get it right the first time

I recently wrote a story about an age-old incident that has been lingering over my family for years… actually decades. The details of the story – as I recall – have been hotly debated by my brother and me. Since we are the two survivors of the story in question, that debate shows no signs of being resolved. The other two main characters in the story – my mother and my father – have since passed away, so, in the waning years, this tale has been reduced to a “he said-he said” among siblings. Not wanting to stir up an argument with my brother, I have been very careful not to bring up this incident in his presence, as my version of the story differs greatly from his. So, I have told my take to my family over the years and – with no other account for reference – that’s the version they have come to know and believe. I published this story on It’s Been a Slice, with the comforting understanding that my brother never reads my blog. He has better, more productive, things to do than read about my antics in cemeteries and my overblown analysis of The Partridge Family. Knowing that my brother wouldn’t see my “official” published narrative of the notorious Pincus Family “cake-dropping” incident, I was free to make my version the version among the handful of followers who read (and inexplicably look forward to) my posts every Sunday morning. 

I was wrong. And it turns out, I was wrong about a lot of things. 

The pre-disagreement
Pincus Boys

My brother Max, four years my senior, has been enjoying the life of a retiree. He goes to the gym. He reads. He plays card with other retirees. And every once in a while, he casually peruses Facebook. Last Sunday, while wading through the political posts, speculation on the Eagles’ chances of taking the Super Bowl and notifications of the birthday of a long-forgotten co-worker, my brother came upon a photograph that piqued his interest. It was the stock image of a smashed cake that I used to accompany my story of the afore-mentioned incident. Seeing my name associated with the picture, he figured I must have written about "the incident." 

So, with plenty of time on his hands, my brother clicked on the link, arrived at my blog and read my most recent entry. 

I don’t think he was angry. I think he was more confused, if anything. You see, he never thought there was any sort of disagreement over how the events played out. As far as he knew, the story happened one way – the way he remembered it. He never knew that I had a completely different memory of the incident and that I had been telling my version for years. 

Well, Max was about to take matters into his own hands and set the record – and his brother – straight. 

As the time stamp confirms, I published the post on my blog bright and early on Sunday morning. 5:00 o’clock AM, to be exact. Somewhere around lunchtime, I received an alert that a comment had been left on my blog by one “Max Pincus.” I held my breath and thought: “I can’t believe he read my blog. He never reads my blog!” Admittedly, there were a few stray butterflies doing loop-de-loops in my stomach as I began to read my brother’s rebuttal. 

Here is Max’s statement. Read along with me… 

Your blog certainly is amusing. Unfortunately, it also happens to be inaccurate. Here is what actually happened... 

I was asked to pick up a birthday cake, although I do not recall whose birthday was being celebrated. Once I got the cake, I returned home in my white 1963 Buick LeSabre, which cost me $325 and got about eight miles per gallon. As always, I parked on the street directly in front of the house. I got out of the car with the cake, took a few steps and somehow dropped the damn cake in the street. 

My mother -- NOT my father -- saw me park the car in from the of house and was on her way outside to greet me. When she saw what I had done, she pretty much lost her mind. She bounded across the lawn to confront me and began screaming -- in a loud enough voice to attract the attention of several neighbors (who gladly will confirm my version of the story) -- "How do you drop a cake? How is that possible that you dropped the cake?" She bent down and picked up the smushed cake out of the street, then began pushing it into my arms, all the while yelling, "Show me how you drop a cake. I wanna see how you dropped the cake." As I made my way into the house, Mom was following close behind, loudly requesting a demonstration of how I managed to drop the cake. 

Fortunately, for the sake of everyone's sanity, my mother was laughing about the incident before she went to sleep that night.

One final note: The notion that my father, who I do not recall being present when I lost my grip on the cake, "knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands" is absurd. I never saw him clean up a mess of any kind, regardless of the circumstances. Ever. 

I’ll tell you this. He makes a darn good argument. Darn good! With the finesse of a seasoned attorney (he is not), Max presents a detailed description, complete with specific bits of information and precise chronology. He even cites possible witnesses who could corroborate his story if, say, this thing went to trial. Honestly, if it did go to trial, I might be brought up on charges of perjury. 

We agree that a birthday cake was purchased, although neither of us recall who was the honoree. We also agree that said cake was indeed dropped and that Max was indeed the party responsible for the cake’s unfortunate date with gravity. After that, our stories split and split wildly. 

I will say, however, that Max’s story does make a lot of sense. I can absolutely envision my mother’s behavior as my brother describes – at first furious and then jovial as time pacified her anger. I also wholeheartedly agree that my father would never ever make any sort of attempt at cleaning anything up. Ever. That was women’s’ work and it would cut into his cigarette smoking time. Max also elaborated on the subsequent reaction of a neighbor. I could picture that happening, too. 

One of my mother’s favorite adages was: “The six most important words you could ever say were – I admit I made a mistake.” My mother was a very smart person. I will happily – and humbly – repeat those words with respect to my brother. 

Hey, I'm sure I’ve been right about other things. I guess.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

yes, I remember it well

When my mom died in 1991, she took the entire family history with her.

Every family has an unofficial family historian. You know, that one person you can go to and ask any question about any family member for whom you need a little bit of information or possible clarification. How are you related to this person? Who's child is this and when did they get married? Is that guy we call "uncle" really my uncle? For as long as I can remember, my mom was that person. She was the keeper of the Small family (her maiden name) history and she eventually served in the same capacity for the Pincus family when she married my father. (Curiously, there was no one in my father's family that could be relied upon to give an accurate account of family relations. My father's family all shared one common trait. They were habitual liars.)

My mom knew facts about generations that pre-dated her own 1923 birth. She could rattle off names, dates, locations, offspring, offspring's spouses and countless children — some of whom she never even met. Right off the top of her head, she could tell of long-forgotten incidents, including explicit detail, as though they had just taken place the day before. She could sift through a box of mismatched photographs — ones spanning numerous time frames as exhibited by an assortment of black & white and color examples — and identify the subjects, the location and the approximate date on which the photo was taken.

My mom was the youngest of five siblings — her oldest brother being eighteen years her senior. I recall my mom settling many an argument among her siblings. The phone in our house would ring regularly as a brother or a sister would call to confirm with my mom which one of their uncles owned a produce pushcart or which aunt was especially promiscuous. My mom always had the answer. "Call Doris! She'll know!" was a phase that was spoken frequently among the Small clan and eventually the lying Pincuses came to rely on my mother's encyclopedic knowledge.

In October 1991, after a long, up-and-down battle with cancer, my mom died and left her family in a state of confusion. Not only was she beloved among her immediate and extended family, but she one of the few family members (on both sides) that nobody had an issue with. She was always helpful and pleasant and funny. And when she died, family history began to rewrite itself. Surviving family members were left to piece together their vague, mostly inaccurate memories. This left the Smalls and Pincuses with a legacy that resembled a poorly-sewn patchwork quilt.

There is one story that I really wish my mom were here to set the record straight. It's a story that has become a "bone of contention" between by brother Max and I. Max, as is the way of most big brothers, is always right. This story has been discussed many times since my mother's passing and the way I remember it and the way Max remembers it couldn't be more different. It's as though it isn't even an account of the same incident. Personally, I am fuzzy on the exact time frame. I don't remember exactly how old I was when it happened. But I do know that the way Max tells it is not the way it happened. The way I remember it was....

My mother had purchased a cake for an upcoming birthday — maybe mine, maybe my brother's. I don't remember who would be the eventual recipient. The cake was in a bakery box on the second shelf down in our over-stuffed refrigerator. (I always remember our family's refrigerator being packed so tightly that items needed to be constantly rearranged in order to accommodate new purchases from the supermarket or even a plastic container of leftovers. How my mom managed to find space to fit a bakery box in that frigid Tetris game remains a mystery..... but, I digress....)

The box containing the cake had the string that secured the lid removed and it sat on the shelf with the lid just loosely protecting the pasty within. As was typical for the Pincus family, I sat with my mom and dad in our den, watching television — most likely a program of my father's choosing. My brother was not with us. He was upstairs in his room doing whatever it was that he did up there. At some point, he came downstairs and visited the kitchen, perhaps for a snack or a beverage or both. From the den — adjacent to the kitchen in our small Northeast Philadelphia house — we could hear the refrigerator door open followed by my brother clinking bottles and moving covered dishes in an effort to see what sort of after-dinner nibbles were available. Suddenly, we heard a noise — a sort of a bang! — followed by my brother angrily muttering "OH!"

My mom, my dad and I scrambled into the kitchen to find my brother standing in front of the refrigerator. The door was open. At his feet was the cake box. It was upside-down and its visible contents were smashed on the kitchen floor — a scattering of crumbs and icing in a small, misshapen arrangement on the linoleum. We all stood silently for a few moments staring at the unexpected scene that surrounded my brother's feet. Finally, my father spoke. 

"What the hell happened?" he bellowed, gesturing with his omnipresent cigarette towards the destroyed baked good strewn across the Pincus kitchen floor.

My brother, with not a lick of fear in his voice, plainly stated, "I dropped the cake."

My father was positively dumbfounded. Dumfounded! He jammed his cigarette into his mouth, knelt down and awkwardly gathered up the cake box in his hands. He frowned and spat, "How do you drop a cake?" He repeated this like a mantra several more times, until he forcefully shoved the unwieldy mess into my brother's hands and screamed — demanded! — "Show me how you drop a cake!"

The words sounded downright stupid coming out of my father's mouth. It was one of those things where your anger is so out of control and over-the top, that your mind can't form coherent sentences to express the serious tone of the situation. My mom and I stifled our laughter knowing it would have made my mad father even madder. My always-defiant brother, however, just rolled his eyes as he accepted the dented cardboard box from my father. He placed it on the kitchen table. Of course, he wasn't about to demonstrate the procedure of dropping a cake for my father. This was a one-time performance. Max just stood by quietly and waited for my father's tirade to wind down. Finally, my father let out an annoyed exhale, lit another cigarette and retired to the den, shaking his head muttering about dropping a cake.

My brother returned to his room with a couple of slices of cheese from the refrigerator.

And that's the story. For years — years! — the phrase "Show me how you drop a cake!" — was repeated in the Pincus household for comedic effect. My son, whose birth came decades after the notorious "cake-dropping" incident, has made use of the phrase from time to time. It's a funny story with all the elements you'd expect in a funny story — a silly accident, an over-reaction from my father, my brother standing his ground and my mom and I hiding our amusement.

My brother, however, remembers the event completely different — right down to the action taking place on the sidewalk in front of our house instead of in the kitchen. Because of this, the story is never ever told in my brother's company.

He may have to start a blog of his own.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

cut the cake

My mother-in-law's birthday was a week or so ago and my wife thought it would be nice to buy her a little cake to celebrate the occasion. Mrs. Pincus happened to be out on a weekly grocery run to pick up staple items for our house as well as for her parents. She found herself a BJ's Wholesale Club, a sprawling nationwide operation that — in these strange times of social distancing — allows for such practice purely because of the vast size of the building. BJ's Wholesale Club is roughly the size of an airplane hangar and, like Costco and Sam's Club (its closest competitors), stocks its items on huge, multilevel shelves in wide aisles. Shoppers have no choice but to keep six feet apart... unless you encounter someone who just needs to grab something off the shelf at which you are standing. Then, they will practically climb into your shoes with you — pandemic or not.

In addition to the multi-aisle displays of flat-screen TVs, fleece pullovers and work pants piled to the ceiling and 10-pound packages of cloves, BJ's Wholesale Club features a bakery right on the premises. Mrs. P scanned the shelves of the open refrigerated case where a variety of birthday cakes were on display, all ready for an on-the-spot celebratory inscription of well-wishes. My wife selected a small blue & white frosted cake, protected from the elements by a small clear plastic dome. She slowly approached an opening in the service counter where she spotted a young man in a paper hat busily squeezing a colorful rope of frosting from an overstuffed piping bag. She held the cake at eyelevel as she walked, carefully turning it in her hands and checking for imperfections in the way the frosting was applied. Satisfied, she was about to hand it over the to the young man at the bakery to inquire about an inscription... when her plans were interrupted.

Or hijacked, as it were.

A man approached the service counter of the bakery, beating Mrs. Pincus by about three steps. Mrs. P instinctively stepped back. The man bellowed in the direction of the young man at the bakery.

MAN: Hey! HEY! You got cakes? Birthday cakes?

BAKERY MAN: Yes sir. Right over here. (He gestures towards the ten-foot long bakery case over which an enormous sign reading BIRTHDAY CAKES hangs.)

MAN: Oh. Right. (He makes no attempt to move towards the bakery case.) Can you write on a cake? Can you do that? Write on a cake? I need a cake with Happy Birthday written on it.

BAKERY MAN: Yes. Would you like to get a cake from the ones over here? (Again, he points to the shelves filled with cakes.)

MAN: Can you write... like... Happy Birthday on it? It's for my son. For his birthday. For his tenth birthday. Can you write something like that on it? Happy Birthday or something?

BAKERY MAN: Sure. Once you pick out a cake, I can write anything you like.

MAN: (Still ignoring the entire display of pre-made birthday cakes): I want Happy Birthday... y'know... for his tenth birthday. Can you do something like that?

(The BAKERY MAN picks up a pen and paper and hands it in the direction of the MAN. He does not accept it.)

BAKERY MAN: Just write down what you'd like it to say on the cake and I will write it... once you pick out a cake.

MAN: Just... y'know... like Happy Birthday.... um... Happy Tenth Birthday. Y'know, something like that. Can you do that? Y'know... like Happy Birthday, like I said?

BAKERY MAN: If you can write down exactly what you want on this paper... and pick out a cake... I can do whatever you'd like.

MAN: Just... um, Happy Birthday... you know. Oh wait.... let me call my wife. She'll tell me what she wants on the cake. She always takes care of this stuff.

The man pulls a cellphone from his pocket and lumbers off in the direction of the grocery section — which is opposite where the birthday cakes are on display.

At this point, a very patient Mrs. Pincus takes the pen and paper and writes out the inscription she would like on her cake. She noticed the young man at the bakery shaking his head.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com