enjoy the steel Ferris wheel on the pier, to indulge in frozen bananas dipped in chocolate and peanuts, to spoon on the beach, or to Charleston at one of the popular casinos.
After a while, Papa spoke to me from his heart about not wasting energy and time on what strangers think, about not giving up before even starting, about accepting what can and cannot be changed. I tried to listen, I really did, but the constant swish of the surf, the bright lights and mirrored music of the pier’s merry-go-round, the laughter, and the sounds of an orchestra escaping through a half-open ballroom window in a nearby casino grappled for my attention. Looking back on it, I didn’t want to listen to what Papa said. The distractions helped me avoid the painful realities and challenges he pushed me to face.
XXXX
Each morning I relished the chugging, almost meditative sound of the diesel engine that propelled our rickety old fishing boat through Santa Monica Bay. Before sunrise, Papa and I, along with twenty other men and a half-dozen boys, sailed from the pier on the Neptune.
On the second morning, I recall glancing back from my place by the railing on the starboard side of the bobbing boat and drinking in the orange- and purple-hued daybreak sky. I watched a black plume rising from the smoke stack disappear in the breeze. A swarm of cackling seagulls flew just below it, looking for a snack of discarded bait or fish entrails that wouldn’t be served until afternoon.
A fine salt spray covered my face. Being out in nature like that gave me a needed break from my self-consciousness. Although I still got stares from the other fishermen, my surroundings were so dramatic that they almost drowned out my need to blend in. If I noticed someone looking my way I could easily divert my attention to the ocean, the sky, my gear, or the schools of fish I imagined swarmed under the sea.
Later, as I baited my hook with a slippery sardine, Papa cast his line into the white-capped fishing bed where the Neptune was anchored. I carefully cocked my right wrist to my ear. My rented fishing rod flexed. As I whipped my arm forward, the baited line flew a third of a football field farther than my father’s had.
“You seem to be standing a bit straighter today, Jake,” Papa commented as he rewound his fishing reel.
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know if he was right or it was just wishful thinking. It would take a few more years, but I would come to recognize that changes in my posture reflected changes in my mood. I normally felt tense and withdrawn, so I tended to hunker down. Perhaps I avoided standing tall because I was frightened to get a glimpse of what more anguish might exist beyond the uncontrollable reality I’d experienced since I turned seven. Maybe I constricted myself and didn’t stand tall in some futile hope that that would stop me from growing; that I could will myself to be ordinary and end the nightmare before things got worse.
XXXX
That day, like we did each afternoon, when the Neptune docked, Papa and I gave our catch— bonita, red snapper, and albacore—to poor folks who gathered where the fishermen came ashore. As we disembarked, I carried the burlap bag that held the prizes from our day at sea. It was wet with a salty smell of ocean.
Once we were on the pier, an old gray beard with an olive complexion approached me. He walked with a limp like Kika. Then the old man snatched the bag from my hand. As he limped away, I heard him mutter “Evaristo (Thanks).” The strange sound of that word dissolved into the hustle and bustle of the Santa Monica Pier in late afternoon.
I turned around to find Papa. When I reached him I noticed that two odd characters had joined the crowd. Their apparel and the way they stared at us made them stand out. Instead of wearing sweaters and bait-stained denim and khaki like the others, these gentlemen were dressed for high tea. I think I was so aware of their clothing because I’d been envious. You see, I’d always worn hand-me-downs. The taller and thinner of the two wore a charcoal-gray suit and a black fedora on his balding head. The short and rotund one sported a coffee-colored houndstooth suit, a chocolate-brown derby, and a neatly trimmed moustache. He puffed on a half-smoked panatela.
Though I was drawn to the fine, big-city clothing they wore, something about them put me off. The two oddballs stared at me in a manner that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up. They were eyeing me with hunger and anticipation, just like the rest of the crowd was eyeing the burlap bags that the Neptune’s passengers were schlepping ashore. I would shortly learn that those two were looking for a different kind of a meal.
“Papa, the men in the suits are staring at us,” I said, elbowing my father.
“Just ignore them,” Papa replied. Before he could finish his thought the two well-dressed strangers pounced.
“Excuse me sir,” said the short one. I took a step back. “Can we please have a word with you?”
For an instant I imagined the cigar smoker looked like the Neptune would have if it were reincarnated as a man and stood upright. The tall one seemed to be measuring me with his eyes. Papa stepped in front of me, taking a protective stance.
“Why, what’s this about?” he asked in a prickly tone.
“You seem kind of touchy,” the short one said.
I saw Papa clench his fists. “What business is it of yours how I seem?! You two best back off from my boy and me or you’ll be sorry,” Papa threatened. He’s always been so protective.
“I’m so sorry if we have offended you, but we have a business proposition,” said the small one.
“Who the hell are you and what do you want?” Papa challenged with the same tone I’d seen him use with snake-oil salesmen who, from time to time, came into the store.
“My name is Zion Meyers,” said the taller of the two.
“And I’m Jerry Ash,” added the shorter one.
It turns out they were talent scouts and silent comedy film pioneers who represented Century Comedies and Universal Pictures. “We work with Carl Laemmle, the studio president. Maybe you’ve heard of him?” Ash continued.
Papa looked back at me and in a tone he normally saved for German Jews who looked down on the rest of us, he muttered: “Er es groisachti (He thinks he is a big to-do).”
“If you don’t mind, what is your name, sir?” Meyers asked.
I saw the muscles tighten in Papa’s jaw. For a moment, he stood there in silence as if to say: I do mind.
Finally he answered: “My name is Mr. Erlich, and this is my son, Jacob.”
“So you just came to Los Angeles for a fishing trip, Mr. Erlich?” Myers was making a statement with his question but I wasn’t sure what he was trying to say.
“That’s right . . . and we don’t want to be bothered. I’m not interested in buying whatever it is you’re selling.
“Please hear us out, sir,” Ash continued. ”I’m sorry if we offended you with our attention but when you come to the moving picture capital of world, how could you ever think you wouldn’t get noticed? Since you got to town, the tom-toms have been pounding.”
Papa looked at me in a silent appeal for a translation of that Jazz Age metaphor but I had no idea what it meant either.
Sensing our confusion, Ash rephrased his remark. “Since you two arrived, word has spread like wildfire about a boy giant.”
