ELTON JOHN and THE GOOD PICKLES
Right. So we pulled into the city
at nearly 6 p.m., traffic lighter than usual with the Yankees out of town, and
right off I’m scanning for a parking lot when Mr. K starts in on me. “Whadya
doin’?” he asked. “Park on Seventh—right on the street. It’s free parking after
six.”
“I wanna garage it,” I said.
“Are you crazy?” Mr. K turned to
look at Hank Magitz who didn’t look back. “Is he crazy?” he asked Magitz.
“I don’t wanna chance it,” I said
as I looked around. There were no lots anywhere.
“You’re worried someone’s gonna steal
this piece of shit?” Mr. K chuckled. Told me he’d been parking his DeVille on
the street for thirty years and no one ever touched it. Of course they
didn’t, I thought.
In the backseat, Magitz was still
staring out the window like he’d just gotten out of the hole and hadn’t seen
daylight in a month. He had no thoughts on subjects as mundane as parking.
In the front, drilling a toothpick
into his gums, sat Leon Kleinman, a.k.a. Mt. K, a.k.a. Leon the Gent, a.k.a. What’s-the-soup Kleinman. Of course, no one called him these names to
his face. Not twice, anyway. At his behest, I turned the corner and pulled into
a tight spot. It wasn’t easy. “Am I close enough to the curb?” I asked.
Mr. K nodded. “I think we can walk
to the curb from here.” Then he steered us down 35th Street and up
Broadway. Three blocks from the Garden, he came to a halt in front of Mr.
Broadway’s Deli. “I’ve gotta eat something,” he said, and he was through the
door. We walked through the artificial air and delicatessen bouquet and right
past a line of people queuing up to be seated—Mr. K led us directly to a corner table
in the back, sat down with his back to nothing but cushions, and opened the
menu.
“Excuse me, sir!” said the headwaiter.
“That table is reserved.”
Mr. K slowly looked up from his
menu, one eye squinted shut. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“I don’t care if you’re the Queen
of England,” said the waiter, indignant. “That table is reserved. Now if you’ll
please come with me—”
Without turning my head, I saw
Magitz reach into his pocket, but Mr. K stopped him with a slight gesture. He
smiled at the waiter, that scary smile of his—the last thing a mouse sees when
it looks up at the cat. “Listen,” he said. “You don’t know who I am, and I
don’t know who you are, so be a good guy and send our waitress—we’re in a bit
of a hurry—we have a concert to catch.”
The waiter’s face reddened as he
began to retort, but Mr. K was already helping himself to a big scoop of
coleslaw, cool as the other side of the pillow. “And send the pickles,” he
added, a mouthful of slaw. “The good pickles.”
I watched the waiter made a beeline
for the kitchen. Less than a half minute later, the double doors swung open
again and out marched the waiter, the cook and the manager. They hurried toward
us.
Mr. K was already on his second
helping of slaw. I was on my first. Magitz hadn’t even touched his water. He
just stared.
“I’m so sorry, Mr.
Kleinman!” said the manager. He put his hand out to shake Mr. K’s and grasped
it with both of his own. “The waiter is new. He meant no disrespect.”
Mr. K nodded. Then a waitress
appeared out of nowhere with two flotillas of pickles. The good pickles.
She smiled coquettishly and asked if we were ready to order.
“Try the pastrami,” Mr. K told me.
“It’s the best in the city.”
Less than an hour later, we were at
the Garden’s front entrance. Elton John was playing. All around us middle-aged
couples, straight and gay, queued up for the show. I turned to Mr. K. “How are
our seats?” I asked.
He looked at me sidewise. There was
that smile again. Magitz shook his head like I’d just farted. Then the
ticket-taker said, “Tickets please.”
Mr. K leaned forward and half
whispered, “Tell Mr. P that Mr. K.would like to see him.”
Nonplussed, the ticket-taker
punched his walkie-talkie and called for “Mr. P.” A minute later, a huge guy in
an MSG Security uniform came to usher us in. We were escorted to the floor and
across the half-court divide and directly to the first row, front and center.
All seats were occupied. “Lemme see your tickets,” said Security to two gay
couples. Then he examined the four tickets under his flashlight and shook his
head. “You’re all back one row back,” he said, shoving the tickets into his
jacket pocket.
“But these are our seats!”
one of the four protested, clutching his partner’s hand.
“You wanna see the show on not?”
asked Security, suddenly looking even bigger. As the four vacated their seats,
Security turned to Mr. K and said, “Enjoy the show, sir. I’ve got you covered
like a blanket.”
Then out came Elton. He opened with
eight tracks from his new album Peachtree Road, then did a
half-dozen from the three-decade old Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt
Cowboy. Backed by original members Nigel Olson on drums and guitarist Davey
Johnstone, Elton was charismatic and mesmerizing, and New York City has always
been kind to him.
“I don’t do this song often,” said Elton right before the
encore, “but it’s been 25 years since he was killed and playing in this house
reminds me of my good friend John.” And then the band played “Empty Garden,”
Elton’s tribute to John Lennon.
The show lasted nearly three hours.
As we headed up 7th, I wondered if I’d find my car where we left it, but
there it was.
“Great show,” I said as I strapped
in.
“You liked it?” asked Mr. K.
“What’ not to like?” I said.
“You know,” said Magitz from the
backseat, his first words that whole evening, “we oughta do something nice for
Elton. How’s about I take care of that guy who whacked Lennon?”
Mr. K chuckled. “Somebody got him
already.”
“Godamnit,” said Magitz. “Some guys
have all the fun.”
© 2005, Aardwolf Publishing
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