Debauchery

I'm with my dad, on one of his myriad business trips to Manhattan.

He's invited me to come along for the train ride,

As if, somehow, he needs to initiate me into his other world,

In the weave between 6th and 9th Avenues,

34th and 40th Streets — the Garment District,

That fabric of Jewish mercantilism

Where the schmatta men congregate, to do their alchemy,

And he buys piece goods, pocketing, buttons, zippers, waist banding,

Sells men's dress slacks, by the dozens,

To individual merchants and buyers for large national chains.

Just now, he and I, his nine-year-old sidekick, pal, buddy,

Are seated in the shabby, sparse, overlarge office of Moe Newman,

President of Ripley-Howard Clothing Company,

Which boasts 150 stores, in its predominantly East Coast network.

We're here for just one reason: Biltwell needs to sell pants, bad,

A ton or ten of them, so my dad's factories will run full blast.

He's told me how crucial it is to keep the sewing machines going,

That the union makes him pay the ladies for six hours,

Whether they stitch a million licks or sit all day, twiddling their thumbs.

We've arrived promptly, at the time my dad was ordered to be here.

Yet, for almost an hour, we've squirmed in Moe Newman's office,

Being "entertained" by Moe's factotum, Mac Putterman,

Who continually offers my dad scotch (which he continually declines),

Temporizing, telling one really bad dirty joke after another

(None of which gets a rise out of my dad; I just don't get them),

Making excuses for Moe's protracted delay —

"He's been waylaid in a critical business meeting."

Suddenly, a disheveled Moe makes his raucous, dramatic entry,

Followed by a curly-bleached-blond floozy in a nightgown.

Moe yells, "Get the hell out of here, Maizy!

I told you to stay in bed and wait till I come back!"

Maizy disappears into the makeshift bedroom

On the other side of the wall behind Moe's oversize, cleared desk.

"Saul! Damn glad to see you again! It's been too damn long!

And who's this little monkey?

I see you brought your boss along . . . for good luck?"

What follows these disingenuous overtures of goodwill

Is the most vulgar, obscene, and inscrutable language I've ever heard —

"Fuck"s, "shit"s, "cunt"s, "son-of-a-bitch"es, "cocksucker"s, "prick"s,

"Mamzer"s, "goniff"s, "shmeichler"s, "shmegegge"s, "shmendrick"s,

"Putz"es, "shmuck"s, "shlemiel"s, "shlepper"s, "shlimazel"s,

And back around again and again, to "fuck"s, "shit"s, " "cunt"s.

All the while, I'm trying to figure out how my respectable father,

So well dressed, so clean-spoken, so dignified,

Can withstand the barrage of profanity-laden insults

That this monster of a man is hurling at him,

Survive such personal abominations, denigrations, slanders . . .

Figure out what I can't know, at my age:

That all this mud-flinging is calculated to soften up my dad,

So Moe can mercilessly "Jew" him down,

Force him to sell finished trousers

For two- or four-bits less per pair than his cut-make-and-trim costs,

Because Moe knows (as he'll probably put it, to Mac, afterwards)

That he has my dad's "tits over a barrel, his schlong in a ringer,

And his balls behind a window in the Horn & Hardart Automat,"

And that Saul Brodsky, of St. Louis, is desperate, obviously,

To fill ten or twelve weeks of production, for his spring/fall seasons,

So Biltwell can keep out of the red's crapper.

And here I am, a shocked nine-year-old novitiate, acolyte, innocent,

Listening to my dad being degraded, cursed, humiliated,

Until, surrendering yet another two-bits per trouser,

He submits to five-foot-three, cigar-smoking and -chomping,

Sideways-skewed-red-toupee-sporting Moe Newman,

Who's offered my dad not even a take-it-or-leave-it

But a take-it-and-shove-it-up-your-ass-all-the-way-to-your-teeth . . .

After which, to seal the deal,

Moe insists, repeatedly, that Dad and I join him, in his limo,

For an evening's debauchery,

With a bevy of his favorite Radio City Music Hall Rockettes

Or at least a smattering of his regular Seventh Avenue hookers,

Which my dad meekly but persistently declines,

Until he finally prevails over Moe's relentless temptations,

Which include a shot of his finest Chivas Regal, "for the road."

While my dad and I are shown the door, by Mac Putterman,

We see Moe scurry back into his corporate bedroom.

And as we step out into the Garment District, at sunset,

My dad flashes a wide, satisfied smile,

Not only because he's just booked 150,000 easy-to-make garments

(Enough to carry all three Biltwell factories through the next year)

But, more so, because we're heading to Schrafft's, to celebrate,

With a whipped-cream-and-cherry-dolloped chocolate parfait, for him,

And a slice of hot cherry pie à la mode, for a very hungry me —

Debauchery not even Moe Newman can top.

12/11/11 - (2)