Shmolnick's Luck
Part One – Shmolnick
Shmolnick sighed as he wiped
the day old snot from his ragged gray mustache.
Ah! An old can of tuna fish!
He dipped his grubby bloated
paw into the black garbage bag that he'd torn open only moments before.
The smell didn't faze Shmolnick as he had long ago grown used to it.
To tell the truth, he welcomed the sweet smell of another's refuse.
That smell usually meant that he would eat that day!
The tuna can had bits of
stale tuna encrusted inside. Smiling a gap-toothed grin, Shmolnick pulled
out his trusty rusty spoon, the one he stole before his girlfriend threw
him out. Using the spoon, he scraped the precious meat out of the can
and popped it into his gaping drooling maw. It was hard, true, but Shmolnick
was expert as using his saliva to soften such tough chews.
He closed his eyes and savored
the sustenance. Within seconds, however, the expectant rush of pain
in his esophagus rose to greet him. Clutching the stolen Stop and Shop
carriage that held his few precious belongings, Shmolnick rode out the
wave of digestive agony, which subsided as quickly as it had arrived.
Now
for a relaxing after-dinner smoke!
Shmolnick scoured the ground
and spied his target - a half- smoked cigarette butt! He picked it up,
paying no attention to the small amount of liquidump that added to his
already soiled underwear.
Reaching into one of his
jacket pockets (he really didn't have to use a pocket, the old black
leather jacket had numerous large holes through which the job could
have been accomplished), he pulled out a dirty Bic lighter. He clicked
it several times, finally succeeding in lighting the priceless cigarette
butt. Soon it would be time to steal another lighter.
As Shmolnick inhaled the
sweet smoke of the cigarette butt, his lungs protested loudly, a gut-
wrenching coughing fit forcing the homeless man to his knees. After
this new pain subsided, Shmolnick wiped bits of blood from his lips
using the sleeve of his tattered leather jacket, then slowly rose to
his feet.
How had he come to this pitiful existence? What had driven a productive
law-abiding citizen to such desperate straits?
It was a tragedy that had
become so commonplace in America since the depths of the Bush depression
that the media had ceased reporting it. After Bush's re- election in
2004, following a long and protracted war in Iraq, the nation's economy
collapsed. The full weight of the infamous Bush tax cuts began to hit
home in 2005 and the collapse of the stock market later that year caused
millions of Americans to lose their retirement savings. Businesses were
hurt as well, since they steadfastly refused to abandon their fruitless
short-term quarter-to- quarter strategies. Unemployment rates rose to
25% and lawlessness took root in the major cities. Crime rose and law
enforcement officials seemed powerless to stop it.
The wealthy captains of
industry hid from the angry masses in their vacation homes, unable and
unwilling to help stop the national economic madness. Many CEOs and
their bootlicking money-grubbing toadies were dragged from their homes
by bloodthirsty mobs of unemployed high-tech workers. Former New York
mayor Mike Bloomberg suffered a particularly horrible fate, his severed
head raised on a pike and paraded through the streets of Manhattan.
Jack Welch, former head of GE simply disappeared one day, and months
later small pieces of his carcass were mailed periodically to Fox News
headquarters.
When Vice President Cheney
dropped dead of a heart attack in the middle of a congressional investigation,
the hapless president retreated to his ranch in Crawford, Texas and
went mad. Congress spent weeks arguing amongst themselves amid the growing
chaos, rendered powerless by their deadly affection for politicking.
None of this recent history
mattered to the beaten and slovenly Shmolnick. Just another victim of
the Bush Depression, his life was a day to day affair. Would he find
food today? Would it burn when he peed today? Would he live to see tomorrow?
These were the issues pressing in on his tenuous hold over reality.
Part Two – The Landlord
Shmuel Krambergowitz admired
his shiny new Lincoln Navigator for just a few more seconds, then pressed
the lock button on the black remote control attached to his key chain.
He nodded his head to the
audible CLICK-CLICK as if keeping time with the music of his beloved
new purchase.
“Man, I just love this car,”
he said, beaming.
He waddled his middle-aged
bulk away from the vehicle, which was parked illegally in front of a
dingy office building, carrying a sleek black leather valise. The office
building was nestled snugly into a row of similarly unkempt and unremarkable
structures.
The neighborhood in which
Shmuel found himself that evening was familiar to him in spite of his
wealth and influence. He was, after all, landlord of this particular
edifice, and it was the first Thursday of the month, which meant it
was time to collect the rent. Of course, the luckless nonprofit fools
who paid him the exorbitant rent each month would be short of cash again.
They always were short of cash.
“Idiots,” he though ruefully. “They”re gonna get what they deserve for
doing all that pro bono work.”
This month, however, Attorney
Krambergowitz would make them pay for shorting him. This month he would
throw their poor altruistic keisters out on the streets with the rabble
they so loved to support. And there was nothing they could do. He had
the law on his side.
He absent-mindedly pulled
a flaky booger from his prodigious proboscis and rolled it around a
bit before sneaking a wipe on the side of the door frame. He then rang
the doorbell.
“Pardick and Sloane” read
the faded names on the inner door. Soon he would sell this monstrosity
and make a bundle; his friends in the business community (his summer
home neighbors, in fact) had assured him that this street was to be
rezoned for “commercial use.” He could finally upgrade the in ground
pool at his summer home in the Hamptons. The damn thing really DID need
to be heated.
William Pardick was a tall
thin man with tired eyes and a weary smile. The man lived in a two-room
flat in a fading downtown neighborhood. He showed his landlord to a
dusty office filled with faded manila folders and numerous uneven stacks
of law books and papers.
An attractive latino secretary
glared at the jowled unsmiling landlord as he passed her desk. “What
a piece of ass,” thought Shmuel. “I could get her.”
Shmuel half-listened to
Pardick’s sad tale of yet another home invasion, his possessions stolen,
his teenage daughter assaulted.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Pardick,”
he said, but he was thinking of how much labor he could get from those
damned bloodsucking pool contractors.
Jimmy Sloane sauntered in,
a red-faced little man who never knew when to keep his mouth shut. Shmuel
very much preferred to deal with Pardick who always seemed to be afraid
of him. Sloane frightened him a bit. Shmuel secretly hoped that he could
bait the hot-tempered Irishman into hitting him. He entertained fantasies
of the bars to the jail cell slamming shut as Sloane retreated into
prison life.
“We need another week,”
said Sloane, his ruddy face growing redder.
Shmuel smiled. “Not a chance,
gentlemen. I have expenses, you know. This is not a charity.” Shmuel
opened the valise and began removing the eviction papers he had drawn
up weeks earlier in anticipation of this moment.
Pardick and Sloane exchanged
a worried look.
“Now listen Shmuel,” began
Pardick, “you know we”re good for it. We have a deposit scheduled for
next Tuesday. The banks are closed until then because of the Jewish
New Year. You of all people should realize that-”
“I of all people?” inquired
Shmuel. “I of all people have been letting you idealists burn me each
month, out of the goodness of my heart. I of all people have bills to
pay too. I of all people am tired of supporting your lost causes.”
He stood up and put the
eviction papers on Pardick’s desk. Sloane put his hand on Shmuel’s arm
and raised his voice angrily.
“Now wait a minute, Krambergowitz,
you”ve got plenty of money. I saw that big boat of yours parked outside.
It won't break the bank to give us an extension.”
Shmuel’s face darkened.
“Take your hands off me, Sloane. Unless you want me to have you arrested
for assault.”
Pardick stood up and waved
his hands nervously. “Shmuel, we”re doing important work here. We help
those who cannot help themselves and-”
Shmuel turned toward the
door. “I have no sympathy for the self-pitying losers you support. They
got themselves into their messes. It’s not my responsibility to help
them correct their mistakes.”
“You asshole, you can't
do this!” shouted Sloane.
“I can and I have, gentlemen.
Read the notice carefully. You have one week to vacate the premises.”
Shmuel started down the creaking steps, glancing at his Rolex watch.
“Damn these fools,” he thought. “Now I”m going to be late for Weiss’s
party.”
He turned to face the desperate
men standing at the top of the stairs. “Ask the bums you support to
help you, hah hah.” He pushed open the door and left the building, Pardick’s
pleas for mercy unheard.
Part Three – The
Rabble
Shmolnick had been pushing
his shopping carriage around all day, and his legs felt like lead. It
had been a good day for the homeless man, however.
He had found a half-finished
box of Kentucky Fried Chicken, complete with roll, and had returned
a two-day haul of soda bottles and cans. The largess from that deal
netted him a brand spanking-new half pint of grain alcohol. The bottle
was nearly gone now, and a weary Shmolnick pushed his carriage down
a quiet old commercial street, deserted now at dinner time except for
a huge brown SUV parked by a fire hydrant.
He was shuffling slowly
now, the weight of the carriage too much after his busy day. His sight
was fuzzy from the liquor and he didn’t notice the carriage get away
from him on the slight incline of the street. The sound of the carriage
crashing into the SUV woke Shmolnick temporarily from his drunken stupor.
“Goddamned SUV’s are fuckin'
everywhere,” he muttered bitterly, and pulled the carriage away from
the vehicle. A small scratch was visible where the carriage had hit
the car.
Meanwhile, Shmuel Krambergowitz
was walking jauntily toward his precious Lincoln Navigator, the day’s
work done at last. Singing “Sugaree” softly, he clicked the remote to
unlock his vehicle. It was at that moment that he noticed the street
bum pushing his ubiquitous carriage of useless dirty belongings away
from the SUV.
“Hey, hey YOU!” yelled Shmuel
after the bum. “Get that filthy thing away from my car!”
Shmolnick cocked his head
toward the offending noise. “Hunh?” he asked, and turned around to see
a fat balding well-dressed man pointing his pudgy finger at him.
“Wha-hnh?” asked Shmolnick,
his hand unscrambling his balls from his stretched underwear.
“You there! You bum, stay
away from this car I said!” Shmuel gave the car a cursory inspection.
You had to watch these bums all the time. “Fucking bum, get a job!”
he shouted. He rubbed his hand along the side of the SUV and it was
then that he noticed the scratch.
“Fucking goddamned BUM!”
he shouted angrily. “Look what you did to my car!”
Shmolnick looked perplexed.
Why was this man shouting at him? He was confused. He'd been minding
his own business when his fat man started yelling. He looked at the
man. “Ain't no fuckin' bum,” he grumbled, and instinctively grabbed
the bottle of grain alcohol in his jacket pocket.
“Man!” groaned Shmuel. This
car is brand new! You know what I paid for this?” Shmuel was incensed.
How dare this bum scratch his car. This bum ought to be taught a lesson.
“I”m calling the cops, you
fucking drunk!” He pulled out his cell phone and flipped it open.
Shmolnick saw the man pull
out a phone. He heard the word “cops” and panicked. “What the fuck,”
he mumbled and ran toward Shmuel Krambergowitz.
Shmuel shrieked when Shmolnick’s
dirt-encrusted fingers grasped his expensive Burberry overcoat. In his
horror, his dropped the phone.
Shmolnick began swinging
his scarred and blistered fist around wildly, not fully aware of his
actions. His foot accidentally kicked the cell phone into the street,
where it skedaddled onto a sewer grate and quickly disappeared down
it.
“MY PHONE!!” shouted Shmuel.
He tried to push the drunk aside, but the fool wouldn't let go. “LET
GO OF ME!! SHIT!!”
Shmolnick’s confusion turned
to anger. What was happening? Why was this rich man picking on him?
Fucking typical rich bastard. “Fuckin” bastard, laid me off,” he breathed
into Shmuel’s horrified face. He swung his arm around in a wide arc,
not realizing that he was still holding the bottle of grain alcohol.
The bottle smashed on the bald man’s forehead with a loud smack, and
the fat man yelped and fell to the street, clutching his head.
“Oh shit,” said Shmolnick,
who looked around desperately. When he saw nobody on the street, he
sprung into action as best he could.
“Gotta get outta here,”
he mumbled, turned to run away.
Shmuel rolled around on
the ground, his head aching and blood flowing between his desperately
clutching fingers. He spied the bum getting away and automatically reached
for him.
Shmolnick spun around when
he felt the man’s hand grab his pant leg.
“Fuckin” pants!” he yelled,
and began stamping his foot in an attempt to release Shmuel’s hold.
He was wearing what used
to be his good loafers, now faded and scarred from years on the street.
Shmuel began yelping again, and Shmolnick kept yelling “Fuckin didn't
do nothin” didn't do nothing!” over and over again while waving his
arms in the air as if warding off angry insects.
Shmuel’s yelping finally
ceased and Shmolnick looked down in a squint. The man’s head had been
crushed by his stomping. Bits of brain littered a growing pool of blood,
the red color fading as night filled the street. He bent over and vomited
on the dead man. In a few minutes, he realized that he was still alone.
“Hmm,” he grumbled, and
rifled through the man’s pocket. He took a fat wallet and found some
jingling keys, which he held up to the light of the street lamp.
Shmolnick smiled as he wiped
bits of puke off his face with his sleeve. He looked at the keys, then
looked at the big dark car. He then proceeded to transfer the belongings
of his carriage to the back seat of the SUV, a chore made all the more
difficult by his drunken state.
As he drove off, he didn't
hear the shouts of the two men who had belatedly run out of a building
when they heard the commotion. His luck was finally changing!
He started singing an old Grateful Dead tune. “Shake it, shake it, Sugaree.”
