The Eventful Journey of Malcolm Katz
Book One: Malcolm Katz, Birthday Boy
Standing six foot one and with serious gray eyes, June Katz was dressed in tennis whites and ready for battle. Almost as tall and stumbling in her shadow was her child, the family embarrassment, the one who’d dropped out of college six months earlier. Yes, I’m talking about myself, and I won’t use the third person anymore, but I will share this: when I came home after less than one semester in college, everyone thought I’d settle into the family business. I’d start by changing thermostats, fixing leaky faucets and replacing broken window panes, and in time I’d make a name for myself. Eight weeks of higher education, however, taught me a few things. First, I like my name. Second, there are times when wearing race car pajamas and sleeping until noon just feels right. Unfortunately, my mother didn’t share that opinion, so one fine morning at the rude hour of nine, she breezed into my room and told me to stop being a schlump.
Pushing away the fog of sleep, I wondered what she had in mind. Her stoic expression gave away nothing, but when I plopped down at the kitchen table, I found a flyer for a community college leaning against the sugar bowl.
“No, thank you,” I said, pouring my Cheerios, and after eating two bowls, and since I wasn’t allowed to go back to bed, I took the shortest shower of my life, put on clean clothes and rode the T to Chestnut Hill.
Getting off the train, which made me sick with its swaying, I walked ten minutes to the mall. It was a Saturday and the concourse was bustling, so I ducked into one of the anchor stores, where I found racks of overpriced sweatpants, grubby children fleeing their nannies, and a mountain of backpacks covered in cat cartoons. Retreating to the mall proper, I strolled the promenade to the Stereo Mart, but there I was accosted by strobe lights and blaring music. In the Blade Barn, which was always quiet, I eyed a case of gleaming pocket knives and chuckled at a sign that said, “We’re Not Forking Around.” While admiring a Knuckle Duster Trench Knife, however, I was approached by a salesman wearing a kilt. The kilt was kind of cool, but the guy also had a dagger in his sock, so I flashed an awkward smile, shoved my hands in my pockets and retreated to Pottery Bits.
I’d been there with June the previous summer and the place looked as daunting as ever, but I did see a few new things. One was a red-haired saleswoman with a crooked nametag and baby bump. The other was a framed “help wanted” sign hanging behind the register. Following my gaze, the woman volunteered that Pottery Bits needed help receiving deliveries and keeping things tidy. My cheeks turning red, I started to explain that I was only fifteen, but then I imagined what it would be like to work for someone other than my grandfather and asked for a job application. Two days later, though I’d added a year to my age and listed “gardening with June Katz” as my only job experience, I was unloading housewares from a truck and learning that champagne glasses were also called flutes.
Today, however, on July 7, 1990, I actually was sixteen. It was my birthday and to celebrate June asked me to sub in for her regular doubles partner, so instead of pricing placemats, I was wearing white like her and shuffling into the Great Oaks Racket and Bath Club. On our way to the courts, we passed five tobacco-stained octogenarians jabbering in a panelled lounge and sharing a copy of the Wall Street Journal. The most venerable of the lot was my grandfather, Abe Katz, who owned four restaurants, a bowling alley, a vacuum cleaner repair store, and a collection of rental apartments scattered throughout Boston. I’d spent enough time with Abe to know what he was talking about: how to make money and how our country was prejudiced against the very people who’d built it. A few weeks earlier, I’d asked what he thought of greed, but rather than explain anything to a pisher like me, he rolled his eyes and warned me to steer clear of anyone who lacked ambition.