7/7/24
Newsletter #630
The Crack of Dawn
Having received quite a few positive responses to my earlier, recycled essay about my dad, Hangin’ With the Old Dudes, here is an even older essay about my dad.
April 4, 2009
He’s Cute
Little did I realize when I moved back to Michigan seven years ago and found the one and only $750 a month rental house in swanky Bloomfield, that I had unconsciously (?) positioned myself directly between where my dad lives and his office, and three blocks from his favorite breakfast place, the Orchard Grill. So, when my dad came into town (he and his second wife wintered in Arizona), we occasionally had breakfast together on his way to work.
Aside from the fact that the Orchard Grill was so close to me, it also had cute waitresses and good service, thus enamoring it to both my dad and I.
Unfortunately, however, it was also located directly next to Lennie Melnick’s office, and Lennie went to the Orchard Grill every morning for breakfast.
Lennie was a heavyset, red-faced, 60-year-old real estate developer, with many housing developments in various stages of construction. He wore gold chains, had several big rings, drove a pimped-out environment fucker black Hummer with a chrome winch on the front, talked too loud, and never shut up. And once he started yapping there was no getting a word in edgewise, ever. He wore a mink coat in the winter, carried around a giant wad of cash in a fancy clip, had a Blackberry, an iPhone, a blue tooth plug in his ear, and always had an enormous, unlit cigar, like he was a Borscht Belt comedian or something. Lennie ate three “over-hard” eggs every morning in three bites, and always hit on the cute waitresses in some vulgar, uncomfortable way. Oh, and he was extremely right-wing conservative, and as far as I was concerned, politically had his head up his ass.
And every goddamned time my dad would see Lennie entering the restaurant he’d invite him to join us for breakfast, and Lennie would always accept.
This was 2003, 2004, into 2005, the most egregious awful time of the Bush years when I was in a constant state of political outrage. Lennie defended every lie and stupid decision of George Bush, and he and I got into quite a few tense, heated discussions. Soon, I began to dread the sight of Lennie Melnick. Lennie disgusted me in every possible way.
Worst of all, although I was 50 years old, Lennie treated me like I was a foolishly uninformed kid (which my dad did, too, but he was my dad), and he would say shit like, “Of course Iraq’s got weapons of mass destruction, they’ve proven it.”
“No they haven’t.”
“Sure they have, you’re not paying attention. It’s been on the news.”
At which point I was always teetering on the edge of leaping over the table and stabbing him to death with my fork. He defended torture, the invasion of Iraq, wiretapping, the mishandling of Hurricane Katrina, everything. He was a mindless mouthpiece for Fox News and Rush Limbaugh.
After Lennie left one time I said to my Dad, “I can’t stand that fucking asshole!”
My dad grinned a particularly silly grin and said, “I think he’s cute.”
I’m still not 100% sure what he meant. It certainly wasn’t gay, although it could easily be construed that way. What I think my straight, 79-year-old dad meant was that he liked Lennie’s attitude – a sort of forced joviality, I thought – and the fact that he was clearly a hustler, with all his many housing developments.
Anyway, after I don’t even know, 25 or 30 supremely annoying breakfasts with Lennie Melnick, I finally put my foot down. Disgust is not an emotion I ever care to feel, and with Lennie it was unavoidable. I told my Dad, “You like Lennie Melnick so much, you have breakfast with him. I’m never having breakfast with him again!”
My dad said, “So, what do I do when he comes in the restaurant, not invite him over?”
“Uh-huh.”
He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”
“Then we’ll have to go somewhere else.”
So, we began going to Joe’s Country Kitchen about a half mile away. Neither my dad nor I liked it very much: the place itself was kind of dingy; the waitresses were not only not cute, they were ugly, old, stupid and frequently screwed up the orders; and on top of that, the food wasn’t very good. However, we never ran into Lennie there, so it was just fine as far as I was concerned.
The remainder of the Bush presidency dribbled slowly, painfully, miserably by, and my dad and I continued going to Joe’s Country Kitchen.
I still went to the Orchard Grill for lunch or dinner sometimes. I saw Lennie a few times, and I’m sure he saw me too, but we never acknowledged each other. And he was never without that big, stupid, unlit cigar of his.
At some point in the past year, though, Dad and I migrated back to the Orchard Grill. We’d both grown weary of the dinginess of Joe’s Country Kitchen, as well as the unattractive, inattentive waitresses. And this all occurred without a word of discussion.
The first ten times or so back, not a glimpse of Lennie Melnick. Not until last week, that is.
I was at the Orchard Grill first, sitting at a booth reading Philip Roth. I looked up and there was my white-haired dad entering the place with Lennie Melnick. My heart sank. Oh, shit! Well, at least Obama was now president so we wouldn’t have to argue about Bush anymore. I thought, “My side won, asshole, fuck you!”
Dad sat down next to me and Lennie seated himself across from us. He had his unlit cigar, his Blackberry, and his BlueTooth earplug, although he did look a tad thinner – maybe 260. He was still red-faced and seemed like his usual upbeat self.
Dad said, “Lennie says he’s been completely wiped out.”
Lennie smiled amiably and nodded. “Totally wiped out. Five different banks called in their loans, equaling nearly a hundred million bucks, which I sure don’t have, so they foreclosed on all of my unsold houses. I’ve had to file a business bankruptcy, and I’ll also have to file a personal bankruptcy soon. I’m now working for my older brother selling insurance.”
He then launched into a long, dull diatribe about insurance, dazzling us with his vast knowledge of the subject. He then told us in minute detail how his brother had made a fortune in the insurance business. He talked non-stop for nearly an hour, during which time we ordered, were served, and had eaten our breakfasts. Lennie then began giving us a slide show on his Blackberry of the many, many foreclosed houses – all utterly run-of-the-mill suburban houses reposing on bleak, treeless lots – with Lennie stating over and over, “Aren’t they beautiful? They’re just beautiful . . .”
For the first time ever, my dad cut Lennie off and said, “Look, Lennie, we’ve got some family business to discuss, we’ll go to another table.”
Lennie said, “No, no, no, I’ll move. Here, let me get that . . .” and reached for the bill, but my dad deftly snatched it away.
“I’ve got it, Lennie.”
“No, no, let me,” said Lennie.
My dad shook his head and said firmly, “Uh-uh, I’ve got it.”
Lennie said, “I’ll leave the tip.” He pulled out his big wad of cash – probably now mostly ones – and tossed down a five. Collecting his goods, Lennie stood and left.
He sat down at the counter, all by himself, with his back to us.
My dad and I exchanged a wide-eyed look of horror. Holy, shit! We both shook our heads and sighed. Who knows what might befall any of us next? One minute you’re riding high; the next you’re busted.
My dad whispered, “I admire his attitude. He just moves right on.”
I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I have to admit, I admire his attitude, too.”
When my dad and I got out into the parking lot and said goodbye, each of us heading off to our own cars, I looked around for Lennie’s pimped-out black Hummer. Nope, not there. There weren’t any nice cars in the lot (except my dad’s gray Cadillac). I wondered which of the unimpressive, run-of-the-mill cars was Lennie’s?
I wouldn’t have thought it was humanly possible two years earlier, but I honestly felt bad for the guy.
Thank you
I dis/like Lenny already.