Illustration by Denis Shifrin

Solly Melzer shares anecdotes about some of the memorable characters who frequent his shop for antiques and collectibles.
Our staff consists of me, my wife Lorraine and our dog James, who is an important member of the staff. While my wife and I tend to the customers, James, a little brown and white Jack Russell terrier, entertains the smaller children and babies. James knows his job. He frequently helps to clinch a sale and earn a reward of a tasty bone for  allowing the youngsters to  busy themselves  petting and playing with him, thus enabling mother to be  relaxed while browsing around the store.

Amongst our valued customers are Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow. She is petite and attractive.  The husband is a well-to-do businessman. Once in a while they arrive at the store in their big Mercedes limousine. Mrs. L skips briskly into the shop, delivering a friendly hello and a happy smile.

The burly Mr. L waits on the pavement outside.  A glum, unhappy expression clouds his face. His wife takes her time. She knows the shop well, and after much picking and choosing finally selects some expensive items in porcelain and glass. We begin to wrap the objects.  Suddenly, the brusque Mr. L, who has been irritably pacing to and fro outside, pokes his head through the doorway and roars out in the direction of his wife: “I’m not paying!" Meanwhile our neighboring shopkeepers emerge from their doorways, not wanting to forego any drama. Mrs. L goes outside and after a short sharp family tete-a-tete, she says to him. “OK! Forget it! Let’s go home.” The couple drives off in the Mercedes while we replace the goods on the shelves. Four or five days go by before Mr. L turns up at our shop. He speaks humbly. “My wife picked out some goods here. I’ve come to pay for them.” The story making the rounds in our part of town has it that Mr. L recently spent several nights sleeping on their living room settee.

Who can forget dear old Motek? She has passed over in the interim, and is probably browsing around in some heavenly collectibles and antique shop in the sky. Motek was an Iraqi-born widow with a well rounded figure and somewhat to the north of middle age.  She bore an uncanny resemblance to our former Minister, Mr. Fuad Ben Eliezer.  She had weaknesses for many things, but her first love was for pretty tablecloths. Our customer possessed a theatrical streak and liked to be seen and heard. Upon arrival at our store she would deliver a pious kiss to the mezuzah in the doorway. She would then waddle into the store and open her act with an attention-getting exclamation meant for the other customers. “Walla” she would cry out, “What a lovely shop. Anyone who doesn't buy here is a loser  -Wey! Wey!Wey  -If I didn't have money to buy here, Yah Rabak , I  would  take me a taxi  straight down to  the diamond exchange area and catch a  paying client.  She then executed a few midriff shakes and wiggles of her rear end, by way of a sexy dance. We knew from previous experience that Motek was about to demand a large discount in return for her unsolicited ‘public relations’on our behalf. Some of our more genteel customers complained about Motek’s uninhibited behavior. But most were amused and inquired after her wellbeing whenever they visited the store again.

Another friend and neighbor who has since passed over was Mrs. E, who ran a shop a few doors away from us. Mrs. E was a lady of independent means and ran her shop for baby clothes more as a hobby than a business, and in her own style.  She was generous with teas,  cookies and gossip to neighbors and customers she took a liking to, but artfully  turned away others she deemed to be  time-wasting  ”nudniks” by stating  apologetically that the item they had asked for was out of stock. She then directed them to her opposition’s shop while praising their goods in glowing terms. But as they exited the door she’d raise her forefinger upwards in a rude salute  and mumble “up yours!” She would then refer to her opposition’s boutique, Beged Paris as "Beged Sh*t", and their wares “schmattes”.

The Teaspoon Turk is a lady who likes to entertain.  Her five o'clock teas and dinner parties necessitate a constant new supply of silver plated and silver teaspoons. We don’t know what she does with them. She claims not to know either, and indignantly denies suggestions that her guests steal them.  But she is a good customer and we can always count on Teaspoon Turk to help us reduce our stock of these utensils.

The Duck Man has been popping in regularly for years in search of a porcelain figurine of a duck. But the search for a duck to suit his taste remains problematic because whatever duck we show him is never the right one. “Too small, too big, too fat, too ugly." We expect the search for a suitable duck to be ongoing.

Among the customers we lost is the Dive Bomber. He was up early in the morning before our opening time, studying the display window, his nose glued to the glass and an expression of absolute concentration on his face. If he spotted anything “interesting” he would make a dive for the shop first thing in the morning. He would make a purchase, but only after an interlude of strenuous bargaining. The Dive Bomber has since opened his own store selling goods on the Internet.

I must mention a sad happening concerning two of our neighbors. At that time our building’s backyard and frontage was something to boast about, especially in this environmentally conscious era. And this was all thanks to an elderly gentleman we shall call the Hygiene Man, a longtime resident in the building who made it his life’s work to see that the highest standards of cleanliness were upheld in and around the building. He was retired and spent much of his time patrolling the length and breadth of the building and its surroundings. Our fellow tenants were content with his self-appointed policing, except those on the receiving end of his tongue -lashing for littering or non-respect for the garbage bins. No one could adequately explain Hygiene Man's obsessive behavior. He himself provided no explanation.  Eventually one of his friends revealed that as a youth he had been sent to work in a Nazi concentration camp as a cleaner.  He proved so diligent and creative at his job of maintaining the camp in pristine condition that the Nazi camp Kommandant ensured that he remained safe and well throughout the Holocaust.

We move on some sixty years to the time when the elderly American lady, the Cat Lady, bought an apartment in our building. People said that she had been a prominent Zionist leader back in Chicago.  She had also been on the committee of the SPCA and chairlady of the Chicago Cat Lovers’ Society. We didn't give much thought to the newcomer until we noticed that in the backyard of the building were numerous dishes placed at strategic sites, containing generous portions of food for the cats. She also provided comfortable little shelters furnished with cushions for the pussies to sleep on. Soon, a growing population of cats and kittens of all shapes and sizes were frolicking happily around the backyard. It was no surprise that our Hygiene Man went into action. First he tried remonstrations with the Cat Lady. These increased in volume and intensity. Curses and threats were exchanged. The Cat Lady wouldn’t be budged or intimidated.  She insisted that it was her obligation according to the Torah and her duty as a concerned citizen to tend the cats. The municipal inspectors were called in. The police were called in but nothing helped. The Cat Lady, observing the Hygiene Man pensively eyeing the cats one afternoon must have read his mind. She threatened that if any harm came to either herself or her cats, all sorts of influential people including Knesset members, the AACI, friends in Congress, and also some people she got to know when they visited the States on fundraising missions, would get involved.

 Meanwhile the cats were having a ball in and around the building. Even our dog, James, appeared to be intimidated by their arrogant behavior.  One might ask where the Hygiene Man was at this point in time. We hadn’t seen him patrolling his usual rounds for a while. We assumed that he was keeping a low profile while reconsidering his next move. Sad to relate, this was not the case. When next we saw him he was not looking well and was sitting in a wheelchair being pushed around by a Filipino lady. Word was that the Hygiene Man had suffered a relapse of an old cardiac condition.

There was a group of young people, some of whom taught at an exclusive and unorthodox school for young children. We were pleased to have them as customers. What puzzled us, however, was that they were always eager to buy anything from Scotland or with a Scottish connotation. They especially asked for items to suit a seven-year-old young girl whom they referred to as 'The Princess'. Happily for us, the gifts they bought were sometimes generous to the point of extravagance. We remained puzzled by their preferences until we learned from a disillusioned ex-member of the group that our customers were members of a highly secretive cult which believed in reincarnation, and that the little Israeli girl, daughter of one of the members, was the reincarnation of none other than the ill-fated Mary Queen of Scots. Who knows?  Maybe there is some substance in the mythical Scottish belief that their Kings and Queens are descended from the royal line of King David of Israel. We keep an open mind about the odd habits and strange beliefs of some of our customers as a mark of respect for them, and adhering to a sound business policy, we shall keep an open mind on the matter.

And like Charles Dickens 'Mr. Micawber, we harbor the expectation that “Something will turn up” sooner or later.   

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Vera George
2011-12-09
I enjoyed the article very much. I really enjoyed The Cat Lady and Hygiene Man. She reminds me of me. The illustration was great, too. I hope he keeps up the good work.

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