September 1966, Leaving Home

"I put in my diary what happened except the worst things which I left out. Then I went back and put them in."

Ben Adler

My dad's full name was David John Adler. He was a short excitable man who slaved day and night and asked for calm when he trudged home. Fanny, my mom, worked with him behind the counter. We called dad DJ because he played LP's — Tchaikovsky, Mozart, Beethoven, and Chopin. DJ never talked about feelings except when he yelled at the Leafs or had car trouble with the Edsel or got held up at his drugstore or got angry with me. On the outside, he was the nicest druggist. He never lost his temper at work. He saved it up for us at home. DJ had been robbed, held up at gunpoint and thieves had stolen narcotics. Two months earlier he was pistol-whipped by a drug-crazed addict. He put steel doors at the back of the store. When I worked there I locked the back door. Sometimes he drove a few blocks home, stopped, and we went back to check the doors. DJ said stay clear of pharmacy — it was a cut-throat business. I finished undergrad and applied to med school. When I got acceptance, DJ was furious. What the bloody hell, do you mean you not sure? We had a terrible two-hour argument. You busted your ass studying and now you get goddamn cold feet for a chance of a lifetime? Schmuck. DJ called his big sister Lena and his two older brothers, Lou and Max. Lena ran a clothing store. Lou was a big-shot pediatrician and Max was head of family practice. My Ben is accepted into med school, DJ yelled in a fury. Now he is not sure. He is going to destroy his life. Uncle Max came over. I trusted Uncle Max more than anyone. Go and give medicine a try, Uncle Max said.

We never know anything until we are there.

I am not sure I want to be a doctor, I said. Suppose I make a mistake and kill somebody?

Saturday night, while I debated med school, my cousin Ziggie drove us to his house to celebrate. Ziggie belonged to Mensa, had no respect for rules, was doing at least fifty, popped a beer in Uncle Lou's Coupe de Ville, ran a curb, whacked a garbage can and slammed on the brakes. The Caddie screeched to a stop in front of Lou`s Forest Hill house. Nathan and Avi killed themselves laughing in the back seat. "Ziggie, this is no joke," I yelled. "You're drinking and driving. If the cops see us we're in the slammer." Ziggie yapped about Uncle Lou and Aunt Helen being at some dumb medical meeting in Buffalo, then sat at their grand and sangFive Hundred Miles so sweet that I got sad about leaving Angie. I was twenty and never left home. Nathan and I put back four beers, Ziggie downed six beers, and little Avi drank a Coke and hummed along.

"What if I am not cut out to be a doctor?" I said. "Four years of med school is no joke."

"Don't act tragic." Ziggie kept playing piano. "What's the deal with you and Angie?"

"It was supposed to be a total secret," I said. "How did DJ and Fanny find out?"

Avi stopped humming and grew quiet. "Did you spill the beans, Avi?" Nathan said.

"Fanny has to know stuff." Avi sipped his Coke. "I didn't squeal. Honest."

That night we crawled home. Next morning, I almost puked in the back of the Edsel, with DJ swerving and yelling at me to stop seeing Angie and concentrate on med school. It was a scorching Labour Day Sunday, the longest trip our family ever made. DJ never relaxed in his drugstore. Fanny sold cosmetics. She looked pretty in her white uniform but she was no pushover. Fanny had her eagle eyes out for shoplifters and juvenile delinquents. DJ had this sick fear one day he would fill a prescription and boom one of his customers would drop dead — because of him. Or they would die because the prescription — illegible at best — never got dispensed in time. Once I heard DJ talking to a twelve year old. "Sonny, you want a jar of rubbing alcohol?"

"The doctor said for mom to rub alcohol over my brother for his fever to go down."

"Don't let anyone drink the alcohol. You can go blind. Don't let it near the stove. It can explode. Listen, sonny. See the sign — the skull and crossbones. Poison."

The kid left the store clutching the alcohol like nitroglycerin. DJ was a terrible worrier.

Avi and I perspired in the back of the hot airless Edsel cradling Uncle Max's bugle. We listened to Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass and news about Viet-Nam on the car radio.

"Is this the road to the medical school?" Fanny asked. "Why don't men ever get a map?"

"Honey, Kingston is ahead, don't worry." DJ pointed forward to the highway. "There."

Outside Trenton, DJ bought a map and passed it to me. We fell behind a hay truck. The yellow Edsel was years old but when you touched the gas the car shot out like a rocket. It was way ahead of its time with shifters in the steering wheel. DJ never pushed the Edsel over sixty. He stared ahead, smoking cigarette after cigarette. "If you know where to go, pass him," mom said.

"Fanny, if you feel better, read the map," DJ said. "Just don't tell me how to drive."

I passed Fanny the map. Two hay trucks passed us; we rolled down windows and smelled warm hay. Avi wore his Leaf cap. I played a bugle charge to break the monotony. "Don't blow that goddamn bugle," DJ said. I saw the approaching exit for Kingston and blew the bugle. A third hay truck came behind us. "Turn." Fanny checked the map and pointed. "Right here, turn on Division Street." DJ swerved right. The hay truck behind us braked and honked.

DJ slapped the wheel and drove on. "I can't stop here. Do you know you almost killed us? Am I supposed to back up?" DJ took a breath, tried to calm down, slowed at Montreal Street and turned right. We passed old limestone and wood homes and the train station.

"Daddy is totally lost," Avi said. "Nobody knows where we are. Ben, play the bugle." I blew a huge bugle charge. We ended up near old warehouses and a baseball diamond with wooden bleachers. Everything needed a coat of paint. The air was hot and thick. Kids ran around shirtless. Avi shoved something in my pocket. "Ssh. It's for later, after we leave," Avi said softly, then louder: "Let me play the bugle. This place is ugly."

"Don't say ugly," Fanny said. "Ben is attending medical school here."

A woman in a housecoat and curlers hosed water on two glistening children. DJ asked her directions. The woman pointed south to the lake. We got lost three times that day. DJ drove too far west and too far east. After an hour of circling Kingston, the Edsel made growling noises in the heat. DJ stopped and looked under the hood. "Can I ask what you are looking for?" Fanny asked.

"I am looking for that noise." DJ got back into the steamy Edsel. He knew zip about cars. For the next ten minutes, we talked hockey — DJ was a die-hard Leaf fan. Horton had the best slapshot in the NHL and DJ bet that the Leafs with Mahovlich, Horton and Armstrong would win the Stanley Cup. Then Fanny told DJ to make a right turn. We ended up at the Kingston Pen with twenty foot walls by the lake. DJ snapped a photo.

"Is this the university?" said Fanny. "Tell me DJ, is this the university?"

"See the walls — this place is for psychopaths and murderers," DJ said. "If I see something interesting I take a photo. Your job, Fanny, is to read the map. You're getting me more lost." We...