Pages of a Day

[Writer's note: This story contains several Hebrew and Yiddish words that should be defined or explained:

Mohel: Highly skilled Jew who performs circumcisions. Can be a rabbi or an M.D.

Kabbalah: mystical writings, should only be read by men over 40 years of age.

Brit milah: circumcision ceremony for eight-day old boy.

Meshuga: Crazy.

Aufruf: a Yiddish word meaning "calling up" and refers to calling up the bridegroom and bride to the Torah before their wedding day, at a synagogue. Congregants then throw candy at the couple, a symbol of a sweet life.

Shluf mein kind: the title of a famous Yiddish lullaby by the writer Sholom Aleichem.

L'chaim: Hebrew phrase meaning "to life." In the story, Sandra uses it ironically in connection with the reference to the movie "It's a Wonderful Life," when talking about her unhappy life.] ------

Marshall loathed the epithet of grease monkey. Granted, working around cars was a dirty, sweaty business, but an honorable, even essential business. He winced under the, stares of well-dressed upper-class types who tagged him an uneducated foreigner who, they were convinced, lived only to rip them off. Some customers would look at his bulk, hear his thick accent, see the grubby clothes and say, "What a grease monkey." Sometimes he heard their mutterings.

The resentment built until his father, still in Israel, asked, "Marshall, do they spit on you? Do they call you a dirty kike? A zhid? That's what the Russians called us after the war. Have they threatened to kill you?"

"No, none of that. Just dirty looks. Half of them think I don't even speak English."

"And Marshall, do they pay you?"

"Yes."

"No complaints to the consumer protection authorities?"

"Never, on work I do."

"Then let them stare and play the fools. Let them be judged in the next world. Do your work, take their money, and seek the people who recognize you for who you are and treat you with respect. Your energy is too valuable to waste on disrespectful people."

Marshall listened to his father. He had heard some of the stories about his terrifying life in Rumania before or after the war, but his words had special resonance this time. True, nobody abused Marshall, everybody paid him. That's not a bad deal, Marshall thought. They don't like the way I look and talk, so that's their problem.

When the day came to plan his own specialty auto shop, BuchaRestorations, Marshall knew what he wanted to do and with whom he wanted to do it. No mass-market repairs, first of all, no fixing buckets of bolts. He had developed a specialty of repairing classic cars, with a lucrative sideline of installing gorgeous wooden paneling and steering wheels, even leather luggage, on new and old cars. Nobody would call him a grease money anymore.

First, he considered location. The new car dealerships, scattered along the interstate north and west of the city, couldn't use his services and wouldn't rent him shop space. Closer to town, the industrial zones were thick with repair places--and also chop shops, downscale used car and parts marts, and a generally grimy atmosphere that would scare off the clientele he hoped to attract. Marshall could negotiate the zone, nothing could be worse than the Gaza City casbah he once patrolled--but his customers would associate him with the surroundings.

That environment did not fit Marshall's vision. And Marshall Broitman was a man with a plan.

So, what was left? Marshall understood a little about zoning laws; he knew where a shop could go. He also had an unschooled by finely honed sense of the appeal of classic cars. People gawk. They ask questions when they see an old, exotic, or fabulously expensive car. His shop would work on all of them. Put a Prowler or Lamborghini--heck, PT Cruisers caused riots when they first appeared--in a mall and people couldn't resist the urge to look and fantasize. And if the men could sit in the front seat and go "Vroom, vroom," (women hardly ever did that, in his experience), well, the mall shops couldn't open and close the cash registers fast enough. The wildly expensive cars nudged shoppers into a buying mood.

So Marshall decided BuchaRestorations would be a different kind of car place. Repair shop as theater, as magnet, as place where little boys of all ages could say, "Vroom, vroom," and then shop to soothe their inflamed, envious spirits.

The first 10 strip-mall landlords with a suitable space laughed at him. One of the second 10 listened carefully and even discussed the idea with other merchants, who rejected Marshall's vision of BuchaRestorations as "not right for us." Before the 35th conversation, Marshall had his doubts. Maple Centre was more upscale than other areas, not a strip center but a reimagined public square reflecting a designer's attempt to duplicate a European coziness. Stores were arranged on two levels around a central park with a gazebo for concerts. Walking to the landlord's office for his appointment, Marshall noticed a gaping ground-level vacancy, formerly an electronics store that went Chapter 11. Like a toothless gap in a smiling mouth, the entry space near the entrance dragged down the entire atmosphere.

"Here goes," said Marshall as he entered the office.

The landlord, John Tarzia, listened with polite interest. "You fix cars, you say?" he asked. "That's a little outside our typical tenant."

"I restore cars. I am no grease monkey," declared Marshall, his hands splayed on the desk. Sure enough, he saw John's eyes furtively sweep the desk to check for grease and dirt under Marshall's fingernails. John saw nothing but clean hands. "I restore classic cars and specialize in woodwork. I worked at the best places in the city and I have an excellent reputation. I'll pay my bills on time and bring a unique attraction to Maple Centre."

"How?"

"Here's my idea, Mr. Tarzia. Have you ever had a seasonal exhibit here, say, around the time of the big car show at the convention center?"

"No."

"Well, I can tell you your competitors do. Having cars on display at a center is a tremendous draw. Palmview Court mall teamed up with the local Euro Exoticar dealership and they had to call the police to keep the crowds in line. Those Ferraris and Porsches and Aston Martins drew a very upscale clientele to Palmview. Upscale, Mr. Tarzia, people interested in expensive cars. People who associate Palmview merchants with taste and success." Marshall had honed his pitch perfectly, zeroing in on every landlord's sensitivities and anxieties about competitive threats.

"Keep talking."

"My idea is to have part of my shop open to the public. Have a glass front so your shoppers can see a car restoration in progress. See real craftsmen at work. Let them walk around the perimeter of the shop, away from the tools, but close enough to watch the work going on."

"Keep talking."

"I know what you're thinking. It's never been done before. Yes and no. Not done with cars, but I've seen aquariums feature boat builders. Visitors can see the boats being built from the ribs up. The Norwalk Aquarium in Connecticut does that. Who sees anything being built these days?"

John was quiet. His eyes turned inward, toward memory. Marshall knew what was coming. "He's going to tell me a car story," he thought.

"It's funny we're talking about this, because it makes me think of my first car," mused John. "I was 22 years old, just back from Vietnam, flew a Huey in the Highlands, what a trip that was. Had two of them shot out from under me, but I survived. Believe me, I kissed the medallion of the Blessed Virgin that my mom gave me many times after those incidents. I still wear it," said John. He pulled a medal from between buttons of his shirt. "I never take it off. Anyway, when I got back, I needed wheels so I bought a used '67 Mustang."

"A pony car."

"You bet! I had so much fun in it. Great car, great for a young guy. I loved that car. I had dice hanging on the rear-view mirror, all that crazy stuff. Fat tires, loud."

"And what happened to it?" asked Marshall. He could see a possible drift to the conversation.

"I kept it for 10 years, then when I started making a better living in real estate I moved up. Real estate guys need to look the part. I switched to Mercedes. But I kept the Mustang. Or, my cousin in Philadelphia did. I loaned it to him to use. He's just got it in a garage, don't drive it or nothing."

Marshall paused. Here goes. "Do you want to drive it again, Mr. Tarzia?"

"Call me John." John's eyes misted as he recalled his younger, slimmer self. "Yeah, I can see myself driving it. My bucket may not fit in the bucket seat, though, ha!" He patted the stomach bulging under the shirt. "I don't know what kind of shape it's in. Not too bad, doesn't get driven, just kinda sits there gathering dust. It's in Philly."

"Let me restore it. I'll give you a good rate, and you can see the work every day. We'll put it in the front window. You can see how BuchaRestorations will draw business for Maple Centre. If we don't draw, or my business doesn't perform to my expectations, the work is free."

Marshall signed the lease that afternoon and began preparing the space the next day with tools and equipment he had acquired over the years. A car-moving company fetched the Mustang from a musty, cobwebbed shed in Philadelphia and transported it to BuchaRestorations as soon as Marshall had the shop and his team in place.

Three years later, BuchaRestorations remained the hottest promotional draw on the regional mall scene, a permanent Santa's workshop where people could watch Marshall and his team of fellow Rumanian-Israelis transform rusting wrecks into shiny, purring automotive magic. John started a tradition with restoration number one, his Mustang, of having a launch party for the completed vehicle. John moved the car into the square and celebrated the project with punch and cookies for the shoppers that day. Resplendent in a tuxedo, John talked about the car and, yes, let kids sit in the front seat and make revving engine noises.

"Marshall, my new tenant, he gets the credit. Guy's an automotive genius, made this car something to behold, right, Marshall?"

"Thank you for the kind words, John," he said. "I am happy to share the credit with Ariel, Tal, and Mendel. We're all one team." He nodded toward the three, resplendent in their clean pit-crew overalls that gave the shop its distinctive professionalism and Indy-style glamour.

Indeed, the three shop associates, as Marshall called them, were part of the vision of an upscale, appealing environment for BuchaRestorations' expensive services. All friends from Rumania and the Israel Air Force days, Ariel, Tal, and Mendel were skilled mechanics and automotive craftsmen who could easily run their own shops, but preferred the camaraderie of working as a group. Tal, in particular, had extraordinary skills. The sister of a jet pilot who now ran security services for a chain of high-end apartment buildings in Central America, Tal understood and maintained anything in the Israeli military that rolled, flew, or shot. Marshall had seen her, blindfolded, tear apart and rebuild every weapon smaller than a cannon, and jet engineers consulted with her to get a mechanic's view of aircraft design.

Yet for all her skills, Tal never aspired to rise in the ranks or make a career in the military. She liked the mechanic's life, and when her brother and Marshall moved to the United States, she decided to strike out west also. She joined the team and proved a hit with the customers. Through the glass that separated the front restoration bay from the mall, people gawked at the woman in the tight blue jumpsuit, bust and hips straining the fabric, exotic (in the West, anyway) Eastern European eyes always perfectly made up, thick black hair braided to protect it from the humming, spinning power tools.

Business success did not translate into social success for Marshall. Women had difficulty looking beyond his bulk, accent, and workplace to see the man. An early, unhappy marriage in Israel only whetted his appetite for another chance at love and marriage. He dated – the city was large enough to offer some solace – but nothing really stuck. American women complained he was too reserved, and he found many American women too bright and brittle, lacking in warmth – or, perhaps protecting their warmth under layers of sophistication.

A friend of a friend set Marshall up with Jessica, the date of the dead. He never had a chance with her. But, he mused one evening after the crew departed, as he sipped his extra-tall chocolate latte at his desk in the back office of BuchaRestorations, fate had something else in mind for Jessica and for Marshall. Perhaps that fate involved Sandra Forgotston, the senior auto-insurance fraud investigator who entered his life at the very moments Jessica was leaving.

He looked at his watch. Lovely Sandra was meeting him at his office in five minutes, at 7 pm, for a tour of the shop, followed by dinner at a "mystery location," as Marshall said when he called her.

"You know how to grab a girl's interest," she said.

"I wouldn't start anywhere else," he said.

"But grabbing me there, that's just the start?" she asked, a question in her voice, wondering whether they would turn a new page in their relationship.

"Well, we have to start somewhere, yes?" he said in a dry tone.

"True," she said, idly running a finger from her throat down between her breasts through her silk blouse. Marshall, with his no-nonsense voice and dignified presence, inspired her wondering thoughts – and her delicious touches, between her breasts (and other places).

Before she left her office, Sandra observed traffic churning along I-95 far below her office building. The curve of traffic around a bay framed a charming view. Sailboats bobbed in the harbor, a wide strip of glittering sand formed a bright smile around the blue water. She had not been on a boat there with a man in years. A city summer passing by, she thought, how long since she had a romantic city summer, rather than one devoted to work and lonely trips to the gym? Other promising relationships flamed out, sometimes because of her, sometimes the man, occasionally both felt, within minutes, they lacked a spark. But with Marshall, something about that first meeting struck her deeply. She was determined to guard the tender flame and make the flickers dance brighter.

Marshall drummed his fingers on his desk. The crew left the shop extra clean. Every tool was in its place, wood and metal shavings swept away, chemical containers closed tight to contain the acidy smells.

He hoped Sandra would not be disappointed. Sure, he made a good first impression on her, and they had common interests, but a beautiful, educated woman like Sandra? She had an important job at a big company. However much Marshall considered himself a craftsman, some women just couldn't get past the non-white collar profession and style. Indeed, his Israeli side made him constitutionally unable to wear a tie for anything but the most formal events. A sports coat and open-collar shirt were the epitome of dress-up for him. Well, Sandra got what she saw.

Marshall heard a knock at the business entrance in the back. He stood up, throwing on his new Lands' End blue sports coat over his (only) yellow button-down shirt. He felt as if he were attending a bar mitzvah.

"Showtime," he said.

"Let's see how this goes," Sandra whispered at the same time as she stood outside the door with the Ferrari decal on it.

With a deep breath Marshall opened the door. "Shalom," he said, a smile widening on his face as he saw her. "It's great to see you, Sandra."

"Hi, Marshall, I' glad to be here," she said, a brightness hiding her nervousness. He bent down to kiss her cheek.

In a glance Sandra took in Marshall's sartorial efforts. The jacket looked almost unworn, and the shirt retained a fresh-from-the-drycleaner smell and crispness. The kiss told her he had just brushed his teeth.

"Here's where the magic happens, BuchaRestorations," he said, holding the door open for her. The back of the shop, closed to prying eyes, had three cars in various stages of restoration, in spacious separate bays. Tool shelves sectioned off another area of tables. Marshall led Sandra to that area.

"Here's where we do the custom woodwork, steering wheels, and luggage. Different tools, and I'm working with wood and leather rather than metal. I like this part the most," said Marshall. "I'm creating something on my own, not just restoring somebody else's work. That's what pays the bills, of course."

Sandra strolled the shop, fascinated. She felt as if she had stepped into a medieval guild, where masters created artwork that would last for centuries. A low murmur of music drifted through the shop, from an unseen source.

"I love that music, but I can't identify it. Jazz? Classical, flamenco?" asked Sandra. She rotated her head to find the source.

"Rumanian gypsy music, from émigrés living in Paris," he said. "Everybody in my shop was born in Rumania. We all remember the place. You know, love-hate," he said.

Sandra nodded sympathetically. "You can take the boy out of Rumania, but you can't take Rumania out of the boy," she said, touching his arm.

"Something like that. We like to keep music going during the day. It's our secret plot to expose Maple Centre visitors to music you don't hear on FM radio."

"Aren't you crafty. You sell CDs here, too?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Marshall. He steered her to a small display of CDs. Mendel's got a cousin who's a clarinetist in a klezmer band that's constantly touring Europe. So we sell that, the gypsy band you've heard, other European and Israeli folk music, Django Rheinhardt. Some of it sounds almost like Brazilian bossa nova. When somebody hears something in the shop they like, we say it's available. Our restoration customers get whichever ones they want, gratis."

"What, your customers can't afford a CD?" Sandra joked.

"Oh, they can afford a CD. They're paying an average of $50 an hour for these restoration jobs."

"Almost like therapy for your car. Say, who's Django Rheinhardt?" The name almost slipped past her.

"Belgian gypsy. Fantastic jazz violin player in the 30s and 40s. Django died far too young. I love his music. He puts me in the mood," said Marshall, reverently.

"The mood for what?" asked Sandra.

"For whatever mood I want to be in. It's amazing music. When I feel happy, the music sounds happy. When I feel sad, his music sounds sad, but soothing. I'll play some later."

"To get me in the mood, you naughty boy?" she said.

"I thought you already were in the mood. For dinner, maybe?"

"That special dinner you were talking about?" said Sandra. "Yes, I believe I am. Got your fiery steed ready to whisk me to the banquet hall?"

"No fiery steed. Will a blue Thunderbird work for you?"

"Just what I wanted to see. Remember our deal?"

You choose the radio station and make the windows go up and down."

Marshall ushered her to the parking lot behind the business entrance. In a reserved spot sat the blue Thunderbird, sparkling in the early evening sunshine. The first time they met, the clouds and rain muffled the paint job, but now, on a clear day, the car shone like a freshly cut diamond. Its blue was deep, like mountain pools, with tiny sparkles that made the surface shimmer.

"I've never seen such a paint job. It's fabulous," said Sandra as Marshall opened the passenger door for her. She slid into the deep leather bucket seat.

"My special technique. The customers love it. The eye naturally goes toward a paint job that's so subtle. It's like looking into a whirlpool, in a way."

"You have a lot of special techniques, Marshall?" asked Sandra with a purr as he started the engine.