My son encouraged me, at dinner, to drive with him the next day while he went about his business errands. I noticed earlier, the oversized electrical cord attached to the car. I’m not an engineer, but this car would be sucking in some serious wattage overnight, 6-8 hours being the normal charge time. Growing up in the Motor City meant you loved cars, and knew what belonged where. I walked around the car and surveyed the outside panel and trim. I peeked inside the car, and saw the trunk space. I imagined two sacks of groceries would be the limit. As to the spare tire, I didn’t see a compartment or a device to inflate the tire if it went flat. Maybe the tires were solid made from substitute rubber material.

We drove the next morning to school and dropped off the grandchildren. I paid particular attention to the dashboard, the mileage remaining being the key number. If it went to zero, the other transportation arrangement went into effect. Walking long distances on the freeway or strange neighborhoods was not my idea of good exercise or a fun vacation. Filled, the range was about 120 miles. That was deceiving. Turning on the air conditioner or heater lowered the drivable miles by 20 miles. I noticed using the turn signal lost 5 miles, as it blinked. Whatever you did started the ball to run downhill. Listening to the radio was a gas guzzler. If you ran out of electricity, no petrol based gas tank with engine bailed you out of possible trouble.

That console number was all that mattered to me.  My son reassured me that electric stations were being built all about town. My question to my son was, ‘Am I to believe you wait around for 6-8 hours at a station to refill the empty electricity storage tank?’ He replied, ‘stations provided fast charges, about an hour, to get you closer to your main supply.’ I mentioned I thought the system hilarious and convoluted.

Another sticky matter centered on watching the fuel remaining number. Laws are being passed by states to prevent drivers from using cell phones to text or even call, considered distracting and thus dangerous. What the hell do you think you’d do if you were down to your last drop of electricity, concentrate on traffic? Oh, and get your mind back to the main mileage meter. Am I to believe two persons weighing 250 pounds apiece have no impact on remaining mileage? Or what about a 50 pound suitcase in the trunk?

Back home, some friends I consider to be car experts said the payback to break even compared to gas automobiles was measured in years, like five years or longer. Harsh winters are not kind to cars, especially golf carts trying to look like automobiles. I can imagine an electric car driving in a snow storm. The car is lightweight and traction would be difficult. An accident in wintery conditions would be a total wreck for the car, with severe injuries possible. For $40,000, I’d prefer to purchase a standard model and love it. The variables for owning an electric car are many and not disclosed. In cold weathered MI, golf carts are not recommended. To me the car was not safe.

“I suggest you complain to your congressional rep.” I might just tell Washington I test drove an electric car and prefer safe cars.

Exuberance can’t last forever. You’re still high, just not as high as you were earlier. So your next reaction is the spoken ‘I can’t believe it’ or the lightheadedness before fainting. ‘Exuberance, due to luck, numero deux’ is the official name. Try not to injure yourself.

The next stage unfortunately requires some effort. That’s hard to believe considering the money that awaits you will transfer you into a new work classification, retirement. In such a state of euphoria, pliers will be needed to reshape your over smiling face back to a normal expression. Or consider using a plastic surgeon.

More downside from euphoria surfaces, and a new formula emerges: Euphoria, due to luck, minus Skepticism. Before, dollar signs played a wishful thinking role in your dreams. Now, the news brought a real number into the open. A number in a dream with many zeros and commas changes from an abstract thought to a reality. But will it happen? Clarity arrives and merging the metaphors of hot money and cold cash will have to wait. Skepticism produces the sweat, the dry mouth. Drinking water won’t help. Getting your hands on the money will cure all ailments.

You’ve reached another stage, and matters must move quickly. State the obvious, ‘Where is the money?’ We need to eliminate the element of uncertainty and get to the equation, ‘I’m exuberant, due to luck. Tell me where the money is located.’ This stage in the process is crucial. Otherwise, all would be recreation knowing no sum of money exists at your disposal. Worse yet, if the Grinch takes away your bonanza, handkerchiefs or paper tissues would be the windfall to prevent the oceans of tears from dripping onto clothing. It’s bad enough to have a ‘hit the jackpot’ bonanza ripped away from you. Getting a nasty cold caused by wearing wet clothes is irrational.

Before running to the bank to claim our fortune, we have overlooked a crucial question that needs an answer. Will the money make you happy? When I receive the money, will I return to a high state of euphoria? The pertinent question begs, if the money runs out, will I still be happy? Hopefully, you can say, I spent all the money on gimcracks. It was a hell of a run.

Stay tuned for the next installment: ‘Who are the fortunate recipients and how did they earn the claim to the good fortune?’

Leonard Borman will be at BEA 2011 from Scarletta Press on Vimeo.

Paul was a great friend and great human being, kind and caring. His outlook on life illuminated everyone who came to know him. I felt it important to compile stories and experiences from his family and myself. If you have any memories to share, please add to the comments.

By Anne Heiles, Paul’s sister:

Paul was born July 2, 1939, in New York City. Both his parents were violinists and violin teachers, and his father, Mischa Mischakoff, was considered perhaps the world’s greatest concertmaster at the time of Paul’s birth. People might be surprised to know Paul was a hyperactive youngster, the type who took apart everything mechanical to figure out its innards. He was ahead of his age group at school, until being hit by an automobile when riding his bike home from school. After being in a coma for three weeks, he pulled through but was slowed down.

He attended Highland Park High School in Michigan after the family moved to Detroit in 1952 for his father to be concertmaster of the Detroit Symphony. He recalled how much he enjoyed being the engineer for the Radio Club, which broadcast from HPHS. Paul later became class treasurer for class reunions of his high school graduating class. After a year at the University of Michigan in electrical engineering, Paul transferred to Hillsdale College, from which he graduated in 1963 with a major in education and minors in physics and psychology. He attended Syracuse University to study math education the following year. Paul then taught math at Hampton Middle School for a year. In 1966 he received his MBA from Wayne State University, his thesis being among the first on computers. He passed the CPA exam the first time he took it.

He also worked for the Water Department for the City of Detroit while studying for an MBA. He spent two years with the Small Business Administration, worked for Sherman, Nathan, Ettinger, and Shewach, and finally became an independent CPA.

He was a Lifetime Member of the Economic Club of Detroit and of the Michigan Association of Certified Public Accountants (MACPA) and very much enjoyed conferences, workshops for CPUs, and the conviviality of fellow MACPA members. Just days before his death, the MACPA recognized Paul for his contributions to the organization.  He also was a longtime usher at Temple Israel as part of his membership in its Men’s Club. Chautauqua Institution, with its lake, lectures, Music Festival, and friendships was especially dear to his heart, and he spent summer vacations there at least 50 years!

One memory I will treasure is sitting with Paul at what proved to be his last dinner. He made a characteristic wry joke, a succinct observation that only Paul would have made, despite the obvious discomfort he was experiencing and his awareness that his life was quickly winding down. then we talked about the Chautauqua program, and he told me what weeks he would like most to attend. “Chautuaqua is the constant in my life,” he said.

By Leonard Borman:

I know little about Paul’s professional life. I knew he was a sole accounting practitioner. I graduated college majoring in accounting and practiced public accounting for about ten years. Our paths never crossed. Syd Weinstein and Steve Klausner, who practiced in public accounting, knew Paul personally and professionally. Unfortunately Steve died about 5 years ago and Syd lives in Florida fighting serious illnesses. Steve once mentioned to me he hired Paul to help with some accounts.

What I do know surrounds his personal life. Paul was well liked by high school classmates. He carried a bright outlook on life. His handicap never interfered with his getting the most out of his educational opportunities. He held his ground. I knew Paul’s father was a violinist with the Detroit Symphony, but he never told or bragged to classmates about his station in life. I’m not sure they are aware today. He always was where he was assigned to be: classes or meetings. No one teased him all the years I knew him. A great tribute; he earned respect.

At the nursing home, we once had a conversation about his father. He told me Mischa was Toscanini’s concert master. I knew he played in his orchestra, but not as concertmaster. I said I’d seen an old Toscanini concert on Youtube from about 1952. On that occasion, March 22, 1952, Toscannini led the NBC Symphony Orchestra in a live television broadcast from Carnegie Hall playing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony. I asked Paul if his father would be in the orchestra. He said yes, and I asked where to look for him. “Over Toscanini’s left shoulder.” I went home and pulled up the Youtube concert. An 85-year-old man walked to the podium. Many camera angles were used. The camera angles of Toscanini from behind and from his right profile were priceless. To his left was his father, where Paul said he’d be.

Paul was proud of his parents. He learned study habits and the importance of practice from them. Paul said Toscanini told his father, practice with the string section and make sure everyone played together. Practice showed. It was the greatest performance of Beethoven’s fifth I’ve ever heard. Toscanini knew his part. In the performance, Toscanini by the 4th movement perspired heavily from the floodlights. Nevertheless, he kept going and led the finale with his eyes closed.

One year, my wife, Bobbie, and I invited Paul to a Seder at our home. He drove himself and came to the right address without asking us for directions. He arrived on time. We enjoyed his company. Talkative, we reminisced about old classmates. Updated somehow, he knew everyone’s whereabouts and doings. My son Alan recalled with astonishment, how he kept in contact with high school buddies for so many years. He enjoyed Paul’s company. He told me to say hello the next time we spoke. Bobbie met Paul many times. She knows more of Paul’s goings on than I do. Steve Klausner’s wife, Dorothy, is a close friend of hers.

Paul loved the HPHS reunions. He placed himself on the committee planning  every time. As always, he never missed a meeting and showed up on time. He loved being around old classmates. His notes from previous events were available. They helped assure decisions about the party were close to the vest. Costs were in total control with Paul as treasurer.

Paul was a regular attendee at Classical music concerts. It was a regular venue for us to run into each other and chat before the performance. Acquainted with the music or ensemble, he would tell me about noteworthy items. I knew Paul was not in good health, but seeing him the first time using a walker disturbed me. I hoped it was temporary, but I was optimistic.

I attended the Pro Mozart Society’s events, as the husband of Bobbie’s friend was president. Recently, I was asked to join the board. At a meeting on ticket sales, Paul’s name was brought up. He had not been seen recently at concerts. I told them I was a friend of Paul’s and that his health prevented him from attending. They were all saddened learning about his passing.

Paul was by many a very unique person. Everyone held a different opinion just what cemented a bond. Without hesitation, all feel a very personal loss.

Our Jewish Robot Future: A Novel About the Garden of Eden and the Cyborgian Transformation of the Human Race

View the complete list of Science Fiction competitors here. Winners will be announced at the American Library Association (ALA) Conference, June 23-28, 2011.

Our Jewish Robot Future presents a cheeky story that visits the Garden of Eden and questions the absence of an 11th commandment: Thou shall NOT nosh thy brother. Margarita Haralson, a post-menopausal housewife determined to become pregnant in spite of her children’s refusal to give her grandchildren, narrates the story to her newborn child. This is a must read for anyone curious for an alternative, comedic take on human existence and Jewish family relations.

Read the review in Midwest Book Review’s Small Press Watch for November. This review will appear in the Cengage Learning, Gale interactive CD ROM series “Book Review Index” published 4 times yearly for academic, corporate and public library systems as well as book review databases (LexixNexis and Goliath). This review will also be posted on amazon by Midwest Book Review.

Early that day, sitting in Elijah’s chair, I held my grandson in my arms, as he was circumcised. What followed, simply put, was astonishing and amazing. After the Rabbi preformed the ritual, he told me the importance of my role, as the sayndich. I held the child during the ceremony, with God witnessing everything from above: my commitment to faith, my character, my bonding with the child, and my steady hands. The Rabbi said I was granted permission to speak directly with God. Presumably, the Rabbi heard God tell him I possessed character and handed me the responsibility.

It’s amazing when you consider my religious training, by comparison, being virtually non-existent, with other religious persons. Piano players become good because they practice. If you don’t practice, nobody knows your name. Not so in my circumstance. I overcame my weak credentials and rose to the highest level of spiritual intervention between humans and God. The honor reserved only for the very pious and devout was achieved with no effort. Religious people study Talmud and live whole lives by its principles. It takes many years of study and devotion to reach such a high level of spiritual essence. Some work with devotion and never reach the pinnacle. But, if one is lucky enough to learn and gain an extraordinary amount of knowledge and understanding, its persona magnetizes people to seek out such persons. Who else but the creme de la creme should speak with God?

The importance and responsibilities of being a faith healer were no laughing matter. Imagine, someone asking you for divine intervention for a sick family member. I reached deep into my soul to find the right words. Besides help for illness, infertile persons or unmarried children seeking spouses came forward for supplication. Good people with hurt expressions needed consolation with gaping holes in their lives. Tears sealed any doubt of my role, and purpose and tears from those requesting a blessing relinquished any doubt of sincerity.

I was staggered by the number of people waiting to ask for help. A quick glance counted about twenty. Every person in line, when their turn came, counted on me to speak with God in an authentic and purposeful way. How’s that: an extraordinary day turned even more extraordinary. As evening approached, knowing my powers would soon end, I reflected on my special day. I hoped God intervened because I asked. The reward I wanted was to remember the inner satisfaction I experienced by helping. As to the exact date, I don’t recall.

“If Jewish/vampire trysts and Orthodox dragonslayers sound too old-fashioned for you, you might prefer Leonard Borman’s Our Jewish Robot Future (Scarletta, October), which comes freighted with the illustrative subtitle “A Comedic Novel about the Garden of Eden and the Cyborgian Transformation of the Human Race.” If nothing else, the novel demonstrates how irresistible it is for some authors to insert Jewishness into their wild fantasies…”  Read the rest here.

Have a few laughs: Check out the audio here:

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