat on its edge between the legs, which 

were about 4” apart. When the spread came down, the paper began 

undulating, and undulating, and undulating, and undulating. Mark 

was frozen. The piece of paper undulated far too long. Was it the same 

reason that the Tacoma Narrows Bridge moved seemingly on its own 

accord? Could this linear energy be converted? Will linear windmills 

result in a much higher ratio of generated power over wind speed? 

Out of college, Mark was offered a teaching slot at MIT that 

surely would have developed into tenure providing lifelong financial 

security and social status. To MIT’s surprise, he accepted a similar 

position at Columbia’s Mechanical Engineering Department, a 

department not as well respected as MIT’s Mechanical Engineering 

Department, and in an Engineering School that was perceived to be 

a notch below MIT’s. He joked with his MIT Dean that he no longer 

wanted to be at the trade school for the Ivy League, that he wanted 

the real thing. They both knew that he wanted freedom to build his 

visions without overly competitive faculty members questioning him 

endlessly, and endlessly trying to outdo him. Columbia would love 

to have him, would treat him well, would give him what he wanted, 

and wouldn’t bother him. 

Mark Isaac’s aptitude, eye-to-hand coordination and persistence 

in detail were impressive. He was a serious craftsman who understood 

128 



how to work wood like a master benchman from the old country. He 

was an expert metal worker in the machine shop, too. As a boy in 

Princeton, New Jersey, he learned to be a craftsman from two old world 

masters as well as his father and grandfather. The Master Woodworker 

was from Czechoslovakia; the Master Metalworker was from Poland. 

Two different worlds, two different arts, and to the shock of both 

Masters, Mark was excellent at both trades. He was an artisan. He 

was an artist, a craftsman who people watched as if his art was grace, 

like that of a gymnastor that of a Philippino high diver. 

∞ 

There were countless master craftsman throughout the world in 

1941, including Manolo, who had seen Anthony’s murderers. 1941 was 

a hands-on time, a time in history when what you made was who you 

were. If you worked a material beautifully and fast, you were charmed 

and appreciated. Art had to be perfectly crafted or it was not art. Mark 

was able to envision machinery or structures or products before they 

were designed. He saw machines fully performing required tasks far 

before he was even given all of the specifications. Most of these visions 

were from his dreams through which he moved in and out easily. 

He would have sex with Marcia, and as it was concluding he 

would enter a dream state with only one thing in his mind, his design 

challenge. When a vision was solid, he awoke, went to his office, drew 

up his working drawings, then set his mind back to the virtual model 

of his dream, slept, and continued modeling. He thought that if he 

could get himself to do the labor of working-drawings during his dreams 

that he would have only the mechanical pencil-pushing to do during 

the day. As he got older, he awoke less but could draw his workingdrawings 

perfectly in his dreams. His drafting dreams had become 

so developed that he remembered all of the details and could have a 

draftsman execute them based on quick sketches and notes. 

With the Police and the Church and the Mafia asking for his 

help to find Anthony’s murderer, it was time to apply his dream skill 

to the task. Mark solved problems in his dreams as easily as a bird flies 

thousands of miles south to a family spot it has never been to before. 

He was never threatened by the tasks before him, and it wasn’t even 

possible for them to threaten him. Either he envisioned the solution, 

or he didn’t. On off nights, when he didn’t have specific concepts to 

design or designs to detail, several more difficult machines lingered on 

and he kept working them over and over, year after year, never tiring of 

them, always looking forward to them. One of these was a Renewable 

129



Energy Vehicle, a lightweight, hybrid crustacean shelled vehicle with 

regenerative breaking, solar cells, an electric motor, batteries, a very 

efficient bicycling mechanism with an infinite gear system and superb 

bearings. There were many other visions which were not assignments, 

many of which had been discussed at his Round Table, the table where 

the Mechanical Engineering Faculty so often met, where the Physics 

Faculty informally met, where as many as ten local community committees 

met, where his beautiful sons birthdayed year after precious 

year, and where his wife’s mischoogana family participated in discussions 

and local politics. 

Chief Shawnessy and Mark Isaac were developing a good dialogue 

with their eyes. They were talking to everyone at the apartment 

about everyone else on each of the committees. They were subtle in 

their questioning, and were more interested in the casual disclosure 

of information than formal pressure. Anthony had been on twenty 

committees altogether. Someone on one of these committees knew 

why he was put to rest in concrete. 

130 

Ω 

Bicycling, Atoms & Poetry 

The Round Table’s 20,000 pound thrust bearings that turned 

the walnut Lazy–Susan did so quietly, and presented yiddisha treats in 

perfect balance. Teller and Oppenheimer were acting strangely and 

had been whispering through this house of endless shouting. Albert 

and Mark Isaac had been talking about the availability of copper and 

various strengths that steel could attain by adding molybdenum and 

magnesium. The British company, Reynolds, made a tubing through 

their patented process they named ‘double-butting.’ This made very 

light weight tubes of exceptional strength. On the inside, these tubes 

were thick on the ends for joining, where the greater stresses would 

be, but thinner in the middle. Mark Isaac had used Reynold’s tubing 

frequently for aircraft projects and more recently for bicycles. 

Good cops are experts at guessing personalities. Chief Shawnessy 

thought that Mark Isaac had none, or at least, he couldn’t figure 

him. He didn’t seem to be covering up his personality, he just didn’t 

seem to be that interesting. Shawnessy was shocked when Rabinowitz 

found the invisible, damaged bicycle belonging to the Bishop, yet 

Rabinowitz had said good night to him on Broadway as if nothing 

had happened. Shawnessy had headed to the West End for a drink. 

“Was this guy condescending?” he wondered aloud. Most of the university 

professors that he had encountered all seemed off in one way 

or another, and that was normal. This guy Rabinowitz was just hard 

to figure. No matter, he was a smart one, and after more than a few 

drinks, Shawnessy was no longer able to hold his excitement. He went 

to the pay phone and called Mayor Rinato. 

“Georgey, we got our first fuckin’ break on the Bishop’s murder 

and it’s straightforward genius detective work that did it.” 

“Shawn, you fuck, what time is it?” 

“1:30 AM, Georgey and I’m dancin’.” 

“Alright Shawn, tell me how you did it. Who killed him for 

Christ’s sake?” 

“Who, who I don’t know yet, but listen to this story. You know 

the professor who was Bishop Cinelli’s best friend, Rabinowitz? I asked 

him to help cause we know he didn’t do it and we got bad feelings 

about most of his wife’s family. The wife’s OK, though.” 

“Yeah, go on.” 

“I ask the guy to help cause we’re at a fuckin’ dead end and the 

Mafia’s doin’ bullshit like breakin’ legs below the knees and even above 

131

Bicyling, Atoms & Poetry 


the knees. I got cops pullin’ doors off the hinges in people’s offices on 

Park Avenue and pistol whipping hoboes. We ain’t got nothin’.” 

“So, I know. You think I don’t hear about what’s goin’ on 

out there?” 

“So this fuckin’ guy Rabinowitz, no personality, nothin’, just a 

guy, just nice, you know, plain, after I ask him for help he says let’s go 

over to St. John’s. I didn’t want to, I been there 1000 times, nothin’. 

I go cause I had just made a big deal of askin’ him. I got the Cardinal 

and Pauli Prito and everything.” 

“The Cardinal. Prito. You’re crazy, Shawn. What’s your 

fuckin’ first name, anyway.” 

“S.S.” 

“No, what’s your fuckin’ name, what’s it stand for?” 

“Shit, just S.S.” 

“I’ll hang up.” 

“OK, Sean, S — E — A — N, Sean S. Shawnessy.” 

“Jesus, Sean “Shawn” S. Shawnessy. Nevermind. I don’t want 

to know what your middle name stands for. OK Sean Shawnessy, what 

happens next?” 

“We go over to the Church. He sees the Bishop’s goddam 

bicycle hangin’ up, and pow, reconstructs the Bishop’s abduction. 

Total Sherlock Holmes bullshit.” 

“How?” 

“From lookin’ at the fuckin’ bike.” 

“Jesus fuck, how, Shawn, how did he see it?” 

“How, by seein’ stuff on the bike that wasn’t Italian and the 

frame a little bent and other hard to see stuff.” 

“What do you see?” 

“I see a fuckin’ bicycle.” 

“You think he’s right Shawn?” 

“I know he’s right.” 

“Jesus, a bicycle,” hung up the Mayor. 

∞ 

Dimpled Marcia was not into make-up. She looked forward to 

good weather when she could get Mark Isaac or the boys to bicycle up 

to Mount Kisco again. She wanted the time in the country, and wanted 

a break from her relatives. The Avalon’s were wonderful WASPs who 

didn’t seem to carry even a slight awareness of the cultural prejudices 

that victimize everyone. There was a shindig on the Steel Estate this 

132 



weekend, 300 acres of apple groves, tennis courts, gardens, pools, 

streams, a main house with 50 rooms and a gate house with 8 rooms. 

The bicycle ride up there was beautiful. Broadway, the Albany Post 

Road, went from Albany to downtown Manhattan. Once you rode 

north of Columbia Physicians and Surgeons, on 168th Street, the ride 

started getting nice. The 216th Street area was where the Columbia 

Athletic Fields were located and was both pretty and geologically interesting. 

The Manhattan Indians of many years before must have had 

a good time on this paradise island. 

The Columbia Crew team practiced in the sometimes smelly 

Hudson below, and in the East River. There were special treats for 

the Columbia crew that no other team ever encountered. One year 

rowers told of sprinting a course only to come to a dead stop having 

somehow landed on a near-surface floating mattress. In other years 

bodies or body parts would find their way to the near-surface to be 

exposed by the blade of an oar. 

Mark and Jonathan told me so much about the countryside in 

Westchester, I had to see for myself. In other time-warps, when I visited 

New York, I thrilled with the scenic treats that my bicycle provided. 

The top of Manhattan was still rural in part. Along the Albany Post 

Road the ride felt open and country-like through the Bronx, Yonkers, 

White Plains, North Tarrytown and Pleasonton. Mt. Kisco was half 

way between Croton-on-Hudson on the west and Connecticut on the 

east. To the north was Bedford Hills. A ride west of Bedford Hills 

brought you to Peekskill and across the Hudson to West Point with 

land spectacular and the views of the gently curving cliffs breathtaking, 

majestic. Bicycle riding through the spring blossoms and warming 

fresh smells of the hills was superb. The climbs were easy, up gentle 

and curved grades, down long gradual downhills, few cars. The fall 

brought its own wonder to the cyclist of Westchester County, prideful 

colors showing off huge riverscapes of mountain-sized bouquets of 

forest in translucent yellows and opaque oranges and muted browns. 

If there was ever a definition for resplendent, it could be found here 

along the Hudson. 

For a bicyclist, no ride is as boring or tough as flatland. Your 

body is charged and recharged by the ups and downs of the hills. Steep 

downhills are thrilling, but mechanically a little scary and more dangerous. 

Uphills are slow and they make you feel good, strong. The rider 

mentally photographs every scene on every pedal rotation. Train travel 

is also memorable since so often you have undisturbed landscapes, 

and always gentle grades penetrating the most rugged country. Auto- 

133



mobile travel is fast, very dangerous, repetitive, hypnotic. You are not 

breathing the landscape as you are on the slower, more human-scaled 

bicycle. In comparing bicycling with good gears to walking with good 

shoes, in bicycling your energy-expenditure ratio is far less for distance 

traveled. 

The sun was good for Marcia, and made her 39 look 29. 

Professor Framemaker Mark Isaac Rabinowitz made his best bike of 

all for Marcia, with long and extended lugs that he detailed for days. 

The structural tubes on a bicycle fit into cast lugs. He had bought a 

set of extra long lug blanks from a British maker, and did the cutout 

work himself, including Marcia’s initials, MSR, cut from the top tube 

lug. A bike frame is a double triangle that consists of a top bar going 

horizontally across; a head tube which holds two separate bearing 

headsets, one which holds the front fork for the front wheel, and 

the other which holds the handlebar stem. A down tube and a seat 

tube meet at a bottom bracket which holds a bearinged crankset to 

which is attached the crank arms and then the pedals. Four smaller 

tubes create a structural triangle which holds the rear wheel. Two are 

called seat stays, two are called chain stays. The precision making of 

a bicycle frame is a highly respected discipline in all circles, and when 

carefully done, peaks everyone’s interest. The bicycle is man’s most 

efficient transportation machine many times over. Little compares, 

except trains on the far end of the same scale. There are significant 

rules of mechanical reality — laws of physics — that go into bicycle 

design. Great bikes are designed by the rules: use the lightest frame 

and components, the best bearings for the least bearing resistance, 

the narrowest tires for the least tire to road resistance, the least frame 

length, and the least fork angle. 

∞ 

The committee interviews were going slowly, but they were very 

encouraged about Stumpo’s achievement of finding Anthony’s wheel. 

The telephone rang. 

“Hey, Professor Rabinowitz. Hey, this is Detective Stagnoli 

with Shawnessy. We got something, we think it’s the wheel you’re 

looking for. Wanna see it?” 

“Yes, definitely. Where are you?” 

“I’m in Central Park near the Oar House, but I’ll come to you. 

You’re in your office, right?” 

“Yup, at the machine shop in Mechanical Engineering, in the 

basement of Schermerhorn. The guards will tell you where it is.” 

134 



“I know where it is.” 

Stumpo Stagnoli, accustomed to the stares, made his way to 

Schermerhorn. His face was handsome, and he walked with the bounce 

of a kid. He looked strong enough to demolish a building by running 

into its wall. Stumpo had the wheel with him. 

“This is it, congratulations. Where was it?” 

“One of the boys found it in a bike shop in Germantown, on 

5 th and 97 th . The owner said he bought the wheel for $5 from a track 

cyclist. It was in a junk pile on a loft. He remembered the wheel and 

knew the kid he bought it from. He kept it because it was a Campognola 

hub. We got the kid already, and checked him out, and so far 

he’s clean. We got him down at the Oar House in the Park. He said 

he found it in the brush when he was taking a leak in the Park. He 

said it was on the very steep grade in the northeast of the Park. He 

said everyone knows the grade. My boys did, too. You know, they 

are learning everything about bicycling in New York. They even like 

it. One of them said bikes are better than horses. Anyway, they are 

taking him up there now. You wanna go, right?” 

“Right, let’s go.” 

Mark Isaac was surprised to hear Stumpo raving about bicycles. 

He said he had one of the shops make up a bike for him, too, and that 

he was amazed how much time he saved in the City. 

“It’s all gear ratios. Gear ratios and weight. If you get those 

right, you can go anywhere on a bike,” said Detective Stagnoli driving 

his brand-new 1941 Ford Special Police Cruiser. Mark Isaac smiled 

like a priest with a new convert to his parish. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac had learned the rules of bicycle-making from a kid 

in his class at MIT, a friend named David Gordon Wilson. David 

respected the mechanics of bicycling, and said one day that he would 

write a book called Bicycling Mechanics 2 and get MIT to publish it. 

Mark Isaac built light and efficient bicycles for friends and family. 

The bicycling industry comes out with new designs and new styles and 

advertises falsely like all other industries. A bicycle is only as good as 

its consistency with the Principles of Mechanics. The fancy bike that 

is heavy with fat tires is too difficult for the human engine to spin. 

Because of our needs for comfort and gearing and strength and safety, 

bicycles start getting more and more addons. Mark Isaac built what 

he called ‘soft road bikes’ so that non-professional riders could ride 

long, though efficiently. These bikes could also be used for extended 

135



bicycle camping, a sport known as Touring, popular in Europe since 

the early 1900’s. He built bikes and touring racks for himself, Marcia, 

Jonathan, Joshua, Heshie, Albert and their family doctor, a fellow out 

in Rutherford, New Jersey. 

The Rabinowitz’s had local doctors in Morningside Heights, 

but Marcia wanted to drive out of the city sometimes, and wanted everyone 

in the family to have annual checkups by a real old fashioned 

good man who wasn’t in a hurry like New York doctors. This country 

doctor had published a collection of poems, and young Jonathan and 

Dr. Williams became great friends. Dr. William Carlos Williams wrote 

poems that were very simple, very real, very clear. Jonathan liked to 

imitate his poems, and shared some laughs with Dr. Williams over 

this imitation: 

~ This is just to laugh ~ 

136 

by Jonathan Jeremy Rabinowitz 

I have played 

with your parts 

through your clothing 

though 

you were probably 

saving them 

for him 

Forgive me 

you were delicious 

undulating 

and obsessed 

∞ 

Stagnoli and Rabinowitz drove through the Park and met with 

five men in bicycling clothing. A boy about Jonathan’s age was scared 

of this police attention. He had profusely assured the bicycle cops that 

he hadn’t stolen the wheel, and that they could have the $5 back. 

“Professor Rabinowitz, what are you doing here, sir, did you 

come to get me out of this? Why you? I found this wheel and now 

everyone is going crazy.” 



“Hello Barry. Take it easy. I’m just helping the police out, too. 

Just like you. You are helping them, and me.” 

“Oh, I really didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“Of course not. Take it from the top. Tell me the story.” 

“OK, I live just over there on 91 st Street just off 5 th Avenue, 

and was doing a lap before school, a couple months ago, I guess. I 

did a whole lap and had to pee and decided to stop before this grade. 

I went into the woods.” 

“Stop. Show us where.” 

The group crossed the street to the inner, woodsy side. OK, go 

down the hill a bit and ride up and show us exactly where you got off 

the bike, if you got off. We want to watch. Everyone laughed. 

“Sorry, I don’t mean we want to watch you pee...” 

Barry Leverman mounted his bike with his left foot on his 

pedal, rolled downhill 30’, turned around, pedaled up to the bushes, 

dismounted again on his left pedal, walked in a few bushes deep, leaned 

against his bike, pretended to pee, and pointed ahead of him to where 

he had found the wheel. 

“Barry, thanks. You’ve been a great help. Do you know whose 

wheel that was?” 

“No idea, sir.” 

“It was Father August’s from St. John’s.” Barry’s blank expression 

said he didn’t understand why this was important. He had said he 

lived in a different neighborhood and commuted to Columbia. The 

police thought he might be lying. They told him they would visit him 

at home if they had more questions. Mark Isaac believed him. 

Barry Leverman lied. 

Barry spun downhill and looped uphill and away. Stagnoli 

called for two teams from forensics, and Mark Isaac and the officers 

looked carefully, slowly around. 

“What do you think, Professor?” 

“By looking at his wheel, and at this hill, I would think he could 

have been abducted here. A tubular wood object was shoved through 

his spokes. I’m certain of that. But someone didn’t run out of the 

bushes, since Anthony would have been on his feet by that time. It 

was another bicyclist or a car.” 

Forensics picked up and bagged all of the trash, mostly cigarette 

butts, old paper, an old bicycle pump and some rubbers. “Hey Detective, 

you want this white paint, too.” 

“Where?” called Mark Isaac. 

137



“Yeah, we want it,” insisted Stagnoli. 

Mark Isaac watched the police dig up the paint. He asked 

Stumpo to please try to match it to the paint on Anthony’s bottom 

bracket. Mark was hungry and wanted to go. He asked Stumpo to 

drop him off. He felt like going out for dinner with Marcia alone, but 

knew she would have a feast waiting. 

138 

∞ 

Marcia’s breasts grew over the years. They were not huge, but 

big and soft. She had designed and made some blouses where she could 

get away without wearing a bra, at least at home. It seemed that this 

very same blouse would press against people that she liked when she 

was working the Round Table, bringing new dishes, taking old dishes 

away. Like the centerpoint of the table, the convergence of the walnut 

pie-cut sections was something no one was aware of, and something 

endearing about the house. This gentle pressing also seemed to happen 

in Sicilian homes, over big spaghetti dinners, but again, would be 

invisible and unspoken. 

At Round Table dinners, other unspoken customs had developed 

over the years. Normally, no one in the family would ever leave the 

apartment without saying good bye and saying where they were going. 

This invited disassociated bits of wisdom, usually irrelevant warnings 

of safety and either good advice or obsessive concern. In contrast, 

during the Round Table dinners people just came and went. Normal 

courtesies of profuse thanks and compliments about the terrific food 

didn’t happen. There were two very powerful substitutes for these 

otherwise required customs. There was a lot of touching, and much 

more eye contact. When someone was leaving he told you with his 

eyes, and squeezed a shoulder or two when he rose to leave. If people 

were standing they might be hugging hello or hugging good bye. 

This was a busy crowd, and you came if and when you could, 

and you left when you had to leave. Friday nights were Round Table 

nights for family and friends. Friday night dinners for Jews were called 

shabis dinners. Sunset was the beginning of the day of atonement, the 

day of rest, which was Saturday in the Jewish Tradition. There were 

no Jewish customs practiced by the Rabinowitz’s, and a favorite spot of 

Anthony Cinelli’s had been shabis dinner at the Rabinowitz’s. Father 

O’Reilly was coming over more regularly now, but Anthony was missed 

dearly. You could touch the big emptiness. 



Marcia knew she was running a restaurant, and couldn’t be 

more happy. It was a utopian table in a utopian kitchen with utopian 

friends with the utopian benefit of not having to work for money. She 

didn’t ever think about money, except in the abstract. She was rich in 

this sense. Marcia’s friends kept telling her what a grind it was to be 

working so hard, feeding anyone and everyone who came over. The 

situation to Marcia was excellent. Everyone came to see her, and she 

was the center of her community. She did what she wanted to do, 

always. She went out when she wanted and didn’t cook if she didn’t 

want to cook. There were always leftovers and sometimes she sat at 

the Round Table like a guest and the boys found it fun to serve her. 

She went out constantly for walks or bicycle rides. She never shopped. 

The butcher delivered the meat and the grocer the groceries. One 

day a new delivery man brought up the groceries, looked at the floor, 

and said, 

“Scary bananas swim like boys, 

Like beasts, peeling a bomb. 

While the bird ran up the banana, 

Unknown to the boys eating the beans, 

The beast swam over the birds 

And red bombs ate the beasts.” 

“Why Jeremy, I didn’t recognize you. Where’s your beard? 

You got a job?” 

“Yes,m,” head low and eyes fixated within a tongue and groove 

seam of the red oak flooring. 

“Congratulations.” 

“You’re welcome, Marcia.” 

“You know my name?” 

“Always have.” 

“Thank you, Jeremy, here’s a good tip and good luck on the 

job.” 

“Yes,m. Eyes never contacting, eyes following the floorboards 

and locked sideways at the base of the Round Table. Peripherally he 

saw its top. Oh, how he wanted to sit on those benches, oh to be alive 

again , unalone. He couldn’t repress a quiet howl, a feminine “euwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” 

that longed uncontrollably from his essence. 

It was the begging of a lost and lonely puppy, hurt and hungry, 

“euwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Marcia, too, felled a continuous 

stream of tears, and lost her presence of being in Jeremy’s hymn of 

139



desperation, “euwhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” The wetness of her 

blouse surprised her, brought her to the moment. She opened the door 

farther, and turned to get him food. From the descending elevator, 

140 

“A bean exploded for this bird, 

And the boy jumped on the banana.” 

Marcia was reaching to put away the groceries and enjoying 

the feeling of her breasts against the birds-eye maple cabinets. It was 

making her feel better. She cringed with Jeremy’s pain, and shook. So 

monstrous, city life. So bastardly, man. What was it that made that 

sweet Jeremy so recognizable without his beard? Who was he, how 

did he know my name? He was everywhere in Morningside Heights 

all at once. Did she just think of him as ‘sweet?’ He couldn’t carry 

on a conversation. He didn’t try. He also didn’t smell. The children 

were friendly to him. He helped old people with the street and with 

packages. What an anomalous character. Who was he? She left the 

groceries, suddenly exhausted, and slept on the couch for 20 minutes. 

She was repairing herself following a soul-wrenching. 

Jeremy didn’t go back to the grocery store. By the time he left 

his shack his beard had good growth, and his hunger was alive with 

demand. He hadn’t eaten in four days. In this daze he stared for what 

seemed like a hundred hours at a shiny spot on one of the boards 

in his shack, a spot that had been made by the pressure of the blade 

from a forklift truck. Although all of the boards of Jeremy’s shack 

were silvered — naturally aged and untreated — this one shiny spot 

reminded him that he had built a house of oak. The shine looked just 

like Marcia’s floor. He processed the intensity of this wound like so 

many others, wounds that carried terrors of their own, terrors without 

expiration dates. He didn’t know why he kept going. He thought that 

some could take it, and he was just one of those. On the fifth day, 

Jeremy began buying and collecting sandpaper of various grits. In the 

months that followed, Jeremy sanded with increasingly finer grits of 

sandpaper. With several clear oils, with dignity, Jeremy polished the 

many short boards of random length and width, and returned to the 

familiar faces of Morningside. 

Mark and Marcia were both 39, in love, and practicing sex very 

easily and very frequently. She wove in and out of her dreams while 

napping on the couch. Jeremy exhausted her. Who was he? Why did 

her friends think she didn’t love her role in her family and community? 



For them to call her life a grind — how funny. They were right, of course, 

Marcia’s life was a grind, it was a frequent grind, the special grind of 

Mark and Marcia, the special grind of deep-seated rhythm, of bodies 

melding into one. It always took Marcia a long time to achieve orgasm, 

and she certainly didn’t achieve it for each and every encounter. Mark 

Isaac, of the other sex, was notoriously fast on the draw, humorously 

so, and repeated like a large caliber machine gun. 

Mark Isaac had been out of control since birth. He had his 

first hardon at six hours, and most of the staff at Princeton General 

Hospital came by to see. Erections continued to occur throughout his 

silent childhood. The same pediatricians who thought he was retarded 

wanted to find a disease to attribute to this over-sensitive male. There 

were painful problems that some males had where they could not get 

soft. But Mark Isaac softened very often, and he was not in pain. He 

just got stiff a lot. A whole lot. His friends knew of this phenomenal 

and unusual skill, and Heshie and Gladys were embarrassed that people 

might be talking about Mark. But one of the Princeton pediatricians 

taught Mark some exercises that made it possible for him to negotiate 

sleepovers, changing for swimming, steam rooms and saunas. He 

learned several exercises. In one you would press both hands against 

each other at right angles and press with all your might. In another 

exercise you would grab both wrists, hand over hand, and pull with your 

might. By 11, Mark Isaac had developed biceps, triceps, pectorals and 

lactorals. By the time he was 15, Mark Isaac was stronger than most 

of the non-jocks at MIT. No one else had to do this much constant 

exercise. 

Mark Isaac’s quick draw didn’t go entirely unnoticed. At Camp 

Tarigo, and once at MIT, showing-off sometimes occurred amongst 

the guys. Mark Isaac was the clear winner, every time. At MIT he was 

clocked at 7.3 seconds from soft to squirting. In 1941, Marcia thought 

Mark had slowed considerably, and was approaching the 60 second 

range. Mark Isaac was also complaining that the 6 or 7 orgasms of 

junior high and high school had slowed to 4 or 5. He feared that by 

the time he was 90 he would be down to 2 a day or less. So sorry, 

Mark Isaac. Mark Isaac knew of cultures where anthropologists wrote 

ethnographies about tribes that celebrated Dream Time or Male Orgasm. 

One of these tribes reported that most males had 25 orgasms 

daily. Mark Isaac thought this would be a fulltime job, even for him. 

His record was 17, the first time that he and Marcia spent the night. 

What a grind. Marcia was thrilled to have Mark Isaac inside her. She 

thought it was nice, and she was glad he wanted to be there, and so 

141



glad to hold his undulating body, slowly grinding to his depth, thick 

chest tightening, lactorals broadening. When she wanted to come, 

she held him inside and squeezed down on him, and he would come 

again, and again. When she was ready, her boiling passion writhed 

and ascended into a scream, a crescendo that the boys thought could 

be heard on 23 rd Street. 

When Joshua began his slow crawl through puberty the boys 

would look at each other and crack-up with the sounds of Marcia 

screaming from their parents’ bedroom. Not that anything had 

changed for Marcia. She had always been an unstoppable screamer. 

Jonathan had somehow ignored it and chose not to recognize it when 

he was younger. Joshua also let her sounds glide through him in the 

same repressed ways of Jonathan. But with both boys so sexual in 

their separate stages of puberty they just couldn’t ignore the frequent 

rituals and really laughed when she screamed. Soon the boys started 

to notice Mark Isaac’s vocabulary, too. He would start talking about 

having to grind something in the shop, or would find something in 

the house which required grinding. Within minutes either Mark or 

Marcia would say to one another, “Hey, let’s grab a shower.” And they 

did, but first, oh, what a grind. 

Marcia warmed up Mark’s, Jonathan’s and Joshua’s underpants 

in the morning. “I like my boys to be warm and toasty,” she would say, 

and although none of the three would admit it, they looked forward 

to this fire-begotten practice. “Honey, as much as I love my warm undies 

when I get out of the shower, the little fire in the kitchen kinda 

still smells from smoke,” Mark said sheepishly so as to not disturb the 

universe. 

∞ 

Marcia didn’t do Round Table dinners every night, although 

Sunday and Wednesday were sometimes Round Table days along 

with Friday. Mark Isaac had bought all restaurant grade stainless 

steel equipment for the kitchen, including a dishwashing setup, with 

sprayers and large raised edges on the counter section, and drying 

racks for the finished dishes, racks which always held the dishes, clear 

glass dishes that were never put in cabinets. Stacks of dry dishes were 

put on the walnut Lazy–Susan. Marcia never touched a dirty dish. 

Guests washed, and there was no more demanding dishwasher than 

Albert Einstein, who physically pushed people away so that he could 

wash. “Leave me alone, this gives me more pleasure these days than 

sex. It’s the only normal thing I do, please, go away and leave me to 

142 



scrub.” Sometimes Albert yielded to Anthony Cinelli out of respect 

since he knew that Anthony needed this catharsis as much as he. But 

now, without Anthony to compete with? Now Albert no longer felt 

like washing dishes. 

Heshie and Gladys trained to Morningside Heights from 

Princeton as often as three times a week. Heshie loved the big steam 

engines and the modern trains. Gladys loved to get out of Princeton. 

She thought Morningside Heights was the most interesting place in the 

world, but home was home. They thought Westchester County was 

very beautiful, but it wasn’t their kind of beauty. They wanted their 

dear, goyisha Princeton, though it bored them fiercely. 

People were afraid to disturb the discussions on Round Table 

nights. Polite chitter-chatter tended to destroy all human thought. 

Everyone was well under way with the high-fat chicken and high-fat 

meatballs in the high-fat gravy with the high-fat bread, when Eileen 

got up first to answer the doorbell. She looked through the peep hole 

to see the big Burroughs frame, and opened the door with a smile for 

Jack Kerouac, Allen Ginsberg and Bill Burroughs. Jack had clearly 

warned Allen and Bill, and they all sat quietly like school children 

with only the darting eyes to deal with and great food to eat. The 

ever-roaming eyes of the Round Table crowd was so complex that it 

was a complete communication system unto itself. The eyes approved 

or disapproved, accepted or rejected, supported or denied, wondered, 

claimed or acknowledged originality, admitted or accused plagiarism, 

apologized, requested sex, requested hugs, requested food, requested 

comments, pleaded, suggested, acknowledged quips, substituted for 

hugs, for punches, and finally, created or chastised sarcasm, cynicism 

and paranoia. The eyes of the Round Table. 

While not at the Round Table, the meaning of certain glances 

were discussed for years. Edward Teller said to Robert Oppenheimer at 

Pupin Hall one day, “What do you think it meant when Albert stared 

at Mark Isaac who talked about his linear undulating wind generator 

and said, ‘release the spread?’ Albert merged with Mark Isaac’s soul 

at that moment. I wonder what he saw?” 

With Kerouac, Ginsberg and Burroughs at the Round Table, 

some quick new work was going on. “Drugs,” thought some. “Drinking,” 

thought others. “Faygalas,” thought Mark Isaac and Marcia, 

parental. The Cardinal, who changed into some of Anthony’s more 

casual clothing, didn’t know what to make of the poets, they were 

so different, so alien. The good-looking one, Kerouac, he liked. He 

knew he was Catholic. Kerouac and the Cardinal looked for excuses 

143



to get up, to chat. The bond was inextricable. The Cardinal felt like 

a father to him. He didn’t feel that this fine boy should hang around 

with these other poets. Burroughs and Ginsberg frightened him. 

144 

While fuel-free transportation was under discussion, the 

Round Table crowd began working over the newcomers. Never had 

guests taken so long to penetrate. “Are these earthlings?” thought 

Jonathan, who sometimes slept over at Kerouac’s in the Hartley Hall 

dorm when he needed some freedom from the family. It took about 

20 minutes for the eyes of the Round Tablers to teach the eyes of Jack 

and Allen and Bill where they needed to float to, and how to hover 

without crashing. 

Kerouac was the first to temporarily reconfigure his flying 

machine, and he spoke, “People aren’t going to want to peddle and 

sweat in their cars.” Good, he was there. One down, two to go. They 

would be very gentle at first. 

From Mark Isaac, “Air cooling systems are possible and realistic; 

the consumption of oil cannot go on forever.” 

From Edward, “Nuclear cars will solve the problem.” 

From Marcia, “Peddling is good for health. Stagnant and lazy 

people get sick and die.” 

From Albert, “However sustainability in transportation can be 

achieved, it must be correlated directly to the overall annual consumption 

of the individual and not to the profit structure of companies 

that are dependent on the spread of capitalism for the enrichment of 

themselves with complete disregard to either survivability or sustainability.” 

From Horace Scheckman, “Comfort is the only thing important 

to man, and there is enough oil left for generations.” 

From Oppenheimer, “We need to look at this beyond a hundred 

or two hundred years.” 

From Richard Scheckman, powerfully, as if he understood 

the issues entirely and represented all of mankind, “We will continue 

to find more oil and other fuels and we will always have plenty to 

consume.” 

From Mark Isaac, “I would hope the species lasts for at least 

as long as we have been here already, which is hundreds of thousands 

or millions of years. If we’re over-consumptive now and use up our 

precious resources, we’re committing suicide.” 

From Burroughs, “Suicide is part of the process. Our species 

dies, another one begins. Horrors, idiocy, random selection, geother- 



mal incarcerations deluding ecstatic remembrances, incomparable sex, 

irresistible infatuation, death is ours to be.” 

From Eileen, “Bill, you cannot find our own destruction to be 

acceptable, surely?” 

From Ginsberg, “I think man will be around a long time with 

or without cars.” 

From Sally, “You all know Albert and Mark Isaac are perfectly 

right and it is silly, no, stupid, to accept anything other than Mark 

Isaac’s cute little Renewable Energy Vehicle idea for transportation.” 

From Jonathan and Joshua, “Yeah.” “Yeah.” 

Marcia, “Who turned on the radio? Just listen to that chazerri. 

My god, they sell noise-making advertisements on the radio. It is fully 

intrusive, not like a magazine where you can turn the page and be done 

with their noise.” 

Albert, “As radio and future visual technologies develop, if they 

are not careful, they will create a world of frightening people, who talk 

only of soap or floor polish, and think only of what they can buy, not 

how they can help. God forbid. If communications extended from 

2D home delivery like we have on the radio now to 3D home delivery 

on a Cathode Ray Tube to solid 3D home delivery on a magic box, 

and our materialism continues unguided, we may learn to celebrate 

stupidity and embrace and emulate stupid characters. Fortunately, I 

won’t be alive to see that. Not that.” 

The poets merged into the conversation. Random reactions 

were thriving. 

Oppie, “So Bill, New Mexico, Santa Fe, tell me.” 

Bill, “There are things in the desert you cannot imagine.” 

Oppie, “Try me. I’m very imaginative.” 

Bill, “The plains and mesas are expansive. When you get on 

a horse you feel you could ride for a year before you reach the first 

image on the horizon.” 

Albert, “Well said, Mr. Burroughs. I cannot understand how 

people thought the earth was flat. I think it is a cylinder when I stand 

on the seashore. It looks round out on the horizon, and flat on the 

top.” 

Ginsberg, “I’m from Paterson.” 

Kerouac, “Golly.” 

Ginsberg, “What I mean is that nothing could be more opposite 

to New Mexico than New Jersey.” 

Teller, “You are all writers, I understand, or just you Mr. Burroughs?” 

145



Ginsberg, “Jack and I both write. I write poetry mostly; Jack, 

something like prose.” 

Teller, “I trust you have the experience to write about something 

more than writing, Mr. Ginsberg?” 

Ginsberg, “I enjoy writing about my writing and the process 

of my life.” 

Teller, “You need age, Mr. Ginsberg, experience. You need real 

experience, Mr. Ginsberg. Please, make a table, paddle a canoe. Do 

something. Then write. Or don’t write. And certainly don’t write 

about writing.” 

Kerouac, “Get laid, Allen, that’s experience.” 

Oppenheimer, “Mr. Kerouac, please! So I admit I do not understand 

either the poet or the profession, but I know that there are 

moments when poetry reaches me, but I think you boys should get 

professions. Do you know the Rutherford physician, Dr. Williams? 

He has a job, gets experience in life, and writes slim poems with nice 

meaning.” 

Kerouac, “Unrestricted exploration of the deep reaches of the 

mind with its natural sexual sway unfettered in the universe. Poetry 

is the celebration of the sexual drive.” 

Mark Isaac, “What?” 

Jonathan, “He means as poets they have the responsibility to 

explore their sexuality more freely than we do.” 

“No, Jonathan, I was talking to your mother. Excuse me.” 

Detective Stagnoli was on the line. Marcia held the phone in 

the air above Jonathan’s head. Stumpo said to Mark Isaac, “Sir, the 

paint that was poured out in the park matched the paint on the bottom 

of the bike. What does paint have to do with murder? Maybe 

painters did it?” 

“How can we explain why there is paint on his bottom bracket? 

Why is there paint poured onto the ground deep in the bushes? See 

if you can figure out what kind of paint it is, and maybe where it was 

made. I wonder if a painting contractor or a painter may be involved, 

a hardware store delivery truck, or a paint store delivery truck?” 

Mark Isaac returned to the volley. Albert had the ball. Wait, 

the doorbell again. It was Trent. Jonathan jumped. The boys hugged, 

punched each other too many times far too hard. Heshie winced, like 

it hurt him. Trent looked great, very strong. The boys dropped to the 

table and sat comfortably with the poets and the scientists, but it was 

Trent who was the center of attention. Their arms were around Eileen. 

146 



Joshua was next to Trent. Ginsberg was salivating. Burroughs thought 

this moment of boundlessness was his time to leer at Joshua. 

Jonathan, “So, you still working out with Weismuller?” 

Trent, “Yeah, kickin’ some ass.” 

Eileen, “Can you seriously beat him?” 

Trent, “I am a better sprinter, and better backstroker. He has 

me dead in the water on distance free.” 

Jonathan, “Then I’ll swim ‘im.” 

Trent, “You could if you wanted, you know, if you didn’t screw 

around with housing designs all the time.” 

Jonathan, “Never.” 

Mark Isaac, “Trent, your mother tells me they think you 

should play tennis and quit swimming, and they talked to your coach 

already.” 

Trent, “I know, the Yale tennis team is doing so well, and 

although swimming is good, my parents are positive that tennis is a 

better long-term decision.” 

Joshua, “Swim, Trent.” 

Eileen, “Swim, Trent.” 

Jonathan, “That’s bogus bullshit, just swim.” 

Eileen, “Hey, what about, what about Jonathan, he’s getting 

superfast, you should have seen him pull out on his 1650 against 

Princeton on Saturday. 1 st Place, you know.” Eileen was jammed 

between Jonathan and Trent. The table wasn’t full, but they seemed 

to be sharing a single space, their heat so obvious to her, so obvious, 

she thought, to Jack. She was beginning to redden. She let herself 

dream off to a moment when she could be alone, whoops, her eyes 

closed a second too long, oh no, that’s done it, it’s starting, she knew, 

she would soon find a mind-space to let her fingers do their dance 

to tunes of songs not yet written, majors and minors of lips assuaged 

and lips allured, lips supple and lips warm, fingers flying fearlessly, 

legs tightening, legs rising, spreading, rolls to her stomach, bounces 

to her knees, flips to her back, alone, in love, in love with her fingers, 

her boys, all of her boys, oh so fine, so fine, Jonathan’s thigh pressed 

against her, her Trent, his leg crushing her, intertwined at her ankle, 

her Mark, his chest, this Jack, that boy from Horn & Hardart, grown 

Michael from 3 rd grade, oh, those boys in that gym class from 11 th grade, 

that kid on that wet August day on the IRT, those nasty, funny Latin 

soccer players from Riverside, those friends of Joshua’s, that kid in her 

poetry class with his funny dimples, a little harder now, a little faster, 

dance, my fingers, dance. 

147



Jonathan, “Yeah, but I only took a 2 nd in the 200 Back. 

Albert, “But Jonathan, you do many sports — sailing, canoeing.” 

Jonathan, “Yeah, I can hop out of a canoe real fast.” 

Trent, “Hey let’s go canoeing again, man.” 

Albert, “Yes, so you can write more poems.” 

Jonathan, “Lay off with the poetry stuff, Uncle Albert, I don’t 

like it.” 

Kerouac, “It doesn’t matter if you like it, you do it, so you are 

a poet.” 

Albert, “You are a poet, Jonathan.” 

Jonathan, “No, dear Uncle, I write poetry.” 

“Read Jonathan, please,” said Albert, certain that however 

good Burroughs, Kerouac and Ginsberg may be, they should hear his 

Jonathan. Such a boy. 

“No, Uncle Albert, let them, they are the poets,” said Jonathan. 

From Albert, “Please, son, as a favor to me, read your long 

Delaware poem, the one I read, the one where you went canoeing with 

Trent. I think you have talent. For me, please.” 

Trent, “What poem about the Delaware?” 

Jonathan, “From one of our trips downriver. Just faggot bullshit 

junk.” 

Trent, “Get it, dope. I wanna hear.” 

Jonathan blushed his way to his room to fetch his journal. 

When he returned, he presented this ultimatum: “I will read this on 

the condition that it is not discussed afterward, and that you continue 

the conversation as if I hadn’t read it.” Everyone nodded in a facetious 

unison. He cleared his clear throat like a clown, which eased 

the moment. 

“This poem is about a canoe trip on the first hot day of spring 

two years ago. Trent and I paddled down the Delaware River from 

Cochecton to Narrowsburg. It was a great time, magic. On the way 

we pulled into an eddy, a large, quiet pool. We got out on the shore. 

The riverbank was entirely mud. We had a mud fight, swam naked 

in the pool, and then rolled in the mud until only our eyeballs were 

uncovered. We let it dry, climbed trees and ran around playing like 

monkeys. When we finally dove from a tree into the eddy pool, the 

mud slid off us like silk.” 

Trent, “Is this a poem about the mud?” 

Jonathan, “No.” 

148 



Trent, “Good.” 

Jonathan, “It’s about the River and how I was feeling.” 

Surprisingly, Jonathan stood, and read slowly, professionally, 

competitively, with more expression than anyone had ever expected. 

He even read his name, his middle name, too: 

149

~ The Idea of Order on the Delaware ~ 


He stroked beyond the dangers of the river. 

Haystacks formed to mind and voice, whitewater flux, 

Fluttering frightened baffles, reflexive repetitions, 

Singing sad sonatas, screaming sifted sounds: 

Our sounds, human sounds of pain, river rain, 

Potent panging pain — prismatic, and powerful. 

The Delaware is not the Colorado. Trent, River’s El Dorado. 

His strokes were the paddle’s merging motion, 

Each reach making river rise. 

Forearms at right angles and hands to bind the paddle shaft, 

Victim of the feathering grind. 

Trent, not the stream, not the paddle nor the water wild. 

He was the sweeper of eddied-wells. 

The ever-pounding, male marked river 

Was his runaway way to find peace from fear in fear. 

Is this a mad boy? I asked, because it was 

His spark I sought, and knew it was his 

Lats bulging to cross-bow rudder. 

If it was only the light turbulence of our stream 

That boiled and chromed sorely white with weather and sea. 

If it was only the heaving heat or reflected water whistling 

Instead of swells of passion forming within me. 

However calm river low, its run waning, 

The speaking speech of wind, 

Spring birds, 

Repeated through and juxtaposed to the 

Single steam train on the cliff. 

It was his hope that made Skinner’s Falls 

Overwhelming in its turbulence. 

Thin waist to thwart, heeling port; 

I on starboard bow resting on the deck. 

He was the lonely daresman of the world 

In which we paddled. And when he paddled, the stream 

Gave of itself, its self, and merged its motion with his. 

He was himself. And I? 

I am but his image stretching over the gunwale, 

Deep reaching his six foot paddle. 

And I know, I knew, that as the afternoon warmth against 

His hair turned it from blond to orange, 

The next morning’s sun would again make it yellow and pronounced. 

And I knew then, 

That the world of our river days would soon 

Turn south on a faster bend. 

Eileen, tell me, if you know descended dusk, dampened day, 

Why, when the bend deepened 

And thirty inch haystacks appeared, 

We thrust the canoe over our heads? 

Tell why the fragrant sun set, 

Day moon blue in the red sky? 

Raving rage, reaping red, blessed rage of order I resent 

Night’s portage which demands of me 

To see the seasonal reversals of my mind 

Claiming new holds on old people, 

Old holds on new, everfluxing swirling mind 

Random as the river flow. 

It was more than these things. 

More than the meaningful plungings of water and wind, 

Beavers’ dams, fiery dawns, chilling waters, brilliant hay 

Turned up and over with the narrowing and deepening river way. 

More than the Pennsylvania pasture at river’s edge, 

With her mountain end hailing trains of coal, 

Undisturbing landscape hedge. 

150 151



“Jonathan,” said Albert, “how can you say that you are not a 

poet?” 

Burroughs said, “Yes, your allusions are sophisticated, clear, 

dimensional.” 

“Right, even I like it, not that I would ever write like that.” 

said Kerouac. 

“You’re a poet,” said Ginsberg. 

“No, I’m not a poet because I don’t believe life works like I 

have written. It just isn’t this way. The allusion of poetry misleads 

the reader to think that life is afoot, which it is, but it’s not in the 

downriver direction.” 

“What are you talking about? Your poem makes sense in many 

ways,” said Eileen. 

“What’s not in this direction?” said Marcia. 

“Life isn’t in this direction. Life isn’t a downriver ride of best 

friends celebrating sunshine. That is a delusion,” said Jonathan. 

“What’s a delusion?” said Oppie. 

“The downriver ride with rock-free bouncing through safe deep 

water — the haystacks — as luscious spray droplets reflected through 

sunshine. That is a delusion since life is an upriver ride. Real life 

washes over you in a continuum of struggle. You pole the bottom 

each moment, always against the rush of unknown, rocky waters, 

your soul disemboweled ceaselessly as you attempt to beat the wrath 

of riverflow.” 

“Jesus, man, take a break, will you,” said Trent. 

“You see, Jonathan, I told you, you were a poet,” said Albert. 

Jonathan put his face on the table and hid his head with his 

arms and said, with a joking anger in a deep voice, “Ignorant, immobilized, 

imbalanced, I imply ignominious impoverishment. Inaccuracy, 

inane inability.” 

“Look smart kid, I’m a homosexual, and the pain of queers is 

worth millions in poetry books, if we ever get published,” said Allen. 

Burroughs, “With your guidance, Mr. Ginsberg, with your 

guidance.” 

Ginsberg, “Perhaps Lawrence Ferlinghetti will help us, the 

downtrodden faggot individualists that we may be.” 

Kerouac, “Adventure is the meaning of it all, adventure, to 

travel, to feel, to express. To City Lights we be gone.” 

Mark was looking at Trent, Eileen and Jonathan, at how extremely 

sexual they were, how in this stage in their life a sexual sway 

dominated their essence. It was so clear that Ginsberg and Burroughs 

152 



were damaged goods, as if homosexuality was the only option available 

to them. Trent and Jonathan may well have enjoyed each other. They 

joked of this. But their curiosity and desire for women was so obvious. 

Jonathan’s need to nurture a child was visible to Mark, though perhaps 

not yet conscious in Jonathan. 

Burroughs, “Life is boys, girls. Life is the light that terrorizes 

truth in the random execution of random events shaken up and juxtaposed 

to previously randomized events, all of which will end up in 

annihilation of others and annihilation of self.” 

Teller, “Mr. Burroughs, you make light of the dark side of the 

mind. You try to use light to show us how terrible we can be. You draw 

conclusions linearly. Show dimension. Light is not linear. Although, 

well, yes, if it were linear, if light was linear, it might be interesting, 

very interesting.” 

Burroughs, “Mr. Teller, you talk of making the brightest light 

ever made, and this from the darkest depths of your very own mind. 

You show us the most grotesque images of the dangers of man. What I 

do, Mr. Teller, makes us wonder if we should go on as a species. What 

you do provides the means for us to conclude my query.” 

Ω 

Trent, after swimming 

5 miles of butterfly... 

153

Committees To Die For 

✑ 

Mark Isaac was thinking about the poisons that could be creating 

the dysfunctional attitudes of the Scheckmans who were, unfortunately, 

an extremely large family. Mark Isaac described their attitudes to 

me personally, all of which was very trying material that takes courage 

to digest. A few Scheckmans were academics, a few socialists, a few 

anarchists, and most nouveau-riche Republican capitalists who believed 

entirely in corporate control. In fact, according to Mussolini and his 

student Ishmael Scheckman, the long dead patriarch of the mischoogana 

Scheckmans, when a state attains complete corporate control of the 

individual, then that state has achieved the highest order. Mussolini 

defined this achievement of corporate control as Fascism. In turn, 

with pride, Ishmael Scheckman defined this achievement as America. 

If Ishmael only knew. 

Success in the Scheckman family was not easy to attain. A son 

is valued according to the bottom line, the sum of his personal wealth. 

In contrast to these crazy Scheckmans, many Jews are academic, and 

don’t pay attention to money. Others are craftsmen or retailers who 

are comfortable with making a good living through their skill and labor. 

For the nouveau-riche poisoned mind — with its mix of relentless greed, 

paranoia and fixation on death — very few professions could attain 

credibility other than money-trades like brokering. A poorly paid job 

such as a University Professor or Rabbi might be OK, and might not. 

Albert was famous, so it’s not bad to be a University Professor like 

him. When he worked in the Patent Office, he was considered by his 

family to be no good as a person. Because he had no money and not 

such a good job, he had a bad ‘being,’ not that he was a criminal, but 

he couldn’t be a good person with such a bad job. You should ignore 

him, that Albert. He’s poor. Marcia’s Mark Isaac, well, he’s smart, so 

what? A teacher, a schlemiel. 

∞ 

A contingent of about 50 of Marcia Scheckman Rabinowitz’s 

infamous family lived on West End Avenue, which ran north-south 

beginning at 106th Street and continued south to later become 11th 

Avenue. The balance of this giant brood of 400 people in 4 generations 

lived in New Jersey. Many of the raving Upper West Side Scheckmans 

participated in social committees, promised Lara Scheckman’s money, 

wrote articles for the newspapers, and spoke proudly about their ‘Committee 

Politics.’ At formal balls they referred to their efforts as ‘Grass 

155

156 



Roots Politics’ to make them sound a little liberal. This was quite 

fashionable in this era when everyone found it necessary to pigeon-hole 

everyone else into political groups. Little children asked each other if 

they were Socialist or Communist or Capitalist. Bigger children made 

further inquiries into the type, style and intellectual leadership of a 

particular commitment. 

Political alignments flowed with the fickleness of clothing 

styles, and as fashion went left, many went left. When fashion went 

right, many went right. The biggest children of all, the government, 

the representatives of industry, were breeding infiltrators and spies 

by the thousand and wanted to protect status quo with a fervor. The 

government was not interested in change and certainly not revolution. 

Only a very tiny number of Americans were serious Communists and 

even fewer were interested in revolution. Improvement is very different 

from revolution. Paranoia ran deep, however, and a movement 

was later to grow to weed such people and words from our presence 

and vocabularies. 

Most of the Scheckman brood maintained a marginally intelligent, 

marginally interesting character. They put 100% of their money 

into show, and lived by their simple philosophy, ‘Society revolves 

around the buck.’ Money counted. Nothing else. Count money. The 

older generation of Scheckmans, the grandparents of Marcia, sometimes 

made children between aunt and nephew, uncle and niece, and 

1st and 2nd cousins. Some Scheckmans had 17 children. There were 

differences between rabbits and some of the Scheckmans. Rabbits were 

cute. Rabbits got along. Rabbits didn’t force their young to suicide. 

The Scheckmans were masters of this latter art. Some of the children 

couldn’t read and write, and others went to Ivy League schools and 

were seriously brilliant. Some Scheckmans wanted money so badly 

they lost their ability to reason. The matriarch, Lara Scheckman, 93, 

controlled the $7 million reaped through the chemical industry, but 

this she viewed as her gambling pin money and shared not a dime. 

She treated people to the most expensive restaurants sometimes three 

times a day regardless of the quality of the food. Whereas a fine chef 

might prefer the local diner if the food was good, the Scheckmans 

preferred a place that was fancy and expensive, somehow believing that 

the food must be good. They wore pounds of make-up and perfume 

though it made them look worse than their unpainted faces. Peculiarly, 

their friends thought them to be wonderful people and lectured their 

suicidal children how lucky they were to have such a fine family. Lara 

talked of dying 15 times a day, but it was only funny to some. Matri- 



arch Lara had three sons, Jared, 58, father to Jeffrey; Daniel, 66, father 

to Marcia, 39, and Rusty, 43; and Horace, 70, father to Richard, who 

himself had four children. 

∞ 

With so many Scheckmans on so many committees it was 

easier for Chief Shawnessy to ask Mark to help investigate than to try 

to peel his own way through the many layers of the phoniness of the 

Scheckmans. This didn’t bother Mark, at first, and he was enjoying 

the sleuthing. He thought he had been resourceful so far, and at least 

with his help the investigation seemed to be moving. He thought 

it made sense, good sense to question the Scheckmans. Mark Isaac 

usually avoided them, but now was spending time with them, asking 

questions. He thought he was subtle, and they wouldn’t notice. He 

was wrong. The Scheckmans were highly suspicious. 

Determining the type of paint that had been poured into Central 

Park and was present on Anthony’s bicycle took some time. The 

lab knew in one hour that it was the same paint in the Park as on the 

bottom bracket of the bike, but they couldn’t find any samples of paint 

that matched this formula. Stagnoli’s, Martinelli’s and Londonderry’s 

boys went after the paint stores and hardware stores. They brought 

back about 30 different specialty paints. After about a week’s effort, 

forensics finally sent for a paint chemist, who determined that traffic 

paint was the generic type of paint in question, although they couldn’t 

know the brand. The forensics team learned that traffic paint differed 

from most other paints in three ways. It was considerably thinner, contained 

more dryers and contained more pigment solids. A paint with 

a low viscosity, a thin paint, would penetrate the blacktop or concrete. 

A viscous paint would sit on top of the blacktop and would peel off. 

With a high concentration of pigment the paint held its color longer 

under the abuse of traffic. All of the dryers helped it dry quickly, even 

on the oily surface of blacktop. 

The detective’s teams went to several paint stores, returned to 

forensics, and were told to go to more stores. They eventually went 

to every paint store in Manhattan, with no luck. There was no brand 

match. The next batch of samples from Brooklyn resulted in two 

matches of paints from different brands. The detectives and forensics 

argued methodology. They were more careful this time and went out 

again to buy quarts or gallons of even more different brands. There 

were again more matches. They covered the five Boroughs of New 

York City — Manhattan, The Bronx, Brooklyn, Queens and Staten 

157



Island. They also covered a few towns in lower Westchester, as well as a 

sampling of towns from New Jersey: Hoboken, Secaucus, Weehawken, 

Elizabeth, Tennafly, Clifton, Passaic and Paterson. 

Using 6 different factory names the police teams uncovered 15 

different brand names, and forensics was 99% sure that all of the 15 

brands were made not in 6 separate factories, as the labels indicated, but 

in one factory. A visit to all 6 of the factories in Upstate New York and 

New Jersey revealed that the Weehawken factory had made the traffic 

paint, and upon further investigation, learned that Horace Scheckman 

owned the Weehawken factory in question. He was partners with other 

Scheckmans in the ownership of the other paint factories. 

∞ 

Chaim Scheckman worked hard on the Friends of the Park and 

Crisis of the Aging committees. He was a well-dressed, well-educated 

Yale man who owned a successful plumbing supply business. He had 

three sons. Mark Isaac grilled him warmly and politely about his involvement 

in the committees and surmised a bit more about his life. 

Unfortunately, the more he gathered about the Scheckman world, the 

less he liked this job. Chaim’s son Peter was a scumbag bookie who 

made $20,000 in 1940. Dennis was a well-known research chemist 

who developed incendiary bombs making $4,000 a year. Ronnie was 

a university professor teaching the deaf, and making $2,000 a year. 

Chaim parceled out his love accordingly. He gave Peter the bookie 5 

times the love that he gave to Dennis the bomb-maker, and 5 times 

the amount of money in presents. He loved the bomb-maker Dennis 

twice as much as Ronnie the teacher, and 1/10 th as much as Peter the 

bookie. He felt closer emotionally to Peter than the rest of the family, 

because Peter made money. Chaim may or may not have liked bookmaking, 

it wouldn’t matter. Success means only money, nothing else. 

How far does Chaim carry this? It’s better to have a rich son who is a 

killer than a poor son who is a teacher. 

If our poor schlep college teacher Ronnie also happened to 

be a nationally ranked athlete, and informed his family that he just 

broke a national endurance record, he would not be heard. His family 

would never have appeared at any of his athletic competitions, since 

although he was training 5 hours a day for 15 years, it was a waste of 

time, whatever he was doing, because he was not making money. His 

national record would not be denied. It also would not be heard. 

Since they didn’t hear it they couldn’t congratulate him, and certainly 

could not tell anyone about it. If the teacher/athlete spent 20 years 

158 



telling his family that he broke that record, they still would not have 

heard it. If he had big muscles and was very strong and looked like 

he might have been able to do such a thing, the family would have 

then thought they were just mis–seeing a temporary condition. They 

would laugh at him. 

Why? Were the Scheckmans cruel, cruel and stupid, or just 

stupid? Ronnie, the teacher, is poor. If he’s poor, he’s a schlub. If he’s a 

schlub, he’s not an athlete. If he’s not an athlete, he is lying about what 

he is saying, so ignore the lies and don’t listen. If the uncoordinated 

bastard bookie brother Peter puts on red pants and a white belt and 

cleated shoes and an overpriced shirt from a status-minded store, and 

sits on a golf bench at an expensive club course and manages to hit a 

ball, the family says, “Oh you should see my fabulous son, the wonderful 

golfer, such an athlete.” And they can’t wait to see him, Peter the 

bookie, to give him real estate and love and stock. They are afraid to 

see the teacher/athlete Ronnie, who must be a liar. 

Ronnie designed and developed a technical system through 

which deaf people could conveniently communicate by telephone. It 

helped thousands of people talk easily and improved their lives substantially. 

This would have been heard by his family if he had made 

money on the invention, but since he didn’t he was a bigger schlemiel 

than if he had never created the technology. He, in fact, achieved a 

new status, that of schlimazel. He had done well for thousands, and his 

human worth to his own family declined. Life in all families is complex. 

The rules of this nouveau-riche Jewish family was atrocious. 

Mark Isaac was embarrassed that he had spent time with Chaim 

Scheckman. He was embarrassed to be in the same room with him. 

He also learned little about the committees. Next on his agenda would 

be troubled Jeffrey. 

∞ 

Jared’s son Jeffrey was 17 and pretty fat. He was sometimes really 

fat, sometimes really screwing up school, totally zitted out, jealous of 

Joshua and intimidated by Jonathan. He idealized Joshua, and wanted 

to be exactly like him, and wanted a magic wand to make him as smart 

and cute and thin and ultimately cool as deeply dimpled Joshua. Jeffrey 

thought he was fat and dumb, not a self-image for anyone, and not one 

he was about to beat. It was a malady that came from rich parents who 

traveled and left their only son to maids, nannies, military schools, 

prep schools, relatives who hated him, relatives who told him he was 

an accident, relatives who despised him, and relatives who told him 

159



he was too stupid to go to college. Jeffrey wished he was an orphan. 

If he was, he would have been treated nicely. It would be better to be 

anything than an accident, you accident, you are ruining our lives, you 

accident. If only someone would adopt him. 

Mark Isaac said to Jeffrey, who was wolfing down some lekvar 

cookies, “Jeffrey son, how is school?” 

“Fine, Uncle Mark. I’m getting good grades this spring.” 

“Have you been playing stickball a lot? Jonathan said you played 

with him yesterday.” 

“Sometimes. I like stickball, stickball and soccer and handball 

are my favorites. I hate football.” 

Jeffrey typically came home from school to a locked house. 

Some days he kicked his door for an hour until concerned neighbors 

brought them into their homes. They would call relatives to find out 

what was going on, to learn that the family went to Florida or Lake 

George and forgot to tell Jeffrey. Thank god for the neighbors, but it 

didn’t matter much. Suicide was Jeffrey’s interest. Albert sat next to 

Jeffrey often, trying to be nice. He talked to him, put his arm around 

his shoulder, but Albert didn’t have the time that Jeffrey needed. If a 

man gives a boy his time for a few months, perhaps a few summers for 

a few years, it may be all the boy needs to survive. If the man shares 

his tricks with the boy — such as swimming or woodworking — he 

might make it, he might survive. Jeffrey wasn’t doing very well. When 

Anthony was alive, he seemed to see Jeffrey’s hell, but he thought he 

couldn’t cross the religious barrier; Jeffrey wasn’t responsive to him. 

Anthony tried to speak with Jared, Jeffrey’s father, but he couldn’t cross 

the money barrier. Anthony thought Jonathan might be able to help 

Jeffrey, and promised himself that he would talk with him right after 

the Day of the Harps, a day that Anthony would never see. 

Depression doesn’t hit everyone and doesn’t hit everyone the 

same way. For Jeffrey, it started like this: “I’m no good, everyone 

hates me, no one wants me, no one calls me, no one wants to be with 

me, why am I alone, why don’t people like me, I’m stupid, I’m ugly, 

I’ll never get into college, I’m no good.” After an hour, or a day, or a 

week, or a month of this, regardless of his commitment and discipline 

to his most recent resolution, the self-hatred penetrated his thin defensive 

walls, and depending on the series of humiliations of the day, the 

cracks in the walls spread like mycelium layers of mushroom roots in 

a cow pasture. If he was lucky, he could find something to do which 

would keep the cracks from spreading out of control. Usually, aware 

of the upcoming depression, he could fill some cracks in the wall with 

160 



a dozen pieces of cake, pie, pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers or other highly 

effective patch material. With this method, at the point of achieving 

super-stuffed, the defensive walls were puffed out, acted structurally 

strong and each crack worked as if it were really fixed. People couldn’t 

tell how depressed he was. He was even funny, really funny sometimes. 

Usually a quart or half-gallon of ice cream could fill in most parts of the 

walls that flaked away during the rest of the day, at least until dinner. 

If his parents were home and not travelling, there would be extensive 

humiliation to suffer, but at least there were 10,000 or 20,000 calories 

of additional patch material available. 

The humiliation of Jeffrey’s ‘home’ family dinners was not as 

bad as the loneliness and self-hatred, since the food was rich and good 

and endless. His mom, Doralyn, spent most of the dinner talking about 

how ugly he was and how fat he was regardless of his actual weight. 

Sometimes he was skinny. She told him how he had to do better in 

school, how he better wear better clothes, how he better exercise, how 

he shouldn’t be a chump, how much better his friends looked, how 

neat his friends dressed, how wonderful his friends could comb their 

hair. Then she would repeat the entire routine, from the top, over 

and over again. When he was younger and wet his bed at night, she 

trained him into a dizziness that caused his brain and soul to spin with 

speeds unknown to homosapiens. “I must not wet my bed.” Faster, 

she lectured, faster, say it faster. The phrase rocketed in tight circles, 

searing a jet-stream path upon his child’s mind, over and over, “I must 

not wet my bed,” faster, faster, faster. He fell out of bed, always, dizzy 

with the intense, gyroscopic revolutions of repetition. Sometimes he 

blacked-out from the pain of the speed. 

When she was home, his mother tried, sometimes. Doralyn 

would say this to father, Jared, “Nebuch, give the kid a tumble. Talk to 

him, will you, he needs to hear your voice.” Jared didn’t, wouldn’t. 

Jared wasn’t raising Jeffrey in silence, a custom practiced by some of a 

particular Jewish sect known as the Lubovitch, and practiced by some of 

another sect who studied the Jewish Book of Mysticism, the Kabala 3 . 

Jared was just ignoring him. Year after year, ignoring him. If Cousin 

Sally was there, she would call Jeffrey a bastard or fill his plate with 

more food and smile down on him. She would talk with her friends 

so that he could hear, “Jeffrey is such a bastard, I absolutely hate him.” 

If Cousin Roy was there, he’d jab his finger in Jeffrey’s chest hard, repeatedly, 

and say, “Why don’t you ever listen, you are so stupid because 

you have a mind of your own, learn to listen, you are no good, learn, 

turn your life around, learn, the society revolves around the buck, you 

161



must learn to listen, turn your life around. I went to NYU, I know. 

I am smart. You are not. ‘To thine own self be true.’ You will never 

get into college, so you must learn from me.” 

In 17 years, the number of conversations with his parents: 0. 

With Roy and Sally, his alter-parents: 10. Condescending and humiliating 

lectures: 10,000. Times abandoned for multiple weeks: 100; for 

multiple months: 50. “Just remember, Jeffrey, never have children, 

never make babies, never. God-forbid, your children would turn out 

like you.” Ah, family life with the Scheckmans. Great to be alive. 

Mark asked, “Jeffrey, sometimes I see you here at the apartment 

working with some of Father August’s committees, right?” 

“Yup.” 

“Tell me about them.” 

“Just one. I just work on one committee, Uncle Mark, just 

the one called the Morningside Air-Rights Rezoning Committee. It 

is supposed to make recommendations to the City. I takes notes for 

them and they call me the scribe.” 

“Who’s on that committee?” 

“Father August is, of course, on it, you know, used to be on 

it, and Father O’Reilly and a lot of our cousins like Sally and Roy and 

Richard and Chaim and Ronnie and this guy Nicky Fozzoni. He’s 

funny. And two ladies who didn’t say much and I can’t remember 

their last names, Maggie, Maggie and Josephine, and about 6 people 

more.” 

“Does Cousin Richard go each time, and how often does it 

meet?” 

“Someone calls me when they are going to have a meeting. We 

have had most of them here, or at Father August’s house. They think 

we have the meetings once a month, but I think they are more like 

every 3 weeks. I’m really, really sorry your friend Anthony died, Uncle 

Mark. I liked him and he always tried to find out how I was doing.” 

“Me too, Jeffrey, me too. You know he was my best friend. 

Tell me about Cousin Richard.” 

“Oh yeah, he is there every time. He always waits until the 

end and then talks, and a lot of times we go out to dinner. He’s the 

smartest because he waits until the end to talk.” 

“What does he say?” 

“He wants the church to sell its Air-Rights, that’s all. He says 

the air belongs to Morningside Heights, that’s all.” 

Jeffrey’s dream time in his teenage years lost the raging gyrations 

of his childhood. His dream time was neither nightmare-centered nor 

162 



bad. It was fun. It couldn’t change the way things were during the day, 

and it couldn’t fix his deeply inculcated self-hatred, but it kept him 

alive. Dream Time was the one thing that Jeffrey had. Jeffrey’s shrink, 

who had retired as Dean of Psychiatry at Yale, said that Jeffrey was the 

only true genius he had ever known. But no one else knew this. His 

shrink tried to teach Jeffrey a few things. He said that he must learn 

to love the struggle of life, that he must appreciate his own curiosity, 

and that he must inventory the tricks of life that make terrible times 

tolerable, bad times alright, and good times great. Jeffrey tried. Inside, 

Jeffrey thought most people knew that he was a dumb ass, a seriously 

ugly stupid fuck. Even when his shrink told him how smart he was, 

Jeffrey couldn’t digest the information. Even when Jeffrey worked out 

so hard that he got in great shape and looked great and played soccer 

better than his friends, the self-hatred wouldn’t go away. 

“Jeffrey, do you like all of the other people who go to the 

meeting?” 

“Well, you know about half of them. Father O’Reilly, he’s 

pretty nice except since Father August died he’s kinda mixed up, and 

we only had one meeting since. Cousin Roy is a jerk and talks too 

much. Stupid Cousin Sally goes sometimes, but I don’t know why, 

and Nicky is pretty funny. That’s about it.” 

“So Jeffrey, where do you keep the notes, you know, where are 

they now?” 

“Spoon has them, I always put the notebook back in his room 

in Father August’s house after the meeting, but I guess it’s Spoon’s 

house now.” 

“Where does Cousin Richard take you to dinner?” 

Jeffrey said, “We go to Tom’s or the West End or the Chinese 

place on 129 th way down on Broadway. That place is great. Sometimes 

we go to the Hungarian place on Amsterdam, too. It’s real home-made 

there. Cousin Richard always complains about his wife and about his 

kids. I guess he hasn’t seen them in two years. They spend their time 

Upstate with her boyfriend, that guy Boris, you know him. Cousin 

Richard is here in the City all the time so I eat with him whenever he 

wants cause my parents are always away. Sometimes Nicky or Spoon 

come with us and Richard always treats. I eat at your house a whole 

lot, you know that, right?” 

Mark said, “Jeffrey, we love to have you eat with us, and stay 

with us whenever you want. Our house is your house, you know that. 

If you don’t want to stay at Roy and Sally’s, stay with us. I thought I 

163



saw you at the Weekend of Hope with Cousin Richard. Did you and 

Richard help at the Poor Dinner?” 

Mark Isaac had also seen Spoon on Friday of the Weekend of 

Hope, around sunrise. Mark Isaac was riding back from a lap around 

Central Park, and saw Spoon unusually dressed, in a simple pull-over 

frock like the one Anthony frequently wore. He was on the great 

steps of St. John’s, daydreaming again, blowing spit bubbles. What a 

name, “Spoon.” Spoon had said he used to suck on spoons right into 

high school and that’s how he got the name. Perhaps that is how he 

developed his craft of spit-bubbling, too. 

As a man who was somewhat short, somewhat thin, somewhat 

hairy, somewhat dark, and somewhat bald, Father Spoon O’Reilly 

considered himself somewhat ugly. He was experienced in self-hatred, 

too. He was also not immediately trusted by the St. John’s parish. 

Spoon had spent many years in Africa, on a mission. When Mark Isaac 

asked Spoon about the mission, he blew more bubbles. Mark Isaac 

asked Shawnessy to see if he had a record with the police. Shawnessy 

said they had checked, but he was clean. Mark Isaac asked Shawnessy 

to ask every prison the name of its priests in the years immediately 

before O’Reilly arrived at St. John’s. “Get a complete list, U.S. and 

Canada.” 

Jeffrey told Mark, “I helped set-up and take-down for the Poor 

Dinner with Joshua that day, but Cousin Richard laughs at that stuff, 

but I guess that guy Nicky Fozzoni thinks it’s OK cause he did stuff 

but the two ladies didn’t and our cousins didn’t. But I know Cousin 

Richard was there a lot that day but I guess he was doing something 

else. How come you didn’t help?” 

“I helped other years but this year I had to make a machine over 

in Physics. I had to finish it and deliver it to Princeton that weekend. 

I will help next year, though.” 

Jeffrey was in killer shape recently and his friends were hot for 

him and girls came out of nowhere to be with him. People who never 

knew anything about him told him that he should be a movie star. 

Some people told him he was probably entirely arrogant and an asshole 

because he looked so good. One day he was playing basketball with 

some friends in Riverside Park. Shirts and Skins. After the game he 

was lying on the benches with some friends. A woman walked up to 

him, bent over and whispered to him, “You are an obnoxious, conceited 

and self-centered boy to think you can take your shirt off here. I despise 

your self-confidence.” The other kids had their shirts off, too, but she 

164 



said this to Jeffrey. He couldn’t conceive that this woman might have 

had her own problems. He laughed with the boys, but unlike them, 

he went home dizzy, very dizzy, assuming he was bad. 

About a week after the little meeting with Mark Isaac, Jeffrey 

bumped into his chubby friend Mickey, who had his soccer ball. They 

went for an Egg Cream at Izzy’s Mill Luncheonette on Broadway between 

112th and 113th. Mickey was pretty muddy from the game, and 

it looked like he hadn’t washed his hair in a month. Jeffrey’s parents 

were in town that week, and he had an idea. He asked Mickey to tag 

along. They went to Kaplan’s clothing store next to the West End Bar. 

Jeffrey had a charge account at the store and he bought brand-new 

clothes — nice tan chino’s and a light blue button-down shirt from 

the window. Jeffrey put on the new clothes and he and Mickey went 

to see Jeffrey’s mother. He rang the bell, since his mother wouldn’t 

give him a key. “Mickey, so wonderful to see you, my, Mickey my dear 

you look so wonderful, oh I hope you can stay for dinner, you are so 

handsome. Jeffrey why can’t you wear nice clothes like Mickey, why 

do you always have to look so terrible, look at this beautiful boy, so 

skinny and handsome. Please, let Mickey show you how to take care 

of yourself.” 

∞ 

Jeffrey hung himself in his bedroom in his black suit so he 

shouldn’t cause trouble for the undertaker. He bought a book on 

knots, Marlinespike Seamanship 4 and practiced, and bought a very nice 

piece of line from Marine Supply on Canal Street. He made some 

beautiful knots, even a good splice, and a well-made noose. He carefully 

pinned a white envelope on his lapel. Inside was a commercial 

greeting card printed in light gray ink. The cover said, “In Sympathy,” 

and inside, printed in black ink, “We’re eternally grieved over the loss 

of your loved one, and share with you the burden of this sad day.” 

Jeffrey thought he best get this card for himself. He believed that no 

one would get him a card. He pinned and repinned the card several 

times on his lapel — it should look straight later. He felt no sadness, 

no emotion. He was glad to be stopping this, wondering why he waited 

so long. Jeffrey chose a Saturday night for his death. 

Jeffrey was warmly fondling the line from which he made his 

death call. He was proud of it, proud of the fine, perfectly tethered 

splice he had wound into the upper loop. He was proud that he 

wrapped the lower line loosely so as to not crimp the individual threads. 

As he kicked over the night table that he was standing on, he heard 

165


166 


Aunt Sally yelling to turn on the water, “Jeffrey, you bastard, you are 

disgusting I can hear you pissing in the toilet, turn on the water and 

close the bathroom door.” One arm reached out to turn on the water, 

another to close the door. And he saw his 3rd Grade poster suddenly 

covering the walls and he could see nothing else. It was his poster, 

personally signed 32 times and annotated with 32 unique expressions 

by each and every one of the 31 kids in his class and by Mrs. Steinmetz, 

“Jeffrey is fat, Jeffrey is a pig, Jeffrey is bigger than a house, Fat = Jeffrey, 

Disgusting Jeffrey, Pig Jeffrey, oink, oink, chubby, Bigger, Fatter, 

Dumber, Fattest Kid in the School.” Dizzying now, oh no, I’m going 

to wet my bed, “I must not wet my bed,” faster, “I must not wet my 

bed,” “I must not wet my bed,” “I must not wet my bed,” faster, faster 

raced the dead child, hanging. 

∞ 

Fortunately, Jews don’t believe in an afterlife. Jeffrey didn’t 

know that his parents were going to Lake George the next day and 

would leave without checking on him. Only when the decorator came 

for his annual redecorating some days later did he encounter the smell, 

faint, recover, and call the police. It was good there was no afterlife. Jeffrey 

would not have wanted to smell. Not smell, no, not that, anything 

but that. Dead was OK. Smelling was bad. The newspaper said that 

Jeffrey was in a boating accident and that his grieved parents would 

console themselves on Lake George where the accident occurred. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac and Marcia and Jonathan and Joshua went to 

Jeffrey’s funeral, and immediately drove up to Bear Mountain Inn. 

They wanted to get away. They didn’t want to go near Doralyn and 

Jared who left word that they were too grieved to sit shiva at home and 

would stay at the Sagamore on Lake George instead. Marcia knew that 

Mark was now talking to all of her cousins and uncles, and knew that 

Mark’s mood would get worse as he learned more about them. Mark 

Isaac and the boys took a few days off from school. They wanted to 

get out of the City and to be alone with Marcia. Jonathan and Joshua 

were going to need a lot of work to come out of this without guilt. 

So would Mark and Marcia. Jeffrey had spent a lot of time at their 

house, enough that this shouldn’t have happened. They knew things 

were very bad in his ‘home life,’ if you dared to call it that, but they 

couldn’t understand the extent. Sunday was Easter Sunday, and they 

awoke about 4:00 AM to give themselves plenty of time to drive up 



the road to West Point to watch the outdoor Easter Sunrise Service, 

this year, Catholic. 

West Point is situated on a strategically-curved, deeply-wooded 

section of the Hudson River, high up on cliffs that the river had carved 

millennia ago. Rarely is architecture and nature so in tune with expressing 

the same thing: majesty, control and power. With the sun rising 

and the college-age cadets assembling casually for the optional service, 

it was incredibly easy to believe in a god, since the cliffs cascading 

into the winding Hudson are truly inspirational. Mark Isaac, Marcia, 

Jonathan and Joshua stood far to the back of the outdoor ceremony 

and listened to the Priest attack the Jews for murdering Jesus. Jewish 

people get used to hearing this, since it has been said in certain Catholic 

Easter ceremonies for nearly two thousand years. It was, however, the 

first time Joshua had ever heard it, and Joshua looked very angry. He 

felt personally attacked. He stood between Jonathan and Mark who 

put their arms around him. Mark rested against a round brownstone 

boulder, its bronze plaque cool against him. Marcia snuggled up. 

Marcia, “Honey, you have been to the services of many religions, 

and this only happens once or twice a year in Catholicism.” 

Joshua, “Mom, it shouldn’t happen at all.” 

Marcia, “You are right, and one day it will change. But this 

service is so beautiful, it seemed worth the price. Besides, I think 

Daddy somehow finds it instructive to hear.” 

Mark, “Marcia, Marcia, I could do without being accused of a 

murder that may have taken place 2000 years ago.” 

Jonathan, “Go Dad, you tell ‘em.” 

Mark, “It will change one day, your mother is right. Meanwhile 

we should rent a small plane and cruise through these beautiful, sheer 

cliffs above the Hudson.” 

Marcia, “We are not all getting in a little airplane together, 

thank you.” 

Jonathan, “Dad, we’re going to go throw the football around 

with those guys, OK?” 

Mark, “Sure, see if they can take you up to the dorm and show 

you are around, too.” 

Jonathan, “OK, catch ya,” 

Joshua, “Soon.” 

Marcia, “Don’t make noise, almost everyone is asleep.” 

As the boys were running toward a field to where some families 

167



and cadets were throwing some footballs around, Jonathan started 

singing, an unheard of event. 

168 

“Did ya ever wanna pee in the pool, 

Did ya ever wanna swim in a sewer? 

Did ya ever wanna punch your coach, 

Did ya ever wanna eat a roach?” 

Joshua started laughing and jumped on Jonathan’s back, knocking 

him over. They wrestled it out. 

“That was terrible,” said Joshua. 

“Thanks,” said Jonathan. 

“You have a shitty voice and you can’t write songs.” 

“Right, I suck at that stuff.” 

“So don’t do it any more. Stick to poetry.” 

“No, I’m not a poet either.” 

“Yes, you are, you’re a homo poet fag.” 

“OK, I will write more songs, and besides, you’re a pinko commie 

fag.” 

“‘Handsome purple beans are jumpy birds, 

Careful you banana, that’s a bomb.’” 

“That’s no song, that’s one of crazy Jeremy’s things.” 

“He’s not crazy, he’s smart.” 

“He’s a bum, a panhandler.” 

“He’s had bad luck, dope, and don’t ever, ever think it couldn’t 

happen to any one of us.” 

“Not to me.” 

“We spend our entire lives trying to prevent that, but it happens 

easily. I think he was a smart guy.” 

“Why doesn’t he get a job and good clothes?” 

“It may not be so easy, and by this time, he may have been on 

the street too long. 

“‘Flying boys are bombs. 

The beast flew across the bird.’” 

“Shut-up, you are weird enough. Quote William Blake, not 

Jeremy.” 

Jonathan, who had been either unusually talkative or unusually 



quiet since Jeffrey’s death, did write a few lines, which he read before 

dinner at the Bear Mountain Inn: 

Windward 

Orphans 

Accidents 

Uncles 

Aunts 

Tillers 

Rudders 

Hearts 

Bones 


Cousin I, Blind I 

Shallow as she goes, Jeffrey, 

Hard to Leeward! 

Bow into the Wind, Jeffrey. 

Ah! Now I see your Jibe, Jeffrey. 

Now I see it. Now I see it. 

I can’t Come About, Jeffrey. 

Jeffrey. 

∞ 

Daniel Scheckman — uncle to the deceased Jeffrey Scheckman, 

brother to Jared and Horace, father to Marcia and Rusty and grandfather 

to Jonathan and Joshua — tried sincerely to be a financial success 

but was a notorious failure in every one of his dozen businesses. He 

had profitable ideas and very well thought-out businesses. Daniel’s selfimage 

was so damaged from the sadistic and mixed-message matriarchy 

of his life that he could never raise a dime to finance even one idea. 

Daniel was gentle and kind. He did nice things for people, and was a 

good friend. He just seemed to wear that little sign on his forehead: 

‘Fuck Me.’ In the Jewish-genetic gear of business–automatic, Daniel 

wasn’t afraid to try his hand at business. His father taught him to ring 

a cash register at 4 years old, then never taught him another thing. It 

didn’t matter. He thought that if his stupid family could market their 

169



wares he could build a business. He jumped in with what little money 

he had — each time — and prayed that by working 18 hour days 7 days 

a week he would make up for his lack of capitalization. Daniel tried 

hard. He needed a break. One of his relatives, for instance, might 

become a customer, might give him a break. Perhaps one of his friends 

might throw him a bone, friends for whom Daniel had done many 

favors. No such luck. Daniel lost, and lost. Every time. 

In the birth of his twilight years, when aging first pried its 

way into his uniquely unsuccessful life, any remaining will or identity 

of the good Daniel Scheckman had finally worn. He closed his last 

business for Jeffrey’s funeral, and never bothered re-opening. It, too, 

was a loser, as was he, he thought. Naked of soul, he had come to 

understand that no culture had a single ounce of respect for him. He 

knew his family laughed at him as they did at so many, many relatives 

who were not wealthy. They spoke nicely to the poor relatives in person 

or on the phone. Then, behind their backs, with an arrogance 

as impenetrable as a 10’ thick concrete wall, they tore the guts from 

their poor relatives spirits like rabid wolves. They laughed at them in 

a tone that you only had to hear once to despise. Daniel refused to be 

thought of like this anymore. He would kill himself in the Scheckman 

tradition, he thought, rope for hardon. Fiery death by auto was more 

convenient, however, and when he saw the perfect embankment on a 

fast, curving road Upstate, he took to the air and crashed his car into 

a tree at full speed. 

∞ 

“Anthony, my best friend? Jeffrey, our lost cousin? Daniel, your 

father? How can this be happening, all in one year, this 1941, fuck it, 

just fuck it. Marcia, this is impossible,” Mark said, “Man cannot be in 

such bad shape. We cannot be in this shape. I don’t like this deceitful 

sleuthing anymore, or at least, I don’t like penetrating into your family 

like this. I would rather just stay in the shop.” 

The funeral and 10 days of shiva was over, but by this time 

Marcia was numb to her onslaught of tragedies. “Mark, you know 

what this is doing to me, too, but all of these things are related, they 

are all one, somehow. You must look at them. Until now we have had 

easy lives, Mark. You have never given up on anything, and you can’t 

now that times are hard. It seems that they need you to help with this 

detective work, so you must.” 

To continue would mean looking into Richard Scheckman 

next, something Mark feared, though he didn’t know why. All of his 

170 



committee research wasn’t amounting to much, and it was plain old 

shitty to be getting to know the Scheckmans this well. Mark didn’t 

trust money, though he secretly thought he wouldn’t mind having 

more. He would investigate Richard with help to make it easier on 

him emotionally. His first two helpers turned out to be all he would 

need. Richard had recently fired his secretary Sharon who had been 

with him about ten years. She had made a delivery to Mark’s apartment 

in her first week on the job, and Marcia and Sharon hit it off 

immediately. Sharon had an Apple Strudel recipe that they savored 

and baked together weekly for an entire decade. 

Sharon, “I am so completely furious that Richard fired me after 

ten years that I don’t even have enough swear words to use against 

him, the fuck.” 

Marcia, “As kids he was my kissin’-cousin. He’s not the same 

person as an adult, or maybe he was always going to grow into this kind 

of self-centered jerk, and I was just too dumb to notice.” 

Sharon, “Ten years, if you can imagine. He is so consumed 

with himself and his lousy money it just makes me sick. He screamed 

my name so many times across the office that I want to change my 

name legally. I can’t stand the sound of my own name.” 

Marcia, “Money is what it’s all about. I’m not actually a socialist. 

I’m probably an apologist for socialists. But whether this is a 

socialist or capitalist idea doesn’t matter. It’s a good idea, and that’s 

what must survive. Good ideas must always survive regardless of 

origin. Here’s the idea. If a person has proven that she can survive 

in a workplace for 5 years, she should then have lifetime ‘tenure’ as a 

worker. If her bosses want to fire her, they cannot. But they can trade 

her to another company at the same salary rate and benefits options, 

or more. And ‘tenured workers’ would always receive salary increases 

based on common elements that reflect the increases in the cost of 

living. People get fired for uncountable reasons. Mostly their bosses 

are tired of them, like Richard with you. Sometimes they genuinely 

slip, they get lazy. A new workplace would probably excite them, encourage 

them. This idea of giving good workers tenure and trading 

workers who appear to be slipping is something that all cultures could 

live with forever.” 

“Nothing justified my firing. I have done the same good job 

as always. He just got tired of me, you’re right.” 

Sharon and Marcia were close, and Sharon was also a confidant 

of Rusty’s. Sharon knew all of the stories, how Richard and 

Rusty were such best friends, like Jonathan and Trent. Two boys who 

171



couldn’t be apart for a second. They just needed each other all the 

time. Marcia told Sharon how Richard and Rusty would run down 

to Toffinetti’s on 42nd Street weekend after weekend and go to plays 

and parties together. Marcia told Sharon that she heard a camping trip 

story from when Richard and Rusty were 14. She said Richard woke 

up in the morning and saw Rusty high up in a tree entirely naked and 

masturbating. Sharon laughed so hard she fell to the floor. 

Marcia, too, remembered catching Richard with Rusty, more 

than once, and she told Sharon this, too. She often wondered about 

these things with so many boys, and wondered who was fooling around 

with whom. She knew there was a ten year span of this with Richard 

and Rusty, and couldn’t possibly understand Richard’s brutal rejection 

of him. She thought if she was younger she might have fooled 

around with Sharon, she liked her that much. When she thought 

about Jonathan and Trent, she thought they would stop when girls 

became a bit more important. She wondered about her brother Rusty’s 

love for Richard, and how it hurt him, and left it at that. As a kid she 

loved showing-off with Richard, the doctor games, and loved playing 

kissin’-cousin. The three were a team, funny and loving. Mark didn’t 

need any additional researchers besides these girls. Marcia knew his 

early years; Sharon his later years. What Mark didn’t know, though, 

was what would soon happen to Rusty. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac would eventually tell the convoluted and complicated 

Richard Scheckman story to Sean Shawnessy and the Detectives. 

It started like this, “Richard Scheckman, Marcia’s closest cousin, the 

only son of Horace the Paint Man, was fortunate in that greed came 

naturally to him and he didn’t have to fabricate it like his Uncle Daniel.” 

Then every time he told the story, he remembered something 

else, something else that would point out what a true louse he was, and 

how he would become the most likely suspect of all. Of the 50 or so 

people that Mark Isaac interviewed, none was as smooth as Richard. 

He became a notorious real estate developer first in the Bronx and later 

in Manhattan by making some of the most financially aggressive deals 

ever made. He did public housing projects and yanked millions from 

the federal, state and city governments. Richard’s father, in contrast to 

his Uncle Daniel’s mother, gave him $25,000 for his Bar Mitzvah, and 

guaranteed every construction loan he required as an adult. Horace 

gave Richard 50% of his paint business when he was 25. Horace was 

good to him, and Richard led a lucky life. 

172 



For Richard, 100th of a percentage point in an office building 

deal was critical, and he pounded at everyone until he got his way. 

He would be pleased to destroy another man’s life over 100th of a 

point. He hadn’t yet succeeded in this, but he had forced others into 

bankruptcy over various positions he gained. 

∞ 

Richard’s thick red hair fell low on his forehead and his face 

was handsomely freckled. For all of the aggressive deals that 6’-1” - 170 

pound Richard had made through what appeared to be genuine warmth 

and charm, he managed to help almost no one. Richard projected dark 

shadows around him instead of nurturing his few friends. Richard’s 

dear cousin Rusty had long ago run one of Richard’s jobs. Contractors 

truly hated Richard and they liked Rusty. A Mafia electrician, in 

a pay off meeting with suits and guns, once whispered a warning about 

Richard into Rusty’s ear in a low, growling tone, “Ya gotta know who 

your friends are.” 

Richard ran his business like a man at war obsessed with power 

and best friends with greed. He maintained a battlefield aggression. 

To his credit, he demanded quality work and built nice luxury buildings, 

but always at the expense of others. At one of his new building 

sites the father of the plumbing contractor died. The father had been 

the founder of the plumbing company and Richard had lunched with 

him a dozen times over the years. Richard called the son at home, on 

the day of his father’s death, and said, “You get your fucking ass to the 

job now, and fuck you for not showing up. Now, or you’ll never see 

another dime. EVER.” The man showed up to install toilets on the 

day of his father’s death. 

When virtually everyone else, rich or poor, threw bones to 

friends and relatives to help them out when necessary, Richard invoked 

guilt instead. He criticized those who sought help from him and acted 

condescendingly. But he did it very nicely. Richard managed to make 

everyone doubt himself in order to elevate the always-right Richard. 

Richard’s greed was brutal. Marcia lived in one of the many sick, black 

shadows he projected. They had been close as kids, but as an adult 

she was no longer curious to feel his need for power. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac, who had generally ignored the Scheckmans for 

twenty years, now found himself disgusted by them. It didn’t make 

him doubt his Marcia; he appreciated her even more. Marcia was a 

173



complete person. She was not a Scheckman. She knew how to think. 

He heard her repeat her ‘Thinking Story’ to Jonathan and Joshua so 

many times as young children, “Here’s how you learn to think. Learn 

to think by taking nothing for granted, and seeing everything that is 

before you, everything peripherally, and everything around the corner. 

Record even the smallest of all of these things in your mind carefully 

so that you have seen every detail. Then develop the skills to evaluate 

all aspects of each of these details that you have actually experienced. 

Listen to other people’s opinions but base your decisions on what 

you have seen and what you yourself have evaluated to be true. Your 

skill development will take a lifetime, but even after a few years of this 

process, you will have learned to think.” 

Mark Isaac had a ‘Thinking Story,’ too. He told the boys this. 

“You learn to think by using your hands. You figure out what to do 

using your mother’s method, but that won’t let you actually see and feel 

your available building blocks of thought. You master these blocks by 

learning the physical world, by learning how to design and make things. 

If you do this, your fingers and hands will teach you to think. One 

day you will notice that the carpenter seems wiser than the teacher, the 

machinist smarter than the lawyer. Homosapiens learned to think by 

using our hands. Some say it’s our hands and our bodies, but for me, 

it’s mostly the hands. You know how smart Trent seems, yet most of 

his time he spends swimming? He has become smart by configuring 

100% of his body to move water efficiently, and he put so much time 

into this that his swimming became a substantial academic discipline. 

You must become talented with your eyes like your Mother says, with 

your body like Trent says, and with your hands like I say. Then you 

shall know how to think.” 

∞ 

Mark talked with Marcia and Sharon about Richard, and found 

that the Rusty story was too intertwined with Richard to be discussed 

separately. Rusty Scheckman had been a loyal dog to Richard. Rusty 

wasn’t super smart. He also wasn’t a good athlete, but better than 

Richard. This Richard despised. Richard wouldn’t talk to Rusty for 

weeks if he beat him in handball or swimming. Rusty was nice enough, 

innocent perhaps, certainly kind, and he loved Richard. He did for 

Richard whatever was asked, whenever. Rusty worked incredibly hard. 

Richard netted $2,500,000 on a construction job Rusty had managed 

for him. Rusty desperately needed to keep his job and had no other 

174 



options. Richard fired him the minute construction was over, and 

thanked him for the slam-dunk he would have never made without 

him. 

Richard and Rusty had been best friends for 43 years — grown 

up intimately as kids. They were first cousins, best friends. Rusty 

was down and out because of a flood where he lost everything, and 

was forced into bankruptcy. His mother died years ago and his father 

Daniel didn’t have the money to help, and in his recent death, had 

left no money. Rusty didn’t want to go to his sister Marcia or to Mark, 

because he didn’t want them to think he was a failure. He was begging 

Richard for a job. Richard, by this time, was one of the wealthiest real 

estate developers in New York. Perfectly aware that Rusty was 100% 

broke, he said to him, “If I was broke, I’d sell cocaine if I wanted 

money.” In what sounded like a sincere voice, he also told him to buy 

a few apartments on 5th Avenue and install a swimming pool in the 

double apartment. “This will make you happy, Rusty, and you won’t 

have to talk of suicide.” Richard also told him to buy property and 

build houses in Florida. Richard humiliated Rusty by these sadistic, 

sardonic projections and pushed him further into the ground. 

Richard just loved to project these grimy shadows of hell on 

those who loved him. And he did it so nicely. Rusty was good in business 

and worked hard, and could have easily been one of the several 

hundred contractors Richard hired. Richard followed his version of 

Developer’s Rules, not friendship rules, not business rules. 

Ceaseless ruthlessness and opportunism walked with Richard 

inextricably. One $5 million dollar deal was so tough and he badgered 

the players so hard that after he got his way he handed out engraved 

personalized German handguns when the deal was signed. “Let them 

enjoy each other’s blood,” he said. He didn’t bring bullets to the closing, 

although his lieutenants’ weapons were armed and loaded. His 

lieutenants were people who used guns to evict people in the middle of 

the night. He hired them in exchange for other favors. Jewish lieutenants 

he hired and fired, regardless of their years of service or extent of 

loyalty, since he wasn’t afraid of them. Mafia lieutenants were part of 

larger deals. Mafia family became the godfathers of his children, assuring 

‘family’ loyalty to the death. Although Jews name their children 

after close relatives who are no longer living, such as a grandparent, 

Richard named his male children with Italian names: Anthony and 

Bruno, guarantees for the repayment of Mafia favors. Richard bought 

off bank executives to acquire loans and had his competition’s buildings 

trashed when they opened for leasing. He closed illegal deals by 

175



sending people to the Bahamas, and bought cases of Dom Perignon 

to bribe anyone and everyone. He walked through his jobs giving 

inspectors $100 bills. Throughout all of this abuse of power, Richard 

considered himself to be a nice guy. He lived by a set of rules that 

were neither Jewish nor Italian. They were just a ruthless man’s view 

of Developer’s Rules. Make increasing percentages on sale and resale 

to artificially pump values and sell yourself back into the deal. Bribe 

whomever, however, and pay him off or break his legs or throw acid 

on his storefronts. Make the deal. Fuck your friends. 

∞ 

Detective Patrick Londonderry and Professor Mark Isaac Rabinowitz 

became immediate friends. They became very close, very fast. 

Londonderry grew up without a father, and owed his life to a Protestant 

Minister, who gave Patrick his time. Patrick’s mother died when 

he was 10, murdered in his British-Italian neighborhood in Queens. 

Patrick moved into the Minister’s house. It was a neighborhood where 

the British cherished their accent and hated outsiders, except their 

neighbors, the Italians. Patrick’s mother and the community corrected 

him if potato and tomato didn’t get their potahto and tomahto British 

twists. When the Minister, his own deep British accent still in place, 

became the Chief Minister at the soaring Riverside Cathedral near 

Grant’s Tomb, Patrick requested re-assignment from Queens to the 

Upper West Side’s Precinct, the 114th, as it was known. 

Patrick clearly liked the Upper West Side more than Queens, 

and moved into a small building on Morningside Heights next to the 

Julliard School of Music so that he could help the Minister when he 

needed it. The Minister was 76 in 1938 at the time of his appointment, 

and although the Cathedral’s administration was heavy with 

help, he liked it best when Patrick was around. By the time of Father 

August’s murder, the Minister had died, and Mark Isaac and Patrick 

shared their grief. They told long, warm and sappy stories about their 

mentors and discussed finding someone to write books about their 

heroes’ lives. 

Patrick lived with his cousin, an Irish cousin who recently came 

over, an actor playing in an off-Broadway play called Oil. Aidon was 

playing the lead role in this socialist play, and Patrick not only gave 

Mark Isaac tickets for Marcia and the kids but also for Heshie and 

Gladys. With advice from Mikey Martinelli, Patrick rented a small 

restaurant for the evening, a great Italian place, Bertolini’s, and brought 

the whole Rabinowitz mischpucka to Little Italy in a chauffeured police 

176 



car, courtesy of the Chief. The owner, a cousin of Mikey’s, got the six 

funniest waiters from all of the restaurants in Little Italy. A separate 

car brought Stumpo Stagnoli, Mikey Martinelli, Sean Shawnessy and 

Georgey Rinato. 

Italian food is the staple of Jewish diets; Chinese food is the 

spice. The Jewish food of the Round Table was just the scrumptious 

fat in between. Bertolini’s served twenty-four various dishes on white 

table cloths. Freshly made pastas including rigatoni, vermicelli, and rogatini. 

Veal Parmigiana, Veal Picccata al Limone, Duck Caccaetore, Scampi 

Veneziana, Tortellini con Prosciutto e Gamberi, an unpronounceable dish 

with spicy sausages, peppers and onions, Basil Fettuccini Bolognese and 

more. Far too much wine by the Cinelli family wholesale business, 

with take-home bottles for everyone including the waiters, chefs and 

kitchen help. Four different kinds of garlic bread. For desert, a selection 

of French Pastries, brought by Londonderry. What a meal. 

Heshie, “This is food. I’m going to be Italian in my next 

life.” 

Gladys, “You’re already Italian in this life.” 

Georgey, “Yeah, look at his nose. He must be Italian.” 

Londonderry, “Jews and Italians look the same to me.” 

Stumpo, “Hey, I look like no one.” 

Georgey, “Sicilians make the best sauce.” 

Stumpo, “Keeps us tall.” 

Marcia, “You’re still growing.” 

Mark, “You have to practice making some dishes like this, 

Marcia.” 

Marcia, “Ciao.” 

Mikey, “You come to my house, Marcia, my mama will show 

you.” 

Sean, “I wanna come, too, Mikey.” 

Mikey, “You’re too fat, Chief, my mama will feed you spinach.” 

Sean, “No, not that, anything but that. My mama would give 

you just potatoes, Mikey.” 

Mikey, “Stew, I’m a big stew guy. When I eat it I stew for Veal 

Parmigiana.” 

Sean, “You look like a Parmigiana, Mikey, you gotta good gut, 

too, you know. 

Georgey, “Yeah, Mikey, I hear you look real cute in the bicycle 

clothes.” 

Mikey, “Cute, no. Beautiful, yes. That’s me.” 

177



The waiters recognized the Mayor and the Chief. The entire 

scene was far beyond any fantasy drugs ever devised. Bertolini’s, on 

this night, was as good a time with a group of people as any of them 

had ever had. It had been funny all night. The Mayor thought, “What 

a fuckin’ dinner. The waiters are pissin’ in their pants. Everyone is 

so relaxed, I can’t believe I’m in New York.” 

A police van — for prisoners — picked up the party and chauffeured 

them to the playhouse. The play was pretty good. More than 

Aidon’s group thought the play was good. Mark Isaac and Sean 

Shawnessy thought Aidon was particularly good, and that Aidon 

might be the perfect guy to sting Richard, who Mark Isaac wasn’t able 

to penetrate. Mark Isaac and Shawnessy looked at each other several 

times in the first act, and discussed it during intermission. Aidon 

could easily represent himself as an investor. He was a tall and proper 

looking sort, gray hair with a stolid complexion. In a suit, he looked 

wealthy, and in this play, as Chairman of the Board of Esso, he looked 

entirely substantial. 

∞ 

Upon hearing the news that his father had died, Rusty called 

his best friend Richard crying, scared, desperate. Richard said, “I can’t 

talk to you now I’m listening to my father make a deal with a contractor.” 

Richard didn’t go to Rusty’s father funeral. Yet, when Richard’s 

father Horace was sick a few years earlier, Richard panicked and he 

asked Rusty to research his dad’s illness. He promised to help Rusty 

with getting an apartment. Rusty hired a neurologist to research the 

problem at Stanford. When Richard’s father recovered, Richard did 

not provide Rusty help with an apartment, although he owned and 

controlled several hundred. In shocking contrast, years ago, when they 

were both right out of college, Rusty spent a few months working on 

a deal to get Richard a Rent Controlled apartment on the corner of 

113th Street. Huge place, not an easy achievement. Poor-Rusty got 

Rich-Richard an apartment in New York. How absurd. In the last 16 

years Rusty had only a few good jobs, briefly, and had to move at least 

25 times. Could Richard not at least reciprocate, even if he could not 

hear his friend’s desperation? Ruthless. 

Rusty by nature was a very hard worker who produced quality 

results through long hours. Rusty struggled his entire life just to have 

an apartment and a job. He wanted nothing more. Richard had guys 

on his jobs, on his payroll, who just read the newspaper. These guys 

had taken raps for other Mafia people, and had gone up river for them. 

178 



He gave his employee’s friends and families jobs, but not Rusty. Rusty 

begged, and Richard said he would rather bite a bullet. Rusty sent him 

a bullet. Nothing would make Richard help. He wouldn’t give Rusty 

a job, or throw him a bone. Rusty was on the streets looking for work 

for 16 years. He couldn’t take the humiliation any longer. His father 

was dead a week already. A man needs a job, and somehow Rusty’s 

demeanor had become so intertwined with his friendship with Richard 

that everyone thought Rusty was wealthy and didn’t need work. He 

was tired of grovelling and begging. He faked an accident so as to not 

hurt Marcia and the boys. The police told Mark Isaac it was suicide, 

and although Mark tried to hide this from Marcia, Marcia already knew. 

Marcia never tolerated Richard again, ever. She truly hated him and 

rightfully blamed Richard 100% for Rusty’s death. To Marcia, her first 

cousin murdered her brother, her father, her cousin, poor Jeffrey. The 

onslaught of death that began with Anthony’s death frightened Marcia 

to doubt herself, made her cry almost constantly. She had to be strong 

for the boys. And she would look strong for the boys. The bastard 

Richard would be in her house; he was family. She accepted this with 

terror, but accepted it, hating herself for not having the courage to tell 

him what she thought, to “Get out, get fucked, never come back, take 

your dirty money and disdainful arrogance away from me.” 

The matriarchal Scheckmans were beloved by the community 

for their generosity and charity work. The wealthy volunteer-set attended 

Scheckman funerals with false curiosity. This recent series of 

suicides was too much for even the phoniest of the funeral-goers. People 

liked Jeffrey and liked Daniel and liked Rusty. They were the good 

ones. When the family held Rusty’s funeral services for immediate 

family only, there were no objections. By this time, there was genuine 

compassion for Marcia, the hardest hit. 

Ω 

179

Molecular Mechanical Calculus 

✑ 

Although Marcia dropped out of Radcliffe to marry Mark, 

once they settled in Manhattan and fixed up their apartment, Marcia 

applied and was accepted at Barnard. Marcia was not a feminist, just 

someone who considered all living things to be equal, except bugs. 

She happened to be the first Barnard student to attend Columbia 

College courses. Marcia wasn’t pretentious enough to talk like this, 

but privately told me, “Feminist women are jealous of the immediacy 

and the thrills of male testosterone. They are resentful of their own 

estrogen as if the long-term edification of creating and nurturing life 

was not intriguing and fully phenomenal.” Marcia disliked girls that 

didn’t know this. She was glad boys were so different, dumb little beasties 

that popped their corks at the sight of a flash of hair or the style 

of a new car. Marcia was proud of the stability, continuity, nurturing, 

constancy and security that she provided. She was glad for her role, 

and enjoyed and needed Mark’s. 

Columbia College was the boys’ liberal arts undergraduate division 

of the University, which bragged correctly that its Core Curriculum 

was copied by all of the other schools in the Ivy League and the Seven 

Sister schools, as well by many fine universities throughout the country. 

The curriculum originally came from King’s College in England, which 

ventured west to the New World, creating King’s College in 1754, later 

named Columbia University. This esteemed curriculum consisted of 

basic courses that were considered appropriate not only for rounding 

out a young man’s education, but also for teaching him how to read, 

think and write in the Western tradition. While other schools dropped 

or modified the successfully proven Core Curriculum, the Columbia 

tradition of having senior faculty teach freshman courses was effective 

in maintaining the longevity of the curriculum. Columbia asked its 

best and most famous faculty to teach Freshman Core Curriculum 

courses in Art and in Music, in Science and in Math, in Language and 

Writing, in Civilization and Humanities. The faculty that appreciated 

the value of exposing senior thinkers to junior thinkers improved their 

own work. And it improved their productive energy levels as well. 

Teaching can be an inspiration. 

Although many great universities take pride in their research 

dollars and publications, they have destroyed the educational foundation 

between the mentor-sage and the neophyte-discoverer. Universities 

have typically, intentionally, made themselves into low-quality factories 

in the name of high-quality research. Research means money. Publi- 

181



cation means more status to acquire more money. Universities need 

money, too, but by placing graduate students only a few years older than 

students into a teaching position the University has created a campercounselor 

situation. The 12 year old benefits from a relationship with 

an 18 year old summer camp counselor and the 18 year old from a 26 

year old grad-student counselor. However, Columbia expected more 

than a summer camp environment. It expected mentoring to extend 

beyond the bounds of a single generation and beyond the bounds of 

information exchange. The Core Curriculum’s design intention was 

to enhance the emotional development of its students and encourage 

young minds to produce works of cultural value. 

The heralded core of the Core Curriculum was the year-long 

Humanities Course and the year-long Contemporary Civilization 

course. It was best to only take studio art courses if you braved both of 

these beasts together. Hum, as the former was known, was a literature 

survey course from Homer to Dostoevsky. CC, as the latter was known, 

was a rigorous political philosophy survey course beginning with the 

Pre-Socratics, laboring on various gods, especially Greek, and pouncing 

through every possible western political, social and economic system 

devised by man to date. Marcia hit CC with a rigor that frightened 

the boys, some of whom had never been in a classroom with a woman 

before. She liked the obscurity of some of the political history and 

philosophy, and liked how relevant the old issues remained in the 

world struggle for economic systemization. 

∞ 

At home, Marcia felt like a Greek goddess — albeit Yiddisha 

— to have so many interesting people sit at their Round Table. On 

Shabis next, I too was fortunate enough to have been invited along 

with many from the week before. She brought out several of her fine 

cutting knives and a rather complicated and tough-to-wash maple cutting-board 

that Mark Isaac had made, a board which collected gravies in 

various cutouts. It had several platforms. With her right hand Marcia 

carved a dark brown brust, a brisket wet in natural gravy, smothered in 

tiny browned potatoes which pumped a garlic aroma throughout the 

apartment and down the hallways. To show off, with her left hand she 

carved a hot steamed Pastrami. While carving, Marcia was fixated on 

the relationship between Burroughs and Oppie. It seemed uncanny 

that these two ill-gated characters not only found each other interesting, 

but made nearly constant eye contact and held each other’s long 

stares with respect and apparent warmth. 

182 



While Marcia sliced Smoked Muenster cheese and made three 

layered, toothpicked pickups of Brust, Smoked Muenster and Pastrami, 

she said this to Oppie and Bill: 

“While reading Herodotus I could not help but think that the 

social stratification that he described over 2000 years ago was in fact 

the same stratification that Marx and Engels discussed in Das Capital 5 . 

Are you a socialist, Mr. Burroughs?” 

The question was not surprising to anyone who lived or visited 

the Upper West Side. Marcia expected Bill Burroughs to declare 

himself as a radical communist or a militarist anarchist, but such 

declarations meant little. Burroughs would no sooner join a red army 

and march through villages imposing curfews than join the U.S. army 

in its marches for U.S. ‘interests.’ Statements of alternative political 

belief was a way of saying that everyone should have a shot at getting 

a piece of the pie, and robber-barons, developers, investment bankers 

and industrialists must be made to share their wealth much more 

evenly and overtly with the needy. It was also a way to say you were 

not a racist and that if a person or animal or tree was born on earth 

the living entity should get a fair shake at life. 

“I am an exterminator, Mrs. Rabinowitz.” 

“Call me Marcia.” 

“Call me Bill.” 

“Bill, call me Oppie. Everyone else does.” 

“Bill, you mean you kill people for the government? You do 

not seem to be the Special Forces type. Do you mean you are an agent 

of some kind?” asked Marcia. 

“No, Marcia, I am an exterminator. I kill bugs.” Jonathan and 

Jack Kerouac cracked up and made much too much noise. 

“Eileen thought you were employed in your family business, 

office machines I believe she said,” commented Marcia. 

“I am employed by them in the sense that they consider me to 

be poison, thus my profession, and therefore they pay me to stay away, 

and bug juice makes me high.” Everyone laughed, even Burroughs. 

It was a nice moment. Even with the suggestion of poisonous fumes 

people were salivating with vigor over the heart attack pickups — ah, 

Brust, Smoked Muenster and Hot Pastrami, to the casket we shall 

go. Joshua was making vanilla egg creams in the kitchen in the event 

anyone should still be alive at the Round Table. 

“Oppie’s brother is a socialist. Jonathan is a socialist,” Marcia 

said. 

“I’m a socialist,” said Jack. 

183



“Me too,” said Ginsberg. 

“Not me,” said Burroughs, “I have trouble with the left and 

trouble with the right. But since I’m so askew I need not make any 

alignment.” 

Oppie said, “I am definitely not a Socialist. Neither Socialist 

nor Communist, and believe ultimately in our system of Capitalism, 

although it, too, needs improvement.” 

“For me,” thought Marcia aloud, “I would like to see something 

far more egalitarian. The extremes are too great in both Communism 

and Capitalism. The poor are as poor now as in Herodotus’s time. 

Starvation is not uncommon.” 

“The standard complaint about Socialism is that there is no 

incentive and man is not motivated to develop things around him,” 

said Oppie. “Maybe less development is good, I don’t know. I do 

think there are social problems and inappropriate inequities with our 

system.” 

The table’s eyes were on Burroughs, since his were on Oppie’s. 

It was as if he were leaving his body, as if he were becoming one with 

Oppie. 

Bill said, “The problem with our inequities is that Capitalism 

is no longer a trade system, no longer a man with gold trading for a 

shoe. The business owners, as well their employees, are victims of the 

Stock and Commodities and Money Markets. It is there where the 

real money is, and there where the real inequity and unbalance is. It 

worsens annually. The small retailer and worker believe they are free 

when they are in fact slaves to this Paper Market Deity.” 

From Oppie, “Bill, without this Paper Market, as you say, there 

would be no balancing mechanism for commodities, no equivocation 

of stock values and no income stream for Research and Development 

for corporations.” 

From Bill, “I don’t think it works that way. I know that we 

believe it works that way, but this system concentrates most of the 

money into the hands of the already rich. It is a protected system, as 

protected as the British Common Law, a system that is an immutable 

part of our definition of Republican Capitalism.” 

From Oppie, “I get the feeling that you think there is something 

yet to come, yet there is no economic philosophy beyond the various Socialist-Communist 

systems, and these seem to be working badly. They 

seem to be involved in massive killings. They disregard other human 

rights as well. I also don’t think that centralized economic committees 

could ever be as effective as our greed-motivated businesses.” 

184 



From Bill, “I agree. We need something to evolve our system. 

I don’t know what that is, but it started with a trade of goods, then 

Gold, and we seemed to be doing well, until recently. I think the flaw 

is in the concentration of wealth and control of dollars in the Stock 

and Commodities arena.” 

From Oppie, “Gold, as a belief value, is good, but we have 

found that we need something considerably more dynamic. The 

Markets provide that.” 

From Bill, “We need something still more dynamic, like a system 

that is smart enough to inventory all existing resources, and smart 

enough to place economic value on social issues, and smart enough to 

tabulate numerical equivalencies for all resources of all kinds, such as 

aluminum, fresh water, oil availability, coal, potatoes, etc.” 

From Oppie, “Well, if, just to speculate, we could gather all of 

the information in the world with an army of accountants, and each 

had his own battalion to feed him changes, and if companies of men 

could tabulate the entirety, and if the entirety could be synthesized 

with yet another army, well, yes, I suppose it would be possible to 

project an economic trade unit that would be more fair than the old 

boys’ club trade system of the Market dollar of today. This, of course, 

is impossible.” 

From Bill, “You are a physicist, an atomic physicist, how can 

you say, ‘impossible’?” 

From Oppie, “Go on.” 

From Bill, “I have a secret correspondence going with my 

father’s factory foreman, a very sharp character from Poland. He is 

a swift little mechanical engineer, and befriended me as a child. He 

put together the first factory for my father and makes many devices 

work that the engineers design incorrectly. We make adding machines 

primarily, and for the military we make rather large calculation devices 

for determining target trajectories of weapons systems.” 

From Oppie, “We don’t need to know any secrets, please.” 

From Bill, “Sorry, no, what is secret is my friendship with the 

foreman. This must be kept from my family. The computational 

devices are already ubiquitous in the field of operations and I am the 

last being on earth who would be given a military secret. The reason 

I mention this is that the foreman and I have quite a fantasy going 

about how large tabulation machines could get, and how intricate they 

could become.” 

From Oppie, “I want to hear more, but remember that we 

would need valve-like controls on trade and money values to assure 

185



stability. We would have to compensate for disaster and enhance 

equitable distribution.” 

∞ 

Mikey Martinelli rang the bell. Marcia answered. He looked 

at Mark Isaac, who rose and went out into the hallway. Mikey started 

talking. 

“Come on Mikey, just wave to the Round Table and let’s go in 

my office. The hall has ears.” 

“Yeah, OK,” said Mikey. He waved at the crowd. As they 

walked into Mark Isaac’s office, he said, “Fuck of a table, where’d you 

get that?” 

“Made it.” 

“Jesus. For a quiet guy you have your disciplines. Listen, I’ve 

been following the money. I asked all parties and they all say the same 

thing, though I gotta tell you, that guy Benjamin Poinstein is a strange 

one. I went to see him over on Park Avenue, and his secretary says 

to me, ‘Detective Martinelli, Mr. Poinstein will be receiving you now.’ 

What the fuck did that mean, ‘receiving me,’ was I supposed to fuck 

the guy, or what? Anyway, Poinstein, who was high on some kind of 

drug, says he has only a few dollars into the deal, that it’s really Richard 

Scheckman who has the lion’s share. Poinstein says he’s managing 

construction because Scheckman is too busy with his other jobs. Apparently 

Chase Manhattan Bank is in this for a hunk, too.” 

“What do you think of Poinstein?” 

“Kind of a retard.” 

“Did you go to Scheckman’s office?” 

“Sure. You know who I saw there? You know the big, new job 

on 57th Street? I saw the guy who evicted the last tenant at gunpoint at 

4 in the morning from that building. He’s Scheckman’s first lieutenant 

now. He even introduced him to me that way. He was packing, too, 

right in the office, shoulder holster and all, no suit jacket. White shirt, 

suspenders and gun. You would think it was a precinct office the way 

those guys walk around, and you would think he’d try to cover it up 

with me there. Nothin’ is legit about that operation.” 

Mikey left in a hurry, nodding to the Round Table. 

∞ 

From Bill, “Well, we are designing tabulators now for business 

accounting purposes that are six feet wide, four feet deep, and stand at 

186 



desk height. They weigh thousands of pounds. There are a number 

of problems with the current designs, which would surprise my family 

greatly if they knew I understood. For instance, the machines are too 

large to be delivered to most places. They need to be treated like grand 

pianos. That aside, these machines are interesting because they are 

smart in the way that a weaving system is smart. Through something 

like the punched-hole ‘loom cards’ the machine is capable of managing 

all of the seven primary functions in an accounting system.” 

From Oppie, “The advantage?” 

From Bill, “Speed of entry, few mathematical errors and the 

ability to handle large volumes of transactions with few people. The 

machine is entirely mechanical, made of rugged parts, and promises 

to be quite reliable.” 

From Oppie, “So you and your friend the foreman speculate 

about how big these machines can become?” 

From Bill, “Exactly. The mechanical keys and various systems 

they have could be developed into a warehouse sized device, or the 

unit could potentially be modular with a master machine in the center. 

Since we are already using oak tag with holes to guide bombs and 

manage business accounts, there may be more possibilities.” 

From Oppie, “Yet, to improve our economic system to become 

a real Trade system and not a Market system, where real productivity is 

measured and profits are retained by the productive, the machine you 

suggest might have to be the size of Texas. That won’t do.” 

From Bill, “But?” 

From Oppie, “But there may one day be other methods than 

oak tag and proportional metal levers for managing all of the information 

that would be necessary to create a ‘Global System’.” 

∞ 

From Allen Ginsberg, “I heard Jeremy scream today, 

‘My environment is cold, 

My environment is dirty. 

With employment I am warm, 

With employment I am clean.’” 

From Marcia, “Maybe his use of environment would be good 

for your idea, too. Maybe you should call it a Global Environmental 

System.” 

187



From Oppie, “Yah, that’s good, but maybe another word than 

system. Perhaps we should think of this giant base of data that would 

be immediately updated by changes as they happened, a base, a base 

of data, a database of actual world occurrences that is designed to keep 

the balance of the economic trade units of the world.” 

From Bill, “Yes, a “Global Environmental Database.” 

From Oppie, “Yes, great name, G.E.D.” 

“Great.” 

“Yes, very good.” 

“Very Solid.” 

From Marcia, “Its product could be little dollar units, little 

monetary units that we could call ‘Earth Units’ or ‘Earthies.’ Earthies 

would change in value as commodities or resources change in 

availability and would work in a natural regulatory fashion, much like 

today’s Markets, but it would be based on global realities rather than 

the wealth accumulation of the few. An explosion of an oil refinery 

would make oil more expensive not only because there was less of it but 

because it was necessary to clean up the mess. A damaging earthquake 

or flood in an area could shift resource figures and result in immediate 

modifications to the G.E.D. to bring relief.” 

From Oppie, “Yes, OK, let’s use that term, we’ll call it a 

G.E.D., but we should pronounce it like ‘God’, Ged. That would be 

a twist.” 

From Bill, “But the day cannot come for such management, 

there is too much data. Ged is abandoning us, and he hasn’t yet 

materialized.” 

From Oppie, “No, don’t say there’s too much data. Your 

family has substantially improved the abacus, beyond recognition in 

capability and information storage. And I believe original looms used 

wood blocks for guidance. Now you are using oak tags for guidance. 

Maybe tomorrow a phonograph record could be used, and beyond that 

a molecule, and beyond that an atom.” 

From Bill, “If you used molecules or atoms to store information, 

how efficient would it be?” 

From Oppie, “Assume we have a mechanical calculus that could 

somehow decode all of the world’s information and we had a way to 

both store and retrieve it. Assign one molecule to each number or letter, 

for example. You could probably store all of the world’s information 

in that glass of Vanilla Egg Cream. 

188 



Einstein smiled. Teller and Jonathan and Mark Isaac now 

became animated, and each began calculating. Jonathan put down 

his pencil and looked embarrassed. 

Mark Isaac said, “The implications for developing a mechanical 

apparatus capable of storing and retrieving data seems quite doable, 

but it is a huge project, far bigger than any I know of. It would be like 

a WPA project for engineers, maybe thousands of them, if you had to 

do this mechanically or electrically. With atoms or molecules it seems it 

may be easier to order all of the information. It is a staggering amount 

of data that would be required in your Global Economic Database.” 

Marcia, “Global Environmental Database. The economic 

unit becomes the byproduct of civilization, not the purpose of civilization.” 

Mark, “Right, got it.” 

Edward Teller said, “Let’s assume that 5 billion humans wrote 

1000 words a day for 1000 years. The molecules in the Egg Cream 

glass would represent plenty of storage.” 

Einstein said, “Would you need Vanilla, Edward, or would 

Chocolate be preferred?” 

From Bill, “So if we had a machine where data was recorded 

molecularly and read mechanically, it might be very slow.” 

From Einstein, “We are of the opinion, at least on the atomic 

level, that molecular activity may be very fast.” A warm chuckle flowed 

around the Round Table. 

From Mark Isaac, “I suppose a calculus could be developed to 

do this, and a computational device sophisticated enough to support 

that calculus. You would need something faster than mechanical 

readers and writers, regardless of the RPM of the spindle speeds of the 

devices. Woodworkers’ routers go at 20,000 RPM, but even that may 

not be enough. High frequency modulation, perhaps, I don’t know. 

Maybe you need an electrical interface to your molecular data — maybe 

it shouldn’t be mechanical at all.” 

From Marcia, “The people that today perform endless calculations 

today are called computers. It seems that all of the computers 

would be put out of work. It also will be hard to imagine calling a 

machine a computer; I have several friends who are computers.” 

From Oppie, “There is progress in all systems. If capitalism 

could be substantially improved by an economic system that was genuinely 

based on Trade and environmental factors instead of what looks 

like a horse race, and a doped-up horse race at that, it would be worth 

189



the development of this machine — but I think the machine is only 

the beginning. There are other problems.” 

From Einstein, “Yes, I think figuring out how to see all of this 

data will be most difficult. Look at that double globe stand. One 

globe shows the world as a political place with the borders of states 

and countries, and the other globe shows the world topographically, 

with mountains, rivers and vegetation. I think your Global Environmental 

Database would need to display information as if it were 

from a thousand or a million globes that change every second. If we 

flatten each information element that we want to track, such as gold, 

and superimpose that upon something else, such as water, and then 

add a layer for needed housing and another layer for corn conditions, 

and one for pigs, our system starts to become three dimensional, and 

a selectable three dimensions at that.” 

From Oppie, “Perhaps we could make multiple electrical globes 

that could be lit up in different ways, lights that would represent the 

different layers we wanted to look at. Maybe six colors on each globe, 

and we could have a dozen such globes in a room. That would allow 

the visual look-see at seventy-two layers of earth’s resources. I would 

want to call this data display room a ‘Cartographia,’ a map store.” 

Professor Bechsler, Eileen’s dad, had been standing in the 

doorway during most of this fantasy, unwilling to interrupt the flow, 

and finally said, “These are not trivial concepts. They are fresh and 

important and progressive and not socialist or communist. The elimination 

of the stock, commodities and money markets to create a Global 

Environmental Database where the real cost of a gallon of gas would 

be based on Earthies would reflect how rare a product would be, in 

other words, its availability. A logically regulated supply and demand 

scheme. Ged would take into consideration a kind of environmental 

insurance for the cost of extracting, delivering and processing oil. It 

would necessarily self-insure accidents from the more sophisticated 

delivery systems and provide sums of cash for research or cleanup. 

The huge role of the insurance business in the economy would be 

minimized. Added to the cost would be the damage to the air and 

water involved in petrochemical propulsion. In this case, the price of 

gas might go from 5 cents to $100 dollars to reflect the real, broader 

costs of oil. There would be plenty of incentives to design Mark Isaac’s 

mischoogana and very unlikely Renewable Energy Vehicle.” 

There was some clapping and some one-hand clapping. A 

summary from a Professor. A few sarcastic bravo’s were unidentifiably 

mumbled. 

190 



Marcia said, “The Stock and Commodity Market represents 

truth today, and manufacturers and suppliers are only responsible to sell 

or not sell what is commanded by these Markets instead of consumer 

demand. They are not allowed to be conscious themselves. Today’s 

capitalism thrives on unrestricted growth of customers, but the planet 

dies from overpopulation. There is no value in making better products, 

only a value in advertising for cheaper products to generate sales. Our 

technical Ged puts the shoe on the other foot. We have a good idea 

here, and we must include in the system some aggressive factors for 

population control incentives, since no other system has been able to 

do this, and that is the single most important issue.” 

Jonathan, who was mildly daydreaming throughout this discussion, 

asked, “Do you feel the Stock Market and Commodities Markets 

are shams?” 

Albert said, “Yes. Today’s economy could never be called a 

‘Science.’ When I hear the phrase ‘Science of Economics’ I honestly 

laugh. Someday perhaps it will become technically possible to enhance 

this inequitable horse-race economy and do something like what has 

been discussed here today. The Global Environmental Database idea 

would change the picture, however, not because of the extensive scientific 

development of molecular storage or the technical development 

of enormous computational devices. It would change the picture 

because of the use of the intensive experience of economics and the 

social concerns incorporated into the calculus. Ged is a better way 

to handle fairness and manage global information. This would be a 

very ethical system, but not one likely to be politically easy to implement. 

The powers from moneyed circles would refute and defeat this 

immediately.” 

Joshua, to Bill Burroughs, “It doesn’t sound that hard to make 

a bigger computational device than you already have.” 

Mark Isaac put his arm around Joshua’s shoulder, “You’re 

right, Joshua, Burroughs already has a model. It doesn’t sound impossible, 

but I would never underestimate the depth of knowledge, 

physical difficulty or emotional challenge of any man’s trade. Bigger 

sometimes means everything must be changed and rethought. This 

project is so huge it will require entire new sciences and unimagined 

technologies.” 

Horace said, “I think I better get out of the paint business 

quickly. You might charge me for my waste lines into the Hudson.” 

191



Jonathan, “More than that, dear Uncle. So do your dirty work 

today because tomorrow Ged will scream from his mountain, or in 

this case, from his River.” 

Uncle Horace, “OK, I will close the factories tomorrow.” 

Joshua said, “But Uncle Horace, we’ll lose our great sunsets.” 

∞ 

Mark Isaac went to pee. He was impressed by this conversation. 

The usual screaming and fighting wasn’t there. All ideas warranted 

screams and fights. Maybe everyone was genuinely challenged by this 

idea, which he thought was mostly Marcia’s. He was thinking about 

whether someone should write bible stories and develop symbols and 

rituals to make Ged into this burning figure that represented the combined 

information of the Earth’s health and resources. He laughed 

aloud. Then he thought it really would be better to trade with a realistic, 

fully representative economic unit such as Earthies, since Earthies 

promised to be entirely equitable and ‘value adjustable.’ Availability of 

resources and disasters would make economic adjustments rather than 

loud voices on Market trading floors. Unlike today’s economic units, 

Earthies would get smarter as time went on, instead of louder, and 

would represent more and more of the human experience. Earthies 

would not be market tokens alone like dollars and francs and lira, they 

would forever represent more and more information in their calculations. 

Mark Isaac was about to say aloud, but didn’t, “Without this 

kind of system, which suddenly now seems absolutely inevitable, we 

are doomed to be victims forever. This kind of system would return 

us to what would feel like a simple Trade system.” 

Mark envisioned a common language, and hoped it would 

be French. He envisioned world peace, and thought of the Great 

War raging in Europe, Hitler running amuck, and Jonathan entirely 

vulnerable. He thought of Anthony, entombed in the column of a 

building. This was ritualistic, Mark thought. It was not simply murder. 

A lot of trouble had been taken to put him there. A lot of risk, right 

on Amsterdam Avenue. His bike had been returned, too. This was 

a vengeful murder, planned by an angry man who was telling a story 

with his actions. It was a story of power, the power of real estate. Or 

the power of industry. Or the power of something, someone with financial 

interests. The Scheckmans and their paint, their Real Estate. 

Scheckman money. Not Horace. Richard. Somehow Richard. And 

Horace’s paint trucks. 

192 



Mark came back to hear Bechsler, even more professorially, “It 

is important not to be naïve here. We are in the beginning of learning 

what economics really means. Money has always referred to an inequitable, 

wild, indecent accumulation of the strong. Only a few people 

have even considered that there would be an advantage to civilizing. 

Most like the fact that there are endless numbers of underclasses who 

can be lied to and manipulated into thinking they are free. They have 

the perception of freedom, without a moment’s real freedom. Many 

in feudal states and slave states had more personal time and less connection 

to the state or its corporate representatives than today’s lower 

classes. Tomorrow the corporate state will enslave the middle-class and 

later, the upper-middle class. 

“About 300 hundred years ago, in the 1650’s, the settlers of 

Manhattan Island put up a large wall on its southern tip to keep the 

Indians out. It was a Great Wall. The street on the ‘settled’ side was to 

become Wall Street. It had developed into an open air market where 

company stocks were sold openly. Hangings took place there. Slaves 

were traded there. Swindlers sold shares to gold mines that didn’t 

exist. George Washington was eventually sworn into office on Wall 

Street, and within a few years, in 1792, the old boys precluded the 

public from participating in the open buying and selling of corporate 

shares. This club of brokers and speculators created a private, indoor 

club, the New York Stock Exchange, in a business agreement known 

as Buttonwood. 

“Devastating economic crashes are harmful to everyone and are 

therefore minimized. Yet they continue to happen, because we don’t 

have an economic Trade science that is remotely stable. If you were to 

acquire entry into the old boys’ club of the New York Stock Exchange, 

you would find animals shouting at the tops of their lungs to scam teeny 

amounts of money from one another. This teeny scamming adds up 

quickly and is where most of the money in the country is traded. But 

what is traded is not goods, but ‘perception power tokens.’ Beliefs are 

traded. And favors are traded. Money is moved from club member to 

club member, bones are thrown. Those in good graces thrive. Those 

in bad graces are eliminated financially, which in this country, could 

soon result in life on the street and death. 

“Wall Street people act like starved wolves in a pit competing 

for the same piece of meat. They trade power and wealth tokens back 

and forth. At least wolves eat what they kill. Wall Street destroys for 

pleasure. 

193



“The system will not evolve on its own. It must be legislated 

to evolve. Wall Street will defend its holdings in the same way that 

Realty will defend its holdings. The problem is that our elected officials 

represent Wall Street and Realty. Vast lip service is paid to the 

‘freedom’ of our system, and it is a great system, and it would have the 

power to affect both Wall Street and Realty if it so choose. But we as 

individuals are wage slaves, and there is no common perception among 

average people that they could vote into power a non-communist, true 

American who could foster economic reform. In fact, economic reform 

is somewhat of a contradiction in itself in the United States. The old 

boys’ club has the money. The elected officials work for them or are 

elected through their money, therefore their jobs are dependent on 

this same money. It is impossible for a poor person with egalitarian 

ideals to even get a good job, never-mind achieve substantial public 

office if he challenged Wall Street or Realty. 

“In the end, however, crashes like ’29 will continue regardless 

of the claimed hoopla of economic controls, and one crash may point 

out to the legislature that there is value in this system that we have 

outlined here today, this Global Environmental Database that places 

economic values on real Trade units we have called ‘Earthies’. 

“Realty has become such an entrenched system through British 

Common Law that challenging its practices seems even more unlikely 

than challenging the market systems, but it, too, should be challenged 

and eliminated. 

∞ 

Bechsler’s speech left the table quiet. He had summed it all up, 

but had actually not contributed an original idea of his own. Dialogue 

was the style of the Round Table, not lecture. But other than this type 

of occasional lecture, Bechsler was considerably more quiet than Oppie. 

They knew each other for years, and liked each other. Bechsler was so 

academic, so perfectly studied. They discussed New Mexico for a long 

time. It bored the others, but to see the staid Bechsler come to life like 

this convinced Oppie to find some land for himself and for his project 

near Santa Fe. Later, when the endless Friday Night Round Table Dinner 

came to its natural end, Oppie would call General Groves. 

194 

Ω 

Diamonds Are For Now 

Richard Scheckman left the Round Table without saying goodbye 

at about 10 that evening, and returned about 11:30. There were 

no parties to go to that night that would be beneficial to him. He was 

out on business. A fellow named Durant wanted to meet with him. 

Durant, “I have invested heavily in Paris and London, and I’m 

interested in Manhattan. I understand you would be the man to talk 

to. I want someone young, aggressive, responsbile and someone who 

I can trust intimately with my money,” said Londonderry’s cousin 

Aidon, as C. A. Durant of Durant Oil. 

Richard Scheckman, “I only work in Manhattan. I won’t do 

the other Boroughs. I do accept investors, but I want as few as possible 

to come in for large chunks of required.” 

Durant, “I would want to spread my risk and would go as high 

as 30%, with your personal guarantee.” 

Richard Scheckman, “I no longer have to do personals, so I 

don’t. I get the job done no matter what.” 

Durant, “How far will you go to assure me I won’t be beat 

from my money?” 

Richard Scheckman, “I do whatever it takes on a job to win, 

regardless.” 

Durant, “You know business, sometimes people get hurt. I 

cannot do this unless I know you are committed.” 

Richard Scheckman, “I think you know my lieutenants are 

family, and I think you knew the answers to your worries prior to this 

meeting. Construction in Manhattan is the heartbeat of the City. We 

know how to build. The job is finished, every time, on time. I have 

an inventory of completions.” 

Durant, “Yes, your ruthlessness precedes you.” 

Richard Scheckman, “Thank you.” 

Durant, “We’ll get together again in a few days to discuss my 

return.” 

∞ 

The doorbell rang at Marcia’s; it was Richard again. His warm 

eyes and congenial, handsome smile invoked the same from Marcia. 

She hated him when he wasn’t there. She wanted to love him when 

he was. He talked with Jonathan, Joshua and Eileen; he gave them a 

lot of attention. Cross-conversations and multiple-conversations at the 

table were constant. After about half an hour, there was a lull where 

195

Diamonds are for Now 


there was only one active thread, a discussion about natural drugs used 

by various American Indian tribes, in particular tribes in New Mexico. 

Mark stared at Richard. By this time he knew who he was, exactly. 

Richard Scheckman acted like he was very close to people. You 

didn’t feel his greed. His father Horace was similar, though his greed 

was more on the surface. Everything about Richard’s body language 

was sincerely warm. He happened to be deep inside of himself, his long 

protected shell, his personal world of self. He wasn’t in the same world, 

the same interdependent world that everyone else lived in. During 

high school, Rusty had written him a five page journal letter everyday. 

Richard threw the letter away, every day. He just didn’t practice human 

care. The field of Psychology must have a word for his type of 

personality. He appeared to be very functional, quite family oriented, 

well-ordered and business-like. He was also cold and ruthless, as if he 

had been secretly trained in another world. 

Richard thought all socialists were fools, and 99.9% of academics 

were fools since you could hire them. These three atomic physicists 

were in a category of power unto themselves. He thought Rusty had 

been a chump since he was an idealist, but Rusty was really an economic 

evolutionist. He just wanted to make things better whenever 

possible. Rusty wanted to see housing for all, and had talked with 

Mark Isaac and Jonathan and Anthony Cinelli endlessly about shelters. 

There were too many slumlord Scheckmans, too many people without 

decent housing, too many real estate brokers adding percentages and 

more percentages to deals, feeding their own greed, hiking the prices 

of deals to increase their percentages. As real estate prices began to 

climb artificially high, quality housing would be precluded from the 

poor at first, and later to all but the very rich. To Richard, Rusty was 

a socialist. To Richard, who built for himself a 22’ wide, 5-floor-high 

Brownstone of his own on the East Side near Central Park, anyone 

who wasn’t a 200% believer in everything fascist should be dissolved. 

Only Richard’s bank account had meaning in his life, and it totalled 

$40 Million. Richard valued himself for his money. For Richard, 

arrogance was not second nature. It was first. Richard loved Rusty 

since Rusty made him laugh, and laugh hard, and laugh frequently. 

Rusty was Richard’s court jester. When Rusty killed himself, Richard 

felt the loss and fixed the problem that very same month, like a good 

businessman who knows ‘Number One’ by setting up another friend 

to be his court jester. His new friend Roderick made him laugh. And 

Richard didn’t even have to change the tab in his phone book, perfect. 

He could still look in the ‘R’s’ for advice and love. 

196 



∞ 

It was 12:30 AM or 12:45. The poets and kids were gone, off 

to the West End for Jazz and drinks. The women and Albert went 

with them. The Cardinal and the Chief were gone. Jonathan stayed. 

Enough with the Jazz and drinking already. 

Heshie and Gladys were walking sleepily around between the 

bathroom, the guest room and the boys’ room. Joshua’s friend Andrew 

was sleeping over, and Heshie was talking to them in their room. 

Mark Isaac, Jonathan, Horace, Richard, Teller and Oppenheimer 

were still at the table. The mood was visibly different. 

Mark Isaac, “We choose and decide in life. Mechanician or 

poet? Loyal dog or horn toad? Monogamous or polygamous? Heterosexual 

or homosexual?” 

Jonathan never heard his dad say anything like this before, and 

never in this tone. Perhaps he had never quite listened to him like this. 

No, it wasn’t that. Mark Isaac was regarding Jonathan differently. His 

dad was treating him like a peer. Jonathan’s body visibly shook with 

the chills of this journey, the chills that perhaps a boy got when he 

was Bar Mitzvahed centuries ago, or when a primitive tribe performed 

a ritual to symbolize the crossing into manhood. But for Jonathan, 

here at the Round Table, with only men present, Jonathan felt this 

was his time. He was accepted here as an adult. A plane formed in 

his visual space. It was not a rectangle. It traveled infinitely left, and 

infinitely right. It was red and orange and yellow and green and blue 

and indigo and violet. Beyond the rainbow plane was Jonathan the 

child, whom he could now see. He was on the other side now as Jonathan 

the man. A conversation had been in progress. Jonathan heard 

none of it. The plane faded. 

Richard, “Money or Power.” 

Horace, “Money, money is choice. Money is effective, hard 

currency for everything.” 

Jonathan thought to himself, “Yes, I have crossed over.” 

Richard, “The harder the currency the better.” 

Jared, “Real money doesn’t come from hard anything.” 

Teller, “If you could make gold, Jared, would you not want the 

hardware to do so?” 

Jared, “I make better than gold without the hardware.” 

Richard, “I like hardware. I would buy hardware to make gold 

in a flash if it were possible, or at least I would assemble the money 

to run the operation.” 

197



Teller, “Would you, Richard, in a flash?” 

Richard, “Yes, in a flash, if I had complete control of the project 

and the bulk of the deal.” 

Oppie, “Would diamonds interest you, Richard?” 

Richard, “Diamonds are hard currency, too. Diamonds interest 

me. Are you implying that you have access to some method to make 

diamonds?” 

Oppie, “I have diamond stories you have yet to hear. Perhaps 

we will share these details with you soon. We can make diamonds.” 

Teller, “Yes, we can make diamonds.” 

Horace, “I’m interested, Richard.” 

Mark Isaac, “Me, too.” 

Jonathan, “What are we talking about here. How are diamonds 

made?” 

Oppie, “Edward and I have been aware of this for sometime, 

but only us. We can make diamonds in the process of the work we 

are doing for the government.” 

Mark Isaac, “So.” 

Teller, “So with some capital we can make diamonds from 

coal, like that new comic book Jonathan has here, like this Superman 

character, who crushes coal into diamonds with his bare hands. We 

need a few hundred thousand to roll the ball, and then we will be 

manufacturing diamonds as a free byproduct of our other work.” 

Richard, “Free. I like this.” 

Horace, “Yes, I would want into this.” 

Oppie said, “To use your business phrase, here’s the deal that 

Edward and I discussed. See if you like it. I want a percentage of the 

gross for my research and for a ranch for my family. Edward has his 

own family and his research needs are extensive — more than any of 

this. He is going to front for us and we’ll somehow get the bulk of 

the money for the project from the government since we have to do it 

anyway in order to complete the things we’re doing for them. I know 

that sounds like doubletalk, but exactly what we do, as you know, is 

secret. I can tell you this, since you already know we are working on 

atomic fission and discussing fusion. You need to make fission or fusion 

to make diamonds. Maybe fission and fusion would be competing 

technologies. But in either case, or both, we believe we will have 

a byproduct — if we have a certain amount of money to make some 

specialized equipment. The byproduct can be diamonds. If it works 

like we think, we will all be very rich.” 

198 



Teller, “The money that comes from the government will not 

be related to the money coming from you.” 

In the next hour, Oppie and Teller stumbled through technical 

details and various scenarios outlining the potentials of compression 

technology. The general concept of intense and instantaneous compression 

to form diamonds was somewhat muddled by the code-worded 

vocabulary that Oppie and Teller were using. Their use of the word 

‘gadget’ actually referred to the bomb itself. ‘Material’ referred to plutonium. 

Since they had security contracts with the government, they 

couldn’t define these terms and couldn’t explain that they were using 

code words. Discussions couldn’t venture beyond published material. 

The result was that Oppie’s or Teller’s credibility suffered. There was 

more involved than good explanations, however. Greed, too, was at 

the table, and risk a hearty eater. 

Teller said, “Material infused into the gadget will be of a highforce 

at zero.” 

‘Zero’ meant the moment of nuclear detonation. Perhaps 

the extreme understatement sounded effective to the Round Table. 

Heads nodded, although few understood. The actual sentence meant, 

‘Plutonium infused into the reaction chamber of the bomb represents 

an extreme compressive force at the moment of detonation.’ Mark, 

although not privy to the code words, understood the discussion and 

was envisioning a reaction chamber that looked like a soccer ball with 

pentagonal sections. 

For over a year Jonathan had been grilling Mark about the 

advantages and disadvantages of nuclear power and nuclear weapons. 

A nuclear weapon was touted to be the device to end all future wars. 

Nuclear power promised limitless, free energy. They both conjured up 

frightening scenarios for this technology, although it looked so very 

promising. Mark’s greatest fears were in material science. He thought 

we were 50 or 100 years shy of successfully managing such power, if, in 

fact, it could be managed and, if, there was a viable solution for nuclear 

waste material. None has ever been proposed. Even through my trips 

well into the future — another 1000 years — nuclear waste frequently 

plagued various locales. 

Mark, “Is the idea, then, to line buffer material within the 

reaction sphere geometry so that this material is compressed upon 

detonation?” 

Oppie, “Interesting possibility.” That meant yes. 

199



Jonathan, “If diamonds were created within this geometric 

sphere, wouldn’t they be blown outwards for miles and impossible to 

find?” 

Teller, “We believe there will be an ‘eye’ to the reaction, like 

in a hurricane. We should be able to simply pick up the diamonds, if 

we have the strength, immediately following the explosion directly at 

ground-zero, hypothetically speaking.” 

Horace was thinking about his brother Daniel, about how if 

he were here this would have been a way for him to get into something 

profitable. But then again, he didn’t have the money to put into it, 

and he wouldn’t have lent it to him anyway. Thinking aloud, Horace 

said, “How many diamonds could you make in one explosion?” 

Teller, “Each test would generate one huge diamond. There 

would be many tests required. Small peripheral diamonds may be 

created from carbon in adjacent steel.” 

Horace, “Why so many tests?” 

Teller, “So many because we will have extensive testing to do 

before we will understand this process.” 

Jonathan, “How many tests would be involved in ‘extensive 

testing’?” 

Teller, “At least 1000 tests would be required.” 

Horace, “Could be an impressive collection of large diamonds.” 

Mark, “Could be. Do we take it that through all of these tests 

that you will have developed a method to make the diamonds without 

the explosion, with a controlled event to only create the compression?” 

Teller, “Yes, exactly. However, this is quite hypothetical and to 

learn to control this technology all of these tests would be needed.” 

Mark, “What about other materials that might be created in 

this compressive reaction, materials that we don’t yet know about, 

materials that we cannot conceive?” 

Teller, “Yes, high profit, high risk. There are some fears that 

I have.” 

Mark, “We have heard you talk about igniting the atmosphere. 

Do you mean the entire atmosphere of the earth?” 

Teller, “Yes, that is one of my fears. If a gadget were machined 

with absolute perfection and a flawless reaction were to occur, I suppose 

global conflagration might be the result. The entirety of the atmosphere 

is at risk, in that theory, which all of my colleagues discount. If that 

200 



were the case, the case of igniting the planet, the diamonds would be 

less interesting.” 

Jonathan, “Dr. Teller, if you think that’s possible? Could it 

happen. Then what?” 

Oppie, “A perfect gadget cannot be made so the odds of making 

a perfect reaction are not great.” 

Mark, “Edward, you have other concerns. What other kinds 

of materials can you envision emerging, and what did you mean when 

you just said, ‘if we had the strength’? 

Teller, “It seems to me that the core of the diamond might 

be created with a very heavy material. More heavy than we can imagine.” 

Oppie, “Go on.” 

Teller, “Frankly, I keep wondering if hydrogen could become 

solid.” 

Mark, “Solid as in frozen?” 

Teller, “Solid as in metal.” 

Oppie, “Metal Hydrogen?” 

Teller, “Yes, Metallic Hydrogen.” 

Mark, “How heavy would this Metallic Hydrogen be?” 

Teller, “It isn’t the Metallic Hydrogen that would be heavy. 

It is its co-material, Neutronium. This is one of my fears. That the 

Neutronium would be of an enormous weight, so heavy that it might 

have negative characteristics, such as having the weight and tiny size 

to fall to the center of the earth.” 

Oppie, “Have you discussed this with Albert?” 

Teller, “Yes, a few times. Albert sees some of this too. He 

won’t comment on the diamonds, but I believe he has thought of this 

byproduct risk, since the Neutronium Concept is fairly developed in 

his thinking. He thinks the weight would be staggering, so staggering 

that the element might consume light or even gravity.” 

Mark, “You boys like playing with fire.” 

Oppie, “Just part of the job.” 

Mark, “So I hear you to be saying that you are going to ignite 

1000 gadgets for weapons research and diamond manufacturing 

purposes with the possibility of global conflagration or creating a 

light-and-matter consuming material of such an incomprehensible 

specific-gravity that it may fall to the center of the earth and consume 

the earth along with it?” 

Teller, “Something like that could be possible. What else do 

you think this implies?” 

201



Mark, “Well, Edward, the corollary of playing god with the 

forces of nature are clear. Neutronium might thrive off itself, and 

continue to need to consume beyond the earth itself. And the more 

it consumed and the greater the density, the stronger it would be to 

consume more. There would be no limit. It might eat the sun and its 

planets, perhaps the galaxy or part of the infinite beyond. When the 

density reached a certain point for its intensely small size, I imagine 

that it could form a new star, bang.” 

Jonathan, “Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison make light bulbs. 

You boys make light.” 

Oppie, “Ya gotta make something. Everyone needs a job. 

Diamonds are the most realistic result, and they do wondrous things 

to light.” 

Jared, “I’m in, I can handle things on Wall Street, rumors and 

what not, which is our substance, of course. I can do a third of this, 

$100,000.” 

Jonathan was treading water. He wondered if he could say 

something. They were trusting him with this conversation, why not, 

“I need a lot of money, millions, for my shelter project.” 

Mark Isaac, “I don’t need money personally, but I’m in with 

Jonathan, money for the shelters it is. We’ve hashed through manufactured 

shelters a thousand times. With money they can be done 

right.” 

Richard, “I’m in with my father. We’ll put up the necessary 

money until you can get the government to carry the rest. Keep it slim, 

but I’ll guess that we can handle up to $200,00, $100,000 apiece. We’ll 

need to have guarantees of delivery around the $100,000 point, before 

we distribute any more money. Beyond that we won’t go.” 

Teller, “That’s enough.” 

Oppie, “Yes.” 

Jared, “Yes, I concur with this.” 

Horace, “Then capitalization is 1/3 each, me, Richard, Jared, 

$3 million maximum, $100,000 up front.” 

Mark Isaac, “25% of the gross goes to the shelters.” 

Richard, “Why?” 

Teller, “Because we cannot do this without Mark.” 

Richard, “Done. Return is prioritized to the investment group, 

10% interest.” 

“Done.” 

“Done.” 

“OK.” 

202 


“Done.” 

“Done.” 

“Deal.” 


∞ 

Silently, the Round Table emptied. Mark lay on the couch 

alone in the living room, hands behind his head, staring at the full 

moon low in the Jersey sky. He was caught in his own contradictions, 

trapped. On the thick oak window seat rested the walnut desk triangle 

with the brass plate that said ‘Skara, Oskarshamn, Sweden.’ The large 

double-hung windows with the fold-in oak shutters framed the gift that 

the mysterious Manolo had made for Heshie. Mark hated money. He 

wanted money. Jonathan who had no use for money saw the value 

of money. Mark wondered how many places the mind could venture 

on its own. He wondered how deeply greed invades the soul of man. 

Here at his house, with so many humanist ideas, brewed a fabulous 

money-making scheme with one of the people who might have been 

responsible for his best friend’s death. Acid ate at Mark’s stomach. The 

talk of the diamonds was now infuriating him, his actual participation, 

Jonathan’s acceptance of it all. Greed, which he philosophized against: 

he, too, was greedy. With all the doubts he had about the ethics of 

nuclear reactions, now he was the consulting mechanician responsbile 

for design elements, and financially involved in the development of 

the reaction itself. Did this night just happen? Did he somehow just 

cross each fence of consciousness and play in a field of mines? Wait. 

Manolo. Manolo was fixing the boiler of the building right next to 

the construction site where Anthony was entombed. Manolo was 

there all night. 

∞ 

It was 3 AM. Oppie was home, and called General Leslie 

Groves. He answered the phone, sounding perfectly awake. Groves 

said he would send a car for Oppenheimer and Bechsler at 8 AM to 

pick them up at Grant’s Tomb. He’d begin processing Bechsler’s Top 

Secret Security Clearance now. He needs ‘Top Security Clearance,’ 

not just ‘Security Clearance.’ It usually took months. 

Oppie’s own clearance was under challenge because of his reported 

socialist views. The young driver was a little late and complained 

about traffic. Groves screamed Bechsler’s Security Clearance through, 

the first shout beginning at 3:15 AM. Oppenheimer and Bechsler flew 

out of a small New Jersey Army Base in Teterborough at 9 AM, then 

203



picked up General Groves at Camp David’s airfield at noon. Bechsler 

got Top Security Clearance while the plane was at 20,000 feet. That 

afternoon they arrived in New Mexico and descended upon the headmaster 

of the Ranch School for Boys in Los Alamos. 

204 

Ω 

Fission is Forever 

On Mark’s bumpy flight to San Francisco, where he would 

meet the Warden on an island known in San Francisco Bay as Alcatraz, 

Mark deciphered Jeffrey’s Air-Rights Committee notes that he had 

retrieved from Spoon’s room. He needed to understand these notes 

before the meeting with the Warden to develop a better perspective 

on Spoon. The Board of Directors of St. John The Divine had given 

Spoon O’Reilly power of attorney to act in its behalf in the event that 

Father August was unavailable. Within days after the Bishop’s death, 

Spoon signed St. John’s air-rights over to Richard Scheckman. This 

action was to become the leading cause for the arrest of both Spoon 

and Richard. From poor Jeffrey’s notebook at Spoon’s house, Mark 

Isaac reconstructed a conversation: 

“Bishop Cinelli, I’d like to buy your air.” 

“Mr. Scheckman, I like my air the way it is, and will not sell 

it.” 

“Bishop, please, be reasonable. If you do not sell it, the block 

will be built out, and the neighborhood will not reach its intended 

and natural height.” 

“Mr. Scheckman, Richard, if I may, please, think about what 

we are talking about. We are talking about rights. It is my right to 

decide not to accept your money to overbuild this block, with the result 

being a poorer church but an airier, more open city environment, with 

sunlight glorifying St. John’s life-generating stained glass windows.” 

“With respect, and your point is well taken, your church has 

so many worthwhile projects, allow me to do two things. One, I will 

install and focus powerful lamps onto your stained glass windows, and 

give you control of the times you would like the lamps to be lit. And 

two, I will increase my offer. You will find that $175,000 goes a very 

long way in this day and age.” 

“It’s not your money that I want, it is the open land, open air 

and open space. My superiors disagree. Spoon here disagrees. Those 

who work with me disagree. But I do not want towers in this neighborhood 

unless they are magnificent works of art, such as Riverside 

Cathedral with its soaring array of carvings and staggering stained glass. 

I don’t want a shadow of your large building across our stained glass, 

glass that tells the story of life itself.” 

“We will provide housing for the aged, needed in this City.” 

“I know your operation well, Mr. Scheckman, and respectfully 

discourage you from capitalizing on the nursing home business and 

205



discourage you from building an even higher tower across from this 

sacred community Cathedral.” 

∞ 

Mark was in Berkeley. Enrico Fermi was a brilliant physicist 

who focused on the making of a controlled atomic reaction for the 

purposes of energy production. Enrico worked primarily in Chicago. 

Mark knew he would meet Enrico Fermi either this day or the next, 

since they were going to be at the same physics conference. Mark and 

Enrico met informally while bicycling up a long, steep grade the day 

before their conference at the University of California at Berkeley, 

called CAL, or just Berkeley. 

Mark Isaac was passing Enrico on a particularly tough climb on 

the scenic switch-back that twisted above campus to the government 

laboratories. Enrico said with a thick Italian accent, “Your bicycle, 

what kind is that?” 

“I made it.” 

“You make frames?” 

“Yes.” 

“Please, your is shop here, it’s in Berkeley? I don’t see smooth 

work like this.” 

“I don’t have a shop, I mean I don’t make frames commercially.” 

“You should. You’re good. I am a scientist and I don’t say 

things like this too much. How much you charge, you make me 

frame?” 

Mark Isaac asked, trying to change the subject, “You are here 

for the Physics conference.” 

“Yes, are you a Physicist? I am sorry, I don’t recognize you.” 

“No, I’m not a Physicist, I’m a Mechanical Engineer.” 

“Are you associated with Berkeley, in Mechanical Engineering? 

Are you going to the conference also?” 

“Yes, but I’m at Columbia. Dr. Einstein wanted me to go.” 

“Oh, are you the Rabinowitz from MIT, Albert’s cousin’s 

husband’s wife’s cousin’s brother, or something?” 

“Yes, that’s me. He’s Uncle Albert to all of us, though no actual 

relation. And you, I know, I have seen your picture many times.” 

“So will you make me a frame?” 

“It’s an idea.” 

They didn’t make it all the way to the top. Enrico Fermi tired. 

They rested, shared goodies Marcia had packed, and rode again. Mark 

206 



Isaac explained to Enrico that he needed lower gears when he brings 

his bicycle to Berkeley. Enrico unsuccessfully explained to Mark Isaac 

that he wasn’t quite as dumb as all that, it’s just that this time he forgot 

to change his freewheel. His legs were talking to him. He felt pretty 

dumb. 

The new buildings on the top of the hill presented a remarkable 

view. The conference was not to start until the next day. 

“Enrico, what brings you up here a day early.” 

“I will guess the same thing as you, the steam.” 

“You have guessed correctly. I love steam. That’s the best thing 

about New York. Lot’s of great steam rooms.” 

“And the best thing about Chicago. The same.” 

Mark Isaac, “I can’t believe they built one up here. We are 

lucky men. How can people handle saunas and hot tubs. Steam is 

so much better.” 

Enrico, “Much better. It is just off the University grounds. I 

understand it is owned by one of yours, a Jew, an unusual fellow, I hear. 

He used to teach at Berkeley, I understand, but didn’t get along.” 

Marc Isaac, “Right, we’re tough. We only get along with Italians 

because they know how to fight.” 

Enrico, “Yes, you are right.” 

A handsome, simple sign on one of the brick buildings said 

Shfvitz. The complex of buildings was carefully designed, and as they 

rode slightly downhill to its entrance, both Mark Isaac and Enrico 

thought it was much nicer looking than The Labs which they had just 

passed. It was tastefully done. Glass block walls were letting light into 

spaces inside. And inside, the dark-red, burned-brick walls continued 

handsomely, too, much like Frank Lloyd Wright would do with walls 

penetrating walls of adjacent spaces, or much like the de Stijl painters 

would do, allowing colored lines to intersect and flow through each 

other. 

“Hello, said a very large man, a classic, thick, flaxen-haired 

masseuse from Sweden whose deep cheek bones made you stare.” 

“First time here?” 

“Yes, we have come for a steam.” 

“Ah, good, you have come to the right place.” 

The cost of a massage was outlined and was separate from the 

steam and pool. 

A jet black man with an elongated face stood behind an office 

window on the way in from the lobby. He was thin, obviously 

207



first or second generation from Africa and still maintaining a rich 

coloration. 

With an exaggerated Jewish accent, a Yiddisha accent from 

Poland, not Germany, the black man said, “So boychicks, a massage? 

Just a Shfvitz? What, you tell me? You boys look like you are from far 

away, maybe you come for the conference.” 

Mark Isaac, a fairly unanimated man, was laughing hard, very 

hard, and convinced himself that this man was imitating his boss. 

“Massages, too, you got it,” said the laughing Mark Isaac. 

“So. I’m Rahim Markowitz,” said Rahim, laughing, without 

the accent. 

“You are a Markowitz?” 

“I am a Markowitz.” 

“I need some help here,” said Mark Isaac warmly. 

“You have heard of Ethiopian Jews, I’m sure. You may not 

have known we were black, but we all are black.” 

“Come Shfvitz with us,” said Enrico. “This is a good story we 

should hear in comfort.” 

∞ 

In the locker room Mark did his required exercises before 

undressing, and continued to exercise through his shower, soaping 

and steam for the next hour. Each man was in his own mind-space. 

Mark was reviewing the conversation he had in the morning with the 

Warden at Alcatraz. A man with a large feather duster in a wooden 

bucket of soapy water was soaping him down. The feather-soaping felt 

good. He pressed his palms against each other. Fermi and Markowitz 

were already feather-soaped and shouting from the spray of a cold hose. 

Mark was thinking about Spoon O’Reilly as prison priest at Alcatraz 

under the name of Spaulding O’Neil, II. 

Mark had learned from the Warden that Spoon’s mother’s 

name was O’Reilly and his father’s name, it was thought, was O’Neil. 

His father was a tennis player who his mother met on a warm, May 

afternoon at the Chardonnay Club in St. Helena, California, where 

she was a receptionist at a winery. She never learned his name, but 

thought it might be O’Neil, thought that she heard someone call him 

that. They only knew each other for a few hours, and she never had 

to deal with his name until she registered at Napa General Hospital to 

give birth. The first name challenged her for a second. She was creative 

and wanted a name that would remind her of that sunny moment in 

St. Helena. She thought of his button-nose and soft, flowing tennis 

208 



whites. He was 15; she was 23. She remembered how nervous he was 

when they were together, his Spaulding racket swinging continuously 

while they talked. 

When Spaulding reached high school age, with several busts 

under his juvenile shirt already, he acquired a second birth certificate, 

and operated two rather distinct lives. O’Reilly went to seminary in 

Berkeley, and became a priest. O’Neil used and trafficked cocaine, and 

earned his name from the little silver spoon that could be unthreaded 

from a Sterling Silver cross of Jesus Christ. He wore the Sterling Cross 

around his neck always, and even at Alcatraz the guards didn’t know 

about the priest-prisoner’s spoon. The silversmith who made his cross 

had also inked both of his tattoos — a talented man with a serious interest 

in crafts. It was after Spoon had taken his vows that he had been 

arrested in San Francisco for selling cocaine. He used the name O’Neil. 

He practiced his sermons at the Alcatraz Correctional Institution for 

16 years. With his vows in place and a nearly perfect celibacy record, 

at least with women, Father Dealer Spoon Spaulding O’Reilly O’Neil 

bought a passport from an experienced artist, and told many stories 

with passport in hand of his many years as an African Missionary. 

∞ 

Mark was barely listening to Fermi and Markowitz who were 

deep into a conversation about evolution. In the steam Mark forgot 

that Markowitz was black. It was his voice. It was the same kind of 

reality that you have when you watch a great French film with people 

of various colors and shades. You hear only the French language and 

immerse yourself in the French culture — you do not play into the 

hands of racial politics. Mark wondered if it might be the white racists 

themselves who infiltrated monetarily to pay black people to carry-on 

the accents of the long dead slaves. He was thinking about the very 

wealthy and educated Manolo from the bottling family — Rican — who 

allowed himself to be treated worse than a dog to try to understand 

the volatile winds of human hatred. Mark was looking at this hatred 

as a result of language. He was thinking that language may be a key 

to race relations. 

In the steam filled room Mark rubbed his skin deeply, thoroughly 

from head to toe and listened to this funny Jewish accent. The 

steam was getting him, changing his consciousness. He was hearing 

a fat and funny Jewish guy, and as the steam swayed in clouds he saw 

a skinny and funny Jewish guy, very black. He chuckled aloud. He 

209



knew that racial differences could be squashed entirely with language, 

like in the French films, like in the Berkeley Steam Baths. 

‘Who could be more black than this Markowitz character? I’m 

naked with him and his color has escaped me. Language, connotation 

and culture are the components of racism, nothing else,’ he thought 

and repeated this idea to himself so that he could remember it later. 

He thought how many immigrants immediately tried to develop perfect 

English skills in order to merge into the oneness of the American culture. 

How is it that Negroes chose not to merge their language skills like 

Caucasians? Perhaps they couldn’t escape the self-defeat of slavery, the 

self-hatred of constantly hearing that they are no good. Perhaps white 

money pays blacks to talk like they are not Americans? He thought that 

to be a Negro in America would be like living like poor Jeffrey lived, 

never thinking you were good enough, even if you were just fine. To 

merge language skills would require great effort, great desire. It also 

pre-supposes that one would have the power-reserves to do this. 

Markowitz transgresses color and has a stunning power from 

having not grown up as a black in America. If you have been stolen 

from your land and hated in your lifetime and the lifetimes of your 

fathers, the desire to merge languages must not develop. If any man’s 

life of defeat was as terrifying as Jeffrey’s, there surely could be no 

spare energy for considerations of language. On the other hand, if it 

is primarily language that is the equivocating factor, then it would be 

a serious mistake not to develop indistinguishable, colorless American 

speech. Is that what colorless language would do, would it create an 

equitable anonymity? 

Language wasn’t at issue in the deaths of 1941. Did Jeffrey have 

a way out? Did Daniel? Did Rusty? Could any of them have achieved 

the adequate presence that each so desperately needed? 

∞ 

Markowitz was talking, “Few American Caucasians from the 

Nordic countries maintained their colorlessness for more than a few 

generations. They darkened like the blacks lightened when they came 

to this mild climate.” 

“What, I’m sorry, Rahim, I wasn’t listening. What were 

you talking about? Did you say ‘Language is a neighborhood?’” said 

Mark. 

“I’m sorry, poor man, in the steam the mind flies in varied 

paths. Enrico and I were discussing evolution. It is my position that 

the Egyptians were whites with Negroid features. In contrast, look at 

210 



my features — completely Caucasian yet my pigmentation has reached 

maximum density. I believe that it takes less than 1000 years for skin 

pigmentation to go from rich black, like mine, to snow white, like 

Swede out there. He and I sit next to each other and the contrast is 

striking. But we see this all the time with animals — many, many deep 

colors. Puppies of the same litter, one solid white, another solid black, 

some mixed. Mark, if you lived outside in an equatorial climate I am 

positive your direct descendants would become black, as surely as mine 

would become white if my descendants lived in northern Norway for 

1000 years.” 

A man with a hose sprayed them with cold water. High-pitched 

shouts of collapsing-chests filled the sacred steam. Their breathing 

intensified and hearts pounded. They heated up again, this time 

catching themselves in a conversation about the erasure of religious 

prejudice and the need for engineers to receive very broad liberal arts 

educations prior to studying technical materials. 

“Liberal arts training is critically important since engineering 

is becoming more and more important. Narrow-minded engineers in 

power could do damage to us culturally,” said the heat. 

Mark’s mind was spinning in the roast, his hands working his 

body quickly, the sweat flooding from him. He was wondering about 

the murder, about that fucking Richard Scheckman, about that fucking 

Spoon who had been a crook all along. 

Mark thought he heard Enrico say, “My accent makes people 

call me a wop, and when I’m careful to avoid the comfort of my accent, 

I think people don’t look at me as a wop. I think with the use of a 

common language with a universal accent that words like nigger, wop 

and kike would disappear forever. A color-blindness would develop. 

Rahim said, “We live 800 years, so the first 20 years of babysitting 

that they call education is immaterial, since in the next 380 

years the student will gain the valuable experience he needs to run the 

country when he is 400 years old.” Humor and truth steamed into 

the grout of the tiles. 

Mark said, “Reverse learning is sometimes better. Reading 

backwards may be natural. Slow uptake, deep understanding. Engineering 

and trade school educations are exercises in compliance; 

those schools represent a narrowing of the mind as mechanical skills 

go one way and liberal arts the other. Real education is both.” No 

one listened. A tile nodded. 

“Civilization is going to the dogs.” 

211



“Civilization came from the dogs. It is dogs that civilized us, 

not we them.” 

“We are the only species that sends its children to war to die 

for real estate or money, and we celebrate this as an indication of intelligence. 

How can we do this?” added Enrico to the swirls of hot fog. 

“The worst war in this civilization has been waged on civilians 

by the greed of industry. When industry’s gasoline automobiles kill 

people in greater numbers than any enemy in a war, people seem to 

like it. The automobile has waged war against its buyers, killing them 

and maiming them with the horror and pain of war. Maybe we are 

now all diseased with masochism, since we say with our buying power, 

‘Kill more of my family, then kill me, but give me a nice automobile 

interior with a fine radio.’” 

The intense heat was talking, dizzying. Rahim led them out 

quickly to the pool in a sunny garden with walls made from white Aztec 

tiles, a pool deck intensely designed with smaller Aztec patterns, splash, 

cold, cold water, ah, ah, swim, move, scream, the bright white sun, the 

white, white light made by this black, black man. 

∞ 

Rahim had customers to tend to, and excused himself. Enrico 

and Mark did one more round in the steam room. Enrico Fermi focused 

entirely on controlled fission reactions and had no interest in 

making weapons; he was interested only in energy production. Enrico 

was nagging Mark to tell him what he genuinely thought of controlled 

fission reactions. 

The Mark Rabinowitz who valued the terse over the verbose 

did a distinct turnaround in the heat and altered state of the steam. 

He knew he was on the spot, too, naked with a man with a good mind, 

and, had to disclose his process as well as his conclusion. 

Enrico said, “Mark, please. I have asked you now many times in 

many ways and you are hedging to be polite. I want your most sincere 

thoughts about fission.” 

“For me, there are 5 mechanisms that I use to test mechanical 

truth, or actually, truths of all kinds. 

“First and foremost is my dreams, since there is plenty of time 

to work on both wild concepts and nasty little details. 

“Second is my own Round Table at home where my cynical 

and critical guests prove and disprove anything. You have to come 

212 



visit us and eat and stay with us. Please let me know when you will 

be in New York. The Round Table does not allow many false ideas 

to spin outwards. 

“Third in my struggle toward truth is the Shfvitz, this wonderful, 

purging steam which makes falsehoods vaporize with the steam. 

“Fourth, if I am still uncertain about how to proceed or what 

is true, I take a long ride through quiet hills on my bicycle away from 

traffic and people. A solo bicycle ride in the country is resplendent, 

rhythmic. The graceful constancy of your flowing body allows for very 

clear thought. 

“Fifth, my attempt to confirm truth comes from something I 

learned from my son’s friend, Trent. He swims laps for 60 minutes, 

non-stop, and stares at the light patterns on the bottom of the pool, 

light patterns that come from the refractions of the sun or indoor 

lights patterning the bottom. While swimming, he expels everything 

from his mind while staring at the patterns. All the nonsense of the 

world disappears in time, and then he is ready to think about his tasks 

at hand, while still staring at the patterns. This is the best of all tricks 

because it is a controlled and limited-sensory environment. I believe it 

is the most effective of my five tests. If there is doubt, on another day 

I swim for an hour and do not allow myself to think about anything. 

I only stare at the patterns. Sometimes, at the end of the hour, or 

into a subsequent hour on the next day, truth emerges. Sometimes I 

must repeat this for several days until the patterns provide an answer. 

Eventually they do.” 

Enrico, “This is good.” 

Mark Isaac, “For my toughest life issues, when I expose them 

to these 5 tests, only truth remains, at least, truth to me. 

Enrico Fermi said, “Have you done this with the mechanics 

of fission?” 

“Yes, in fact, over and over again.” 

“Tell me. You will not hurt my feelings.” 

“Enrico, I have approached each test with every detail that I 

know of fission and its possibilities. I believe that the possibilities are 

great, and the potential real. In my opinion we are not ready for fission. 

My long-winded and wonderful methods for searching for truth are 

inadequate and unscientific. We have no way to model the strengths of 

materials and predict how they will handle the heat of fission. A great 

213



man might one day provide us the modeling capability, but until then, 

I must tell you only my intuitions. Making a controlled fission reaction 

should not be a consideration until two things are developed. 

“One is materials. We are about to witness an explosion, if 

you’ll excuse my language, in the field of material science that would 

enable us to build a controlled reaction device with less worry of warpage 

or other material failure. It may take 100 years for the benefits of 

this research to become available. Material failure, likely with current 

materials, would cause an uncontrolled fission event, the implications 

of which I choose not to imagine. 

“Two, the achievement of a controlled reaction must be overtly 

mechanical, for instance, where one material is raised into another. 

Even with new and fabulous materials that we don’t have yet, it is a 

given that a severely overdesigned mechanical design be used. These 

dangerous doings require that the feat be overdesigned many fold, like 

the Empire State Building. With severe overdesign, you are safe. A 

gravity system — and only a gravity system — must be used to preclude 

the reaction. It, too, must be deployed with absurd levels of safety.” 

“In your imagination, the containment must be how extensively 

over-designed? 

“Assuming we had better materials than we have today, I would 

imagine that a 20 gallon reaction vessel might require a 20’ high separating 

wall that is 10’ thick. The amount of available emergency coolant 

might have to be 10,000 times the gallonage of the reaction vessel. 

And where or how you could store the waste material is far beyond my 

world of understanding. I would suppose that it cannot be stored, or 

at least it cannot be stored until we have evolved hundreds of times 

beyond our current understandings in material science.” 

“Yes, Mark, I see your hesitance in wanting to discuss this. I 

will keep your safety parameters in mind while I work, but I think I 

must prove — under less rigorous conditions — that such a reaction is 

possible.” 

“Yes, I know that you are moving in this direction. Respectfully, 

let me give you one warning. In my field of Mechanical Engineering 

and the associated field of Material Science, buzzwords such as ‘lighter, 

stronger, faster, cheaper’ are heard daily. You must not think like this. 

You must imagine gigantic machinery as if you were cold stamping 

sheet metal.” 

“Ah, the huge machines that make the small fenders in the 

automobile industry?” 

“Exactly, only much more exaggerated.” 

214 



“This I shall remember.” 

“On our way down the hill, let’s stop at the Japanese gardens. 

I’m getting hungry, too.” 

“I think there is a dinner for us this evening at the faculty club. 

It should be a horrible experience.” 

“Clearly.” 

∞ 

The gathering was informal. The food was good. People were 

relaxed and Mark was entirely pleased with the casual Berkeley atmosphere. 

Enrico and Mark were exhausted and quite punch drunk from 

the Shfvitz. After one shot of Jack Daniel’s they acted like kids, arms 

around each other, dancing with the younger wives. A lovely young 

Venezuelan, whose name he couldn’t remember, danced hard and 

drank too much. She talked about her family, her recent trip in the 

Pacific on her family’s triple-masted ship, La Coca-Cola Fria. Mark was 

falling asleep. She spoke so endearingly of her older brother Manolo 

in New York, the urban anthropologist getting his Masters from the 

Sorbonne. She missed him terribly and was glad at least for the long 

distance telephone lines. She talked about Manolo and Manolo’s 

stories about New York, a place she didn’t want to go. She knew of 

a story of murder that he had told her, a ritual murder of a Bishop. 

She was appalled. She couldn’t wait for Manolo to come see her in 

Berkeley. She would never go to New York. Never. 

Ω 

215

Fear of Leaves 

✑ 

Anthony Cinelli, during his Princeton days, found himself 

up at Columbia visiting a friend from High School, and visiting the 

magical Salter’s bookstore between 115 th and 116 th Streets on Broadway. 

Salter’s produced obscure books from underground tunnels as 

if paper and ink were synthesized there, as if the world’s presses were 

just down in the basement, as if all publishers stored all their wares in 

this building alone. Mrs. Salter, herself a Master Bookseller, found the 

most encyclopedic people to staff her counters, people who produced 

from infinite memory alone the keys to all disciplines, west or east, 

scientific or religious, geographic or astronomic. If there was any sacred 

ground at Columbia, it was Salter’s Bookstore, the real protectors of 

Civilization. 

Anthony had stayed at the Furnald Hall dorm several times. 

He had Mark Isaac with him this time, Mark Isaac who was at that time 

11. They climbed the winter stairs on the narrow 115 th Street entrance 

to campus. They were joking around on the walkway. The sound of 

a loud gasoline engine grew. When they turned left to descend the 

few stairs to Furnald, the engine itself seemed to jump out at them 

generating an instant panic-fear in Anthony, a fear from further back 

than from Anthony’s past, an ancient reaction of survival. The engine 

roared on a student’s back. A handheld tube coming from the engine 

was surely a flame thrower. The fear seared Anthony, it symbolized 

something to him, but what? Oh, the smell! He threw Mark Isaac 

against the bushes, shielding him. He expected flames. Was the maniac 

attacking? No, wait, it was a student committing suicide in some 

bizarre industrial ritual. No, we’re OK. Yes, the student looked calm. 

He was trying to blow slush all around, systematically. What was he 

doing? No one could wear an engine on his back. 

The motored student somehow shut off the noise. The stench 

of the noxious, badly burned gasoline fumes overwhelmed the senses 

and putrefied in the lingering echoes of slaughter. 

“Hey, I’m sorry. What’s wrong, did my blower idea scare 

you?” 

“Yes, what are you doing?” asked the frightened Anthony while 

Mark Isaac laughed. 

“I’m inventing a snow blower and leaf blower. I’ve already 

applied for a patent.” 

“I hope you don’t get it. Didn’t you ever hear of a broom?” 

said the still shaking, 6’ 4” robust athlete. 

217



“Yeah, I’ve heard that before. I’m in engineering and even the 

Dean thinks I should transfer to a nice, safe liberal arts college, but 

not the College here. He suggested out of state. He just isn’t seeing 

the business potential of this. It doesn’t work that well on snow but 

on leaves I bet it works great. I can blow toilet paper around campus 

very effectively.” 

“Well, it hasn’t been nice to meet you. Get a broom.” 

“You too, bye.” 

“Bye.” 

∞ 

Mark Isaac and Anthony hustled into the mahogany and teak 

wainscoted lobby and warmed themselves close to the fireplace in a 

large, button-leather chair. An early Christmas tree with pine needles 

scattering the oak floor stood undecorated to their side. Mark Isaac’s 

laughter at Anthony soon turned to support, since the experience was 

still shaking him. Anthony calmed, saw the humor in his reaction, and 

they went upstairs to visit his friend and dorm mates. The Columbia 

students were very different from the Princeton students. They were 

less accepting, more creative. These kids were the first people he had 

met who were both good people and who didn’t believe in God. The 

existence of God had never been something he had challenged, and 

the concept certainly was not challenged in the Princeton dorms. God 

was God. 

God was always there for Anthony, most especially when his 

mother died. Anthony had met people who didn’t believe in religion 

or gods, but what caught his attention here was that he could be friends 

with these people. They came from good families. They seemed 

respectful of themselves, fellow students, family, faculty and country. 

They seemed to be ethical people. Eight or ten students from the 

dorm moved in and out of his friend’s room and the hallway. Each 

meandering student said something, no one dominated. The College 

students tossed the invisible, conversant ball in the air freely, and 

freely someone grabbed it. You had to say something or you would be 

considered antisocial or dumb, and no one wanted that, especially on 

a Friday night. Abruptly, the ball was in the air. The voices puffed to 

keep it aloft. Reflective sentients sharing a floor: 

“The value of religion is the creation of moral order in a culture.” 

“Moral order is not the goal, unless it’s a police state. Ethical 

order is the goal.” 

218 



“Same thing.” 

“Big difference.” 

“Make your point.” 

“Ethics are the determined, calculated solutions that are the 

most JUST, based on the fullness of circumstance.” 

“Yes, and these ethics may become rules, and the rules may 

linger, be written down.” 

“Then the ethic becomes the moral.” 

“Good, so what’s wrong with that?” 

“Morals may not be ethical.” 

“Make your point.” 

Mark Isaac, the quiet one, the 11 year old in a college dorm, 

grabbed the ball and said confidently, “I know the point. The point 

is that circumstance is often random, and morals are rules. In time, 

the rule may not refer to the circumstance. The moral may become 

unethical.” 

The group was quiet for a second, paternal, proud. It was 

Mark Isaac’s first pronouncement of social awareness. It scared him. 

He didn’t like it. 

“Exactly. Ethics can become morals, but morals cannot become 

ethics, and morals may often be unethical.” 

“Yes, this is why I cannot believe in gods or religions.” 

“Wait, these are different arguments.” 

“Yes, but religion is very guilty of maintaining morals while 

not acting ethically.” 

“Nonsense, give examples.” 

“Easy. Real estate and the poor. The religions are giant real 

estate assemblage machines. Much of their wealth is in real estate, 

and wealth is power. That money should be in the hands of the poor, 

as in homes for the poor, and the talent of the church or synagogue 

or place of worship should be expressed in the form of education or 

health care.” 

“Hear, hear.” 

“Well said.” 

“Does this mean that religion has grown into something it 

wasn’t in the beginning?” 

“In the beginning it was a collection of stories, the most substantial 

collection of writings done to that date in respective cultures 

in respective time periods. The Koran. The Old Testament. The 

New Testament. Later, the Book of Mormon. These story sets were 

well done and represented a full and rich collection of stories. The 

219



stories were associated with each set of images that those in power, at 

that time, chose to represent.” 

“So religion is bullshit?” 

“Yes, if political systems are bullshit. You can’t do without 

them. We are far from evolving into a species that can work ethically 

within a benevolent anarchism. In fact, we aren’t close to having 

adequate educations to survive in any form of anarchism. We need 

structure. The danger is on the other end. We lose a lot of freedom 

— and therefore, individuality — with each structure established.” 

“Yeah, we are assholes.” 

“Yeah, you are, anyway.” 

“Religion associates people who choose or are manipulated 

into having things in common. Then they pay into the system, and 

then they defend the system militarily.” 

“True.” 

“And it’s a fear-based situation, too, since if you don’t comply, 

give to your church, fight for your church, proselytize for your church, 

there are penalties.” 

“Explain.” 

“OK, think of the Inquisition. Any form of denial of a particular 

god and you were tortured or hanged. Think of the religious 

wars. How many people died from fighting over beliefs in particular 

gods and the real estate holdings of those gods?” 

“Yes, but it’s more than this, too. The church requires that 

you buy into all of its systems completely. It is a complete package, a 

special, a deal. You are born into it and you are told you are this or that. 

Your compliance is completely required or your essence is threatened 

by being thrown out of the thing you are told you love. You cannot 

easily deny your birth.” 

“The church or synagogue or mosque advertises what good 

it does, but it’s not clear that it is maintaining usefulness in this system, 

and in socialist and communist systems the churches are mostly 

gone.” 

“Churches teach values.” 

“True, and churches do many good things, but they have far 

too much real estate, far too many significant salaries, far too extensive 

and expensive pomp, far too many threats of punishment and hell, far 

too extensive bullshit about suffering on earth for an afterlife. The 

church isn’t relevant.” 

“And the church’s ‘values’ developed like other morals. They 

eventually become unethical.” 

220 



“The religions that emerged in the last six thousand years 

should have all been ethical, cultural, personal, global and simple. 

They are none of those things.” 

“Religions miss the issue. They shouldn’t teach values. They 

should teach the tricks that are used in determining ethics.” 

“Religion is property fights, fights of borders, controls of 

money, threats for non-compliance.” 

“Religion shouldn’t be powerful as in a military state. It should 

be powerful in the good it does. It cannot do good in a capitalist society 

if it plays capitalist games.” 

“Religion is not useful.” 

“Community is useful, communications is useful.” 

“Communications in the singular?” 

“Yes, in the singular.” 

“Interesting.” 

“What about god. Surely no one believes in god?” 

“I do.” 

“I don’t.” 

“I believe in something, but I don’t want to call it god with a 

capital G, just the power of human commonality.” 

Almost everyone aligned themselves in one these three columns. 

Mark Isaac didn’t believe in god. Anthony didn’t comment. 

Mark Isaac spoke, “When I was 4 years old I proved there is no 

god. I stood in the backyard and tried to catch god’s puppet strings. 

They weren’t there, so there’s no god.” 

“Is that it, is that your substantive proof?” 

“No, there’s more. I did bad and good things, and it didn’t 

make a difference. I pissed on the lawn and I wasn’t punished. I 

helped my friend’s grandmother and I wasn’t rewarded.” 

“That’s why you don’t believe in god?” 

Mark, “Yup. When I was little I felt very sorry for people because 

of their belief in god and religion. I think it’s one of the reasons 

I didn’t speak. I didn’t talk until I was 8. I didn’t know how they 

could speak if what they believed was lies. 

Jeremy Davidson spoke, a strikingly handsome, naïve looking 

freshman known as JD, “I see man as a prisoner to these complicated 

beliefs, but I don’t think it’s any person’s fault. I think it’s the fault 

of the expensively trained religion salesmen who use the fear of death 

and the fear of unlimited power to generate what they call a leap of 

faith. Once a man takes such a leap, he is possibly lost forever. He 

has leapt into the abyss of delusion.” 

221



What Jeremy Davidson could not know in that winter of 1913 

is that he would finish college without entry into World War I, and that 

by 1918, at the conclusion of the war, his parents and brother would 

suddenly die from Spanish Influenza along with 20 million others. He 

could not know that his fine education and his good job would end 

within 6 hours of the Crash of ’29, and that his education, in the end, 

would have meant nothing financially. Jeremy could not know that 

after his employment in the Work Projects Administration he would 

never find good work again, ever. He could not have known that if 

it weren’t for a tiny patch of grass, some thin concrete above a steam 

utility room, and a single, thin tree sandwiched among four industrial 

buildings between 130 th and 131 st Streets west of Broadway, he could 

have never survived the brutal Februarys of New York City. 

For years, with his long panhandler’s beard, disheveled hair, 

and his very own old wool overcoat from his days of employment, he 

walked up to Columbia, either through Riverside Park or along Broadway. 

He had a few spots on Broadway where his need panhandled for 

him. Often enough, he recognized old faces from his student days. 

He looked away and was grateful no one recognized him. Only once 

in modern times did Jeremy ever tell anyone that he had graduated 

from Columbia, and that was to a student who sat next to him on the 

steps, who helped him carry a bumper to Saul’s Junkyard. What Jeremy 

liked most about Jonathan was that he also looked naïve: Jonathan’s 

tool of penetration into the obscure. What Jeremy Davidson could 

also not know in 1913, was that in 1941 he would become witness to 

the transfer of the wounded and unconscious Bishop Anthony Paul 

Cinelli from a paint truck to a limousine. 

“I don’t believe in god because it’s ridiculous. It’s a series 

of stories written with one goal: Your Compliance. Comply or die. 

Comply or rot in hell.” 

“God is the idea of a king with global real estate conquest in 

mind, not just the real estate of one small country.” 

“Who is it that we talk to when we ask god for something, for 

someone to live or die, to win a game or do well on a test?” 

“We are jerking off when we say that. Whack, whack, that’s 

it.” 

“We say that because it’s part and parcel of the language, no 

other reason.” 

“We say that just like we say ‘Fuck’ when we get hurt, or ‘Shit’ 

when something goes wrong. It’s commonality of expression, not 

belief. You don’t believe in shit, do you?” 

222 



“Hey, I believe in fucking...” 

“Me too.” 

The ball was now dead on the floor. Squashed flat by erratic 

hormones. Two guys in the doorway left. The laughter had died. Then, 

“Supposition: If, as we have outlined and demonstrated, religion is the 

opiate of the masses and compliance is universal, why…” 

Bang. Steve slammed the door. Flat was the ball, an atom thick, 

gliding into the planar geometry of curiosity through the magnitude 

of student time. 

∞ 

Mark Isaac would seldom in his life, even his adult life, make 

social commentaries as he had here. Mark Isaac preferred to be a seer 

of things and a crafter of objects. Social constructs could belong to 

someone else. Oddly, it was during this very conversation in his friend’s 

dorm room when Anthony Cinelli decided to apply to seminary school. 

He had been putting it off, had already graduated, and was too long in 

the town of Princeton. Anthony also was not believing in god at this 

point, and would never again believe in his childhood image of God 

with the story-book characters of Father, Son and Holy Ghost. But the 

Church, the Catholic Church, was a place he wanted to experience. 

He thought these images were good for people, convenient, easy. He 

also loved the pomp, and knew he could do a lot of good. He didn’t 

know how much good he would do, never dreamed that he would 

become a Bishop, and never imagined he would be asked to run the 

Episcopalian Cathedral, St. John The Divine, just three blocks from 

Furnald Hall. 

Ω 

223

Hammocks of Brownstone Ravine 

✑ 

Anthony didn’t know then that he would leave his friend Mark 

Isaac too early in his life, and leave the church entombed in concrete 

on an old, creaky flatbed truck in the slush of February. He didn’t 

know that his murder would be witnessed by five frightened boys, too 

afraid to come forward, too afraid of the accusation of homosexuality, 

too afraid of their own feelings of pride in their bodies and their 

own hormones, and too afraid of the laws of the state regarding sexual 

privacy. Boys in the woods, in the Hammocks of Brownstone Ravine 

in northeast Central Park, witnessed Anthony’s abduction and shooting. 

Barry Leverman, Professor Rabinowitz’s engineering student, was 

one of these boys. 

People see things selectively, with special little lenses that 

they conjure up in their minds as individuals, or bigger lenses that 

are projected collectively as a culture. Alaskans may see a hundred 

shades of white, representing different types of snow. Each type of 

snow has a name. Florida orange growers see a hundred shades of 

orange, representing various stages of many species of oranges, each 

with a name. One African tribe has words for black and white, and 

one other word which represents all other colors. A variety of lenses 

for a variety of beliefs. 

In sexual relations, Americans like to bulk themselves together 

as one mass culture and pronounce through its courts that only one 

type of sexuality is acceptable. All others are therefore horrifying. If 

there are one-hundred shades of snows, one-hundred shades of oranges, 

and one-hundred colors in our visible spectrum, there are one-hundred 

forms of human sexuality. The rest of the civilized world with 

well-formed self-images laughs at the single lens that Americans either 

wear — or suffer egregiously for not wearing. Yet, the power of taboo 

is sacrosanct in culture, immutable, it seems, and the taboos projected 

by the broader culture are violated only by those who must, those who 

think they won’t be caught, or those who have created ways to not be 

a part of it in the first place. 

Olmsted, the incomparable landscape architect who designed 

and built Central Park, may have created the Hammocks of Brownstone 

Ravine. Or the area may have been this way naturally since the days of 

the Manhattan Indians, or it may have been the result of quarrying and 

the work that Olmsted did to fix things up. By this time, this northeast 

section was a sculpted, secluded and wooded place in the Park near 

the toughest hills. All in all, it was about 8 acres of very dense woods. 

225



Within the woods, within a span of lower areas of nearly 6 acres, about 

50 enormous brownstone boulders between 10’ and 50’ in diameter 

created what looked like a hilly sculpture garden for giants. Some 

called it just that, the Garden of the Giants. The boulders made the 

many lower areas inaccessible to all but the best rock climbers, or so it 

appeared. The field of boulders was interspersed with small clumps 

of dense trees, known as hammocks. 

Some prep school boys in and around the City were under severe 

pressures. Not only were they forced into competing academically, 

but they had to be good athletically, which, like their academics, took 

a great deal of time. They had to have all the right things to say about 

their parents and their parents’ professions and their parents’ money, 

whether that was a great deal or a very little. They labored ceaselessly 

to build resilient and useful images of themselves among peers and 

elders alike. They had to be strong enough to fight with the public 

school kids in a brawl, and cool enough to attract girls and date them. 

They had to make decisions about college and careers by 14, in fear 

that they would otherwise sound like morons and be derided. Besides 

these neat little pressures, they had to deal with puberty. 

In 1941, athletic prep school kids between the ages of 12 and 14 

would start hearing special connotations to words like ‘Hammock’ or 

‘Ravine’ or ‘Friday’ or ‘Brownstone.’ By 15, they all knew what these 

words meant. By 18, they usually forgot, and their ventures into trading 

or showing-off typically, usually, ended. But for a few years between 

childhood and serious dating, some boys found the Hammocks of 

Brownstone Ravine to be a great release from the severe enormity of 

their mind and body crunching prep school rigors. Most of the military 

high schools were less disciplined and less regimented than some of the 

prep schools. Most military schools leveled the playing field in social 

issues that alone alleviated great, soul-wrenching pressures. 

Some of the kids who occasionally made their way to the Hammocks 

of Brownstone Ravine were the best jocks in their prep schools. 

There, kids in a hammock: two footballs and a basketball. Nice looking, 

heavy winter weight athletic uniforms, probably from Barney’s Boys’ 

Town or Saks Fifth Avenue. Every piece of clothing was adorned with 

embroidered school names and coats-of-arms emblems that displayed 

phrases such as ‘Quit You Like Men’. 

Little name tags such as 

Holt Kent Winston Armstrong, IV 

Mt. Devonshire Academy 

226 



were properly sewn into each boy’s clothing, every jacket, every shirt, 

every pair of underpants. Most of the boys of the Hammocks of 

Brownstone Ravine knew each other at least by sight or competed 

against each other at prep school games or athletic conferences. This 

was the lens worn by some preppy kids in 1941. It was a rite of passage, 

their right. 

Barry Leverman, 17, a recent graduate from the Oxford City 

Day School for Boys, was on his knees, his eyes transfixed within the 

soft hairs of a kid from Mt. Devonshire Academy in the upper hammock 

closest to Central Park Drive North. Barry’s bike was locked in 

a hammock below. He was voraciously sucking and jacking the Mt. 

Devonshire kid who stared at the naked branches above him. Left 

hand on his hip, Mt. Devonshire spun his basketball in his right hand 

against his upper thigh. They heard a bike crash. A backfire. A shout. 

They were caught. The Mt. Devonshire kid dropped the spinning ball 

and pushed Barry off of him. In a single motion they pulled up their 

underpants and embroidered sweat pants and hit the ground, the side 

of the boulder. Wait, this sound was very different from a backfire. 

Whispering, “It was definitely a gunshot. Definitely a .22. Yes, 

look, that guy has a gun in his hand, shit, he actually shot that guy in 

the head. Here they come, fuck.” 

The pair dropped down over the big boulder behind them, 

partially air-borne. Squirrels in a scamper. Barry left his bike, his 

priceless possession, his best friend. The basketball rolled and bounced 

unaware. 

Mt. Devonshire rolled into the lower hammock first. Barry 

followed. They rolled into a hideaway where three kids were circlejerking 

on their knees. One kid kept whacking it, lost in interminable 

need. 

“What the fuck?” 

“Shut-up, there was a gun shot.” 

“Stop, there was gun shot, cut it out.” Panic. With a single 

motion, as if choreographed, the three popped upright — underpants 

up, sweats tied and T-shirts tucked. Scared or not, two of them were still 

hard. Everyone was sweating heavily. It was freezing on an unusually 

bright and sunny afternoon. It was late on a Friday in February. 

“It sounded like a backfire, get out of here.” 

“No fuckin’ chance. It was a .22, I’m sure. Look, we saw it 

happen. The fucking guy is dead for Christ’s sake.” 

“Oh Fuck.” 

227



“Jesus.” 

“What happened?” 

“We were tradin’-off up there and we heard this bike crash and 

truck brakes squeal and we got scared and heard a gun shot and looked 

out and a truck plunked over the curb and into the woods and the guy 

had a gun and killed some big cyclist. That’s it.” 

“Yeah, that’s what happened.” 

“Did you see them?” 

“Yeah, we rolled down here.” 

“Come on, let’s go up and look.” 

“I saw them coming our way, the guy with the gun,” shook the 

Mt. Devonshire kid. 

“No, I heard the truck drive off, they’re gone,” said Barry of 

Oxford City Day. 

“OK, come on let’s go see if the dead guy is there.” 

With hearts pounding, the squirrels crawled the big boulder, 

ran through the hammock, and up the next. All five boys, in a schoolboy 

line, inched their way up and popped only their heads over the 

crest of the boulder. 

“Nothing.” 

“No, wait, there’s a bike wheel.” 

“We gotta call the cops.” 

“No fuckin’ chance.” 

“Yeah, no chance.” 

“OK, what do we do?” 

“We weren’t here.” 

“No, not here.” 

“Grab the wheel, let’s think about this down in the hammock.” 

The boys squirreled downwards and picked up the rest of their athletic 

gear along the way. The basketball was long gone, deep into the ravine. 

They retreated to the lower, safer hammock. 

Of the 5 boys, not one had ever considered ‘trading-off’ a 

homosexual thing, or that any of these boys in the hammocks might 

be homosexual. Everyone hated homos, that’s the way it was. Prep 

school boys who were homosexual pretended to hate homosexuals. 

Prep school boys who were homosexual would never be found in the 

Hammocks of Brownstone Ravine — they would be far too afraid. None 

of these boys would in fact grow to practice homosexuality as an adult, 

nor would they remember, or admit to remembering. They were fooling 

around. They were in great shape, proud of it, horny and wanted 

to jack. Sometimes jacking meant head, sometimes not. These boys 

228 



had never even considered screwing another guy, and each was very, 

very desperate to find a steady girl to love and love and love. These 

were boys who knew the word ‘career’ at about 5 years old. They knew 

they were going to become professionals and marry and have kids. The 

implications of where they were when they all heard the gunshot, however, 

was dancing through their minds destructively, self-destructively, 

and they began to try on lenses that protracted their realities. 

The outcome of the conversation that followed was a given. 

As a group, it was clearly decided that there would be no police, no 

fathers, no mothers, no headmasters, no coaches. Bicycling Barry 

Leverman would sell the wheel to a place where it would disappear 

forever as parts, built into other wheels. There was no remaining 

evidence, just the wheel, and the paint that guy poured out. It would 

disappear with the snow expected that night. Whatever happened up 

there on the hill was over for the dead guy and over for the murderers 

and over for the witnesses. They scampered off in five directions 

among the giant boulders and hilly terrain like a squad of older boys 

in war scattering from an incoming grenade. Fear echoed through the 

boys as they ran. This was trouble. It was contradictory to everything 

they knew to keep quiet, to witness murder and hide like cowards. It 

was also suicide to admit they were trading-off in the Hammocks of 

Brownstone Ravine. 

Ω 

229

Trails & Trials of Deceit 

✑ 

“And how did you determine which of Horace Scheckman’s 

250 line-painting trucks was the one used in the abduction of Bishop 

Cinelli, Detective Stagnoli?” asked Manhattan District Attorney Darryl 

Hammacher. 

“We knew that the concrete which entombed Bishop Cinelli 

was poured at 5 AM, Saturday morning, the day before the Day of the 

Harps. The Bishop was seen by many people at St. John’s up until he 

went for a bike ride about 4 PM on Friday. For February, it was an 

especially sunny day. We looked at Scheckman’s trucking manifest, 

which the dispatcher maintained perfectly since the company bookkeepers 

used the trucking manifest to do customer billing. We determined 

that there were 47 trucks used in New York State on Friday, the day of 

the murder, 25 of them in the City, and of those, 7 were in the Borough 

of Manhattan. It got a little hairy then since none of the trucks 

claimed to be in Central Park. Of the 7 possible trucks, we thought 

we would never be able to figure out which truck was involved, since 

every truck seemed to be completely covered with white traffic paint, 

all made in this same Scheckman paint factory.” 

“How did you do it, then?” 

“Well, we explained this to Professor Rabinowitz, who we 

drove out to the Weehawken Police Station impound where we had 

the trucks stored. After he looked at the trucks, he said there were a 

few things that might work.” 

“Go on.” 

“He said that if there was traffic paint on the bottom of the 

bottom bracket of the Bishop’s bicycle, then there might be traffic paint 

underneath the bumper of one of the trucks. His idea was that the 

spray paint staging can may have been knocked out of the little bracket 

that holds it on the lower bumper. Sure enough, we excluded and 

released trucks 1009, 1113, 1227 and 1047 that didn’t have paint on 

the underside of the bumper. That left us with 3 possible trucks.” 

“Go on.” 

“Well, Professor Rabinowitz said that every batch of paint would 

probably be a little bit different since they can’t make them precisely 

the same. We asked around in the factory and they said they control 

batches by number like they do in food and drug processing. Mark 

Isaac, sorry, I mean Professor Rabinowitz, said men might add more 

or less material from batch to batch, or one of the additives might be 

different on a particular batch. He thought that if the gallonage of the 

231



vats wasn’t too great, we might be lucky and get a ‘batch match’ from 

the bottom of the truck bumper to the bottom of the bicycle bottom 

bracket. He thought with thorough lab work that we might be lucky. 

He was right.” 

“Did you get a match?” 

“Yes.” 

“Only Amalayus Harraka’s truck had matching paint on the 

bottom of the bumper.” 

“Please proceed.” 

“We arrested Harraka. We immediately figured he was deeply 

involved, just an instinct you get after awhile. Then Detective Londonderry 

asked him a few questions, and he folded right away. He 

then said he wanted a lawyer, which we got him, a Public Defender, 

and he said nothing further. By this time, between Chief Shawnessy, 

Professor Rabinowitz, Detective Martinelli, Detective Londonderry 

and me, we all figured that the line-painting truck drove up slowly 

next to Father August. Harraka, on the low bumper-board, jammed 

a piece of wood between Father August’s front wheel spokes which 

then locked on the fork that held the wheel. That caused the Bishop 

to do a header over the handlebars of his bike. Then they threw him 

into the truck with the bike. He was shot in the head sometime during 

this abduction. We think Richard Scheckman drove the truck 

while Amalayus Harraka inserted the wood stick between the spokes 

of Bishop Cinelli’s bicycle wheel. There were marks on the pavement 

and distances to figure. Professor Rabinowitz actually calculated the 

speed of the bicycle when the wheel was stopped abruptly. Dr. Einstein 

helped with the formulae. ” 

∞ 

Expert Witness Henry Barnes, traffic commissioner of New 

York, took the stand. “Yes, the MacAdam lines are essential to the 

control of traffic.” 

“Pardon me, Mr. Barnes, please explain to the Jury the term 

‘MacAdam.’ Is that a type of paint?” 

“No, sorry. MacAdam is just plain old blacktop with a good bituminous 

binder, and the Brit that developed it was named MacAdam. 

Anyway, I worked out some details with Mr. Horace Scheckman on the 

design of the truck spray mechanism, so that the lines would be uniform 

but still quick to spray like he insisted. He’s quite an inventor, that 

Mr. Scheckman, I believe he invented aluminum pots in his basement. 

Yes, well, we worked out a good design, him and me, where a 55 gallon 

232 



drum of traffic paint, that’s 440 pounds, sat off-center of the middle 

of the truck to balance the weight. Driver, sprayman and compressor 

on one side; drum on the other. Worked it out real good. He wanted 

closed trucks so nothing would get stolen, but small ones since they 

would hold nothin’ but the drum and the small compressor and the 

two men. He got small delivery trucks made with a custom suspension 

that was both extra heavy duty and very low to the ground. He got 

the trucks where the driver or the sprayman could go to the back or 

front without going outside. He was a little afraid of traffic problems 

and accidents. Got roll-up rear doors put on them, too, so the doors 

wouldn’t be in the way. Then he had someone make the smallest 

danged 12 volt compressors you ever saw. Did the job, though. 

“So two men were absolutely required to spray lines?” 

“Oh yes, we set it up that way. Plenty enough for one man 

to do to just drive straight. Good lines, good traffic control. Bad 

lines, bad traffic control. Painting lines in the streets are my idea, you 

know, and they gotta be right to reduce accidents. They do them all 

over the country now, and I’m even going to Rome myself to help out 

the I-talians. Pretty crazy driving they got there. Sure wish I woulda 

patented the line painting idea.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Barnes. Just one more question. Would it 

be possible for the driver of this truck to drive next to a bicyclist and 

insert an object into his spokes?” 

“That’s impossible, Mr. Hammacher. Driver couldn’t do that 

unless your cyclist was using one of them old Penny Farthing bicycle 

styles, with the great big wheel in front. Driver’s window is highup.” 

“How can you be certain, Mr. Barnes? The driver may have 

opened his door to insert the object.” 

“Why Horace Scheckman had those truck doors welded closed. 

Didn’t want the men opening their doors in traffic. Saved plenty on 

insurance that way, you know. Plenty. Had quite a few trucks, too.” 

“That’s all, Commissioner Barnes. Thank you for your testimony. 

∞ 

Professor Mark Isaac Rabinowitz, Private Investigator, please 

take the stand.” 

“Professor Rabinowitz, on trial for murder are Richard Scheckman, 

Father Spoon O’Reilly and Amalayus Harraka. Who is Richard 

Scheckman?” 

233



“He is the son of the Horace Scheckman just described by 

Commissioner Barnes.” 

“Mr. Scheckman is also your wife’s first cousin?” 

“Yes.” 

“This doesn’t prejudice you in any way?” 

“No.” 

“Professor Rabinowitz, you have acted as a Private Investigator 

on this case for Chief Shawnessy? 

“Yes.” 

“Please explain to the court your suppositions that led to the 

arrest of these men.” 

“They were not mine alone. And, if I may, I would like to say I 

have never acted as a Private Investigator before. Nearly twenty Officers 

and Detectives worked very hard on this case. Solid police work made 

this possible. I provided almost no work except a few ideas. Dr. Einstein 

and I calculated several interesting forces which determined the speed 

of the bicycle when the Billy Club … was inserted in the bicycle wheel. 

All of the leg and lab work was done by the Police Department. 

When Mark Isaac used the words ‘Billy Club,’ he quieted 

for a few seconds before completing his sentence. He didn’t expect 

to say it was a Billy Club. He had not even thought of it before that 

moment on the witness stand. Something was wrong. He realized 

that a police Billy Club would have been a perfect size and shape for 

inserting between the spokes, and that a cop, or anyone else, could 

have called Harraka just as easily as Spoon. He was angry at himself 

for not seeing this before arrests were made, and wondered how often 

the wrong people are arrested and sentenced. Someone had to tell 

Harraka that Anthony was heading out for his Friday afternoon ride. 

It was really just an assumption that Spoon made the phone call to 

Richard and that Richard called Harraka who was waiting at a phone 

booth in Central Park. Yes, just an assumption. They didn’t think 

Harraka could have followed him because the truck couldn’t take all 

the paths of a bicycle. Mark Isaac was thinking fast. Mark knew they 

were accusing Spoon because of his record. His record and his spit 

bubbles. Spoon was looking guilty, feeling guilty, but Mark Isaac didn’t 

know that he was guilty. Everyone thought Richard was guilty. The 

Detectives said it was obvious to them. 

“Professor Rabinowitz, you hesitated there for a moment. Is 

there something you would like to discuss with us?” 

“No, sorry, I, I, hesitate in speech often.” Mark Isaac answered 

the remaining questions while thinking about Billy Clubs. He had 

234 



seen something. Something made him say ‘Billy Club.’ And Spoon. 

He needed to think more about Spoon and about Billy Clubs. 

Mark Rabinowitz was excused. 

∞ 

Acting Detective Mikey Martinelli was called. 

“Mr. Martinelli, you are temporarily assigned as an Investigator 

on this case? We understand that you have been re-assigned from the 

Building Department where you are Chief Building Inspector,” offered 

District Attorney Darryl Hammacher. 

“Yes, that’s correct. I used to be a Detective here on the force 

until Mayor Rinato asked me to head up the Building Department. 

I grew up in the construction business and know a few things about 

how construction and real estate work, at least in New York.” 

“As an Expert Witness, it would be beneficial to the court if 

you could elaborate on your experience with the business practices of 

real estate developers.” 

“Sure, they play at high risk with bankruptcy looming before 

them, so they tell me. They try to make as much money as possible 

on each job.” 

“How is money made in this business?” 

“By finishing a building quickly with unrealistic speeds and 

paying off their land and construction loans.” 

“Why is it important that it be done with such speed? Doesn’t 

it make more sense to build orderly and properly and to get one thing 

finished perfectly before moving on to the next?” 

“Just the opposite. You have to do everything very fast in New 

York, because you’re racing the clock. Let’s say you borrow $50 million 

dollars to build a building. You may be paying interest of $2,000 daily, 

7 days a week. Your profit potential may be slim. A building may take 

a few years to build. Every wasted day costs you that day’s construction 

and land loan interest. You have to have a taste for that kind of risk. 

These are huge stakes, and even the best developers go bust on jobs. 

They meet our department head-on, because we slow them down. The 

bribery headaches that I have as a result are beyond your imagination. 

We want the building put up safely and carefully, and so do some 

developers, I think — but it must be put up with amazing speed. As 

soon as they have closed on the land they throw together foundation 

plans for the highest possible building they can build with the most 

amount of square footage per floor including additional floors gained 

235



by purchasing the air-rights from other buildings that weren’t built to 

their allowable height.” 

“Doesn’t the architect design the building to make it functional 

and aesthetically pleasing.” 

Mikey laughed, “Well, yeah, later, afterwards. They might get 

a chance to think about that. First they have to get into the ground, 

and they get their foundation plans filed with my department way 

before they know the details of the job. They don’t have more than 

preliminary drawings, visual concept drawings and rough ideas about 

the finished structure.” 

“You mean the building is designed as it is built?” 

“Often. Yes, in Manhattan, maybe only Manhattan. A developer 

often can’t afford to sit on his land if he’s intending to build. 

He has to move quickly to make it. Usually the developer’s ‘Owner’s 

Rep’ makes a call from my office the minute we stamp approval, and 

the next phase is begun. Design and construction in New York is a 

one way street — up.” 

“What else is involved.” 

“OK, paying off the loan is number one, which means they 

have to have the building sold or leased. Assume they do, which is 

not an easy assumption to make. Number two is they have to be aware 

of all of their lead times on getting materials into place, or that will 

delay the job. They can’t delay one of these jobs for even a few hours 

‘cause they’ll lose thousands. Maybe the margin isn’t that great, and 

poof, that job goes into bankruptcy.” 

“What else?” 

“The third thing is my Department, the Building Department, 

the Inspectors. They are trying to bribe us constantly. They succeed 

a lot of the time, and I’m trying to clean that up. The developers may 

try to build correctly, but if it isn’t built correctly they don’t want us 

to stop the job to make it right. They want to keep building. They 

are in a race against time-on-interest and are butting heads with my 

Department. We represent safety, which we cannot compromise.” 

The D.A. kept looking at his watch. The Judge recessed for 

lunch. 

∞ 

During recess D.A. Darryl Hammacher, Mayor Georgey Rinato 

and P.I. Mark Rabinowitz questioned Mikey Martinelli outside about 

this construction phenomenon. 

Mikey, “Plans? No they don’t need plans. Not in fuckin’ New 

236 



York they don’t need plans, not for the whole building, anyway.” 

Georgey, “What are you talking about?” 

Mikey, “I’m telling you, as long as they got excavating and 

foundation working drawings that are filed and stamped the day before 

they start, then that’s all we need. That’s a go.” 

Darryl, “What?” 

Georgey, “It’s the cost of money. Ya gotta know how much 

shit costs. Piss is expensive in New York.” 

Mikey, “Yeah, so think about it. If one of these Jews borrows 

millions of dollars and has interest that amounts to thousands a day, 

he only knows a couple things: pay off the fuckin’ loan. He’d do 

anything to do that. 

Darryl, “Hey look, I’m Jewish so take it easy.” 

Mikey, “Look, you don’t see a lot of Italians owning the big 

buildings. We build them, but we don’t want that kind of risk. We 

respect that, these guys got balls. We take other kinds of risks, risks 

that we don’t mind. To each his own. Construction in Manhattan, for 

the most part, is Jewish owned and Italian built, that’s the way it is.” 

Georgey, “What else, what else drives them?” 

Mikey, “Same as I said on the stand. They gotta get it sold or 

leased. They are very aware of lead times. They have to know where 

every piece of material required for the job is located, how it’s going 

to get to the job and how long it will take, and who’s going to install 

it and when. They gotta be good orchestra conductors. One bad note 

and the fuckin’ symphony is trashed. More than bad reviews — the 

symphony hall closes down.” 

Mark Isaac, “Any more?” 

Mikey, “Yeah, air-rights is the big fuckin’ one that I didn’t talk 

much about yet. More often than not, that’s where their profit is. If 

they can buy up the available air on the block and shoot the building 

higher, they stand a better chance of making it. If they really make 

it, they can make millions. If they hang in there from generation to 

generation, they become one of the City’s famous families.” 

Mark Isaac, “What else?” 

Mikey, “Closing speed or rental speed.” To pay off that loan 

they have to work out of order, upside down or whatever it takes to 

close the job quickly. You see the stupidest, smartest stuff on these sites. 

They will finish the 36 th floor entirely and we give them a Certificate 

of Occupancy for 36, and the tenant moves in. Meanwhile, from the 

3 rd floor to the 35 th , they ain’t got shit done, and from the 37 th up they 

ain’t got shit done.” 

237



Georgey, “What kinda crazy way is that to build?” 

Mikey, “Yeah, well, that’s how it works. If they don’t pull the 

money into the job quickly they might go belly-up. Some tenant says 

he’ll occupy now, they finish the floor or part of the floor, and we 

give the C.O.” 

Mark Isaac, “More?” 

Mikey, “Yeah, but just one more big one. They have to be careful 

not to overdesign any building structurally. They can’t put more 

money into any job than is absolutely necessary. They often have to 

do very fancy things to get tenants, but that’s what they call marketing 

money. You see nicer buildings going up in Chicago all the time, 

because the shit isn’t as expensive there. Architectural firms here don’t 

even have ‘designers’ working for them. They aren’t needed. By the 

time all of the financial parameters are in place, there aren’t any visual 

options. The building designs itself, and the architects draft them up, 

getting advice from the contractors first and the mechanical and structural 

engineers second. If the Developer buys the contracts right and 

controls the job like a crazy mother-fucker, he might not go bankrupt, 

and might even make a big profit. Incredible profit. Incredible risk. 

Take a job like the Empire State Building. It’s been about 10 years 

now since that assemblage got started. Another job will never be done 

like that again in the City. It is way overdesigned, too strong, stronger 

than needed. Even though they bought the air and used every inch 

of it, if today in 1941 a fuckin’ bastard like Scheckman got the air, he 

still couldn’t make it if he overdesigned. Money and construction is 

getting tighter in New York all the time, and the pattern extends before 

and after the years of the depression, the years when the Empire State 

was built. The next building that is bigger than the Empire State will 

be engineered very differently. It won’t be the Contractor tellin’ the 

Engineers, it will be the Engineers tellin’ the Contractor. And my 

fuckin’ department will be blamed for everything, just wait and see.” 

“Professor Fuckin’ Mikey Martinelli, hey, not bad,” laughed 

Georgey, New York’s no-bullshit Mayor. Hammacher, from Harvard, 

raised his eyebrows but said nothing. 

From Mark Rabinowitz, “Without the air, there wasn’t a great 

chance of making a lot of money on the Amsterdam Avenue job. With 

it, it could be worth millions. And in twenty years, it could be worth 

ten or twenty million. It didn’t matter to the deal — that was set long 

ago — if Poinstein got the air or if Richard got it. It went into the same 

job, and they were partners on the job. Richard had owned one of 

238 



the pieces of the blockfront, and Benjamin the other. Neither would 

sell, so they joint-ventured. Anthony’s available air-rights represented 

the needed element to put Benjamin and Richard on the map in 

Morningside Heights with a significant assemblage, and they wanted 

to get in heavily to try to compete with Columbia which was buying up 

everything. Columbia is already the second largest private real estate 

company in New York next to the Catholic Church. They own, for 

example, the land under Rockefeller Center.” 

∞ 

Richard Scheckman had to be recalled to the stand several 

times for the Jury to understand his relationship with Harraka and 

Poinstein. Then Benjamin Poinstein was called. 

“Mr. Poinstein, who else was involved in the renovation when 

your brother broke his leg?” asked Roger Berlini, Richard Scheckman’s 

defense attorney who would make a flat one million dollars if Richard 

didn’t go to jail. Berlini was a short, disheveled bulldog with no grace. 

But he didn’t need grace. Berlini was a theatrical terror. 

Poinstein, “There were a great many people, I don’t know 

them all.” 

Berlini, “What about your brother, was he involved?” 

Poinstein, “Yes, he was in the deal for a bit.” 

Berlini, “How did your brother break his leg on that job, Mr. 

Poinstein?” 

Poinstein, “I don’t know how that happened, he slipped while 

he was in the basement, he told me. I wasn’t there. He said the floor 

was oily from the boiler, and he slipped against the sump pump motor.” 

Berlini, “So you do know how it happened?” 

Poinstein, “I only know the story.” 

Berlini, “How well do you know Mr. Harraka?” 

Poinstein, “Just since the arrests.” 

Berlini, “You were seen shouting at him by the super on the 

renovation job. He still lived in the building.” 

Poinstein, “No one lived there, it was a gut renovation.” 

Berlini, “I’m sorry, Mr. Poinstein, will you please step down, 

and please remember you will be recalled shortly and you will still 

be under oath. I would like to call Serge Inglentomena to the stand. 

Your Honor, a translator is required since Mr. Inglentomena speaks 

only Hungarian. The court recommended a translation service and 

that representative has been so certified.” 

239



“Proceed.” 

In the queries that followed, the court learned that Serge the 

Super saw Benjamin the Developer scream at Harraka the Hood. Serge 

subsequently pointed out both Benjamin Poinstein and Amalayus 

Harraka in the courtroom. 

“I saw Mr. Poinstein then give Mr. Harraka a business card, 

and on the back of another business card Mr. Poinstein wrote down 

some words said by Mr. Harraka,” said the translator. 

Poinstein was again asked to take the stand. 

Berlini, “Do you remember Mr. Harraka now, Mr. Poinstein?” 

Poinstein, “Yes, now I do. He didn’t work for me. I wanted 

him off the job.” 

Berlini, “Who did he work for?” 

Poinstein, “I don’t know.” 

Berlini, “Yes you do, you know that he worked for Richard 

Scheckman.” 

Poinstein, “How would I know that?” 

Berlini, “Because he told you so. He also told you he worked 

for Richard’s father, Horace Scheckman, for 30 years.” 

Poinstein, “I see.” 

Berlini, “Who killed Bishop Cinelli, Mr. Poinstein. Was it 

you?” 

Poinstein, “Don’t be absurd.” 

Berlini, “Thank you, Mr. Poinstein.” 

∞ 

“The Defense calls Dr. Levinthal-Lipman, New York State 

Forensics Psychiatrist.” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “In my professional opinion Richard Scheckman 

suffers from a psychopathology resulting from an unprecedented 

arrogance and conceit, wherein he acts truly as if he is alone among an 

inferior species. The pathology has penetrated far deeper than even our 

stereotypical views of ancient royalty where egomaniacal royalty ruled 

their lands without reason or compassion. The very thing that makes 

Richard so charming and pleasant while his actions are so despicable 

is the very thing that makes him a sociopath.” 

Berlini, “I’m sorry, Doctor, could you please draw this distinction 

again, it is not clear to me.” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “Yes, excuse me. The dictator king who 

240 



is the egomaniac acts with cruelty and distorted aggression. This is 

normal behavior. It is normal because he has been handed a throne, 

considers himself to be king, in fact is king, and treats the world according 

to his whim as the spoiled and socially unaware creature that 

he has been bred to be.” 

Judge Julius Hoffman, “Go on.” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “Well, in the case of Richard Scheckman, 

he appears to be one of the nicest people you would ever want to meet. 

He is good looking, charming, athletic, personable. His social skills 

are highly developed. He stands when meeting people, opens doors 

for women, picks things up from the floor if anyone drops something, 

man or woman. He has every appearance of being, in layman’s terms, 

a ‘nice guy’.” 

Berlini, “I’m sorry, please detail this association for us, which 

I believe seems obvious only to you.” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “Yes, well, here you have this ‘nice guy’ 

in the social world, but who is an absolute dictator in the business 

world. Many people are dictators in the business world, and act that 

way socially as well. This may not be admirable, but like our king born 

and bred to be unreasonable, many unreasonable people have enough 

consistency in their personalities that they will not cross certain lines. 

They will not pretend to become entirely nice guys, and they will not 

order the murder of perceived enemies. They function within limits. 

Mr. Scheckman has no concept of limits or bounds. He crosses from 

the sweet to the felonious as if he has never heard of rules, loyalty or 

compassion.” 

Berlini, “Like teenagers.” Laughter and knowing smiles flowed 

from many, while fear and redness adorned Richard’s face. 

Judge Julius Hoffman, “Mr. Scheckman has not been convicted 

of a felony. The Jury is instructed to ignore that reference. Go on.” 

Spoon O’Reilly was absent-mindedly blowing spit-bubbles. 

Benjamin Poinstein was adjusting his tie and glasses and daydreaming 

as if he were in a meeting to discuss the design of new stationery for 

his Park Avenue office. 

Levinthal-Lipman, “Yes, like teenagers. But remember, teenagers 

are not usually given the freedom to run amuck, expressing extreme 

arrogance while dictating destruction to people or property. Teenagers 

learn there are lines not to cross. Those who don’t learn this meet the 

juvenile authorities. Mr. Scheckman laughs at the lines imposed by 

society, lines of human decency, and has indirectly been related to 3 

recent suicides of his own relatives as well as this intimate association 

241



with the death of Bishop Cinelli.” 

Berlini, “Doctor, is it your opinion that Richard Scheckman 

has knowingly involved himself in the planning of the murder of 

Bishop Cinelli?” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “By no means. Richard is a child at play. 

He moves little military men into position. His lack of development 

in the adult world does not make him a murderer. He is at play to 

see how much money he can accumulate, and believes the rules of 

the game are those of a game board, not the struggle of life which he 

has never known. As adults in life we choose our friends, accept our 

enemies, and spend our time creating a workable scheme that’s great 

for ourselves and our friends without killing the enemy. We accept 

the competition and we accept the compromise of not being in first 

place. Richard has demonstrated repeatedly that he would rather see 

people die than allow himself to cooperate with others in their personal 

struggles toward dignity. We each take responsibility to be decent to 

the unlikely, the depressed. Each of us is the keeper of the other, all 

of us, our brother’s keeper.” 

Berlini, “Sir,” said the Judge, “is it in your opinion that Mr. 

Scheckman is clinically insane for these reasons.” 

Levinthal-Lipman, “Yes, Mr. Scheckman is clearly insane. He 

is what we call a severe sociopath.” 

∞ 

Richard’s wife didn’t come to the trial. Nor did his children. 

They remained Upstate. Although it appeared in the news, they ignored 

it. They had been using their mother’s maiden name for several 

years, and chose to forget this man. It wasn’t that hard to do if you 

worked at it. Besides, Boris was nice. The trail was hard on me, not 

because of my confusion about who killed Anthony, but because I never 

felt such extremes of respect and hatred at the same time. My cast 

itched ferociously; my leg was erupting with staggering impertinence. 

I couldn’t concentrate. The Military Police were harassing me daily. 

Today, they pushed me over, cast and all. They punched me in the 

stomach, hard. They couldn’t find my old address in Paterson. They 

couldn’t find Eastside High — it must have dissolved because of one of 

my own time-warps. They were incensed that I had the nerve to make 

disparaging remarks about the highly protected, natural harbor known 

as Pearl, in Hawaii. I looked American, they said, but my stories didn’t 

add up. In their minds, I was a Communist. 



My note to the President had been simple; still, it caused this 

trouble, in part because I told a little lie. Time-travel, in their minds, 

couldn’t exist, so I never mentioned it. Additionally, I feared greater 

catastrophe through full-disclosure. My words were brief, though foolishly 

I exaggerated my helper’s role in Jonathan’s design class: 

Mr. President, 

In a bar I overheard two high-ranking navy officers say there 

are too many ships located in Pearl Harbor, and that we are most 

vulnerable to attack. 


Teaching Assistant 

Columbia University 

As the fall of 1941 grew colder and darker, and the Great War 

in Europe roared with unprecedented ugliness, I was incarcerated in 

a low-security prison in New Jersey. 

Ω 

242 

243

A Hanging 

✑ 

Mark Isaac recalled a faded image of a half of a Billy Club 

in Harraka’s truck while on the Witness Stand. At exactly the same 

moment, on the Witness Stand, he remembered things Jeremy had 

said, and things Manolo’s sister had said in Berkeley. And he remembered 

that Fozzoni, lieutenant to Poinstein, was an ex-cop, thrown off 

the force for beating a man to death with his Billy Club. It was well 

publicized a few years ago in the Times, and also discussed recently by 

Patrick Londonderry. Fozzoni had strong alibis proving he was in New 

Jersey all day Friday. The general impression of Poinstein was that he 

was from an extremely wealthy, old New York real estate family and 

wouldn’t have a motive to kill. The old families had deep pockets. He 

certainly wouldn’t get his hands dirty personally. Mark Isaac asked 

Mikey to get a subpoena to determine the actual percentages of who 

owned what in the Amsterdam Avenue construction job across from 

St. John’s, and also to get a financial statement on the Poinstein Family. 

Mark Isaac thought something was very wrong. 

The Mayor got Judge Julius Hoffman to postpone the trial 

a week for additional discovery. Although Mikey had believed that 

Scheckman had the lion’s share of the deal, and that he was the scumbag 

bad guy, it turned out that Richard had only 6.2%, conditionally. 

A Poinstein subsidiary, the New Amsterdam Partners owned 88%. The 

New Amsterdam Partners consisted of Benjamin and his father, 50% 

each. Benjamin Poinstein, the individual, not the corporate entity, had 

2% simply to cover up his real percentage in the deal. The Bank was 

listed first on the site, but they only had 3.8% into it. A total cover 

up. A scheme to scam air-rights. 

The Poinstein family financial statement was prepared in 

record time. Although over the years many individual jobs had gone 

bankrupt, common in real estate, the family money had never been 

threatened. But under Benjamin’s good rule, and with the senior 

Poinstein disabled through a stroke, Benjamin had run the business 

into the ground. He had conjured up the entire Amsterdam Avenue 

deal to save the family. He promised Richard 6.2% if he could get the 

air from Father August. He originally offered 2%, but Richard worked 

him 1.2% beyond his intended maximum of 5%. 

Judge Hoffman, “Please, Professor Rabinowitz, in your own 

words, please tell the complete story as you now believe it happened. 

Everyone is confused by the details.” Naturally they were confused. 

Berlini wanted his $1 Million Dollars. Hammacher wanted justice 

245

A Hanging 


— the good District Attorney. They looked like they wanted to kill each 

other. They both feared young Judge Julius Hoffman, and wouldn’t 

irritate him. Mark knew a story was needed, and embellished the story 

slightly, uncharacteristically. 

Mark said, “Poinstein had called Harraka and had offered 

him $10,000 for the body of a bicyclist, $1,000 up front. Poinstein, 

unseen from an apartment on 110 th Street overlooking Amsterdam, 

made the call himself to the pre-arranged phone booth in Central 

Park as Father August rode south on Amsterdam Avenue toward the 

Park. Central Park was closed to all automobiles and trucks — except 

service vehicles — from Friday at 11 AM to Sunday at 11 PM. There 

was a crossover road just before the northeastern hilly section of the 

Park that 90% of the people used. Only dedicated cyclists or people 

exiting in Harlem on 110 th Street would ride the steep hills of the north 

section of the Park. 

“Nicky Fozzoni carried a new bicycle wheel and his old Billy 

Club in a canvas bag. Fozzoni was Poinstein’s lieutenant who was an 

ex-cop. Harraka picked him up. Fozzoni put on a complete set of 

painter’s overalls. They switched drivers. Fozzoni drove. They headed 

toward the steep northeast hills in Central Park, and began painting 

street lines. 

“They had carefully scouted a good section of bushes that would 

provide them cover to fulfill their contract. Harraka saw the targeted 

bicyclist sprinting uphill. He confirmed it in the 8”x10” photo he had 

taped to the bumper. Same clothes, same bike, same hair, same size, 

same man. He knocked 3 times, as agreed, to signal Fozzoni to match 

the cyclist’s speed. Fozzoni let Anthony pass, then he pulled up next to 

him. Harraka shoved Fozzoni’s old Billy Club into the bicycle spokes. 

The cyclist did a header, and Harraka hopped off the bumper of the 

truck, dragged him off the road and into the first bushes. He shot 

him in the head on angle. The bullet exited doing more skull damage 

than brain damage. Fozzoni pulled the truck into the bushes. Harraka 

then dragged the bicyclist by the legs even deeper into the brush, close 

to a hammock of trees and a drop-off of terrain. Fozzoni by this time 

had retrieved the bike. 

The road was clear and they were hidden. 30 seconds. They 

wrapped the victim in a 12’ new canvas drop cloth and wrapped the 

bike in another. They threw the damaged wheel, which had a quickrelease 

hub, into a hammock. 

Harraka noticed that the pressurized staging can for the sprayer 

had been knocked off the low bumper. He wanted to fix it before he 

246 



returned the truck so he dumped the remaining paint in the brush. 

“Fozzoni drove to an old multi-story garage on 130 th Street 

west of Broadway, a building owned by Poinstein that was scheduled 

for demolition for a new meat-freezer company. Poinstein met them 

on the third floor. Harraka and Fozzoni unwrapped the Bishop, put 

his frock on him which Poinstein had stolen earlier that day, and put 

him in the trunk of Poinstein’s limousine, which Benjamin had driven, 

dressed as a driver. Poinstein hated Anthony Cinelli thoroughly. He 

considered him a Communist since he wouldn’t sell St. John’s Air- 

Rights. He took Anthony’s beads out from under his frock and set 

them on his chest.” 

Mark Isaac shook visibly, silently, while he determined that 

there was no need to disclose what he had learned the previous evening 

from Jeremy: Poinstein pissed on Anthony after he had pulled forward 

his beads. The silence crept through the courtroom like a rat in the 

night. Mark’s mouth froze, he was furious. He sipped some water, 

and regained control. 

Mark continued, “They unwrapped the bicycle and put on the 

new front wheel. It was easy to do with the new quick-releases. They 

put the bike in the limousine. Fozzoni took off his painter’s overalls 

and gave them to Harraka. Fozzoni had on Poinstein’s suit. They 

swapped clothing. Harraka was told to go east on 130 th Street and 

south on Broadway to New Jersey. Instead, 10 minutes later, Fozzoni 

drove the limousine out on 130 th Street went west one block and north 

to New Jersey. They just wanted to get out of the City, for now. They 

had many hours to go before they would entomb the body.” 

Judge Hoffman, “Detectives, is there any disagreement about 

this story of Professor Rabinowitz’s?” Not a sound was heard. “Please 

continue your scenario, Professor.” 

“Poinstein and Fozzoni stopped at Rutt’s Hut in Passaic for hot 

dogs and onion rings, and stayed in the parking lot for hours watching 

the teenagers and workmen go in and out. Fozzoni and Poinstein were 

very nervous, and kept going back to ask for more well-done hot dogs 

and onion rings. The Rutt’s employees confirmed this. They learned 

the lingo of Rutt’s, and shouted it at each other in Rutt’s to take the 

edge off the day. ‘Two Rippers. Onions Well, Travellin’.’ 

“Fozzoni wanted to dump Father August in the river. A Rutt’s 

employee said Fozzoni had dark mustard on his face and suit and said, 

‘Boss, look right there, there’s the Passaic River, perfect’.” 

247

A Hanging 


Mark didn’t know what Benjamin Poinstein had actually said 

while eating onion rings from a brown paper bag: “I want this socialist 

fuck where I can spit on him when I go to this job. I want him in the 

column. His delays may have bankrupt this job already. I want him 

where I can hate him forever.” 

Mark continued, “Harraka was the last man to get back into the 

factory. The dispatcher, Franky, was long gone. Everyone was gone. 

It was Friday night. He bandsawed the Billy Club in half lengthwise 

instead of throwing it away, since the round, lathe-grooved handle 

would make an easy-to-hold paint stirrer. He cut off the end of the 

club with the hole for the leather grip to be extra-safe, and dipped 

both halves of his new stirrers completely in paint and threw them in 

his truck to dry. The Billy Club was no more, just like the bicyclist, 

whoever that was. 

“Benjamin’s brother, still in a cast from having met Harraka, 

was building public housing and had reaped nearly $5 million dollars, 

an unheard of sum, through his public projects. His brother had 

screwed Richard Scheckman in the process of acquiring a few of these 

low-income sites. He falsified some documents in City Hall to mislead 

Richard and other developers in this tiny circle. After he did it the first 

time, Richard’s lieutenant visited Poinstein’s brother and said, “Look, 

falsifying documents down at City Hall isn’t nice. Play nice.” 

Shortly after this visit to the brother, Richard’s lieutenant’s son 

was kidnapped. After three days the boy was dropped off at home in a 

limousine, not only unharmed, but told stories of great food and other 

children. Nonetheless, Richard’s lieutenant was crazy with revenge 

and many people suffered. 

The Poinstein brother fixed City Hall documents a second 

time, and Richard decided to let Harraka take care of this, since his 

lieutenant would kill him. Harraka only broke one leg — above the 

knee. Benjamin was glad, and was glad to have met Harraka, even 

though the job was done badly. He also liked the fact that Harraka 

was so far out of the customary New York Mafia loop, Italian or Jewish. 

Benjamin was ready to have his brother taken care of anyway; this 

fuck had $5,000,000 and still was letting his family go down the tubes. 

Benjamin and his father were genuinely broke and wanted to kill him 

for not bringing them in on the low-income deals. 

Richard, Spoon and Harraka had been arrested, but now it was 

looking like it was Poinstein, Fozzoni and Harraka. In the first trial, 

Harraka thought it was good that Fozzoni and Poinstein hadn’t been 

248 



arrested, since maybe that would get him off. He said nothing. And 

he had also been told that if he never mentioned either Poinstein’s or 

Fozzoni’s names he would get another $10,000. Sweet, twenty grand 

total for a bicyclist. 

D.A. Darryl Hammacher was convinced the trial was going 

badly. When Professor Rabinowitz reported the new theories, they 

decided that although Richard may be innocent of murder, he was 

not innocent. The trial was declared a mistrial in light of the new 

evidence. Spoon O’Reilly was clearly innocent. Harraka would be 

tried later. Judge Hoffman and District Attorney Hammacher cut a 

deal with Roger Berlini. Berlini was about to become a millionaire 

since Richard would not serve jail time. 

“In summary, then, all charges have been dropped against 

Father O’Reilly. Additionally, in an agreement with Richard Scheckman 

and his defense counsel, the State has dropped both murder and 

manslaughter charges against Richard Scheckman in exchange for 6 

months incarceration in the Bellevue State Mental Institution for the 

Criminally Insane, continuous out-patient psychotherapy for an additional 

6 years, during said time of which he must perform 6 years of 

community service work, 20 hours each week wherein he must work 

personally and directly with needy individuals. Amalayus Harraka will 

be tried at a later time.” 

∞ 

Richard was released on his Own Recognizance for 3 days to 

get his papers in order, and then was told to report to Bellevue. Failure 

to do so would result in prison. Richard wouldn’t chance an escape. 

The District Attorney shunned the reporters, pushed everyone else out 

of the courtroom and left Mark Isaac and Marcia to talk with Richard. 

Mark leaned against the railing, facing the back of the courtroom. 

Marcia sat sideways in the first row with her arm atop the oak pew. 

Richard faced them from the second row. 

“I mind saying this Richard. It has to be said. I was convinced 

for the longest time that you killed Anthony,” said Mark Isaac. 

“And I mind saying that Rusty’s death is on your hands, Richard, 

and although I’m glad you weren’t directly responsible for Anthony’s 

death, you are the bastard that caused Rusty’s,” wept Marcia. 

“I’m not going to deny that Rusty wanted something from me 

and I wasn’t going to give it to him. He told me he would kill himself, 

249

A Hanging 


and he did, and I cried. But I have always believed we are individuals 

on this planet, and we make our own lives.” 

“You are a genuine bastard, Richard, a total bastard,” said 

Marcia. 

“Are you not your brother’s keeper in any way, Richard?” said 

Mark Isaac. 

“No, nor am I my children’s keeper. I think we are alone in this 

life, and Jeffrey’s death was sad, too, but he chose it for himself.” 

“He was 17 you son of a bitch,” said Mark Isaac entirely ready 

to jump him. 

“Yes, and he could have been 10 — it wouldn’t have changed 

anything. Your father Daniel, too, Marcia. Your father could have 

used a helping hand, a bone, a contract, and maybe that would have 

kept him alive,” said Richard with a smile. 

“Richard, here in this summer of 1941, I would like you to 

remember the things you have said. You are sick, Richard — no one 

can be this insensitive.” 

“We each choose our own lives and our own deaths. I choose 

not to extend lives and I choose not to take them. It’s legal and 

moral.” 

“But 100% unethical. You have responsibility to your family, 

friends and community.” 

“I have responsibility to my SELF,” he said with eyes glazed, 

fixed and staring. 

Marcia was teeming. “Never come to our house again, Richard. 

Never.” 

“No problem, Marcia, no problem.” 

“I wonder why we let this go so long, why we never had this out 

before? For me, I think, I assumed I would nail your ass for the murder 

of Anthony, and I was getting pleasure in the vengeance,” Mark Isaac 

said. “Simply put, I didn’t know you were this much of a fuck.” 

“You killed no one, Richard, but you projected your mania on 

those around you, and three are dead. Four if you count Anthony. I 

never saw all this before, never allowed myself to see it. Some people 

are handsome and are bastards. Others are ugly and sweet. My father 

was a good man. My brother Rusty was a great man. Jeffrey no one 

knew, but certainly he was harmless. You have their deaths on your 

conscience. You are an unforgivable bastard.” 

“No Marcia, not on my conscience. When each of these 

people died you kissed and hugged me and cried. You didn’t blame 

me then.” 

250 



“I didn’t understand this then. I was grieving, and you were my 

dearest childhood friend. Now that I see how your sickness projects 

into our immediate world, I fear you like any other monster,” Marcia 

said with a quaking anger in her voice, a man’s voice, a visible snarl 

on her lips. 

“Richard, if you attempt to speak to me again, ever, I will hit 

you, and beat you like no one has dared to beat you before,” said Mark 

Isaac, his chest puffed and every muscle taught. He stood to leave and 

pulled Marcia away. 

“Well, Richard, your children hate you. The people who loved 

you the most have killed themselves. You are finished with us, and 

never, repeat, never get near our children. Not a hello on the street, 

not at a gathering. You need help, but even if you get it, this bridge 

is burned. The ravine is blown-up. Only hot lava remains. It’s over 

forever.” 

Marcia’s pupils became small. Her eyes narrowed, then glazed. 

She spit on Richard. For a moment you could almost hear Richard 

wondering why she might have done that. The endlessly long spring shivas, 

funeral after funeral, my friend, my cousin, my father, my brother. 

Marcia passed out on the courtroom bench. In Richard’s usual warm 

and concerned way he moved as quickly as Mark to help her. Mark’s entire 

body erupted, back muscles and lactorals and pectorals contracted 

in a cramping rage. As if an experienced street fighter, Mark’s right 

hook shattered Richard’s nose and broke his cheek bone. Richard flew 

backwards over the bench into the third row. Marcia was unconscious. 

Mark shouted for help, for a doctor, for an ambulance. 

In the days that followed, Joshua, Jonathan and Mark didn’t 

leave Marcia’s side at Mt. Sinai Hospital. They refused to go home, 

they couldn’t. Their constant, profuse crying bouts were interspersed 

with long conversations to Marcia, as if she was awake, as if she was 

answering them. In her second day she said “Consuela, Consuela.” 

No one knew a Consuela. The doctors agreed that Marcia was in shock 

and not in a coma. She was not sick from a disease, and although there 

was some chance of brain tumor, the stories of the four deaths and a 

murder trial satisfied the doctors that this would be cause enough for 

her extended shock and sways in and out of consciousness. 

The reputed strength of the boys regarding the four deaths dissolved. 

Mark despised, detested his role in the process and couldn’t 

understand how Londonderry and the other cops lived with such 

enormities on a regular basis. Marcia, the strong one, Marcia, keeping 

the Round Table Dinners going while supporting the boys, encouraging 

251

A Hanging 


them to let the deaths roll by themselves from their souls. “Consuela, 

Consuela of Death, I, Consuela.” Marcia through four funerals. Marcia 

cooking her way through four funerals and what must have been 500 

people. “I, Consuela, I see the bow.” 

∞ 

Poinstein and Fozzoni were formally arrested and a new Jury 

rapidly selected. The second trial took place in the same courtroom, 

also with Judge Julius Hoffman. No deal would be made. Poinstein’s 

Jewish Mafia attorney was 59, a short man with white hair and a custom 

black wool Brooks Brothers suit. He wore a black silk tie, and 

knew that this case would end shortly after it began. He defended 

Benjamin Poinstein, Nicky Fozzoni and Amalayus Harraka. He didn’t 

volunteer to defend Harraka, nor did Benjamin Poinstein agree to pay 

him. Judge Hoffman explained to him that this was his first pro bono 

case. When the new Jury heard the actual story of Anthony Cinelli’s 

murder, it enraged them. 

Benjamin, a long time student of cocaine, had most likely 

acquired some from one of his attorney’s assistants and made a statement 

in response to a question regarding air-rights. The Jury thought 

they heard, then thought they misheard, this statement from Benjamin 

himself: 

“I killed for the air. I wanted the air-rights of St. John’s, the right 

to build higher across the street. The value is hundreds of thousands 

now and in decades perhaps millions. Murder? Why not? The least 

expensive means to an end is the correct means. The murder of a priest 

is worth it, it’s nothing. I live by my balance sheet, so do you.” 

Benjamin was always a stupid man, and now, high on cocaine, 

thought the truth might improve his image. 

Rage flooded furiously throughout the courtroom demolishing 

all sensibilities. Nicky Fozzoni, former lieutenant to Benjamin Poinstein, 

in an unenlightened act of desperation, insisted on taking the 

Witness Stand. He managed to lose his credibility by his third answer. 

The questions didn’t matter. His associated promises mattered. 

“I’m tellin’ ya da fuckin’ absaloot trudt.” Strike One. 

“Lemme be honest wid ya.” Strike Two. 

“No problem.” Strike Three. 

The well-dressed Jewish Mafia attorney watched silently as 

Benjamin Poinstein, Nicky Fozzoni and Amalayus Harraka got Murder 

One. Jury selection had taken 33 minutes. Prosecution, 5 minutes. 

252 



Defense, 9 minutes. Summaries were limited by Judge Hoffman to 3 

minutes each. The Jury was told to take its time and not rush themselves. 

They went very slowly. It took them 6 minutes to walk to the 

Jury Room, decide and return. Total trial time: 59 minutes, probably 

a national record. 

The crowd was incensed and the newspapers had incited their 

anger. The editors themselves were furious. This murder was a challenge 

to our essence as sentient beings. People wanted a hanging, a 

vengeful event to put to rest the conclusion of New York’s most embarrassing 

murder. Civil libertarians wanted to eliminate the death 

penalty, but the American Civil Liberties Union would find New York 

at this time a bad place to present such an argument. If the City didn’t 

hang these three, the Mafia would kill them openly, or a friend of the 

Church would kill them with subtlety, or a coalition of incensed Jews 

would get Poinstein killed out of overwhelming anger for creating 

more anti-Semitism than has ever happened before in New York. The 

Poinstein and Scheckman families were a disgrace to the entire Jewish 

Community. If the Jury had been 12 Jews, they would not have deliberated 

as long as 6 minutes. And they would have included Richard 

Scheckman just for pleasure. 

The Jury wanted these thugs hung. The Judge wanted them 

hung. People were standing, shouting. The Judge signaled the bailiff 

to lock the doors. He pressed a buzzer in his desk and more guards 

entered with guns drawn. The gavel was cracked and splitting and 

doing no good; the pounding was ineffectual. He grabbed a gun from 

his bench, one he always had wanted to use, but never had the opportunity. 

He shot twice into the air. Every guard and cop had his gun 

in the air and spun furiously with eyes the size of golf balls until they 

saw the trail of smoke coming from the gun of the raised arm of the 

judge. The crowd was quiet and crouching as low as possible, covering 

their heads. Many were on the floor. The panic was averted. The 

judge remained standing, remained with his arm and smoking gun in 

the air, and said, militarily: 

“Sit down, say nothing.” 

∞ 

From their insides the boys screamed tears of horror. Mommy, 

Mommy, where are you now? They worried for Mark, who had never, 

ever, looked anything like the man before them now. Dr. Avalon came 

down from Mt. Kisco with the Steel family’s limousine. He took them 

all up to the Steel Estate, where they stayed for the fall. The Engineer- 

253

A Hanging 


ing Dean took Mark’s advice and hired Manolo to fill in. The boys 

quit school and worked in the apple orchards some, and played tennis 

and swam. The four huddled constantly. Mark couldn’t leave her, 

not for a moment. He couldn’t go for a walk without her. She was 

smiling by September, and loved the old spruce and ash wheelchair. 

The hilly grounds made pushing a wheelchair difficult and kept Mark 

in shape. 

Marcia dreamed in one of the oak Adirondack chairs lined 

up on the main porch. Consuela brought Anthony to Marcia’s long 

dreams. She brought Daddy and Rusty and they swam at Lake Tarigo. 

Anthony wore a sailor’s hat on the dock. Look, there’s Jeffrey in the 

deep water. Anthony filled his hat with the cold water and dumped it 

on her on the way down the big slide into the lake. Jeffrey sank to the 

bottom then called to her from the shore. Consuela made a big sandwich 

for her brother. Marcia was getting hungry. She and her father 

were laughing in the elevator. It stopped on her floor. She got out, 

but he wasn’t next to her. She looked back to the empty elevator. 

The 50 rooms of the house and the huge decks provided a 

good stage for good stories, stories that were made more intimate by 

larger fireplaces. The generous and warm Steel family traveled often, 

and often the Rabinowitz’s were alone with the servants and other 

weekend guests. The Avalon’s were so nice, so smart. They weren’t 

obsessed with helping. They were just helpful. The fall was warm in 

1941 — the leaves opaque, rich in pigmentation. 

Marcia would recover. She smiled one night before Thanksgiving, 

warmly, and cried a little, quite conscious. The boys knew they 

would return to school for second semester. Thanksgiving was good. 

As many as 40 people pot-lucked quietly. In front of the main flagstone 

fireplace — an entire wall in width — old, gentle songs with informal, 

hand-made instruments graced a faculty of the mind seldom found 

in modern times. Marcia walked a little. As December approached, 

Consuela was passing, and although Marcia loved her for all she had 

done, she, too, had to go. 

∞ 

The day of the hangings was to be Sunday, December 7 th . The 

Rabinowitz family told their friends and neighbors and families that 

they were going upstate for 3 or 4 days. They put their car in a garage 

far from Morningside Heights. They began light juice fasting on the 

morning of the 6 th and would do so through the evening of the 8 th . 

254 



They locked themselves in their apartment to put an end to the horrors, 

the unspeakable horrors of 1941. Mark installed switches on the 

doorbell and telephone, and switched them to off. He unplugged the 

radio. Consuela was only a memory. The boys were over-involved in 

good projects; they didn’t seem to doubt themselves. Mark was angry, 

which Marcia considered to be healthy. The long fast would represent 

recovery. 

∞ 

My cast was removed by an Army Physician. The relief was 

vast. My leg shook convulsively. He doused my leg with alcohol and I 

kept up the bath for two hours, interspersing the treatment with cocoa 

butter. I walked out the back door with my cast in hand while my MP 

talked busily to a nurse. I hitch-hiked, with a young lieutenant, to the 

abandoned Kulick Street warehouse in Clifton where I had left my 

pod. We talked about girls and my itchy leg. The lieutenant drove 

off; soon I sined the stone. 

Bent-nosed, distorted-face Richard was personally escorted to 

the hangings by Londonderry, Martinelli and Stagnoli. Richard had 

spent the fall at Bellevue where he worried only how to entertain himself. 

He worked with his lawyers to try to get transferred to a private 

estate hospital; he demanded better food, and contrived, unsuccessfully, 

ways to get food sent up. At the hanging he looked for his lawyers. 

They weren’t there. Some street kids were in front of City Hall, near 

him. He stared. One kid looked like Rusty at 14, exactly like him. 

Even his hair was the same. A lick stuck up in the cold, like Rusty’s. 

Just like Rusty’s. Richard blew his first spit-bubble. 

On Sunday, December 7 th , 1941, at 1 P.M., the public hangings 

of Benjamin Poinstein, Nicky Fozzoni and Amalayus Harraka were the 

last state murders by rope in the great Empire State. Their deaths appeased 

only a street lamp’s flicker in the charcoal blue wind of winter 

of that New York’s city night. 

Ω 

255

✑ 

✑ 

Author’s Notes 

References 

1 — Germans Against Hitler, Long out of print 

2 — Bicycling Mechanics, David Gordon Wilson, MIT Press 

3 — Kabala, The Jewish Book of Mysticism, also Kabbala or Kabbalah 

4 — Marlinespike Seamanship, Long out of print 

5 — Das Capital, Karl Marx and Frederick Engels 

Credits 

This is just to laugh is an imitation of rhythm of William Carlos Williams poem, 

“This is just to say.” 

The Idea of Order on the Delaware is an imitation of rhythm 

of Wallace Steven’s poem, “The Idea of Order at Key West.” 

Jeremy Davidson’s double-sestina fragments were adapted from 

a punch-card program written on an IBM 360 by Steve Young, a 

Columbia student, in 1970. The program followed the complex 

rules of double-sestinas. Single sestinas, defined by Webster’s Seventh 

New Collegiate Dictionary, are tough enough to grasp: “a lyrical 

fixed form consisting of six six-line usually unrhymed stanzas in 

which the end words of the first stanza recur as end words of the 

following five stanzas in a successively rotating order and as the 

middle and end words of the three verses of the concluding tercet.”



© 

Alby Chrisbach is 81, a seasoned story-teller and alone on 

Earth in 2999. In 1945, when Alby was 17, he had moved to 

Los Alamos. His dad had been hired to work as a machinist at 

The Labs. Alby witnessed the first atomic blast, the Trinity Test. 

It terrified him. A new material was formed by the blast. Alby 

discovered it, enabling an adventure of time-travel. He wanted 

to preclude the development of nuclear technology. He travels 

back in time to meet Einstein, Oppenheimer and Teller in 1941 

at Columbia University and considers some of the cultural issues 

behind the creation of the bomb. 

Alby tells the story of a murder that occurs within this group 

of notables that grows to include young Beat poets and writers, who, 

along with the physicists, suggest a series of practical and egalitarian 

technologies. The murder investigation is interlaced with some 

advocated technologies, Alby’s time-travel and a stream of quips 

and queries from the physicists and poets.

The Light Makers - Alby Chrisbach

You also want an ePaper? Increase the reach of your titles

Delete template?

Save as template?