“Nu, isn’t this the intersection where that guy ran the stop sign and your mama screamed ‘Fuck you! Fuck your mother!’ in Russian?”

“Da.”

“And you were like ‘mama, you said bad word’ and she was,”

“Da . . . Don’t tell papa’ and, and ‘how did you know that was a bad word?’ and ‘oh, God, I’m so sorry’” and we were just trying to keep from laughing.” 

We had a laughing fit from the memory. Finally we were able to breathe right and proceeded home. We harmonized with Wilson on the way, “I was standin’ on the corner . . . when I heard my bulldog bark.” Rivka was singing in a funny voice like her voice was frog.

We had called from Ava’s, spoken with Sally Anne and were shocked to find out she was making dinner. My sister was not noted for and assiduously avoided cooking. She said she was making spaghetti but had forgotten to get bread and maybe we could pick some up. “I can make bread,” Rivka had said simply.

“Really?” then suspiciously, “Is it uh, you know, Russian black bread?”

“Yeah, Sal, only fucking bread Russians know how to bake is fucking black bread . . . Or I could just bake some fucking yummy white bread. I think maybe that would be better fucking choice. What do you think, shiksa?” There was no response for a few seconds. “Oh, God, is your mama standing there? Am I on speaker?”

“Uh, yeah.”

  “Oh, Jeez. I’m sorry, Mama Sharon. I’m so sorry.”

Sally Anne started laughing hysterically. “We don’t have a fucking speaker phone, Jew girl.” More laughter.

“Fuck you, Sally Anne!” 

  “Okay, sorry . . . what do you need for bread?”

Rivka clicked her tongue. “Flour, salt, eggs, little sugar, and umm, yeast.”

  Sally Anne put the phone down and we heard cupboard doors opening and closing, then her calling out to our mama. She picked up the phone. “We got everything, girlfriend.”

“Ok, what is timing?” – Response. – “Plenty of time. See you soon.”

“We haven’t done this in a while,” I said, kneading the dough under her supervision in the kitchen.

“Yeah, well, Mama and I made challah almost every week in DC. I got very Jewey during my time away from you . . . Mr. Knucklehead,” she said softly, leaning over and kissing me sweetly.

Boy Howdy! She shocked me the Friday evening before our departure for the west coast. She had borrowed two mismatched candle holders from the Mirianovs earlier in the week and surprised me with them that evening, just producing them from under the bed and lighting the candles in them and saying the candle blessing . . . gathering the flame with her hands and covering her eyes . . . the whole Megillah. “You really surprised me with that candle blessing, girlfriend.”

“Hmm, better get used to it. I am full on Jew now, my love.”

All I could do was smile and shake my head as she slapped my butt with her floured hand.

After dinner Mama and Papa were mixing drinks to order, all of us trying to stump them with our exotic requests and feeling very rosy. 

“You kids play something for us . . . please,” pleaded Mama.

It didn’t take much coaxing. Rivka had liberated her accordion from my room earlier and Sally Anne sat at the piano. Sean Patrick and I each had guitars.

 “We’re missing Albert,” Sally Anne said, taking a deep breath and looking down. She had been the closest to our troubled brother and missed him the most and was the only one in the family Al allowed to call him Albert. Mama took a deep breath and moaned just a little. Papa put an arm around her, kissing her cheek while she fought back tears. I nodded at Rivka and she launched into “Act Naturally.” All of us joined in and it was a party again. We veered into Hank Williams . . . Ray Charles . . . Ferlin Husky and Patsy Cline, the latter two getting Papa and Mama involved, then to rock . . . Elvis, Buddy, Beatles, Stones. We played until almost midnight.

Everyone drifted off to their respective rooms and, left alone, Rivka and I drifted downstairs to the Cave, fell asleep on the daybed, woke up at 1am, didn’t hear anyone walking around upstairs, furtively but passionately made love, and went back to sleep. I woke up at 3am and found Rivka sitting at the still somewhat out of tune piano, wrapped in a blanket, quietly playing a melody I didn’t recognize. I sat down beside her.

“I dreamed this,” she said.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Is it? It won’t let me go.”

  “May I add to it?”

“Mi melody es su melody.”

I added bass and some chord structure. She liked it but subtly changed it at her end of the keyboard. It was a full verse and chorus structure. “All we need is a lyric and . . . it’s a hit!” I exclaimed, which she thought was hilarious. She stopped playing, brought her leg over, straddling me and kissed her boyfriend tenderly. The blanket slipped off her naked shoulder.

“Please don’t ever leave me, Misha. That was a big fucking hole in my heart while I was away from you. I didn’t realize how big it was until I found you. I don’t think I could live without you again.” Her voice was thickening.

I sang from West Side Story, “Even death won’t part us now,” my eyes threatening to fill. She kissed me again and the piano bench creaked dangerously for the next twenty minutes.

Next morning, G5 met at Ava’s. Her papa’s car was bigger so Ava drove and we headed to Lucius Lauren’s House of Music in Portland. We hadn’t been there in over two years, but before that had been regulars there since Fifth grade. Good customers, especially Steve. When I met Steve he had already amassed an impressive record collection. His family had money and Steve spent almost all he was given on records and movies.

“Seen your family much?” I asked Steve, who was sitting between Rivka and me in the back seat.

“God, no, as little as possible. Lucille and Gregory finally divorced. It was after you guys left.” He never referred to his parents as Mom and Dad. Only ever as Lucille and Gregory and always with mild disgust. “They were miserable together, well, you know this. I guess Gregory found a girlfriend or something. Lucille is still a drunk, last I heard from Eddie,” Steve’s older half-brother.

“How is Eddie?” asked Rivka.

“He’s good. Actually talk to him a lot. Only thing I’ve got close to a family. He always stuck up for me. We hung out last summer after graduation. He’s actually kind of a good guy . . . surprising, really.”

“What about us? We’re kind of family, right?” I asked.

“Them, yes.” Waving at the rest of the people in the car. “You . . . used to be . . . you have to earn your way back into my good graces . . . fucker.” He was only half joking.

I put my arm around him. “Shit, I’m sorry, Steve. I know I was an asshole. Kind of left you high and dry.” I sighed. 

“It wasn’t that bad. Worse thing was I just missed you . . . but I coped. Not every gay boy on the planet has a super-hero friend to keep them safe,” he said, looking at me and smiling tightly. “Ok . . . we’re still friends. I can’t stay mad at you.” He kissed me on the cheek. 

Steve’s mother had started hitting on me when I reached puberty, so I had avoided her like the plague. I had never seen her show any kind of warmth towards Steve. Her only saving grace, as far as I was concerned, she showered Steve with money, which he showered on various record stores, but especially Lucius’s store.

Rivka and I first went there by bus in the Fifth Grade, attracted by an ad in the Oregonian (“Not your usual record store”), not realizing it was in the middle of Portland’s black ghetto. It wasn’t like Harlem or any inner city black neighborhood in any large city. There just weren’t that many African-Americans in Portland, but what there were were concentrated in Albina in Northeast Portland. That first time we visited we were more than a little afraid. I was, anyway. Rivka, raised in the Soviet Union, felt comfortable in any multi-ethnic environment. But my fears were unfounded. When we entered Lucius’s record store those many years ago, we were welcomed.

Lucius educated us about black artists in Blues, R&B, Rock, Jazz and he had the most amazing imports from the UK , Europe and Africa. That first day we bought several records and Lucius had two of the young men who hung out in front of his store ride the bus with us back to the west side of Portland. We thought about that a lot, the escort, and decided Lucius didn’t want anything to happen to a couple of white kids after visiting his fine establishment. Or, as I came to feel was more likely, he just liked us and wanted us to be safe.

Later, when we were sure Steve would be ok, meaning safe, we included the whole G5 in our excursions. It almost always turned into a party with everyone dancing in the store and spilling out on the sidewalk with a semi-regular group of local black kids, drawn to the music always playing through the sidewalk speakers. Lucius would say, “Those kids hang out here and listen to music. I feed ‘em and they watch out for the place. It’s a quid pro quo,” and laugh.

If we had any fears about Lucius remembering us they were immediately dispelled when we came through the door. Even before, the crowd of young black kids who hung out grooving to the eclectic music heavy on R&B playing through the loudspeakers on the sidewalk, recognized the Gang of Five, all of us over two years older, shouted out greetings, handshakes, high-fives and hugs. Lucius and the regulars in the store greeted us like long-lost family, hugging, almost crying, laughing and demanding an accounting.

“Mickey, y’all even taller. Rivka too, and even more beautiful,” said Loretta, Lucius’s girlfriend all the time we’d known them. She was hugging us tight to her ample bosom. When we separated, Rivka noticed a change in Loretta.

  “Loretta, is that wedding ring?”

Loretta blushed deeply, even visible through her dark chocolate skin. She nodded, starting a new round of hugs and laughing, now the whole G5 joining in the group hug. Lucius was hanging back and when I caught his eye he smiled a tight, crooked smile and gently nodded. I went to shake his hand and he caught me in a bear hug, taking my breath away. Two big guys hugging each other unabashedly. He was gentler with Rivka, and she kissed him tenderly on the cheek and the big black man had to turn his face away.

Ava and Maria were dancing, Steve was buying huge quantities of rarities. I, with Rivka’s help, purchased everything good that had come out in the last two years she didn’t already have, but mostly imports not exactly like the releases for the U.S. market. I loved the UK releases for the British Invasion groups, Yardbirds, Animals, Cream, Beatles, Stones and on and on.

“Misha, can you afford all these records?” she quietly asked me.

“I’ve been very frugal . . . as you may have noticed from my very modest accommodations . . . Plus, I’ve been working . . . I’m a working man.” But I had no plans to return to work. How could I stay by the side of my lover if I was at work? I had other plans. And they did not include driving a forklift.

“Where’s Steve?” asked Ava. “Seriously, where is he?” He was nowhere in the store. We all were still in the mindset “protect Steve.” Maria ran outside and was dumbstruck. He was dancing with these two tough looking black girls, giving high fives to these two tough looking black guys who were enviously eyeing his moves. They started imitating him. Steve could dance, had taught the G5 moves, but we’d never seen him dance while not in the presence of his gang. He saw us watching him and started laughing and bid his partners adieu, ran back inside and grabbed his big bag of purchases from behind the counter and came back out.

“Who are you and what have you done with my best friend, Steve?” Ava was incredulous.

He just gave us all a huge grin and said, “Googoogajoob!”

We found out later, on the way to the Lloyd Center, that his boyfriend, David, graduated the year I left town and found someone new at San Jose State. Initially heartbroken, Steve amazed himself and got over David fairly quickly. In fact, Steve had met a young man at University of Oregon in the first few months of school, a young black upperclassman in Theatre Arts. It was 1967, America was roiling and Steve Seymour was in love again.

We wanted to see Christmas decorations at the huge mall, it being the first week of December. While wandering around gawking and watching ice skaters we came upon buskers doing various kinds of music. An opera singer with a beautiful baritone singing a capella, a classical guitarist, a guitar duet singing folk songs. Rivka and I thought maybe we should hook up the classical guitarist with the opera singer, but after seeing the money in their hats, we decided the buskers were doing ok without our guidance.

“You guys could do this, I mean, you used to do this a lot. Have you guys been in contact with your bandmates in Mother Lode?” Maria asked.

  “Yeah . . . we’re . . . kind of rusty,” answered Rivka, “And yes, we need to talk to John and Paul,”  looking at me sweetly.

Back in the Cave Rivka and I started doing some Klezmer. My chops were shit but after a couple of hours things started coming back. Rivka had maintained her skills, but mine were almost nonexistent, plus everything hurt, arms, hands, shoulders, back. I took some aspirin, Rivka and I got in a hot bath in the Cave’s bathroom and that had a predictable outcome. A few hours later we were at it again . . . playing music. We did some of the songs we did as Rivka and Misha, Gershwin, Broadway showtunes, Jazz standards. We tried calling John and Paul but John’s sister told us they were touring with The Warlocks, a Portland band making some noise regionally.

“I’m so glad they’re still playing,” Rivka said.

“I know. They’re so good . . . we’ll talk to them when they get back home.”

We “shedded” (“Musician” for exhaustively rehearsing) every day for the rest of the week and by Monday we felt ready. Drove back to the Lloyd Center in Rivka’s Chevy, found a pretty well-traveled spot undercover as it had started in again raining. December in Oregon. Maybe not a continuous deluge but definitely continuous. We were doing well that week. We included some Christmas stuff. Some of the best Christmas music was written by Jews. And we did all of it along with the klezmer and show tunes.

We started seeing this guy, same guy, coming by repeatedly. Young, handsome guy with a dark Jew-fro.  He finally started talking with us. His name was Max. He was a musician, guitarist, mostly rock, blues, R&B. From Portland, living in New York. He’d come home to visit his ailing mama. He thought we were amazing, and asked us if we did any other kind of music. 

Not sure why but I summoned the fannings. It had been a while and I think I wanted to make sure I could still do it. There were no bad outcomes regardless of what our interactions were with Max. And there were some amazing ones I didn’t quite understand. There were just these images of crowds and naked revelers. And before I had a chance to mention this to Rivka,

 “Yeah, we write songs together,” said Rivka.

That really piqued his interest. “Ok if I sit in with you tomorrow? I’m a quick study . . . and I know a shit-ton of klezmer.” 

She said,  “Sure.” On the way home we were kind of dreading coming back the next day. 

“We write songs together? . . . Really, Rivka?”

“Well, we sort of have a song . . .” she trailed off weakly.

“Baby, we have a verse and a chorus with no freaking lyric.”

“Yeah, maybe a slight exaggeration.”

“Oh, you think?”

“Ok, look. Maybe this guy Max sucks.”

“I don’t think so, Ri. You hear what he said about Dylan, fucking Cohen? Shit, he even played the Maimonides card.”

“Yeah, how cool was that?!”

“Ayah!”

When Rivka and I met I had been gigging for over three years. I was a child phenom, practicing violin five to six hours a day compulsively since I was six years old. And then there was the Russian language thing . . .  that I had pretty much kept under wraps until I met Rivka.

Before I met Rivka, the stages of my life were designated as BC, Before Coma, and AC, After Coma. After I met Riva it went to BR, Before Rivka and AR, After Rivka. She had assumed the role of Christ in my life . . . Ha!!!

“How does American boy without Russian parents speak Russian better than me?” Rivka asked me on the second day of our friendship, the day after I had kicked Garth Brooks’s ass, again.

“I don’t know, Rivka. I mean, I’ve worked really hard learning it.” This was before I came clean about waking from the coma only able to speak Russian.

“Misha, Russian is a really difficult language. You speak it like a native speaker.”

“It just seems . . . I don’t know, not easy . . . Just seems natural?”

“That’s it? Just seems natural?”

“Hey, you know, we don’t have to speak Russian. I think it’s the most beautiful language on the planet, but if you don’t want to speak Russian with me, I mean, I’ll be sad, but, you’re my best friend, Rivka.”

“No, Misha. No . . . it’s just today, with you, it feels like I’m in some alternate reality and . . . did you just say I’m your best friend?”

“Da.”

“But you’re a boy.”

“You are very observant.”

“Fuck you, Misha.” She had taken to American slang, cursing, like a duck to water. I thought at the time the cursing was probably just a thing Russians did, like by instinct.

Later, as Mother Lode was going strong, Rivka and I were trying to write songs together. We sucked at it but we kept trying. We finally realized our trouble writing songs stemmed from the face that we didn’t have anything to say.

Then our world turned upside down. During our separation the idea of playing music was the furthest thing from my mind. I couldn’t even listen to the radio. Everything musical triggered thoughts of Rivka, making love with her, loss of her, suicidal thoughts. But in the last few weeks all we had done was music . . . and make love, whenever we could, which, if you’re sixteen and eighteen years old, living together, naked most of the time, is pretty frequently. That was our life then, music and sex. I thought, What a nightmare!

We were sitting at the piano in the Cave. Focused on writing a song. Really focused. Staring at a blank sheet of paper on the piano. Sitting. Staring.

“There’s a hole where there used to be a heart,” I sang. “What do you think?”

“Yeah, I like that . . . a heart that  . . . shit, no, a heart . . .  that sang a . . . shit

“There’s a hole where there was once a heart . . .”

What followed should never, ever be seen by anyone other than the songwriters who wrote the song.

“That’s nice. Let’s write it down.”

We finished “Hole in My Heart” at 2am, just as Owen and Sharon were coming home from the bar. We ran up the stairs, exhilarated. “Hi, Mama Sharon. Hi, Papa Owen,” gushed Rivka, excited about our composition, almost dancing around like a puppy.

“Oh, hi, Rivka.” They were exhausted and two and a half sheets to the wind. “Sorry, Honey, we’re going right to bed,” said Mama.

“Oh, yeah . . . sorry . . . good night.”

“Hey, you two. Good night, Mom. Good night, Dad,” called out Sally Anne.

“Where have you been?” I asked my sister.

“I was writing in my room. I heard you playing in the Cave when I came in, but I had this dialog fresh in my head and had to get it down on paper.”

“Mish and I were writing too . . . song . . . wanna hear it?” Rivka was still pretty excited.

“Sure!”

We went down to the Cave and played our song for Sally Anne.

“Wow. You just wrote that tonight?”

“Yup!” I said proudly.

“You know I would tell you if I thought it sucked.”

“Yeah, sis. You have, on countless occasions, informed me how much I sucked.”

“Right, so I have credibility, yeah? It’s a really good song. Kinda gets you right here, but it’s ironic, funny at the same time. You guys wrote this together?”

“Yup!” said Rivka, beaming.

“So I guess the two of you are not total losers.” Nodding.

“Fuck you, Sally Anne.” we said together.

Max played with us the next day and he was, as expected, exceptionally good. He wanted to hear a song. “We just wrote one but we haven’t worked it out for accordion and violin,” I said, hoping for a delay.

“No problem, I live like five minutes away.”

I’d told Rivka about the fannings I’d summoned about Max and she got stuck on the naked revelers. “Were they . . . completely naked?”

“Da, Rivka.”

“Were they outside or-or inside somewhere?”

“Um, outside.”

“Were they fucking?”

“It was a very brief image, Ri. I don’t know if they were actually fucking or not.”

“Were they in the crowds, or off by themselves?”

“I-I’m not sure.”

“Alright, alright . . . were they naked guys and girls?”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Rivka!”

In a large house in Portland, a new band was born. Two concert grand pianos facing each other occupied one large room in Max’s family home. Rivka sat at one of them. I played one of Max’s acoustic guitars. We played our song. He wasn’t as effusive as Sally Anne, but he liked it a lot. 

“Play another,” he said.

 We looked at each other and seemed to say, simultaneously, “What the Fuck.” We played two verses and a bridge from a song we’d started that morning. That’s all we had. It was tentatively titled “Bad Alcohol” and was about Papa’s family at the time of his papa’s death from alcohol poisoning during prohibition. Rivka had peppered Papa with questions during breakfast and when he and Mama had gone in to the bar, Rivka and I went down to the Cave and wrote what we had. Came out in a torrent.

Max loved Bad Alcohol. He’d brought out his Strat and after a couple of run-throughs he owned it. The three of us were just looking at each other. We knew. There was a spark. With tight smiles we started Bad Alcohol again, but Rivka stopped suddenly, uncertainty on her face. Max and I turned to see what she was looking at. It was Max’s mama, Greta. She was so frail, but standing in front of a wheelchair with a pretty, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl by her side, supporting her by the elbow. Max’s younger sister, Emeline.

Rivka got up quickly and walked to Greta. Gently taking her hand, “I’m Rivka. Rivka Koen. I hope all this noise didn’t disturb you.”

“Oh, no dear. It’s nice to hear music,” she said in a frail voice barely more than a whisper. A decidedly German accent. Even in her debilitated state you could see she’d been a great beauty. Still was. Emeline helped her back into her wheelchair. “Please, darlings, play some more.” Max completed the introductions and we resumed the song, then veered into more familiar territory, Gershwin, with piano, violin and Stratocaster. We all thought it was amazing. Instant chemistry, like sodium and chloride just kind of hooked up, making salt . . . for rock popcorn.

Emeline attended her mama, anticipating her needs, sips of water, wiping her brow, adjusting the pillow for her back, each an act of love. It was cancer, had started in her pancreas and was now cancer of the everything. She’d been a concert pianist in Germany before the war, survived Dachau, made her way to the states, where she met and married Harvey Weinman, had three beautiful children, lost one to meningitis at less than a year of age, and had attempted a comeback of sorts. The ravages of Dachau had been submerged for a time, but reappeared in the form of a tremor, bad enough to end her concert career. She’d taught several gifted pianists, including Max and Emeline, but then pancreatic cancer reared its ugly head. Greta did not have long.

She’d fallen asleep in her wheelchair, but everytime Emeline made to get her back to her bedroom, she awoke and wanted to stay, wanted to hear. She was obviously in great pain. Pain everywhere. She finally allowed Emeline to return her to her bedroom. The band stopped playing. Max hung his head. Emeline reappeared. She put her arms around Max and the two of them held each other. Rivka and I were starting to lose it when Emeline looked up at us. 

“Thank you so much. That is the happiest, most engaged Mama’s been in days. The three of you . . . there’s clearly something there.”

“Emeline’s the best musician in the family. Best ear,” Max said, squeezing his sister’s hand. She was slowly shaking her head, but smiling at her brother’s compliment.

“Max tends to be somewhat hyperbolic.”

  “I know you are but what am I?”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  “I know you are but what am I?”

She finally punched him, laughing. Rivka and I laughed. That could have been Sally Anne and me. We took our leave.

Max had to go back to New York the following day for work, but was only there for a week before he was called back to Portland emergently. He made it back in time to kiss his mama goodbye. Rivka and I had been about to return to New York but stayed for Greta’s funeral which was held at a large Reform Synagogue, Beth El, in Portland on the East side. There was a tremendous emotional outpouring with hundreds of people there to witness Greta’s passing. The Weinmans had been active members for decades. Max had Bar Mitzvahed there. Emeline taught at Hebrew School there on Sundays. Their Rabbi, now retired, came back to officiate. I saw my old Rabbi, Levi Roi, now the head Rabbi at Beth El and after the Services at the graveside I reluctantly, with Rivka, approached him. I truly wasn’t sure how I’d be received but when he saw me he pulled me in, we embraced and both started weeping. Then I introduced Rivka to him and when he realized who she was there was another round of joyful weeping.