It's all about family

When I talk about Sybil it is also good to remember that she had some siblings that were equally wonderful. Her oldest sister Bernice, lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia and pretended she was a WASP. Her kids played tennis and skied. I was mildly jealous, but Sybil was not about to buy me equipment for a sport I was too Jewish to be coordinated to play in the first place.  We would visit Bernice from time to time and for the most part I had a good time. The WASP life provided a swimming pool, a pinball machine, and an ice cream maker.  So basically in my mind she was awesome.  My brother on the other hand has different memories than me. Bernice saw him biting his nails and told him he would never amount to anything because of it. She also told him he had Crohn's disease because he was weak.

As a teenager, my brother told Sybil he hoped Bernice would get cancer and die.  A few years later she did.

Coincidence, I think not.

You just can't find good help these days

I've been wondering about something lately.

I mentioned more than once that Sybil has an aide. Forty hours a week a woman comes to 25 Taylor Street and waits on Sybil as if it is 1943 in the rural south. Obviously in that illusion you need to pretend Sybil is white. This aide cooks, cleans, runs errands, and even organizes my GI Joes (someone did it and no one will tell me who). Hell this aide even sits with Sybil while she watches her stories. When I visited, Sybil commented on how she prefers the aide to my company because the aide caters to her. I can understand that. The aide put the pillow under her head not over.

Sybil mentioned the service gets roughly $48 an hour. Now I know my mother likes having for all intents and purposes a slave, but at the same time I know she rather have forty eight dollars. This is true even if it was forty eight dollar for the whole week. Given the choice she always picks the money. So can anyone guess the angle she has going with the owner of the service? I'm assuming she pays him, then he writes a much larger bill to her insurance and she gets a kick back, or maybe she pays in sexual favors. Okay I'm kidding but I do wonder. I need to make sure Sybil is getting the best care and or I'm worried about my inheritance.

I will say I liked her aide. She crossed herself and told me she has really good patience when I asked how it was to work for Sybil. She also told me in August she was moving to Orlando. Clearly both are lies.

Vegas buffet of medicine

Being a kid is awesome. You are amazed by the simplest shit. For example, take a child out for his first steak dinner and his mind will be blown. It doesn't matter that it was Chili's and the meat tasted like leather. They don't know any better. With this in mind you will understand why when I was little  I thought my mother provided us with amazing health coverage. I based this solely on the fact we had no co-pay. Sure the medical group eventually went bankrupt, but before they did, I was able to go to the doctor every single day and there was never a bill. To a neurotic hypochondriac Jew this was like winning the lottery. 

I went to the doctor for anything and everything. Sore throat, yup. ingrown toe nail, yup. Fart that hurt coming out, yup. By sixteen I had a medical chart that was a few inches thick. My mother not only condoned it but she encouraged me to go as often as I wanted to. When I moved to California, I finally stopped the absurdity (co-pay was $40.) Now when my throat hurts I have my friend that is a hand surgeon call in the Z pack. Only did that four times this year so clearly I am no longer a hypochondriac. As for Sybil she still goes once a week to the doctor whether she needs it or not.  Today it was because her jaw hurt. Last week it was because she had the runs (her words, not mine). 

Sure I'll help, but it will cost ya!

Based on most of my posts, this might come as a shock, but I can honestly say that if I was ever in trouble, I think Sybil would help me. For example I once called her when I was 23 to tell her I lost my job. Before I could say anything else, she said, "Well I don't have any money." Since I wasn't asking for any, I screamed back, "I wasn't asking, you bitch." and hung up. See, in the end she helped by diverting my sadness to anger. Thanks mom.

A few months later she gave me some money and told me not to tell my brother.

Later in life my dad needed some money so he asked Sybil. Here response was, "Go ask Barry." Obviously she was paying it forward.

A more recent story of her generosity involves a cousin of mine. My cousin probably doesn't want this story told, but since I'm not using any names and she is probably out buying Arlo Guthrie a birthday cake I doubt she will be reading this anyway.  Now for the story.

My cousin lost both her parents at a very young age so she has had to lean on my mother pretty hard to get the criticism she deserves:

"Your major is shit."

"Your job is shit."

"I don't like where you live."

"I'm not visiting unless you lock up that dog."

A few months ago my cousin had the perfect storm of bad things happen. Her car broke down, the furnace shit the bed, she ran out of Fruity Pebbles, etc, etc. With nowhere to turn, she called Sybil.

Cousin: Sybil, it is just too much all at once. Do you think it would be possible to help me out so I can at least get another box of fruity pebbles*?

Sybil: Do you still have the ring my mother gave you?

Cousin: The one she gave me as a child? Yes, why?

Sybil: It's probably worth $500. I will give you $200 for it.

Cousin: You're an animal.

When my cousin told me the story I was actually pumped. Not for her misfortune but the fact my mother wanted to buy her stuff for pennies on the dollar.

 Sometimes I feel like Jed Clampett.

*She might have chosen the furnace as the first thing to fix.

Where's my taste?

I called Sybil yesterday and the conversation went like this:

Barry: How are you?

Sybil: I'm going to be making some money.

Barry: How?

Sybil: The Indian on the corner is selling their house and I gave them Mary (her agent friend). They were very happy.

Barry: How does that make you money?

Sybil: Well I'm going to get a commission.

Barry: For what?

Sybil: For giving them my agent. I just need to find a customer. Do you know the Indian's last name?

Barry: No.

At that point I hung up. I would love to have listened to her conversation with both the "Indian" and the agent. I'm not even sure which one she hit up for a commission. I do suggest if she really wants to help them sell the house, she stays inside during showings.

The shake down continues.

Another reason to be afraid of dogs

During Sybil's tenure as a New York City school teacher many a criminal sat across from her while she tried to "stand and deliver." Obviously based on current Rikers statistics, she failed miserably, but before we argue about nature versus nurture, I feel it is best to remind everyone that the criminal element Sybil taught transcended color and economic standing. In fact long before the black/Puerto Rican rapists and murders, Sybil molded a very famous white Jewish murderer.

That psychopath was none other than David Berkowitz, a.k.a Son of Sam, a.k.a the .44 cal killer. When I asked Sybil what it was like to teach such a notorious lunatic, she responded with, "He was a little nothing. Quiet like a mouse." I swear his arresting officer said the same thing.

To show proof that I'm not the only one who was profoundly affected by Sybil, I am posting a text I received from my brother the other day:

Watched this insane interview of David Berkowitz and how the killings were part of this satanic cult, of which this late producer (Roy Radin) had a mansion in Long Island where films ($50,000 to view) of adults screwing children. I ended up with a crazy nightmare where Sybil was one of the Satanists. She was on top of me. Grinding. I was trying to kill her.

The last sentence had me speed dialing my therapist.

Roundhouse to the vagina

If I ever had a time machine I would use it to travel back in time to eat at long defunct restaurants. I need to know if Pie in the Sky and the Rustler are as good as I remember. Once I had my fill, I suppose I would travel back to the 40s. I don't want to kill Hitler or do anything noble like that. I really just want to see the family dynamic that was going on in Sybil's childhood home. Accounts vary from my grandparents not speaking English to my grandfather being a local furrier/loan shark. The only thing I can confirm is that Sybil had three siblings, Evelyn, Bernice, and Allen. In good time I will discuss each of them but for now we can focus on Allen. Allen was the original pioneer of the family. He went west before it was cool, moving to Los Angeles in the 60's. 

Years ago I remember coming to LA and going to dinner with Allen, Sybil, and Lewis. It was one of those token family meals where no one wanted to be there. All Allen wanted to do was reminisce about trips to the Catskills when Sybil and him were little. Sybil kept telling him to shut up, but Allen kept pressing how he wanted to talk about the fun times at the Colony Inn (I've looked it up and found nothing). When Sybil refused to engage about the Catskills, Allen started yelling at Sybil that she came to visit him thirty years ago during the summer and because of his job he couldn't spend any time with her and she shouldn't have come then. Sybil screamed back, "I worked it was the only time I had off." With that, dinner was over and we parted ways with Allen. No hugs were given. Allen did look at me and say,  "Bye Bernie." 

I later asked Sybil why she didn't want to skip down memory lane with her brother. At a volume too loud for the hotel lobby she responded with, "Allen was a horrible child. On one of those trips to the Catskills, he kicked me in the vagina and I had to go to the doctor; I was in so much pain."

Still can't believe he got my name wrong.