Deep in the 50’s McCarthy red scare era, our neighbor and my dad’s friend happened to be a loud, in your face, communist. Two floors above lived a spooky guy who only communicated with tight lipped nods. Everyone said he was an undercover FBI agent. My parents were school teachers, terrified of losing their jobs because of my dad’s association with his friend. My mom taught at the same elementary school I went to. And then there’s me, with the uncanny talent of doing the worst thing at the worst possible time.
There were rules for our neighbor’s visits. His or our apartment door remained wide open. My dad kept the decibel level of “conversations” at a stone shattering level by screaming stuff toward the open door like, “Communists are godless, immoral goons who only want to destroy America!”
I hadn’t a clue what an immoral communist goon was, but goon sounded like a hairy cartoon character that always caused goofy trouble. “Communist goon, goon, goon,” I said to myself, enjoying the funny sounding word. I suddenly felt someone else was in the elevator. I turned. It was the FBI guy. The air turned cold. I was too scared to say hi. He didn’t even nod at me. He just looked at his watch and wrote in his black note pad.
It was easy to spot communists. When they weren’t disguised as real people with greased pompadours or crew cuts, they had uncut, wild, long hair – like me. Generations ago, our principal had been named Old Witch Hazel. Out of nowhere, her bony fingers were on my neck.
“Hat off. You know hats aren’t allowed inside!” My hair exploded out. “Put your hat back on. I’m telling your mother to get you a hair cut.”
“I don’t need one because I’m a communist goon.”
When I got home, my mother was trembling. “You told my principal we’re communists?!”
“Yeah. Goons are more fun than Jewish.”
“She’s coming for dinner…”
“Old Witch Hazel – here!?!”
“That’s no way to speak of her. It wasn’t easy to get here to come. Your father and my job are dependent on dinner going well. You’re getting a haircut. Then you’re putting on your blue suit. You will not say a word the whole time. When you get back, help me set the table. Napkins go under the forks.”
It was the first time I’d seen my mother scared. It scared me. I wanted the dinner to go well. In my closet safaris I discovered a large purple box labeled “Feminine Napkins.” What a strange place to keep the good napkins. That’s probably why my mom forgot she had them. I’ll surprise her.
I took one out. It didn’t look very feminine, dressy or dainty, but I was still in my single digit, so what did I know. They were sure to impress. One under each fork.
My school principal was the first to see the table set with Kotex pads. She turned white, tried to scream, but couldn’t.
No one spoke. I sensed things weren’t going well. Maybe the napkins were too dressy. So I jumped in to save my folks’ job with humor and an explanation. “We’re immortal communist goons.”
I’ve never seen an old person run so fast. Instead of her coat, she grabbed a pillow. She filed a report against my parents.
A week later, while exploring the pipes and mysteries of the basement, the FBI spook instantly appeared. My fright was obvious. I worked up courage to speak to him. “They’re going to fire my mommy and daddy.”
It was like his granite face was holding back a smile. I don’t remember his mouth moving as words came out. “You didn’t hear this from me, son. I know your father’s not a communist by the way he screams at that commie neighbor of yours. They have nothing to worry about.”
They kept their jobs. I was never again asked to help set the table.