Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world.

Special Treat – Ron Gold

June 8, 2006

DAVID, THE  PRINCESS

& THE HUNGARIAN

Alternate Title: THE SISSY

Friendship can be nurtured by music and malteds

By Ron Gold

He knew exactly who he was.

He was David.  Not Dave.  Not Davey.  David. D-A-V-I-D.

And he was a very lonely teenager in 1945.

You couldn’t help seeing him – even though he didn’t want to be seen.  In a tee shirt and wash pants junior high school society, David wore a double-breasted navy blue serge suit and tie.  And while most boys couldn’t wait to hit the ball over the fence and into the river, he was satisfied playing invisible man on our school playground.

He knew he’d never be picked for a team.  He was awkward to the point of being clumsy.  He blinked, stammered, had little muscle tone, long, dark, greasy hair and a ‘cold fish’ handshake.  He couldn’t care less about softball or any sport.  For personal entertainment, he’d hum Bach, Mozart or Schubert.

He was a good student, earned superior marks but had no one to share them with except his European parents and Dr. Mason Henderson, the school psychologist.

When we met, I had just rounded third base and bumped him on the sideline.  I reached down, grabbed a scrawny arm and helped him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he said, dusting the dirt, sand and grass off his suit. 

I apologized and asked, “Was that Schubert you were humming?”

“Yes the first movement of his Unfinished Symphony.  Do you know it?”

“Vaguely,” I answered.

“Does your family own a phonograph?” 

I said we did.

“My uncle is the president of a small recording company and I get all the records

I want – free.  May I come over some day?  I’ll bring my copy of the Unfinished Symphony with me.”

The day he first entered our apartment above our candy store, my mother was fighting the urge to laugh, but smiled, offered us milk and cookies and left us alone in the music room.  David played the Schubert, threw in some Dvorak for good measure and ended with Bela Bartok playing his own piano compositions.

When he left, David insisted that I keep the records.  “I get them free.  It’s my treat.”

“Who was that?” Mom asked.

“A kid from school: David.”

“Where does he live?”

“In town, somewhere.”

“Why does he dress like a rabbi?”

“I dunno.  That’s him.  That’s David.”

“He looks like a sissy to me.  Did he touch you or try to kiss you?”

“Don’t be silly, Ma.”

Mom never brought it up again.  She just shook her head whenever she thought of David and I spending several afternoons in front of my phonograph.  And we watched my free record collection grow.

Like my folks, David’s parents also owned a candy store in town – a candy store with a soda fountain.  (We only sold Melloroll ice cream cones and novelties like fudgesicles,

Cremesicles, popsicles, ice cream cups and sandwiches.  At David’s store you could buy sundaes, milk shakes, ice cream sodas, malteds—even banana splits.  And they could make you a coke from their fountain.

I’d walk David to his parents store after our in-house record concerts.  I met his parents:

A skinny, middle-aged, washed out dark-rooted Richard Hudnut blond lady and a tall, athletic-looking, balding man with bad teeth.  She said she was from Lichtenstein royalty.  He was a Hungarian refugee.  He called her ‘princess’.  She called him ‘Hungarian’.

When she saw us coming, she would tell ‘the Hungarian” to make my favorite drink: a strawberry malted.  (“Hold the paprika.”)

“You got hits today on the playground?” he asked.  I’d usually answer “yes”.  It would make him smile.  “I’d give the world if only my David was not a ‘girly’ boy.  I wish he was a real American boy; a boy who played softball.  A boy who had friends.  A boy who wouldn’t steal from his momma’s purse and my cash register.  A boy who didn’t need a school psychologist.  A boy who didn’t have to buy friends.”

The Hungarian caught me in mid sip.  I coughed and some of my malted spotted my polo shirt.

He asked “what am I going to do?  Call the cops?  “Do I press charges against my own son?  Send him to jail?  He’d live only forty seconds in Danbury prison.  I pray the school doctor can help him.”

One thing was certain:  I couldn’t help David.  And I could no longer accept records purchased with stolen money.  I could not ignore him – losing your only friend can

be devastatingly painful at our tender age.

We rarely met any more.  When we did, it was to hear my existing records.  Then we’d walk to his parents’ store where a strawberry malted would await “the softball hitter”.

Where else could you get a soft drink ordered and concocted by a real, live “Princess”?  

Ron Gold

outthinkresumes@aol.com