Visit to Aunt Dot's

I knew what "poles" were, but when the polio epidemic was raging in 1940, every radio broadcast included a message of fear and warning.

In my mind, that of a four year old child, the "Polio" the radio was talking about, were the poles and the great wooden wheels where the electric cables were wound.

I walked carefully past the enormous wooden wheels, fearing they might ensnare me.

I didn't understand the city was being restrung with power cables. The war had commandeered metal for armor and ammo and electronics to make the bombs for Dresden and other unlucky European targets as well as the South Pacific.

Through the bitter lip chafing wind we arrived, at 300 West 72nd street, Aunt Dot's apartment, taking the tiny elevator to the 3rd floor--apartment 3C.

Dotty had arrived earlier that morning from a tryst at the shore with her lover, a former bootlegger. She carried a brown paper bag with tiny hotel soap wrapped in paper and beach towels emblazoned with the hotel name.

Bunny, her husband, a window dresser for elegant 5th Avenue stores, was mixing Martinis in his expensive Swedish clear glass pitcher.

Dot was brewing 4 cups of tea from one tea bag. Maybe the tea was stronger back then?

Frank had come alone. He and my Dad were down the hall playing Strip Poker with the young widow, Daisy, who was braless when I went to fetch Dad. He had a big grin on his face and an erection.

I guess he and Frank were planning on fucking Daisy. Frank probably did.

The sisters were all in bed together laughing with the door closed, Telling dirty sisterly stories about who they were fucking.

Jack LaLane, soon to move to infant TV and live to be ninety-six with one unmemorable stupid stunt after another, was giving health tips on the plastic radio, but you couldn't see his green Elf hat.