I have to go to the post office.

Last week, In New York, we dropped by my Aunt Ethel’s apartment in Long Beach where I saw an old family photo of my paternal grandmother, Miriam, with my father and his brother, my Uncle Chaim.

“Aunt Ethel, I never saw this photo. It’s amazing.”

“Yes, I love it.”

“Can I borrow it?”

“Robert, that’s my only copy.”

“I’ll be careful, but please let me scan the picture into my computer so it’s protected.”

So: I lovingly carry the photo back to Los Angeles, scan it, and now:

I have to go to the post office to send it to New York.

Or face: The Wrath of Ethel.

Minute 1:

Step into the post office.

Oy-vey, there are, lemme count, 19 people ahead of yours truly.

There are seven stations for the postal workers, but only three windows are open.

I slip into line behind an old hippie with shoulder length white hair. He’s listening to an iPod, and the volume is set at maximum so I can actually hear the music.

Hmm, not bad. Richard and Linda Thompson’s Shoot Out the Lights. One of my absolute favs.

Okay, it’s a long line, but at least I have some music.

Minute 6:

No movement.

Nothing.

One of the postal workers has drifted away and the other two are involved in the extremely complex business of—as far as I can tell—calculating costs of postage.

Oh, wait, a customer is finished and the postal worker signals for the next on line.

We exchange smiles—we’re in this together—and everyone takes one baby-step forward.

Minute 11:

A few paces behind me a flamboyant gay guy is on his cell phone yammering away to a, presumably, gay friend about, well, the fabulosity of gayness.

Gay guy is talking really loud and saying stuff like:

“It was sooo gay…”

“He was totally gay, he just didn’t realize it…”

“I used to be a clueless gay, but no more, darling…”

In-ter-esting: gayness, for some, is not just sexual orientation, not just a life style, but a religion.

I mention this because right behind Loud and Proud Gay Guy is a tiny, shriveled, ancient black lady who looks, I swear, like she’s about to have a coronary. Listening to gay guy is having a visible effect on her blood pressure. She closes her eyes, mumbles to herself, then turns and gazes pleadingly at an ENORMOUS black guy standing right behind her.

Enormous Black Guy looks like a gang-banger. He’s got the backwards baseball cap, the blinding bling around his neck, and masses of tattoos on his arms which are impossible to decipher because his skin is so black. It’s like one of those Malevich Black Square paintings.

Enormous Black Guy steps past Tiny Black Lady, gets right into the face of Loud and Proud Gay Guy.

Oh goody: conflict, drama.

“Yo, dude. Mah Aun-tie.”

Loud and Proud Gay Guy—thin as a stalk of wheat—finds himself face to face with a scary black guy who is, I do not exaggerate, the size of Rhode Island.

Loud and Proud Gay Guy into his phone:

“Sweetie, call you back.”

Enormous Black Guy nods, gets back in line behind his Aun-tie.

Minute 18:

Still, only two postal workers behind the bullet proof glass.

Good idea that glass because we, on line, are on the verge of going postal.

I’m counting the people in front of me, including the old hippie still grooving away: nine customers/consumers/victims/whatever.

Maybe I should drop out of line and head on over to UPS or Fed Ex.

But that would be like going AWOL.

I gotta stick with my squad here in the foxhole.

Minute 22:

Oh.

My.

Gosh.

One of the postal workers has drifted away from his window.

Only one worker left.

Collective groan from we-on-the-line.

Oh, yeah, here’s a scan of the picture I’m sending back to Aunt Ethel:

My father is to the right of grandmother Miriam. Hey, dad’s got Dr. Spock ears. My Uncle Chaim fought in the Pacific campaign. He contracted malaria and all sorts of  tropical diseases. Never said one word to me about his service, but according to my father, it was horrific and Uncle Chaim never recovered from his combat experiences. Photo, 1924, Poland.

Minute 26:

The old Hippie buys—get this—one single stamp.

I’m on deck.

The postal worker, a black lady with hair like a porcupine, barks:

“Next!”

Nervous, intimidated, I step up. Slide the package forward.

“First class?”

“Please.”

“Registered?”

“Please.”

She punches in the order.

“Anything else, sir?”

“Um, I was wondering, how come you’re the only one working and there are so many people in line?”

Postal Lady narrows here eyes at me:

“What you axing?”

“I’m just curious how come you don’t have more help?”

“Next!”

Minute 37:

Step outside, take a deep breath.

Can’t wait for Obamacare.

It’s gonna be so much fun standing in line, making new and diverse friends, and then kibitzing with all the gracious health care workers.

Anyhoo: Let’s listen to Richard Thompson and Christine Collister, sing Wall of Death—appropriate title, huh?—from the Shoot Out the Lights album. Linda and Richard are divorced, so this is the 1985 touring band, different than the original album, but still great.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech

My father is the child in the back row with eyes closed. Next to him, right, is Miriam, my grandmother. Poland, 1921.

My father, Rabbi Abraham Avrech, reached his 90th year two weeks ago. Born in Poland, he came to America with his mother and older brother Chaim, when he was 4-years old. My grandfather, Rabbi Shmuel Avrech was a shochet, ritual slaughterer and mohel, specialist in ritual circumcisions.

I come from countless generations of scholarly and pious Rabbis, thus my screenwriting career represents something of a rupture in a noble family tradition.

Sigh.

A member of the Greatest Generation, my father’s family was poor, but he quipped: “We didn’t know we were poor, everyone was poor.”

My father attended Yeshiva Chaim Berlin and then Yeshiva University where he was ordained as a Rabbi. He enlisted as a Chaplain in the U.S. Army, 42nd Division, and served during World War II and the Korean War.

42nd Infantry Division shoulder sleeve insignia.

“The Army is the best thing that ever happened to me,” my father said, “I was given the opportunity to experience the wider world and serve my country.”

Serving until mandatory retirement, my father was honorably discharged holding the rank of Colonel.

My mother Mina, and my father, 1943.

My mother was a radiant war bride. My parents got married in my grandfather’s living room, my grandfather performing the ceremony. Right after the wedding—I mean the very next day—my parents were gone to Texas where my father took up his duties as Army Chaplain.

Chaplain Avrech at play.

An amazing athlete, my father was one of those street urchins who, when he wasn’t studying Talmud, could be found in the streets of Brooklyn playing punchball, stickball and basketball. In the Army, my father realized that officers and enlisted men assumed that because he was a Chaplain and a Jew he would be, um, sports challenged. My father took great pleasure in winning a Division ping-pong championship. “I got lots of respect after that,” my father joked.

My father seeks warmth during the Korean War.

Growing up, my father was often absent during the High Holidays, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. He was off, somewhere in the world, leading services for Jewish soldiers. For a while, I felt lonely, abandoned. All my friends sat with their fathers in shul, synagogue, and I was alone. At one point, near my Bar Mitzvah, my father explained that in life, duty frequently comes before personal desires. From then on, I took great pride in my father’s Chaplaincy.

My father touches home.

A fast and elegant short-stop, my father was so talented he was scouted by the majors. But because we are Orthodox—Sabbath Observant, Kosher food, etc.—my father declined an invitation to try out for a Triple-A farm team. This shot was taken in a Brooklyn park where Sunday baseball was a ritual. My father is scoring the winning run at the bottom of the 9th inning. It doesn’t get any better.

My father, airborne.

This photo is captioned: “42nd Division Helicopter Flying test run with Chaplain Avrech also of the 42nd Infantry Division. Photographer: Pvt. Joseph Deflora, 7 August ‘56.” As you can see by the coffin attached, this helicopter was designed to transport battlefield casualties.

My father, wearing tallis, prayer shawl, leads High Holiday services during the Korean War.

I once asked my father of what he was most proud during his service in the Army. He told me that he once led Protestant religious services because there was no Christian Chaplain available. “I did a real mitzvah,” he said.

All his life my father has served family, community and country with selfless devotion.

There is no greater role model.

Copyright © Robert J. Avrech