Jane can be a rough customer. She has a clear idea of what she wants for her magazine’s style and look. And she drives hard to get it. The results, so far, have been good. Subscriptions and advertising revenue are up dramatically since she came on board. When asked about this, she credits the magazine’s editor and publisher. She claims that her “vision” is merely a reflection of theirs. But everyone involved agrees; Jane is something special. Before becoming the art director of what had been a respected but slowly sinking magazine, Jane had been a successful advertising executive, making significant contribution to her agency’s bottom line. She did not do that by being a smooth talker. She was often brutally honest and challenging in creative and client meetings. But also, compellingly persuasive. The main thing is she knew how to develop an idea and to put together a creative team that delivered the goods. But just when things were going really well, Jane quit. She was going to be a movie producer. The few people who knew her well weren’t too surprised. Jane always a little restless, always looking for something more exciting. She admitted then and admits today, it was a crazy idea. It started out poorly and seemed headed toward getting worse much sooner than later. So, it was lucky that the magazine job happened when it did. At the time, she was at the edge of being middle-aged and was beginning to realize that she was no longer as rough-and-tough as she was when she started out. She had obligations, a family, a mortgage. Most important though, she concluded that being a magazine art director is who she is. Which is funny because, starting out, it would have been the last job she could have imagined for herself. But she’s good at it and has a lot of fun doing it. It also happens to be a world away from what she was growing up. Back then, her name was Simcha. She was an only child of a deeply religious, immigrant family. Her father owned a small dry-cleaning shop and did a bit of tailoring. Her mother was a housewife. Neither knew a lot of English. Their hope for their daughter – maybe to marry an accountant or, if she got lucky, a dentist. “Dentists do very well, Simcha. Don’t forget that.” They were thinking a nice house near a synagogue and grandchildren. Simcha was not thinking that way at all. By the time she was fourteen, she was running a typing service for her classmates and saving for college. Her parents did not think much of this idea. Neither had finished high school, her father to go to work, her mother to take care of her own mother. “Men don’t marry women who are too smart,” her mother said. Her father agreed. “Get your head out of the clouds, Simcha. This college business is not for you.” Simcha finished high school near the top of her class, started a business services company, and began taking courses at a local junior college. She did very well. Two years later, she got a full scholarship to one of the best colleges in the country, sold her business services company for more money than her father made in a decade, and – after finishing her college coursework ahead of schedule –graduated at the top of her college class and got into advertising. Five years after that, she married Forrest Slocum and her first name wasn’t Simcha anymore; it was “Jane.” Her parents did not go to the wedding. Later on, they didn’t want to see Jane’s first child, a boy. Or her second. They knew she worked at some kind of business in a “fancy office with fancy people, doing who knows what?” They never met her husband and, anyway, didn’t think much of him. “Some husband he must be if his wife has to work. Some lazy bum.” On the job, Jane is all business. So, you wouldn’t think she’d care about what her parents thought. But it kills her. She knocked herself out to get away from their world. But now tries to bring them into hers. Or, at least, to share her life with them. It’s finally beginning to dawn on her, though, it’s a waste of time. “You are dead to us. You wouldn’t listen. And it won’t end up good, what you are doing. This I know.” That was the last conversation Jane ever had with her mother. Her father hasn’t answered the phone in years. Now that the kids are older, Jane figures, she’ll have to sit them down and do some explaining.
“The stuff I have to put up with, you wouldn’t believe.” Abe always says that when anyone asks him how things are going. But he has to admit that things aren’t all that bad. Business is better than ever. The store is in the middle of a community of Orthodox Jews and there is only one other kosher butcher shop nearby. And it’s run by an old friend. They don’t really compete. As they see it, their job is to work together, to make sure that everyone gets what they need. And his clientele is growing, not just because there seems to be more and more observant Jews in his area but because non-observant Jews and even people from other faiths like the quality that Abe delivers. Of course, there are a lot of rules to follow. And the rabbis that Abe hires to certify his merchandise have – each in his own way – been more than a little annoying. There are also a few customers Abe could do without. As Abe says, “The stuff I have to put up with, you wouldn’t believe.” And that includes his personal life. He just wishes it could be a bit pleasanter. His wife left him five years ago. One day, he found a note: “I don’t like you, never have. And you smell funny.” She just moved out and disappeared. No forwarding address. Apparently, she planned the whole thing well in advance. Abe was in a daze for months. “Smell funny? What the hell. She knew I was a butcher when she married me.” It wasn’t as though he didn’t have opportunities with other women if he wanted. But, after the “smell funny” comment, he wasn’t taking any chances. And anyway, his wife left without divorcing him so it’s not as if he could marry again so easily. And about anything else, Abe has strong views. “Fooling around. Not for me.” Dealing with the kids is no picnic either. Neither son had wanted to go into business with him. Or to be part of the community they grew up in. One, Alvin, got interested in science when he was in junior high school. Abe hoped he would go into dentistry. But not Alvin. A physicist! He went away to college, graduated cum laude, got advanced degrees, and then took a job in a very fancy laboratory. He met and married a woman – not Jewish – while on a fellowship in Ireland. A nice lady, Abe says, but says he can’t understand anything she says. The other boy is in television, does the news for a network in New York. He married another TV person, a gal from Iowa of all places. Also not Jewish. Her name is Paige. Very tall. Very skinny. Abe always asks, “What kind of name is Paige?” It’s his idea of a joke. Abe doesn’t make a fuss about his grandkids not being brought up Jewish. What’s the point? And he doesn’t make too much of a fuss that both of his boys and their wives seem more than a little embarrassed by him. When the topic comes up, all he’ll say is, “Too bad! I am who I am.” A long time ago, he decided there’s no point worrying about what you can’t do anything about. At the end of a long day in the store, Abe usually gets home, flops down in a chair, takes off his shoes, and has a Scotch and a slice or two of salami. Then, he’ll watch his son do the news on television while eating dinner. And, before bed, he always takes a long shower. So he won’t smell funny.