BOOMSTERS by David Marks

Chapter 1

BOOMSTERS

“We are gathered here today before God and in the company of loved ones to celebrate life,” Rabbi Rabinowitz said. “The life of—” He paused. “The life of—” Another pause. Finally, he pulled a notecard from his pocket. “We are here to celebrate the life of Melvin Weinberg.”

I adjusted my tie as I leaned toward Mary. “More like celebrating his death,” I said. She rolled her eyes as she listened to the rabbi.

“Melvin, or Mel, as most of you probably knew him, was a husband and a father, a man whose life was cut short at the age of fifty-six. The world will not be the same without him.”

“Yeah, it will be safer now,” I whispered to Mary, who responded with an elbow to my left kidney. “What? Clearly this rabbi never met Mel.”

Candidly, I had never met Mel either, but I was confident I knew more about him than any of the two hundred or so people at the funeral. My guess was most were here not because Mel would be missed but because so many people wanted to confirm he was dead.

When you’re in your seventies like I am, you become familiar with funerals and the certain routine that comes with them, but it was easy to see nothing was routine about this one. Sure, the rabbi forgot the dead man’s name, but now he was extolling Mel’s virtues. Mel had no virtues. He was a murderer, a rapist, and a gambler. You can’t live life as a jerk and die a mensch. Clearly the rabbi was officiating as a favor to someone.

But that wasn’t all that was off. Those in attendance were also peculiar. First, a half-dozen FBI agents patrolled the room. Sarah Cutler—the woman expected to be Chicago’s next mayor—was sitting in the front row for all to see. Scattered throughout were members and employees from the West Coast Club, a fitness center I’ve worked out at for more than twenty years and a place I know Mel was no member of.

Then there was the crowd in the back row. On one side sat associates of Tony Santori, the head of the notorious Italian crime family. Santori expanded his family’s corrupt and dishonorable reign from New Jersey to the Midwest six years ago, and although he wasn’t in attendance, his presence was certainly felt. On the other side were members of the Deli Boys, a pack of Jews who’d owned Chicago’s streets for decades, at least until Santori arrived. Solomon Feldman was their leader, though he, too, was not present. A line of uniformed Chicago police officers blanketed the room’s back wall, there primarily to keep the peace between the two families.

Keep the peace? At a funeral? Like I said, the whole scene was bizarre. Then again, I guess it was fitting for the unique set of circumstances surrounding Mel Weinberg’s death. Why they were there was a legitimate question, as was this: As a retired businessman who spent fifty years selling trinkets like light-up Christmas necklaces and pens that sang “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” what the hell was I doing there?

To answer that question, I needed to take a step back.

—–

David Blazen is my name, born soon after World War II ended at eight pounds and who cares how many ounces. Growing up, I loved to watch Saturday morning television, where Superman stood for justice and Captain America defended our country from evil. All the shows I gravitated toward appealed to me because they focused on doing the right thing, no matter if the hero was a rifleman or a collie. I liked when bad people were caught and justice prevailed. When I couldn’t find the right story on our black-and-white TV, I’d find it in my piles of GI Joe comic books. Before I fantasized about girls, I dreamed about being GI Joe.

The best education I got came from my World War II-veteran dad, a navy man who was the smartest person I knew, even though he never made it past fifth grade. From him I learned how to be human. His motto was simple: “It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice.”

I went to Wright Junior College in Chicago, but saying I went there is a loose term. I only showed up when I wanted, which wasn’t often. I wanted to learn to be a salesman, so when I wasn’t in class, I was practicing my craft. At that time, I sold personalized pens. I decided I learned all the school could teach me three months into my freshman year when I sold Wright Junior College ten thousand pens emblazoned with the school’s name on them.

After my brief stint in college, I started my own business. I sold creative impulse merchandise of all kinds—things people decide they can’t live without, like an extendable back scratcher or holiday-themed ice trays. Those who knew me then would call me creative and fast-paced, and I would agree. I had a zest for being zestful. My creativity was not stymied by what others did or what books said, only by the limits of my imagination. Every day, I challenged my brain to think outside the norm.

I got married to an incredible woman, and we raised four incredible children. I lost her to cancer far too young, before she could see any of our ten adorable grandchildren.

I retired after five decades at the helm of my company and issued my declaration of independence—I call it that because I truly felt independent for the first time in my life. No parents or teachers telling me what to do. No customers to worry about. No colleagues to manage. When I got that gold watch at my farewell party, it wasn’t just a sign of gratitude; it meant I was on my own.

The irony was I didn’t have anything to do; who cared what time it was?

When people asked about my retirement plans, I joked I’d figure something out, but really I didn’t have a clue. One advantage was I wouldn’t be completely alone. My girlfriend, Mary, retired from her forty-year business career the day after I left mine, and we entered this new world enthusiastic to travel, relax, and enjoy our lives with one another, like those hokey life insurance commercials with aging couples hugging on a boat, grateful to have time together.

It took us four days to realize we didn’t like boats and there was only so much hugging to do.

We went from leadership positions where others counted on us for direction to spending virtually every waking minute together. It used to take only one of us to squeeze the tomatoes at the produce counter, but now it’s a two-person event complete with discussion and, in most cases, a concession on my part. I was no dummy, though; bigger decisions would be needed at the avocados. What used to be short trips now became extended outings. Lunch was another discussion, followed by a compromise. Everything we did was a discussion, then a compromise.

The one thing we agreed on was we needed a new plan.

***

Excerpt from BOOMSTERS by David Marks. Copyright 2024 by David Marks. Reproduced with permission from David Marks. All rights reserved.