Excerpt Three from Stelzer’s Travels

Once the artery crossed the Pershing River Bridge, the suburban landscape changed dramatically.  Looking out over the flats toward the smokestacks before us, I feared they too would remind Neuman of the wickedness of the world and excite another round of invective.  But now he had other thoughts on his mind. 

“You see that road comin’ in from the right.  That’s it!” he cried excitedly.

My own reaction to the unlighted turnoff was less en­thu­siastic.  Neuman’s “road” was a rutted strip of asphalt set on top of an abandoned railroad embankment rising six feet or so above the weeded flood plain below.  After we lurched a few hun­dred yards down this desolate stretch and I assumed things could get no worse, patches of dense fog began to roll over the roadbed making the driving all the more uncer­tain.  I kept assuming that some sort of building would emerge from the fog, but none appeared.  The only changes in our circumstances that I could detect were the wors­ening smell of acrid smoke emanating from the factories in the vicinity and the dying sounds of traffic from the highway we had left.

“You said you had to get to an appointment?  Who’s going to come all the way out here?” I asked.

“It’s only a little farther,” said Neuman.

“Only a little farther and we’ll roll off the end of this damned embankment,” I muttered, gripping the wheel.

“No we won’t.  I’ve been down here before.”  However reassuring Neuman meant his comment to be, it did nothing to quiet my misgivings.  On the contrary, his familiarity with this god-forsaken place only heightened my concern.  Who could the boy be meeting at a place like this and at this hour of the evening?  None of the possibilities made sense.  Surely this wasn’t a recreational outing; the Pershing was infamous for its pol­lution.  A love interest?  As unlikely as that sce­nario seemed, it could not be summarily dismissed given the bizarre behavior of men under its influence.  Anything was possible, I supposed, but what a wretched place for a rendezvous.  Nor were the four heavy cartons in the trunk of my car consistent with my conception of gifts for mi­lady.

More sinister alternatives rushed into my head.  Was Neuman delivering stolen goods to a fence?  Possibly, but if the affair were really that nefarious, why would he have in­volved me so openly?  Unless he was so desperate he had no choice.  The crime world, I gathered, had little patience with excuses.  Samuels, as naive as he was, had noticed a change in the boy’s behavior.  That sounded like drugs, and an addict might be driven to any extremes.  I could readily imagine the boy as some sort of low level runner.  But if those boxes were actually filled with drugs, they would be worth millions.  Who in his right mind would trust an impoverished yeshiva bocher and his jalopy with that kind of money?  On the other hand, maybe Neuman was picked as a mule precisely because he seemed so unlikely a trafficker.

Neuman’s next directive turned misgivings into some­thing akin to alarm.  At a crossing just ahead, I was instructed to leave the relative security of the raised asphalt roadway and follow an unevenly graveled drive that led across the shrouded bottomland toward the river.  I can’t say why I didn’t simply refuse.  Perhaps it was the boy’s sense of urgency; perhaps I still had hope there was some innocent explanation for all of this.  As it had all evening, my indecision worked in Neuman’s favor.  Submissively, I drove down the ramp and bumped towards the river, grimacing each time I heard the rasp of burred stalks dragging along the side of the car.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Six-fifty-five.”

“Hey, we made it.  Turn around here.  It gets too sandy farther on.”  All of a sudden Neu­man was positively cheerful.  “Sorry to take you out of your way like this, Mr. Stelzer.  I didn’t figure on the fuckin’ traffic making it take so long.”

We were directly facing the river-no more than a hundred feet from it.  Ahead, just to the right, the flood plain gave way to the beginning of an earthen levee that rose to a height of at least twenty feet, protecting, I guessed, the industrial sites upstream.  Through the windshield I searched up and down the stretches of littered bank for some sign of human activity, but saw nothing through the lin­gering fog but an empty, ramshackle dock.  Ramshackle, but, I noted with a start, serviceable.  At last I had a solid, if depressing, clue.  The criminals Neuman was planning to meet would show up in a motorboat.

In the few moments it took to conduct my survey, Neuman had stepped out of the car, taking my keys with him.  In quick succession, he emptied the trunk, set the boxes to one side, restored my signs to their original location, slammed the trunk lid, and handed me back the keys.

“Thanks again, Mr. Stelzer.  I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t important.”

“What’s so important?” I demanded.

“Listen, I really appreciated the ride.  I don’t know why I hadda bend your ear like that.  Just excited, I guess.  I’ll think over what you said, really.  Well. . .so long.”

Neuman waved good-bye and trudged off down the bank in the general direction of the dock taking one of his boxes and all of his secrets with him.  The little “lift” from Brith Shalom was over, and I was free to return to the com­forts of my hearth.  But no sooner had I reinserted the keys than I found myself suffering Rabbi Samuel’s accusations as we mourned over a photo of the boy’s dead body in tomorrow’s newspaper.  “Duvidul!  How could you leave a kind like that alone on the river?  You said your­self it was dark.  Nobody around.  So he pretended to be cheerful.  So what?  Would a nineteen-year-old come out and say, ‘Don’t leave me alone. I’m scared?’  Of course not!  You could at least have waited to see what kind of person comes down the river to meet a boy in the middle of the night.  So you’d miss dinner once in your life.  You, the only person in the world he could turn to, and you deserted him?  He was like a son to me.  You knew that, David!”

I had enough trouble with my back without a fat rabbi sitting on it.  All right, I would make him happier with two dead bodies in the newspaper.  I got out of the car, and confronted the kid when he returned for the next carton.

“Neuman, I can’t drive off like this.  What in the hell’s going on?  I’m not trying to interfere in your af­fairs, but I’ve got to know you’re going to be okay.”

The boy laughed.  “I’m going to be great!  Really great!  I told ya.  I’m getting my act together.  Getting started in life.  Just like you said.”

I grasped for any argument I could think of.  “Look, if you’re expecting me to keep this secret, you better tell me why.  Otherwise the first thing I’m going to do is call Rabbi Samuels and tell him about the monkey business games you got yourself into.”

“Tell him.  I don’t care.”

“Tell him what?  I’ve got to have a reason.”

Neuman laughed.  “Tell him he pays me so rotten, I had to start moonlighting as a steve­dore.”

 Could Samuels be mixed up in this too? I wondered.  Anything to save his precious shul.  “What if I call the police?  Do you think they’re going to be so patient?  How would your mother like to be called from the police station?”

“I’m not in any trouble, Mr. Stelzer, honest.  I’d tell you if I could, but I promised.  Your lights are still on, you know that?  Go on home before your battery dies.  It’s a helluva long walk back.”

Neuman laughed again as he started across the sandy soil with his second car­ton. 

Never mind my getting back.  How was he going to get back?  I hadn’t even thought of that before.  The motorboat was not only going to take the packages, it was going to make off with their delivery boy as well.  A fine start the kid had chosen for himself. “You don’t have to be ashamed with me, Neuman,” I said as he approached to pick up the third of his packages.  “I’ve seen all kinds of things in my time.  If you need money, medical attention, whatever it is, maybe I can help.”

“I don’t need anything, Mr. Stelzer, except being left alone.”

With that response-a challenge, was the way I took it-matters came to a head.  One way or another, the boy had to be confronted.  I stomped on the remaining carton with my right foot, positioning myself, come what may, to protect it.  “I’m not kidding about the police, you know,” I yelled into the darkness.

“Fine with me,” Neuman yelled back.  “I just hate to see you looking foolish, that’s all.  Your headlights are still on, you know.”

With that reminder, I instinctively turned toward the car, and, in so doing, swiveled my foot across the top of the carton.  The carelessly sealed panels burst under the pressure and I suddenly realized that the so­lu­tion to Neuman’s mysterious behavior was within arm’s reach.  With the boy out of sight, I removed my foot, pushed apart the lids, and thrust my hand inside.  Books!  Nothing but books.  What kind of books do you smuggle to a crook in a motorboat?  Pornography?  Bomb-making instructions?  By now I could see Neuman approaching but I no longer cared.  I grabbed one of the volumes and held it in the head­light beam.

“The Flowering of the Hasidic Movement,” I read aloud.

“Good choice.  But I can’t let you keep it.  Sorry.” Neuman gently took the book from my hands and returned it to its carton, which he then carted off as he had the others.

The image I had of a high-speed motorboat filled with crooks was replaced by that of a slow-moving houseboat occupied by a secret society of black-bearded, black-suited, Hasidic Jews.  My fears were lessened, to be sure, but my curiosity was stronger than ever.  And I was not altogether relieved.  Neuman could suffer a worse fate, I supposed, than being inducted into some ultra-orthodox Jewish cult, but the prospect was hardly a felicitous one as far as I was concerned.  Well, at least I would see to it that the boy was not carried off without an argument from me.

I turned off the headlights, leaned against the car, and folded my arms. “I think I’ll stay awhile,” I said to the boy, who was now collecting drift­wood for a fire.

“That’s not a good idea.”  Neuman stopped and looked at me.

“Why not?”

“I can’t tell you.  Like I said, I promised.”

“Promised whom?  Is this some kind of cabala business you’re mixed up in?”

Neuman shrugged and then went back to pick­ing driftwood without saying a word.

“I know you mean well, Neuman.  You’re a good kid.  I told you so in the car.  But this is craziness like I’ve never seen before.”

“You better get going, Mr. Stelzer.  I mean it.  I’ll be okay, really.”

“Tell me why I ‘better get going’ and maybe I will.  I keep asking ‘why,’ Neuman, and you won’t answer.”

“I told you, I promised.”

“Look, put your boxes back in the car, and let’s get the hell out of here,” I argued.  “I’ll buy you dinner and we can talk it over.  I don’t know what it is, but something here smells to high heaven.”

“There’s nothing wrong.  Honest to God.  Please go.” The boy was practically pleading.  “Trust me.  I know it looks funny, but I know what I’m doing.”

“So you told me.  I’m staying.”

Neuman paused reflectively for several moments before saying, “Suit yourself.”

With Neuman’s help I made a seat out of three of the cartons and took up my post facing the river.  Then I watched as he started a fire and began dancing slowly around it gently snapping his fingers above his head and dragging one foot and then the other across the sand.  My presence no longer mattered now that mysticism ruled.  A more fulfilled stevedore you’ve never seen.