Sid Stein Narrowly Escapes Contracting Legionnaires' Disease

If you have been reading my stories, then you should know a few things about me by now. For example, you should have learned that I love to sing karaoke. I am an attorney who wrote a book about cheating, I am divorced and have had some pretty funny dates. Even if you haven’t read a word except for my name, then you probably would guess that I am Jewish. I am. Sid Stein, for Christ’s sake! How Jewish can you get without naming yourself Cohen and advertising your circumcision?

Being a card-carrying member of "The Tribe" has always been an important part of my life. I have always maintained a strong connection to the Jewish community and even lived in Israel for a few years. By the same token, I don’t segregate myself from the gentile world in the United States. Some of my best friends are gentiles. Really! If you have been reading my blog, you would know that too.

Long ago, I decided that instead of dividing the population of the United States into Jew and gentile, I would re-categorize Americans into two groups - people I could get along with (Jew-friendly) and people I was afraid of (too gentile to be true). In other words, just way too goyish to tolerate. Rednecks fall into this category. If you don’t know what goyish means, you might fall into that second category. Of course, it’s wrong to generalize and stereotype, so I am always willing to give anyone, even a perceived redneck, the benefit of the doubt. By the same token, I don’t often thrust myself into the heart of darkness without a very good reason. Knowing that I am inclined to shoot my mouth off, I have learned over the years that discretion truly is the better part of valor.

Therefore, it was with some sadness that I told my friend and karaoke comrade, Kate, that I was afraid to go to her birthday party. Why? She was holding it at an American Legion Post in East Greenbush, New York, across the Hudson River from Albany, a place where few Jews deign to tread. In fact, most Albanians (that would be residents of the city, not the country), Jewish or not, don’t like crossing the river into Rennselaer County if they can help it. Our perception is that it is populated by very strange folk. Think "Deliverance." You may think that rednecks only live down south. I have news for you. They are all over these United States. The accents might change, but they all watch Jerry Springer and NASCAR with the same enthusiasm. I hate to admit this, since I am a resident of the Capital Region of New York State, but the most popular radio station in the area is WGNA - country radio! Go and figure.

My friend Kate grew up in East Greenbush, Rennselaer County. She lives in Albany now which makes being her friend that much easier. Since her birthday party, at a time when we were just cementing our friendship, she has introduced me to some of her family and friends from the other side of the river. As it turns out, many are quite pleasant. I even enjoy spending time with them. As I have said many times before, live and learn.

As a friend of Kate, I did feel badly because I didn’t go to her party. But why did she have to have it at an American Legion Post? In my life, I had never even set foot in one. I imagined all kinds of flag-waving, patriotic Republicans with antiquated social opinions. Even though I was too young to be drafted for Vietnam, I was never prepared to make up for it by volunteering for the armed services. And Kate wanted to bring Sid Stein into a hotbed of army veterans? My initial reaction was - no way, no how. I mean, come on - I am a Northeast liberal Jew!

A year or more passed since her party when Kate asked me again to go to the "Post," as she called it. A friend of hers (and acquaintance of mine) was hired to provide karaoke services. She wanted me to go for two reasons this time - to support him and to sing with her. I told her I would think about it. I considered the facts. Even though the people at the "Post" were different, by the same token, they weren’t criminals. At least, I wasn’t aware that any were. There wouldn’t be any reason to tell them that I was Jewish. It’s not on my driver’s license, even though the name kind of gives it away. I could always tell them I was German. Besides, I really thought that I was being a big baby about the whole thing. I knew some of her friends who would be there, including her adorable niece, so I would have a group to hang out with. More than anything else, I think I was ready for an adventure. I called Kate and asked for directions. It was "Post" time for Sid Stein.

I hopped into the Sidmobile and set out for the "Post." I remember feeling a sense of euphoria mixed with a tinge of trepidation as I made my way across the Hudson. I really didn’t know what to expect, but I had visions of men wearing camouflaged hunting jackets accompanied by women who looked a lot older than they really were and sporting hairdos from the 70’s. I also anticipated a lot of smoking. Since the "Post" is a private club of sorts, New York’s anti-smoking rules do not apply. Kate told me that was part of the attraction. Not being a smoker, I wore old clothes.

Despite my preconception of the "Post" being far away, it was actually quite close to Albany. I was surprised to find out that it was only 10 minutes or so from my house. I considered moving further away but was comforted by the fact that I lived on the other side of the river. And, unlike some of the other "Posts" I had driven by in my day, this one was housed in a relatively new building which looked clean and modern. It even had a large illuminated sign out front complete with an LCD display of the time and date. Kitchy, but helpful to passersby.

I didn’t pass by. I pulled into the crowded parking lot and found a space way in the back. That’s all that was available. Fortunately, the parking lot was well-lit. I wouldn’t have to worry about getting jumped by anti-Semitic WWII vets. Still, based on the amount of cars, I was concerned. Just what I needed. A packed "Post." Nevertheless, I would not let my paranoia deter me from singing that night and hanging out with Kate. Even the vets should be able to understand "America - Land of the Free and Home of the Brave."

I took a deep breath of the fresh night air as I stepped out of my car. I was as ready as I would ever be. And with that, I walked inside.

American Legion Post #1231 in East Greenbush, New York is named after Melvin Roads. No one among Kate’s "Post" friends knew who Melvin Roads was, but based on the look of his picture hanging on the wall, I thought he must have been a veteran of World War I. As I later learned online, I was correct. However, there was no way I could have known from just looking at his picture how unlucky Melvin actually was. According to information provided by the "Post" on the website I found, Melvin was a young soldier who was killed in action just hours before the end of World War I. Poor Melvin! Imagine the grief of his parents who were probably sure that their son would be returning home safely when they learned the war was over.

The "Post" was everything I expected and more (or less, depending upon your perspective). As I entered the main hall, I felt like I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. At the very least, I was in some sort of time warp. Even though I have been a fan of sci-fi over the years, I usually prefer to read about it in a book or watch it in a movie. This was more like 2007 - A Karaoke in Space Odyssey. In Star Trek lingo, I had gone where no Jew had gone before. Now that I think of it, that’s not much of a stretch. Both Willaim Shatner (Captain Kirk) and Leonard Nimoy (Mr. Spock) are Jewish.

I was not wearing a t-shirt announcing my heritage, nor a big Star of David or yarmulke, so I proceeded further into the hall to find Kate. It was dominated by a large square bar around which sat those who had served our country, accompanied by their wives and girlfriends who actually still sported those hairstyles from the 70’s. Many were smoking.
I love it when I am right.

My guess would be that most of the men sitting around smoking and nursing their drinks had served in Korea or Vietnam. It was not a particularly young crowd, but about a third of the people were under forty. As I took a closer look, there were definitely some who undoubtedly served in the Big One as part of Tom Brokaw’s "Greatest Generation." I could tell because they looked ancient and grizzled. I was amazed that some were there at all. The oldest ones looked like they should have been on respirators.

Although she wasn’t waving an American flag as I half expected, I wasn’t disappointed when I found Kate, seated at a table in the back, close to the d.j. Most of the people at her table were under 21, friends of her very cute niece. As I sat down, I felt as if I had joined the kids’ table at Thanksgiving dinner. I said hello to the d.j. and decided to get a beer. Kate wanted her usual Captain and diet. She has ordered it so many times that I have stopped asking her what she wants to drink. I made my way to the bar only to discover that there was just one bartender. She seemed nice if very busy and sported a 70’s era hairstyle. Hmm. I didn’t know how long it would take before I was able to order, so I did what any guy would do, I checked out the crowd. Slim pickings, I am sorry to relate. I did spot a woman in her late sixties at the other side of the bar who must have been quite a looker when she was 17. You know how when you are looking for something it’s always in the last place you look or right under your nose? Well, the most interesting person there happened to be standing right next to me. I kid you not when I tell you that this man looked like Sean Connery’s twin brother. http://www.seanconnery.com/ And check out this clip - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FgMLROTqJ0 I couldn’t resist, so I introduced myself. He had an accent. "Excuse me, but you look just like Sean Connery?" I had to say something. I couldn’t resist. If I didn’t have to wait so long before being served, I would have regretted saying anything at all. Oh yes, I was not the first one who thought he looked like Sean Connery. 007 proceeded to tell me a long Scottish tale which had none of the excitement of a James Bond movie. He did have a great baritone though, gravely and worthy of the master spy himself. Somewhere during his analysis of "Braveheart, the bartender came over and asked me what I wanted. I never thought I would have to be saved from James Bond, but I was relieved. I thought it would be safer if I didn’t order an import, so I settled on a Budweiser. It has a red, white and blue label. How can you go wrong with that at that?

Armed with my beer, I brought Kate her Captain and diet. As soon as I sat down, she asked me what I wanted to sing. Kate loves to sing karaoke, but she doesn’t like to sing alone. Although two people singing together usually means a duet, that is not always true at karaoke. And it’s rare for Kate and me to sing a duet. We usually just sing together, unless I am singing by myself. Since I felt like I was in a foreign country, I thought it best to start things off by singing with Kate. She chose "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." Most of you are probably familiar with the Carole King song from her album "Tapestry." http://www.caroleking.com. It’s a beautiful song, but I prefer to sing the cover by the Shirelles. It’s more lively which is a plus at karaoke. Experience teaches that people get bored listening to slow ballads. http://www.theshirelles.com/theshirelles.html

It’s important to understand something about me when I sing "Will You Love Me Tomorrow." I have to ad lib. I can’t help myself. At Pinto and Hobbs, late on a Thursday night, it can get a bit raunchy. It’s not strange to hear me say things like - "Bitch, I don’t give a shit if you still love me tomorrow." Sometimes, it gets worse. People laugh and no one minds because they know it’s all in good fun. I realized I wouldn’t be able to use my usual material at the "Post." It was a "family" place. There were old people and old women. I decided it would be wise to alter my routine. Since I was among veterans, I thought a little army story would be amusing. I decided to go with a variation on and much abridged version of "Girls with Guns," which I hope you already read. I thought it would be appropriate for the following reasons: 1) it involved guns; 2) it involved a girl; and 3) it involved an army girl.

I stepped up to the microphone with my usual bravado when Kate and I were called by the d.j. And why not? We had sung this song many times before. The music started and so did we. I don’t know if it was our best performance (I had only part of a beer by then), but we were doing fine. After the third verse, however, things turned ugly. If you want the complete lyrics, please go online. I will give you the third verse:

I'd like to know that your love
Is love I can be sure of
So tell me now, and I won't ask again
Will you still love me tomorrow?

The third verse is followed by an instrumental section. That’s when I start my ad lib.

"So, I was going to school in Tel Aviv and had a girlfriend in the Israeli army who used to bring an Uzi submachine gun to my room. She would point it at me and ask me if I would still love her tomorrow."

That’s when I heard the rumbling from the crowd. "Did he say Israel?" "I think he did."
Of course, I was thinking that Israel and the United States were allies. I guess I was wrong. After all, I was on foreign soil. I didn’t want to take too many liberties with a room full of veterans. The following day’s newspaper headline shot through my thoughts. "Man killed while singing a love song at karaoke." I immediately shut up. No more ad libs.

The crowd quieted down, but I was still nervous. Maybe you remember the scene in the "Blues Brothers" movie when John Belushi and Dan Aykroyd are singing the blues with their band behind a chicken-wire screen at a Country and Western Bar. The crowd hated the blues, so started throwing beer bottles at the band - hence the chicken-wire. The band’s solution? Sing the theme from "Rawhide." The crowd was mollified. Well, my friends, that was a movie and I was in real life, even if it was a non-fiction version of the "Twilight Zone." Still, I am glad I remembered the scene, and after my near tragedy, I decided to sing something more amenable to the musical tastes of the "Post." My next request for a song was "Desperado" by The Eagles. It’s not exactly country, but I could give it a twang and get close enough. At least I wouldn’t be singing about Israel or the Jews.

I sang my heart out with my best country twang. They loved it. I was exhausted from the stress but greatly relieved. Kate was happy too. I saved her from any further embarrassment in front of her constituents. We went back to drinking and laughing. After a few bottles of Bud, I actually felt at ease. The "Post" wasn’t so bad after all. Kate and I even sang another song without incident.

I am not sure exactly how it happened, but looking back, I like to think of it as temporary insanity. No doubt it was a combination of the beer and just feeling good that things were going well. So I did the unthinkable. I put a slip in for "If I Were a Rich Man" from "Fiddler on the Roof," one of my best songs. I really nail Tevye, Yiddish accent and all.

For those of you who have never experienced the joy of karaoke, it’s important to know a few things. The singer is holding a microphone and watching a television monitor, following the words. Even when you know the lyrics by heart, you have a tendency to watch the monitor anyway, just so you won’t make any mistakes. That means you are not always watching the crowd. In my case, as I transformed myself into Tevye the Milkman, that omission was a mistake.

I was well into the song. I had just started another set of daidle deedle daidle dum (dumb being the operative word), and not needing to look at the monitor for that part, I looked up. What can only be described as a lynch mob was gathering at the bar not 15 feet away from me. Although it was difficult to absolutely discern the murmuring of the men who
had assembled and were now scrutinizing me, I thought I heard enough to understand that I was in big trouble.

It was the second time that night when I felt like I was in a movie. Perhaps you remember the scene from "Annie Hall" when Woody Allen goes to visit Annie’s family in Wisconsin. The anti-Semitic grandmother looks at Woody and sees a Hasidic rabbi. That’s exactly how they were looking at me.

"Didn’t he say something about Israel before?"

"He must be a Jew."

I might as well have dropped the "N-bomb" on a crowded bus in Harlem. I looked to Kate and saw her panic-stricken expression. It was telling me to get out of there quickly. Or else.

I thought it best to maintain my cool, or at least what remained of it, but realized that the sooner I got out of the "Post," the better. So, instead of faking a coronary, I started coughing. I handed the microphone back to the d.j. and excused myself. The mob moved in my direction as I headed toward the door. I kept moving without looking back again. Grace under fire.

It was over 50 feet to the exit. If the mob decided to take action, I was a dead man walking. Walking wasn’t that easy either, because after so many beers, I really needed to go to the men’s room, conveniently located near the exit. A baseball analogy came to mind. Three strikes and you’re out. I already had two. Besides, if I took the chance of relieving myself, then they would know for sure that I was Jewish. No hiding that fact in the men’s room. I quickened my pace and scooted out the door. Then I ran to my car, doing my best to hold it in. I am sure it looked more like a fast waddle. I spun around as soon as I got to my car door. No one was following me. I heaved a huge sigh of relief. I was safe!

In case you are wondering, I made it to the bathroom just in time. If you recall, I only live 10 minutes away from the "Post."

Maybe you are also wondering what happened to Kate. After all, she was the one who invited the Jew into the "Post" to begin with. I called her from my house. She was laughing her ass off. She did say they asked her never to let that happen again. Trust me, it won’t. Besides, why run the risk of contracting Legionnaires' Disease?