December 6, 2020
The Condolence
Lewberg sent me a text.
“Alex’s father passed away. RIP.”
I wrote back and said thanks for letting me know.
Alex Fishman is a guy I know from a poker game I used to play in a few years ago. It wasn’t my regular poker game. It was Lewberg’s with guys he knew from work and golf. I sometimes filled in when they were short. I liked the game. Nice guys. Good food. Quality of poker was not great but the banter was pretty good and the guys had always been welcoming. I didn’t know Alex that well. No more or less than the other guys. Poker nights was the only time I ever saw them and, like I said, I was just a part time fill in. I hadn’t played in two or three years. It would have been the last time I had seen Alex Fishman. He wasn’t a friend and barely an acquaintance.
But both of my parents had passed away and although I never found the week of shiva all that comforting, I did really appreciate the calls, emails and texts. Sometimes it was from people who were no longer really a part of my life but, the end of the day, it was just a nice thing to do and it was appreciated. It took all of two minutes. So now, I did my best to send timely and sincere condolences. Better to do it sooner than later. Also, it was easy to convince yourself a text was the better approach because the mourners were being inundated with calls and had to constantly tell the same story over and over again. Anyway, that’s what I convinced myself. I still had Alex’s phone number in my contact list so I crafted a short ‘please accept my condolences for your loss’ and sent it off. I had never met his father. Had never heard any stories about his father. I guess I would go to the shiva one night with Lewberg. Hopefully they would have a minyan. And that would be that.
The next day I received a text from Lewberg
“Fishman’s father just dropped dead of a heart attack on the fourteenth green at Oakdale”
I texted back “Lewberg. You already told me this yesterday. Maybe lay off the Ketel and cranberry in the middle of the day”
There was no reply from Lewberg. I was about to put my phone away when I saw the telltale dot dot dot of an incoming text. Then it stopped. Then it started again. Then it stopped. Either Lewberg was writing a hella long text or he was writing, changing his mind, erasing, then writing again.
Finally the text came through.
“Please tell me you didn’t already send out a condolence.”
“I did. Five minutes after you told me. I don’t dilly dally. Why?”
“Call me right now!”
I called him. He answered on the first ring.
“Alexandra Soffer.” He said.
Alexandra Soffer was Lewberg’s high school girlfriend.
“Yeah. What about her?”
“Alexandra. Alex. Alex. Her father died yesterday. He was 97.”
I said “I don’t understand.” But I did.
“Alex is Alexandra. Alexandra is Alex. Fishman is Fishman. Fishman is not Alex. He is Fishman.
He was, of course right. Fishman was Fishman. We never called him Alex. I just figured Lewberg called him Alex because his father had just died. The only other Alex we had in common was Alexandra Soffer. We used to hang out a lot. Even go out on double dates. I had been to her house and to her cottage. But I had not thought of her in 20 years.
I hadn’t sent condolences.
I had just predicted a man’s death.
I call Allie.
I say “I have a situation.”
As usual, she replies “Your life is a situation.”
I ignore her.
“Alex Fishman’s father died of a heart attack on the 14th hole at Oakdale today.”
“That is horrible,” she replied. “Who is Alex Fishman?”
“A guy I play poker with.”
“Why does it matter it was on the fourteenth?”
“It doesn’t.”
“Was it a Zakarian heart attack? Did he get a hole in one?”
“No” Although I didn’t know if it was.
“How old was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“When is the funeral?”
“I don’t know.”
“You should send your friend a condolence text or email.”
“I did already. I sent him a text.”
“Ok. Good.”
“But here’s the thing. I sent it to him yesterday.”
“I don’t understand.”
“He didn’t die yesterday. He died today.”
I explained her the Alex and Alexandra and Fishman thing.
She said “hmmm.” Then she said “You’ve got yourself a situation.”
“I feel sick.”
“It was an honest mistake. Just text him and explain. He will probably get dozens and dozens of texts. Yours will just get lost in a long list.”
So I write it up. It is a bit longer than it should be. I say sorry or very sorry seven different times. I check three times to make sure I am sending it to Fishman. Then send. I feel sick about it. I don’t sleep a wink all night.
Two days later, I am at Elijah Fishman’s funeral at the Beth Tzeddeck Synagogue with Lewberg and some of the other poker guys. The place is packed. Many grandchildren get up and tell wonderful and heartwarming tales about their Zaida. There is a lot of sniffling. There is quite a bit of crying. Then Alex Fishman gets up. Lewberg and I are sitting in the back but we can tell he has been crying too. I think I might throw up. Alex tells the story of his father. How he fought in Israel’s war of independence. How he got married and raised his family in Canada. It is the irony of funerals that you learn more about the man when he is dead than when he was arrive. It is a beautiful speech. About halfway through, my phone begins to vibrate. I reach into my suit breast pocket and pull out the phone so I can turn it off. But I take a quick peek first to see who the text is from.
It is from Alex Fishman.
Who, at this moment is still in the middle of his eulogy.
Lewberg, not exactly the master of social graces, elbows me in my shoulder. “Not cool man.” He says.
I move the phone over to him so he can see what I have just read.
“While I very much appreciate your kind words, my father is very much alive and kicking. I don’t know who this Alex character is but he hasn’t done a very good job of telling people his number has changed. This isn’t the first text I have received. So you may want to tell him. Also, send my condolences.”
Alex Fishman is hitting the high emotional notes in his eulogy. Many people are sobbing loudly. I pinch myself as hard as I can to keep from smiling.
The end.