June 28, 2020

I'm Not Goldfarb

Lewberg called and said he was taking the dog to the park. I should come with him. I told him I couldn’t think of anything I wanted to do less than walk his dog in the park. He said the park was full of women walking their dogs. He said it was a beautiful day. He said his dog missed me. He said a plastic cup of Ketel and cranberry wouldn’t kill anyone.

I said okay.

It was a beautiful day.

We weren’t in the park for more than five minutes when we ran into Sandy Abramson walking her cockapoo.

Sandy Abramson was a woman I used to date. It was one of those Halley’s Comet types of relationships where the breakup was truly and honestly mutual. I didn’t see her that often but when I did, I didn’t have to duck behind a tree. It’s not like she was Heather Lewis.

I don’t really like running into ex-girlfriends, but I was genuinely pleased to see Sandy Abramson.

She, on the other hand, was not happy to see me.

She looked pissed.

I said hi.

Lewberg said hi.

Sandy Abramson said, “We dated for two years.”

It was a weird greeting but I had no idea where she was going with it so I just said, “Yeah.”

“We lived together for a year.”

I said, “Yeah.”

“Two years and I don’t get a single mention in your book?”

Now if anyone else had said that I would have laughed because it was such a hilarious deadpan bit. It was really classic. But Sandy Abramson wasn’t really known for her sense of humor. It was one of the reasons we broke up.

I didn’t really know what to say. I mean, I don't think I really had any good Sandy Abramson stories.

It was one of the reasons we broke up.

“I mean it is so fucking passive aggressive. So fucking typical.”

So I say, “Sandy, the book sold 14 copies. Lewberg bought 10. Nobody cares.”

I couldn’t understand why Sandy Abramson would give a shit.

“Look,” she said, “I don’t care. I just think it’s weird. What about that time in Florida?”

I had no idea about any time in Florida. But then I decided to do what I do best.

I lied.

“Well if you must know, you’re Amanda.”

Lewberg took a very big gulp of his vodka cranberry. He then turned his back on us.

“Amanda?”

“Harold Goldfarb’s ex-girlfriend. In Get Your Affairs in Order.”

In for a penny, in for a pound.

“The suicide story?”

“Exactly.”

“ I don’t watch the Cooking Channel.”

“Well, I had to disguise it.  Remember how much you loved those National Geographic documentaries?”

We had never seen a National Geographic documentary. But Sandy Abramson seemed placated.

“Oh, Amanda. Yeah. I see that. Sorry for being such a dick. I just thought it was a bit weird.  Amanda. Okay.”

And then I said, “As if I would ever leave you out.”

Then Sandy Abramson said, “Wait, if I am Amanda, does that make you Goldfarb?”

So I say, “No, I am me. Goldfarb is a fictional character. But I needed an ex-girlfriend and so…”

Sandy Abramson said, “Got it.”

We hugged and then Sandy Abramson and her cockapoo went on their way.

Lewberg, who had an empty plastic cup in one hand and a plastic bag of dog shit in the other, turned to me and said:

“Sandy Abramson is not Amanda.”

And I said, “No, she’s not.”

Then Lewberg said, “This is not going to end well.”

I said, “What are you talking about? I just made her day. That’s what I do. I please people.”

Lewberg said, “Do you see this bag of shit? If I had to choose between being you right now or this bag of shit, I would choose this bag of shit 10 times out of 10.”

Lewberg was dead wrong.

For about eight hours.

My phone rings and it is the wife of a friend of mine. Am going to call her Debbie. She is one of those really, really nice people. Like for no reason at all. Just to be nice. I sometimes feel bad questioning her sincerity because I really feel she is being genuine. I just don’t understand people like that.

I say, “Hey.”

She says hey back but she stretches it out to last about 10 seconds. At first it sounds like a ‘I am having a surprise Zoom birthday party for my husband’ hey and ‘could you make one of your funny videos.’

But it’s not.

“How are you doing?” she wants to know. Now I recognize it. It is the ‘how are you doing’ the week after my mother died. Then the month after my mother died. Then six months after my mother died. I kinda thought it was nice: I’m lucky if I can remember to call once.

“All is good.” I said. “Things are great.”

“Oh, that’s good. That is so good. You have to keep your spirits up.”

My spirits had been fine. Now they were starting to sink.

Instead I said, “Thanks for checking in. I really appreciate it.”

She said, “Call whenever you want to talk. Day or night.”

And I said, “Okay. Thanks.”

She said, “So many people love you.”

“Thanks, Debbie, I really appreciate it.” I did. But wasn’t happy about why she was concerned.

I heard call waiting. I said, “Debbie, I have to go.”

Then I spoke to a very nice man about getting my eavestroughs cleaned. We spoke for about 20 minutes. I didn’t have the heart to tell him I lived in a condo.

Then I called Lewberg.

He picked up on the first ring.

I said, “We have a situation.”

Lewberg, the good friend he is, did not correct me by saying I was the one who had a situation. He did however say, “That’s why I picked the bag of shit.”

I ignored him.

“I just got off the phone with Debbie Marchment.”

“She still asking you about your dead mother?”

“She is nice,” I said. “You could learn a little from her.”

“I made a very nice donation,” said Lewberg.

“She is very concerned about my wellbeing. She told me that people loved me.”

“That is crazy,” said Lewberg. “Nobody loves you.”

I ignored him.

“Do you know who Debbie Marchment’s best friend is?” I asked. But it was a rhetorical question. Of course Lewberg knew.

Debbie Marchment’s best friend was Sandy Abramson.

Sandy Abramson thought she was Amanda.

Sandy Abramson thought I was Goldfarb.

Now Debbie Marchment thought I was Goldfarb.

Oh to be a bag of shit right now.

Then Lewberg spoke and lifted my spirits ever so slightly.

He said what he always said:

“I think I have a guy.”

“This is a really dumb idea,” I said to Lewberg’s guy, who was eating his smoked meat sandwich like a man on death row eating his final meal. Lewberg and I had finished our sandwiches 15 minutes ago.

Lewberg’s guy dipped a french fry into a mound of ketchup and rotated it for 20 seconds so every part of the fry was covered in ketchup before popping it into his mouth.

“Don’t look at me,” he said as he carefully contemplated another fry. “I think it is a bad idea too.”

Lewberg, who had already finished his fries, helped himself to a ketchup-less handful, took a gulp of his cream soda—okay, Ketel and cream soda—and said:

“It isn’t a dumb idea. It is a brilliant idea. Jimmie here,” he pointed to his guy, “goes into the park with his cockapoo. These cockapoo owners are drawn to each other like flies to fucking honey. He strikes up a conversation with Sandy Abramson. How do you do, how do you do. My name is Harold Goldfarb. Really? You are Harold Goldfarb? Yes, I am Harold Goldfarb. And there you go. Bob’s your uncle.”

“Bob’s your uncle?” I say.

Lewberg says, “Yeah. Easy as pie. Now you are no longer Goldfarb.” He pointed to his guy, who had motioned the waitress and ordered another sandwich and plate of fries. “He is.”

I said, “This might be the dumbest idea I have ever heard.” I turned to Lewberg’s guy and said, “What do you think?”

Lewberg’s guy said, “I also think it is the dumbest idea I have ever heard, but for $500 a day plus expenses, I can be Harold Goldfarb or Ho Chi Minh. It’s your money.”

“What expenses?” I asked.

“Well, a snack for me and the dog.”

I turned to Lewberg. “You can get us a cockapoo?”

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve got a guy.”

“This will never work,” I said.

“That’s because you’re not a dog guy. These cockapoo owners become best friends. They are like family. They tell each other everything.” Then he too ordered another plate of fries and poured a little more Ketel into his glass of cream soda.

Seven absolutely beautiful dog-walking days in a row and seven days when there was absolutely no sign of Sandy Abramson.

I didn’t know where she was walking her fucking cockapoo, but it wasn’t in the park.

Meanwhile, I was paying Lewberg’s guy $500 a day to walk the cockapoo and Lewberg’s other guy $250 a day to rent the cockapoo.

It was a fucking nightmare!

In the meantime, Debbie Marchment had gathered a team of friends and acquaintances who were calling me every day to check up on me. They were taking shifts.

I wasn’t suicidal. I might have been a little homicidal.

I was about to call the whole thing off, but then on day eight, Sandy Abramson and her cockapoo showed up at the park.

Lewberg and I hid behind the public restrooms on the far side of the park.

I had to hand it to Lewberg. He knew his cockapoo owners. Sandy Abramson made a beeline for Lewberg’s guy who was walking Lewberg’s other guy’s rented cockapoo.

They had an animated conversation for about five minutes and Sandy Abramson hugged Lewberg’s guy.

It was not a short hug.

Next thing I knew, Lewberg’s guy was walking towards us, handed the rented cockapoo to Lewberg, and half-jogged into the restroom declaring he had to whiz like a proverbial race horse. When he came out, wiping his hands on his trousers, he pointed to Lewberg and announced, “This man is a genius.”

“It went well?” I asked.

“Worked like a charm,” he said. “She said she felt so stupid thinking you were Goldfarb when you couldn't possibly be Goldfarb. Because I was Goldfarb.” Lewberg’s guy grabbed Lewberg’s Ketel and cranberry and took a triumphant swig.

“She really said that?” I could not believe this idiotic plan had worked.

“Yup,” said Lewberg’s guy. “She bought it hook, line and motherfucking sinker. I laid it on thick. Told her I couldn’t believe you had betrayed my trust. That I had told you that story in confidence.”

“Betrayed your trust?” I looked at Lewberg but he was all of a sudden very interested in his shoelaces.

“Nobody said anything about betraying trust. Lewberg, did anyone say anything about betraying anyone’s trust?”

Lewberg ignored me.

I turned to Lewberg’s guy. “We never said anything about betraying anyone’s trust,” I whispered.

Lewberg’s guy shrugged his shoulders and said, “A little improv. No extra charge. Can I have that $4000 now?”

So just like that, I had turned from being a perfectly nice fellow who had written a book to a perfectly fine fellow with suicidal thoughts who had written a book to a complete asshole who had betrayed a friend’s confidence just so he could write a book.

Debbie Marchment stopped calling. Most of my friends stopped calling. Lewberg still called. He envied me. He kept asking for tips on how he could lose all his friends. “Tell me who to betray and I would do it in a second,” he said.

“I didn’t betray anyone,” I argued stupidly.

“Just remind me not to tell you anything in confidence,” joked Lewberg. “Poor Goldfarb. The humiliation.”

The eavestrough guy kept calling though, and I finally hired him to clean the eavestroughs of my brother’s house. He did a pretty good job.

But then he stopped calling too.

Finally I called Lewberg’s other guy and bought myself a cockapoo.

Every day I get in the car and we drive to a park clear on the other side of town. Where I don’t know anyone. We go on long walks. There’s a lady who walks her scotch terrier who I have seen a few times. Today I give her a halfhearted wave and she waves back and drags her reluctant terrier to the bench where I have stopped to drink water and give my dog a snack.

 “Cockapoo?”’she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “ Cockapoo.”

“What’s his name?”

“Oh,” I reply reaching down to pick up the dog so she can have a better look.

“His name? His name is Goldfarb.”

The end.