As seventh grade progressed, Glorietta began to associate with a different crowd, all from outside the neighborhood. The boys were jocks, the girls destined to be cheerleaders. Glorietta would wave politely whenever she saw Overman on the street or walking to school, but it seemed eerily like the caste system he had read about when they studied India. And Ira was an Untouchable. Late at night, alone in his bed, he would reflect on what he could have done differently. What if instead of trying to comfort Glorietta, he had said: “I’m sorry, but the president is going to die a quick yet miserable death.” Could that have helped his case? He thought not. The bitter truth was that Glorietta had dropped him because she knew she could do better. He couldn’t fault her for wanting to improve her circle of friends. He just pined for the halcyon days before she realized that was an option.
Months later, Ira was in the driveway helping his father wash the latest Overman Plymouth when Estelle Zatzkin rounded the corner, walking the family’s new miniature schnauzer. The sight of her prompted Saul Overman to jump up, say hello, and coo enthusiastically at Pumpkin Zatzkin. As far as Ira could remember, his father had never particularly liked dogs. But whatever he was saying now was making Estelle smile and Pumpkin pee. Estelle was looking particularly curvy this morning, her resplendent cleavage glistening in the morning sunlight. She spotted Ira rinsing out one of the wheel wells.
“Ira, come say hello to Pumpkin,” she called out.
Young Overman dutifully marched over to pet the schnauzer. He liked dogs well enough, but seeing Estelle only reminded him of losing Glorietta.
“Pumpkin loves kids,” Saul crowed, as if he gave a shit.
Estelle had just told him this and Saul wanted to keep the conversation going as long as possible, much like Ira did during his art project with Glorietta. Ira did not fault his father for sneaking peeks at the tiny beads of sweat that had made their home between Estelle’s wondrous breasts. Yes, Saul had a wife and she was Ira’s mother, but the cold hard fact was that the Zatzkin women were irresistible. All the men in the neighborhood envied her husband Murray, who, despite his modesty and lack of affectation, was one of the most prominent furriers in Manhattan.
“It’s great to have Pumpkin in the neighborhood,” Saul beamed. “Good girl,” he said, scratching the dog’s tailbone.
“Actually Pumpkin’s a boy,” Estelle corrected him.” And he won’t be in the neighborhood very much longer.”
Ira sensed something. The axe handle was about to come down.
“We bought a house in Crestwood Knolls,” Estelle informed them.
Ira’s heart sank. Crestwood Knolls was a new development with properties starting at a half-acre. It couldn’t have been further from Melvin Terrace in terms of status and attitude, but the crowning blow was that even though the homes were only two miles away, they landed in a different school district. Now, unless Ira happened to run into her at an inter-school basketball game or the local Baskin-Robbins, he would never see Glorietta again.
“Congratulations. You must be thrilled,” Saul says, Pumpkin starting to hump his leg.
“We’re excited. But we’ll miss everyone here—”
Estelle looks down and sees the schnauzer wrapped around Saul’s leg.
“Pumpkin!”
She bends down to give him a light whack, which in the process gives Saul and his son a view they will never forget. These were breasts that would not be out of place in Playboy. Or the Louvre.
“The good news is, we’ve sold our house to a lovely family. They have a son who’s your age, Ira.”
When the moving vans came, Overman spent the day at Howie Finkel’s house, conveniently situated directly across the street from the Zatzkin’s. Finkel was three years younger and always wanted to hang out with the older kids, so Overman figured he’d do him a favor. In return, he got to satisfy his strange desire to watch the Zatzkin furniture being moved, hoping for a glimpse of things touched by Glorietta. He had been in the house once or twice and could identify certain pieces — drawers she had opened, a dresser where she might have laid out a bra and panty set for the next day. It was his way of saying goodbye.
When the movers drove away, Overman felt a strange sense of relief. He no longer had to be visually reminded of the rejection on a daily basis. Soon, new people would be moving in and this, too, would help him heal. Every once in a while he would swing by and check out the house to see if anybody was living there. And then one day, the new kid rang the Overman’s bell.
Irma opened the front door, revealing a courteous and friendly young man who said he heard there was a boy his age living there.
“Yes, our son, Ira. Nice of you stop by. And what’s your name?”
“Jacob Rosenfarb,” he replied. “Everyone calls me Jake.”
Overman has a client at his desk when the dreaded moment arrives. Jake Rosenfarb struts in donning the Dolce and Gabbana sunglasses Rita insisted he buy in order to appear trendy. Rosenfarb’s first stop is the reception desk. He wasn’t about to drive all the way out to Calabasas without getting a generous eyeful of Maricela. She is wearing a white lacy bra that peeks out of her skin-tight pink tank top, displaying her high, firm breasts to delightful effect. To Rosenfarb, the thought of this taut, brown body wanting anything to do with Ira Overman seemed even more ludicrous than the waitress at Jerry’s Deli. This one actually knew the man and his multiple deficiencies.
“May I help you?” she asks the leering window man.
Jake suavely removes the Dolce and Gabbanas. “I’m here to see Overman.”
“You must be Rosenfarb.”
Wow. Overman has told her about him. Maybe Ira wants to switch over to the waitress and donate the receptionist to him. The textbook definition of a mitzvah, if ever there was one.
“You’re the guy he beat 6-love in straight sets,” Maricela says, a little too loudly for Rosenfarb’s tastes.
Rosenfarb scowls and marches over to Overman’s desk. Overman has just sent his client over to financing.
“How’re you doing, Jake?”
“I’m fine,” Rosenfarb barks. “My car’s out front. We’re going to Malibu for lunch.”
“Okay,” Overman says, grabbing his jacket and following Rosenfarb out the door. “How come you want to go all the way to Malibu?”
As they approach Rosenfarb’s BMW 750i (bought just to irk his Mercedes salesman friend), he sees that Jake is opening the passenger door rather than going to the driver’s side. He tosses Overman the keys.
“You’re driving,” Jake announces.
Overman shakes his head. “Is this because you want Steinbaum to see me driving a BMW? Just so you know, he doesn’t give a shit, as long as I’m closing deals.”
“That’s not the point,” Rosenfarb assures him, explaining that he has something far more important in mind. “Take Malibu Canyon Road.”
As they get off the freeway and Overman turns onto Malibu Canyon, Rosenfarb’s motive begins to present itself. In front of them stands a blinking sign that reads: “Road Construction. Long Delays.”
Rosenfarb knows his friend doesn’t like to take a long lunch and the trip across the canyon is eighteen minutes each way with no traffic. If Overman is the powerfully changed man he claims to be, he will be able to clear the canyon and get them to Malibu without delay. If he can’t deliver, he has to come clean about what is really going on.
“I can’t believe you’re