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Excerpt From Managing Bubbie
Excerpt From Managing Bubbie
A memoir
By Russel Lazega
The nine most terrifying words in the English language are, Im from
the government, and Im here to help.
Ronald Reagan
MANAGING BUBBIE
By: Russ Lazega
PROLOGUE
It was the last thing she said to me before I left for college. I vant you should
write these tings down, she told me. Mine storiesmine lifeI vant you
should make a book from these tings, a book to tell vhat I did to bring mine
children here to this country. I didnt pay her suggestion much mind at the
time. Who had time for books?What with entrance exams and fall fraternity
rush coming up. Besides, I knew that in another week or so shed be off on
some other crusadesuing Ed McMahon or planning my wedding without
even introducing me to the bridetheres always something. Shes a page
right out of a Neil Simon play, my grandmother, a true Miami Beach Jewish
bubbie. Silver hair, tortoise-shell glasses two sizes too big, and that
unmistakable Yiddish accent, I vant you should make this book. Youll be my
storyteller, my manager. Youre a smart boy, Russel. A million dollars theyll
pay you for this book! I know from these tingsIm no dumb bubbie. I told
her, somewhat insincerely, that Id give it some thought. Youve got to
understand that once Bubbie has her mind set on something, theres no
stopping her. All my life I have miraclesA little angel on the shoulder that
keeped me alive from these tings I seen. Do you know from vat Im sayingan
angel? Again, insincerely, I told her yes. But it wasnt for another ten years
that I finally listened and understood what she meantten more years before I
finally knew from angels.
A FAMILY AFFAIR
Summer 1987. Another holiday brunch at Moms. My dads cousin
Leon is entrenched in another of his debates with my grandmother.
Hes not a bad guy, Leonwhat you might call a characterhes loud,
bald, and abrasively Russian. Right now hes playing a classical piece
on an ebony piano with sticky keys. His gift for music was his fathers
legacy. The strained melody seems to smother an odd discussion that
has turnedwell, downright peculiar.
Leon:
Let me get this straight, Lea, youre telling me Ronald
Reagan is your long-lost half brother?
Bubbie: Ya. I have a theory this vas the son from mine father. Dont
laugh. I have proof from these tings.
She reaches into her bag, fumbling through half-eaten Belgian
chocolates and packets of Sweet and Low until finally, she pulls out
an old photograph. Its black and white. Creases run down the middle.
A date is scribbled on the back1902.
Bubbie: Look on this picture of mine father, and you tell me.
The resemblance to the archconservative is noteworthy, but hardly
cause to call the six oclock news.
Bubbie: Just look on this face.
She places the photo beside a tabloid clipping of the president with his
arm around the Close Encounters alien. The headline reads, Reagan
Consults with Extra-Terrestrial Ambassador.
Bubbie: It must be. Look on the pictures. I tink this is my long-lost
brother.
Leon:
What, ET or Reagan?
She remains steady in the face of a hostile brunch crowd.
Bubbie: I have proof. Look, I vas born nineteen hunderd eleven.
Reagan, he was born nineteen hunderd ten, almost the
same time as me.
Leon:
Yeah, you and about a million other people.
Bubbie: No listen, theres more. Mine father, he liked to chase
women. He vas charming. How do you call it?A card