A Kid for All Seasons

In 1973, my Uncle Herb decided to rename Sheila, his Irish Setter, Bebe Rebozo. Rebozo was Nixon's fixer and confidant, and Herb felt that Rebozo should be memorialized as a smelly old dog who rolled in filth every chance she got. Sheila refused to come or obey when called “Bebe,” which frustrated Herb. But she redeemed herself by finding him collapsed in the backyard; she howled for help.

Cohens die of either diabetes or stroke. Herb’s blood sugar was appallingly low because he’d forgotten to take his medicine and eat breakfast. Most Cohens go for strokes. Grandpa Cohen had one that made him incomprehensible. All he could do was sit in his chair and howl. Grandma had to take it 24/7. My Uncle Sam had one, and it paralyzed part of his face and distorted his speech. Dad had one, but it was minor and transient. And my brother Matt had one, a bad one, from which he’s battled back for two years.

Years before the stroke, Matt hired me for a while—welfare for Cohens—and I saw his style. Matt had great powers of concentration. He would work anywhere there was an electrical outlet and had no problem being a perpetual traveler, flying to 2-3 cities a week and doing serious work on the plane. The one bad part was that he had to eat a lot of overpriced, awful restaurant food; I think the food and sitting in planes were what finally laid him low.

Matt was determined to battle the stroke. Through physical therapy, visits to the gym twice daily, determination, and his classic focus, he has become a hero, at least according to certain close relatives. Here are three stories from Matt’s past, utterly consistent with his character.

When my brother and I were teenagers, my brother became a Sixties person. He grew his hair down to his waist, wore tie-dye shirts, listened to the Grateful Dead and Hot Tuna, got Lennon-like granny glasses, and went to various Renaissance fairs. I hoped that Matt would find volumes by della Mirandola or Ficino at one of these fairs, but he never found what I was looking for. He told me it wasn't that kind of Renaissance fair. At a fair, he bought a loden-green hooded wool cloak and a wooden staff and, much to my father's chagrin, wore the cloak and carried the staff around town. He also absorbed Eastern mysticism from his Aikido classes, which seemed to be about theory as much as practice.

My father had to collect some of his bills, and often, his debtors were Hasidic or Haredi. One in particular, Rabbi Zalman Adler, specialized in not sending Dad's money because whenever Dad called him and asked him to cut the check, it would be some recondite and little-known Jewish holiday, like Asarah B’Tevet. My father tired of this charade. He pinned Adler down to 4:00 PM on the ninth of Tevet, 5745[1], the day before the holiday, and sent Matt to collect without thinking too much about it. He had forgotten that Matt would wear his outfit.

The Rabbi's business was on the fifth floor, and Matt noticed that someone had mysteriously locked out that floor on the elevator. My brother has always been a problem-solver. He took the elevator to the sixth floor, went down, stopped it on the fifth floor by pushing the fire button, stuck his staff in the inner door, levered it open, and did the same with the outer door. He leaped into the office with a loud cry, wielding the staff. He must have seemed like something out of Lord of the Rings. The clerks and secretaries were terrified. Matt asked for the Rabbi, who came running out of his office, "I am Matthew, son of Walter Cohen. I have come for payment." The Rabbi, as terrified as his employees, whipped out the office checkbook, scribbled out a check, closed his eyes, and handed it to Matt. Matt reversed his tracks, got into the elevator, and was gone. My father received a phone call from the Rabbi, saying, "Please, I'll pay you when you bill me, only please, please don't send your son again!"

From that day forward, my father refrained from commenting on Matthew's attire. 

Matt was a Star Trek TOS fan through and through. He went to conventions large and small in airport hotels and other dubious venues, dressed up as Spock, including the foam-rubber ears applied with spirit gum. So, Matt walked to the Roosevelt Hotel, the most rotten of the old hotels, but the cheapest venue for con organizers. Matt got a knife point in his back and was told to "Give it up, Mister!" Matt turned around to glare at the mugger, who was struggling with something more than the stickup. “You’re… Mr. Spock, aren’t you?” Matt confirmed it.

He informed the mugger that it was not logical to ask him for money because Starfleet officers do not carry local currency. The Federation had sent him back to 20th-century Earth on a secret mission. The mugger was all ears. Matt told him that the Federation believed there was a fugitive somewhere in the Roosevelt Hotel, another time traveler who possessed the secrets of an early Romulan cloaking device. The fugitive was disguised as Starfleet personnel, but they got the details wrong, such as wearing a red shirt with blue jeans. Matt said he would find the fugitive in 18 minutes and 15 seconds. The Enterprise would beam both of them up. By this time, Matt and the mugger reached the Roosevelt Hotel. Matt raised his right hand in the Vulcan salute, looked the mugger in the eyes, and said, "Live long and prosper." Utterly charmed, the mugger responded, "You too, man!"

For Matt’s and my first few years, my parents left the interior of our house with the original stark, white paint. They figured we would mess it up with stains and scribbles, but once we knew the difference between right and wrong, they could redecorate as my mother saw fit. Once I was seven, they bundled us up to a motel, where we stayed for a week. We returned home to find a miracle of Seventies design, with glass tables, chrome and leather seats, and paisley wallpaper in shades of green and yellow. There was even a turquoise velvet wing chair by the fireplace. But my brother was most enchanted with a dark red-and-brown portrait of a older woman in inner turmoil, and he asked my father where it came from. Dad replied that it was by Trepansky, an artist my grandfather had known and that it had cost my grandfather three dollars. Matt suddenly realized that people paid good money for art. He had the beginning of a plan.

Matt and I conferred. If he sold 20 crayon sketches for 5 cents apiece, he would have a dollar, which would buy two hot dogs with mustard and sauerkraut, one for each of us, at the Windsor Park Deli on 73rd Avenue. We mapped out the block and tried to determine what each neighbor would like. Mr. Carroll doted on the police, so he’d get a picture of a criminal in handcuffs. Dr. Rogoff was a veterinarian; he would get a picture of a cat playing with a dog. The Verdirames had the best Christmas tree on the block, so they would receive a picture of a Christmas tree with ornaments that used up most of the metallic crayons in the Crayola box. And Mr. and Mrs. Hellman loved art. My aunt Marilyn had given me a book called Modern Art For Children, and Matt did a credible counterfeit Mondrian. (This took him far longer than the other pictures.)

Matt grabbed the pile of pictures and went out to sell them. He met with universal success and returned with many nickels and a couple of dimes from neighbors who wanted two pictures. If we had left for the deli, we would have had our hot dogs free and clear. But Dad came home at 7 PM from the bicycle factory on Long Island and immediately went to our room. He was incensed. Matt, in his view, had imposed on our neighbors. They gave us money they didn’t have for something they didn’t want but felt they had to buy because Matt had asked them and because they wanted to be friends with Mom and Dad. Matt would have to go with Dad, apologize for imposing, and return all the money. The neighbors did not seem angry with Matt. They said he was a little businessman and would show the world someday. Mr. Verdirame, an insurance broker, even offered to get him a motivational book on “closing the deal.”

Many years later, Matt married an artist with a knack for mixed media who sells nearly everything she makes. Perhaps when he retires, he will reenter the art business.

[1] Wednesday, January 2 nd .1985

Jonathan Cohen's short stories and creative nonfiction have been published in the Community of Writers' Omnium Gatherum Quarterly and the Santa Monica Review. He is a 2004 alumnus of the CW. For twenty-one years, he and his wife Beth have been the proofreaders of the Santa Monica Review. Jonathan is a private tutor specializing in AP U.S. History and has been a volunteer literacy tutor at Orange County's two public library systems, for which he received the Excellence in Volunteerism award from Orange County in 2015.