Bagel Shop
by Erik Lewin
My father was older than his age, hardened with experience that he wore
on his sagging cheeks. It had been a long time since his mood lightened up.
His m.o. was to busy himself with work, and he rarely left the invisible confines of incessant productivity. He’d not taken a break since immigrating so many decades ago.
One afternoon, near the end of his life, I rode in the front seat of his big jeep that gunned its way down a long and frantic New York City block.
He suddenly jerked it curbside - he was apt to make quick decisions -
and without a word, cut the engine and hopped out of the car. I followed suit, as he walked hurriedly into a bagel shop.
The man behind the counter was older and grey, with that characteristic Eastern European shortness of height, and a certain slant to his cheekbones.
My father rolled up his sweated through creme button down sleeves
and scanned the frosty glass case of spreads. He was like a bull about to charge, giving orders, a pound of lox, whitefish, salad and pickles, cole slaw, and a dozen bagels. The greying little man asked which kind of bagels, and in that instant, a flicker of recognition swept over this man’s face.
He’d been dancing back there, collecting the order, but he now stopped cold.
He peered over the top of the case and gestured for my father
to come closer. In a conspiratorial whisper, the man said something in slavic tongue to my father, which he understood, and without waiting for a verbal response, darted out of sight.
I asked my father what was up and he gave a look like he didn’t quite know.
The little greying man came out of the kitchen door with two humongous Hefty bags full of bagels and plopped them at my father’s feet, as if he’d just ordered a single bagel with coffee.
The man said in Russian or Polish or whatever the heck it was, take! take!
My father let this all soak in, and his face spontaneously broke open into deep barrels of laughter. An altogether different sound.
I don’t remember if we took those bags full of bagels that day, but years after his passing, I’m comforted by the memory of dad’s face right then, and can still hear that laughter.
END