A Monday Mitzvah

Teaneck would have to wait. First there was some minor auto repair to resolve. Last night, I’d noticed a burnt-out marker-lamp on my ’91 Corolla. So this morning, armed with a replacement bulb, a Phillips screwdriver, and a little old-fashioned elbow grease, I popped the hood outside a nearby strip mall and got down to business.

Little did I know that the day would hold additional parking-lot car maintenance. It certainly didn’t cross my mind when I did reach Teaneck on this day off. I only visit the town a couple of times of year, but there was a new art gallery I wanted to check out. So I parked in the same public lot I always do, grabbed a couple of slices—it was turning out to be a pretty good day.

So maybe I was tempting the fates as I departed the art exhibit and made a decision: I would tend (once again) to the Corolla’s sagging vinyl ceiling. The last glue job had held quite a while, but now the back driver’s side was drooping over the rear window.

At the CVS I picked up a tube of Elmer’s Stix-All gel cement. I tore away the packaging as I walked back to the lot. Opening the car door, I noticed an old woman in a silver sedan motioning to me. Removing my iPod earphones, I approached.

“My key has broken off in the lock and now I can’t get it out,” she explained in a thick Russian accent. “So maybe you can?”

Hmm, the key had come loose from its little plastic head. I could not get a good grip on the smooth metal end protruding from the ignition. Maybe if I just jiggle the…DING! DING! DING! DING! DING! Ah, the old key-in-the-ignition-while-the-door’s-open sound. Was I making things worse? I closed the door. Now, sitting behind the wheel of her Mercury Grand Marquis, I briefly fantasized about just driving off; leaving behind a baffled woman in a quiet parking lot. But logic quickly took over: Car must be in park, with the ignition off, and the key should just… Voilà! It pulled right out.

“I got it!” I triumphantly proclaimed, stepping out of the vehicle.

“Thank you!” she said. “Now I’ll take a cab home, get the other set of keys…”

“No, no, no, no, no,” I interrupted. “Where do you live?”

“Cliffside Park.”

“And how far is that from here?”

“10 minutes? 15?”

“I will drive you!” I announced.

And so I cleared off my passenger seat: mini-screwdriver set, anorak windbreaker, The Club® (which I still use simply out of habit, not from any actual belief that car thieves are targeting 20-year-old dented-to-hell Toyotas with saggy ceilings, no airbag, and a busted tape deck).

Shirley (we’d introduced ourselves by this point) had a little difficulty navigating the Corolla’s byzantine front seatbelt, but we were soon on our way. A Harold and Maude for the new millennium, or perhaps Driving Miss Daisy. She was born in Poland, then lived in Russia. Upon coming to the U.S., they settled in Long Island. She’s now been in Cliffside Park, New Jersey, for the past 16 or 17 years. (And Shirley is still not quite used to it.)

“You’re Jewish?” she asked.

“I am.”

“Thank God!” she laughed.

This sparked a lighthearted discussion in which we agreed that there were good people—and bad people!—of all religions and backgrounds. (“The Son of Sam—he was Jewish!” I exclaimed. “David Berkowitz!” I failed to mention that he renounced Judaism and was a practicing Baptist by the time the dog started talking to him. “Who’s that?” Shirley asked. “Never mind,” I replied. “A bad guy from the ’70s.”) Her once heavily-Jewish Cliffside Park neighborhood is now very mixed, very international, and she thinks everyone’s nice, everyone’s educated. The children play pianos and violins.

We arrived at Shirley’s massive apartment building. Did I want to come in, enjoy a cold drink, while she looked for the key? She could get a parking pass for me from the front desk…. No, no, I’ll stay with the car, take your time. Besides, I still needed to apply that Stix-All gel.

On our return drive to Teaneck, we discussed Shirley’s family. Her son is a dentist, lives out on the Island. Daughter is a lawyer in Boston. Granddaughter has one more year of college, wants to go to China afterwards. Shirley doesn’t know what to make of this but is supportive nonetheless.

Understandably, our conversation kept returning to one point: Was it safe for Shirley to ask me for help, safe for her to accept a ride? From the first moment we got in the car, I had assured her, “I’m a nice boy!” (I also turned off the radio and adjusted the air conditioning, because this is what nice boys do.) She kept wondering, if she hadn’t asked me for assistance, would she still be sitting in the parking lot? And thank goodness it wasn’t night, or cold, or raining, or snowing. Everything was OK now, I told her. But it’s certainly true—you have to be careful wherever you go. At the same time, though, we don’t want to live in a world where there is no longer any—and at this point Shirley finished my sentence—any trust. Precisely. To her, I had looked like a decent person. So she took a chance. That I turned out to be Jewish made it doubly good. We laughed again. “Shirley,” I said, pointing to myself, “you can always trust someone wearing a Winston Churchill t-shirt.”

“Do you like chocolate?” Shirley asked.

Sure I do.

“I bought special kosher-for-Passover cakes.” This was why she’d traveled to still-very-Jewish Teaneck today. “Very good cakes. They’re in the car. I’m giving you one, and won’t take no for an answer.” The gesture was a sweet one; I hoped the same was true for the cake. (I still have vivid memories of a childhood birthday that fell during Passover, and the cake that tasted like sand.)

At last we arrived back at the Teaneck parking lot. Shirley profusely thanked me again, wishing me a good holiday. She started up the Grand Marquis and headed for home.

I got back in the Corolla. It was time for me to head home as well.