Chapter 67 – Morgan’s Turn - Aileen

 Now with the painting sold we had enough money to splurge on the last of the Haymer Bar Mitzvahs – Morgan’s.  It was slated for May 12, 2012, the day after his thirteenth birthday. His Torah portion was Emor, or the story of an eye for an eye, which, I thought, was diametrically opposed to his demeanor and to my own beliefs. It sound too much like revenge and what does that kind of behavior ever get you? I believe more in the laws of Karma; what you reap you will sow, and all that.

Donna and I were getting to be old hands at this Bar Mitzvah stuff and the nerves were under check. Even Morgan was his usual cool, laconic self and came off life a real pro. I was saddened that my parents, and even my Uncle Ellis (who had come to Jonathan’s  Bar Mitzvah) was not there. But I could very well imagine they were looking from wherever they were at the time, with pride and love. Of course, my sister, Susan, my brother, Robbie and his wife, Carol, and their two grown-up progeny, Max and Emily had made if over from California. Once again Donna’s parent’s, David and Olive Smollett and their youngest daughter, Heather, flew in from Scotland. They had made it to all three – a long way to go. Even my cousin Bobby Graff drove down from Detroit. He, I was happy to say, had brought his golf clubs and we played nine holes at Forrest Crossing the day he arrived.

After the service, the party was to be held at a small restaurant in Franklin called The Mercantile not far from the square. The owner told us it was their first Bar Mitzvah, and I could believe it since, when we arrived at the place, the marquee announcing the event read: Morgan Haymer’s Bar Mitsfa. We didn’t bother to correct them and when my brother saw it, he almost fell down laughing. Welcome to Tennessee, brother.

The party, even though it was pissing down rain outside, couldn’t have been warmer and toastier inside. We did the usual routine with lifting the chair high with the bar Mitzvah boy (now a man) supported by four strong shtarkers. After he got down, other brave souls took their turn in the hot seat. Since I had a recent bout with vertigo the month before, I declined the event. I never really liked all that bouncing around anyway. It was a grand event and was declared a huge success by all, but I was glad it was over and didn’t have to go through another one. The next big celebration, I knew, was going to be a wedding (but not too soon, I hoped).

Several months later in the Spring of 2013, I had been hired by the a fore mentioned golf course, Forrest Crossing, to work one day a week on a volunteer basis as an ambassador. The main perk being that I got virtually free golf. I knew that was going to save me three to four hundred dollars a month, so it was well worth the six hours a week I had to meet and greet golfers at the first tee and smile (I am not exactly the most politically correct individual in the world, as many people will attest to). I must say that although one out of ten of the golfers were extraordinary, most of them sucked. It was painful to watch.

On my third week working as an ambassador on the first hole, I noticed the morning shift starter wasn’t there. I walked into the clubhouse and asked the young kid where the guy was, and he told me he was helping Todd, (the head honcho manager of the course) trying to guide an old, crippled dog off the course on hole number five. I didn’t need to hear anymore. I was off like a lightning bolt in my golf cart with my walkie-talkie buckled to my belt. I turned up the volume as I drove to hole five , but I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary except golfers finishing up their putts—definitely no dog. I pushed the button on the walkie-talkie and asked where Todd and the dog were. A scratchy voice came back to me sounding like the speaker from an old drive-in movie screeching that Todd and the dog were over at hole number two, the eastern-most part of the course.

 I had seen a dog a few months back on the same hole when I was playing golf that looked to be in pretty bad shape. She was limping excessively and her hair was matted. I went back after my round, but she was gone; now five months later, I wondered if this could be the same dog. Was it possible?

When I arrived at the second hole, I didn’t see anything at first, so I drove the cart all the way to the raised green, then pulled the cart behind it. There they were. Todd was trying to coax what appeared to be a badly injured dog into his cart with a few hot dogs. It wasn’t working. When I looked closely, I saw that she had the same limp (only worse) as the dog I saw in February, and her markings were pretty much as I’d remembered.

I pulled my cart behind Todd’s and tried not to make any sudden moves that might scare the poor creature. As I got closer, I could see she was in pretty bad shape. Maybe she was hit by a car on the interstate since it bordered the hole on the east. There were workers repairing the road a few months ago, but they had finished in April. Since she didn’t look emaciated,  I figured it was possible that not only the neighbors, but one or more of those workers had been feeding or taking care of her—maybe not. I knew that dog couldn’t hunt.

I tried to help Todd guide the dog back to the clubhouse but she kept moving away from us in large circles and staying close to the two bunkers on the north side of the second green. She obviously was afraid of the human animal (who could blame her?). There was a tournament starting in less that half an hour and Todd was getting antsy because he knew the dog had to be moved as soon as possible off the field of play. Then I had an idea. I needed a rope or a leash, but since none were immediately available, I took the black strap used to secure the golf bags to the cart and removed it from its riggings. It was held in place by two plastic fasteners—the kind you might see on a Toyota or Honda used to fasten the carpets to the floor and when stretched out measured about six feet long. At first, I tied a slip knot at the end of the strap and then eased it over her head and pulled the makeshift rope gently. Not liking that one bit, she wrestled her way out of the knot in no time. I knew the only way I was going to get her into the cart was to tie a slip knot in the middle of the strap and have both hands free to pull the knot tight around her neck.

I told Todd to get his cart ready and to flank her from the left while I tried to guide her towards him. I crept up behind the dog (who was now in the bunker), and stroked her head with the loop of the strap trying to ease her worries.  When the right opportunity arose, I slipped the strap around the area between her neck and chest and then pulled. On the count of three I was going to lift her in. All Todd had to do was stay close to her to prevent the poor dog from missing her mark. One…two…three…I pulled her up in less time than it takes to say Constantinople, and she was on the floor of the passenger side of the cart. Todd drove her back to the clubhouse with me running alongside so she wouldn’t be tempted to jump out.

Todd was having trouble getting the dog,(which looked like a mix of German shepherd and Blue Heeler, or Australian Shepherd) out of the cart, but luckily someone had brought out a couple of hamburgers and had broken them up into bite sized pieces. Todd put them onto a paper plate and tried to inch it back towards him while she nibbled, but every time she got close to the edge she would freeze. I knew what I had to do. Sneaking up behind her, I gave her a gentle tap with my right foot and she took the plunge and was now on the ground. Todd said, “Jeez, Haymer, you have no second gear.” I said, “Sometimes you have to act and not dilly-dally around.”

In less than five minutes I was guiding the dog through the double doors of the clubhouse, through the pro-shop and into Todd’s office which was located in the back of the pro-shop just past the Nike and Callaway golf club displays. Todd followed us into his office and asked me if I knew anyone that had a cage. I thought for a moment and then a light bulb went on in my head. Mark and Ashley, my neighbors across the street who had a small farm with goats, donkeys and chickens (not to mention dogs), would have one. When I reached Ashley on the phone, she said she would be glad to bring the cage and a decent sized leash by the golf course. What a sweetheart!

While Todd was in his office with the dog, I went down to the first tee and assumed my post as the Starter for the tournament. While on duty, I had a good view of the parking lot and was keeping a watchful eye for Ashley to pull up in her black Ford truck. About half an hour later she arrived and I helped her unload the cage and carried it into Todd’s office.

After the golfers teed off, I had about six or seven minutes until the next group arrived at the tee giving me a few minutes to come upstairs and check in on her. She seemed to have calmed down and was drinking water and eating the remnant burgers from the clubhouse restaurant. I had never heard her growl or bark, but I could still see that she was a bit skittish. She did give me a lick on the hand after I heedfully stroked her behind her one floppy ear, Todd remarked, “She really seems to like you, James. They’re calling you ‘the Dog Whisperer’ around here now.” I smiled, thinking, if he only knew.

 Of course it was Sunday, and after calling all the animal shelters and rescue hot lines we knew she would be spending the night inside the cage in the middle of Todd’s already cluttered office. She could do a lot worse, especially after what she has been through. Don’t forget, this dog has been out there a long time; at least five months that I know of, and had survived. She needed someone to get her to a vet or the animal shelter as soon as possible. That would have to wait until Monday, though.

Monday morning arrived without incident and she was holding her own, and by noon Aileen (I had named her that because of her pronounced lean) was being transported in Mark and Ashley’s cage to the Williamson County Animal Shelter in Franklin. They said they would have to keep her there for nine days before she could be ready for adoption. At least the tested her for any diseases and de-wormed her, but they said that her injuries, although not initially fatal, were serious. I would visit her every day and take her out on a leash for walks. I knew nobody in their right mind was going to adopt Aileen, but I couldn’t let her be put to sleep. I knew one person who could save her. Who in the world do you think that was going to be?

Chapter 66 – Red Toreador – Part III – Empty Frame

I was in a bookstore in Greenwich Village. I had heard the Bob Dylan song, I Feel a Change Comin’ On, and in the song Bob talks about how he is listening to Billy Joe Shaver and reading James Joyce. Since I had already heard Billy Joe Shaver plenty of times but hadn’t ever read anything by Joyce, I decided to buy a copy of Ulysses, his powerful and banned book about one day in the life of two main characters, Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom. That day was June 16, 1904.

After reading the book I was fascinated by it, but really only understood ten, maybe twenty percent of the novel. I did a Google search on ‛Ulysses’ and found Frank Delaney’s podcast/blog called Re:Joyce at frankdelaney.com. Mr. Delaney is the utmost authority on everything Joyce. Every week he dissects one or two paragraphs in ten-minute narrative, claiming it will take twenty-two years to complete this herculean endeavor. I was immediately hooked. I still listen religiously every Wednesday. Oh, how much I have learned. Thank you so much, Mr. Delaney!

Then I got an idea: If Mr. Delaney can do it, so can I. That’s when I started my blog, jwhaymer.blogspot.com. In that blog, I wrote a chapter a week about my band, Silverspoon. Now it is called Life After Silverspoon, (this will be the 126^th chapter to date).  I found that I was enjoying the written word almost as much as I had ever enjoyed songwriting. Then I remembered I had written a screenplay called Mulligan’s Tour, which sat in a drawer, screaming to get out. I decided to adapt that screenplay into a novel, and my first book was born.

I know it may seem like a backassward way to do things, but when I gave the narrator in the book my father’s voice, it took on a whole new dimension. I liked the idea of Johnny Mulligan (my Dad) being a pro golfer who did a little acting, and the main character (Mark Mulligan) was a golfer, too,  who played a little music.  Now, I figured, if somebody wanted to adapt the book into a screenplay, they could. Maybe it will even be me someday. If you have a screenplay and it never gets made into a movie, what have you got? Bupkiss! But, on the other hand, if you have a book, even if nobody reads it, its still a viable commodity.

While all this was going on, I was doing research on the LeRoy Neiman painting that was still in my possession. When I was in New York, I had met with Phebe Carter, one of the assistants to Alex Gleason, the buyer at the Franklin Bowles gallery. She seemed very interested in the painting and wanted to know how much I wanted for it. I threw out a number off the top of my head. It was $27,500. I knew that was much more than I would ever get, but I needed to have her know that I wasn’t just some Tennessee hillbilly that just fell off the turnip truck. “I’ll pass that figure on to Mr. Gleason and get back to you,” she said, without blinking an eye. I knew then I would be going home with the painting, but I needed to be sure I really wanted to sell it.

When I got back to Tennessee with the painting still intact.

A few days later, I got a call from Alex Gleason who was in the Bowles gallery in San Francisco. He said, “I am not going to give you the 25,000 dollars which you are asking.” (I had told Phebe Carter 27,500, but I let that one slide). “I am though prepared to give you 18,000 for it.”  Hmm, that was more than I expected as a first offer. I said something like—okay or that's interesting, something not too emotional as not to give myself away. So he continued, “As you know with Neiman's the older ones have a tendency to pucker and crack and if it were a larger painting and say it was in a corner or something like that, it wouldn't be so bad. Bit in your little painting,” (I noticed how he kept saying ‘little painting’ like it was less important than a big one, a bit condescending, I thought.)  I told him I would think about it and get back to him within a few days.

 Donna and I decided it would be best to get some more appraisals. I wrote and email to Sotheby’s and a few days later I got a return email which read:

Dear Mr. Haymer,

Thank you for contacting Sotheby’s.   Your request has been forwarded to me.   Our auction estimate would be $5,000-7,000.   We would be very pleased to have your painting in one of our auctions and appreciate the time you took to send us a request.   Our auction on 5 April needs property to be at Sotheby’s by the end of this week.   You can easily ship the work through a pack and ship company such as UPS for overnight delivery.   The auction after the 5 April auction is in late September.   If you are interested in consigning to either sale please let me know.

Sincerely,

Thomas Denzler

Sotheby’s New York

Vice President, Fine Arts

1334 York Avenue

New York, New York 10021

Are you kidding me? I was pacing now and I had to call Donna. No answer on both the work and personal cell phone. I called Thomas Denzler and he answered the phone directly. I was trying to have him clarify what he meant by five thousand - seven thousand. “Oh that's the low and high end of what we predict the painting would sell for. Are you sure you know that this is a painting and not a serigraph?”

Trying to hold back the anxiety in my voice, I responded. “Yes, I’m sure.” Then I told him I already had a legitimate offer much higher than his. I lied and told him it was ten thousand. “Anything north of ten grand and I would jump on it,” he said.

My next call was to my CPA. I wanted to have an idea how much tax I would have to pay if I accepted Mr. Gleason’s offer of 18 grand. She surprised me with her answer. She told me her husband was a collector of sorts and might be interested in buying the painting for more. I was dumbfounded. I said he would have to make up his mind quickly. She said she would know something by the next day. Well, the next day came, and the day after that without a word. I was becoming restless and called her back the day after that. She then told me they were going to pass. I had wasted three days with this woman. I was pissed and knew I was going to get an new CPA after that.

Then I began to panic with the idea that the painting, the one that had been in my family for over fifty years was going bye bye. I sent a return email to Alex Gleason stating the following:

Dear Mr. Gleason,

After careful consideration of your offer I have decided to pass on it. When I came to the gallery I told Phebe that my price was $27,500 not $25,000. Although your offer of $18,000 is tempting is it the first legitimate offer we have had, but I don't think it is enough for me to part with such a fabulous work of art that has been under the radar for over 50 years, not to mention a part of my family for the entire time.

Thank you for your interest,

James Haymer

What Had I done? Did I really just pass up all that money? Two more estimates after that and it made me reconsider the offer I had just rejected. One came in at seven grand and the other a little more than that. 18,000 was starting to look pretty good. Was it too late?

I decided that my mom, even though we would probably get more for the painting  down the line if we waited until after LeRoy passed, would have wanted me to take care of my wife and family most of all. With Morgan’s Bar Mitzvah looming and not having been on a vacation with Donna in years, I decided to give Alex a call to see if he was still interested. I asked for $19,500. He offered $18,250. We  finally agreed to the tidy sum  of $18,500.

On March 20^th , I packed up the painting again and shipped it of Fed Ex. With mixed emotions. I tried to justify the sale thinking I had never really noticed it hanging on the wall until we started painting the house’s interior a few months earlier, plus we needed the money.

I was saddened by the news of LeRoy's passing in a New York hospital on June 20^th, exactly three months after I sold the Red Toreador. The world had lost such an incredible icon, but more than that, it had lost a wonderful spirit. I will never forget the hour I spent in that room with him, and. Even though I don’t have the painting,  at least I have that memory to take with me for as long as I can remember.  God bless LeRoy Neiman!

Chapter 65 – Red Toreador- Part II

The day had come at last. Just after 12 o’clock noon, I dressed warmly while rolling my carry-on valise with the painting securely locked away, I headed west on 75th and turned left on Columbus and walked the nine short blocks to number 1 67^th Street and there it was. The Hotel des Artistes was a glorious old building built in 1917, with a Gothic-style facade featuring charming gargoyles of painters, sculptors and writers. Designed by the architect George Mort Pollard, the building has been home to many of the famed and illustrious, including Noel Coward, Isadora Duncan, writer Fannie Hurst, New York City Mayor John V. Lindsay, Alexander Woollcott, and Norman Rockwell not to mention LeRoy Neiman.

As I stood in the balustrade, thoughts that maybe I should run as fast as I could ran through my head. I noticed, as a peered through the pebbled glass door that the concierge had spotted me so I opened the heavy door and walked into the lobby.

“Can I help you, sir?” The portly man in the red uniform with gold buttons as big as eggs said.

“Yes, I have an appointment with LeRoy Neiman.”

He smiled at me, but his eyes were not matching his painted on grin. “Name sir?”

“James Haymer.”

“I’ll be with you directly sir.”

He waddled over to the phone behind an ancient desk. I heard him say, “yes ma’am” and saw him nodding his head. It looked like I was going to be admitted.

“Mr. Haymer, Mr. Neiman’s personal assistant will be down momentarily. She will take you up to the third floor.”

Not more than a minute after he had uttered those words, I saw the elevator open and a tall, slender woman in her mid to late forties approached. She extended her hand and I shook it lightly.

“Mr. Haymer, if you would follow me.”

I got into the old fashioned elevator and watched her shut the iron gates. It seemed like the elevator was standing still but a minute later it had stopped, so I guessed that it had to be moving. After she reopened the iron gates, I followed her out. Walking down the exquisite hallway with hardwood oak or walnut floors, we came to room #307. She opened the door with a key and I followed her in. It seemed to be an office of some kind. There were art supplies, copy machines, paper cutters, and a large table in the center of the room with piles and piles of neatly stacked papers and pallets of some unknown material.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Excuse me?”

“The painting. Is it in there?” She said, pointing to my carry-on.

“Yes, yes,” I said nervously.

I propped the case on the corner of the table, opened it and brought out the white gift box. After carefully unwrapping the box I showed her the Red Toreador.

“Ah yes, this is something, I’m not sure what, however. Mrs. Neiman will be down in a minute to evaluate the artwork. Please have a seat.”

“Uh, thanks.”

I didn’t sit since I was too nervous. Instead, I perused the artifacts in the room. I wondered how many people had had the pleasure of being in the position I was in. How many other artists, actors, musicians, sports figures had graced this room and the room next door which, after peeking my head through the cracked doorway, I could see was the studio; the place where all the magic happened.

About ten minutes later, an attractive elderly woman, thin but not frail, walked briskly up to me with the Red Toreador in her hands.

“I’m Janet Neiman, and you must be Mr. Haymer.”

“Yes.” I took her hand and once again shook it. I was surprised at her handshake. It was firm and self-assured.

“I am sorry to put you through all this trouble, Mr. Haymer, but we have had many people come to us claiming to have original paintings by my husband and only a rare few were authenticated. But, I must say, I think this is one of his. There was a series of painting LeRoy did in the late fifties and they were featured in Playboy magazine. This seems to be one of them. How did you acquire it?”

I explained to Mrs. Neiman the story of how my mom and dad met LeRoy at a party in Manhattan back when I was a toddler and I could see she was amused.

“I see. Come let’s have a better look, shall we?”

She walked over to the table and turned the painted over. “Yes, I can see by the cut of the board, it’s definitely one of LeRoy’s. He used to be so impatient when he cut them, there was always a splinter or a rough edge to it. See?”
She showed me the right edge of the painting, how it looked a bit jagged.

“I see. So you’re saying it’s real?”

“Yes. And the signature is most definitely his. Lynn will be bringing my husband down in a minute. Now I have to warn you, Leroy has been very ill and very rarely if at all receives visitors. But, after I told him you had come all the way from Nashville, Tennessee to meet him he became excited. He loves Nashville and had always planned on painting the skyline and some country stars, but never got around to it. You will have to speak very loudly, though. He has one of those amplifier things, but hates to use it. But I always insist that he does around people. If you like you can wait in the studio.”

“Thanks, that would be great.”

I opened my carry-on and bought out one of my CD’s and some pictures of my mom and dad from the fifties. I thought maybe, if he wasn’t too far gone, he might remember them. The room was beyond belief. The floors were splattered with paint with every color imaginable. I was thinking that the floor could be sold a s a work of art for millions of dollars. There were some original paintings on the wall. One with Mohammed Ali, one with a gangster I thought could be Al Capone. On the other wall was a painting of various jazz musicians, Charlie Parker, John Coltrane to name a few. Under that painting were his art supplies and brushes. God, I felt honored and lucky to be there.

While I was staring at the jazz painting, I heard the sound of wheels rolling and then I saw him. LeRoy was in a wheelchair and I could see his right leg had been amputated at the knee. I tried not to focus on it, though.

“Mr. Haymer, this is my husband, Le Roy. LeRoy, this is Mr. James Haymer. He has come all the way from Nashville to meet you and he brought the Red Toreador.”

LeRoy had a perpetual grin on his face and I wasn’t sure if he was getting any of it. I figured he had some kind of dementia or Alzheimer’s disease.

Even though I tried not to look at the leg, Janet Neiman picked upon it immediately. She was a sharp as a tack, that woman. I realized how difficult that was for her, being 87 and having all of her faculties, while her husband, once so vital, was wasting away.

“LeRoy had a nasty infection in his leg and the doctors felt it was going to kill him if, you know, so he had it removed. I’m sorry if it comes to a shock to you.”

“No, no. I understand.”

“Hello, Mr. Neiman.” I pointed to the Al Capone painting. “I really love that painting. Is it Al Capone?”

“I love gangsters,” he said in a creaky voice.

“Me too,” I said with a smile I couldn’t or wouldn’t even try to hide.

I opened my folder with some pictures of my mom and dad and showed them to him thinking maybe it might spark some kind of memory. He stared at the one of my father for a bit and then said, “I see him around sometimes. I see my brother, too.”

Janet Neiman whispered in my ear, “His brother has been dead for twenty years.”

 I nodded my head knowingly. Then I brought out one of my CDs and gave it to him. He looked genuinely pleased.

“Would you like an autograph, Mr. Haymer?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.”

She walked over to the shelf and brought down a six by nine inch cardboard flyer announcing an art showing at the Franklin Bowles Galleries, one in San Francisco on May 12^th and the other here in New York on May 19^th. I was hoping he would still be alive to attend. On the front of the flyer was a photo of LeRoy from the sixties or seventies wearing a navy blue Pea coat and a gray scarf with his trademark cigar in his right hand. I was sure he didn’t smoke anymore. His wife gave him a pen and he signed the card, but he left off the “an” in Neiman.

“LeRoy, you didn’t finish the signature.”

“Huh?”

“The signature, LeRoy.” She then held his hand and guided the final two letters of his last name which almost matched but was slightly tilting downwards. It would have to do.

“I’m afraid my husband has had enough excitement for one day. Now if you will excuse us.I must get him back to his room. It was a pleasure meeting you. By the way, are you planning on selling the painting?”

“I’m not sure . . . maybe.”

“Well if you are, there is a gallery in the Village that handles all of LeRoy’s art. The name is on the back of that card. If you like I could put a callin and they might be able to see you while you are in town.”

“That would be great, thanks, Mrs. Neiman.”

“Oh, please call me Janet,”

“Thank you, Janet.”

A minute later Lynn was wheeling LeRoy out of the room and I knew it would be the last time I would ever see him again. What a rare and glorious honor it was. Truly blessed.

Chapter 64 – Red Toreador – Part One

In the fall of 2011, I noticed a 9 by 12 inch painting of a red toreador in the foyer I hadn't really paid attention to for some time. I can remember it hanging on the living room wall in Jericho fifty years ago, and can can still vaguely recall my parents telling me how they had met LeRoy Neiman at a party in Manhattan in the early sixties. I was eight, nine maybe. It could have been even earlier than that because it seemed like it had always been there. My mom said she never really liked that painting in the least. Even though it looked like someone had eaten a whole set of Crayola crayons and then threw them up onto a poster-board, I still liked it.

So times being what they were, rotten, financially anyway, my wife started researching the painting on the internet. Couldn't do that thirty years ago. She found LeRoy Neiman's official website and emailed a very sweet and concise letter. I was surprised that they had emailed back so quickly. They said they would like to see a picture of it, so we took two photos without a flash and tried to fix the brightness on the Kodak program. I did the best I could, and sent it off to Lynn, who is some kind of go-between to the man himself who was 90 years old at that time, if he was a day.

So then the waiting game began. A week went by without a response and I decided to check in with an inquiry email. I had heard back within a few hours. The email read:

Dear Donna,

Yes we have been studying it. There was a Toreador that Mr. Neiman painted that was reproduced in Playboy Magazine in "Man At His Leisure", Mr. Neiman feature in Playboy for over 15 years. Your painting is almost identical to this image but not as realized. Within the past few years we received an inquiry regarding a painting that was presented to us for verification. It looked very much like yours. Mr. Neiman at that time said he did not believe it was his. If you are confident it is an original LeRoy Neiman painting, we recommend you contact an appraiser to verify that this is an original work by the hand of LeRoy Neiman. We can direct you to a respected individual who is a certified appraiser and has worked with Mr. Neiman's original art for over 20 years. If you care to ship it to us Fed-Ex we will be more than happy to authenticate the painting. You can contact Jane St. Lifer at bla-bla-bla for all the details.

Sincerely,

Lynn Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman

You know how when you stick your neck out into the cosmic consciousness it always sends you little affirmations. I was just thinking about the whole painting biz, when I pressed the info button on the movie on HBO. It was called Picture Perfect. I thought, “Now that is perfect.” There was no way in the world I was going to ship that painting. What if it got lost? Even with insurance, the painting hadn't been appraised or authenticated and there was no way to tell what its true value was. I decided right then and there that I was going to NYC, and if they wanted to see the painting, they were going to have to see me, too. I sent another email explaining how I wanted to have their local people appraise the painting, and part of the deal would be, if they would be so kind, to give me a chance to meet the man himself—LeRoy Neiman! Later that week I received a follow-up email:

Dear Mr. Haymer,

We have many pressing obligations between now and the New Year. Would you be able to travel here in January or at some time convenient for you in early 2012? I understand how you feel about shipping your painting. Even though it will be in your hands, make certain that it is wrapped carefully. Let us know when you can arrange to bring the painting to the studio in New York. Once a date and time is set, we will give you the address which is very near Lincoln Center. If you don't mind using email to communicate, we prefer not using the telephone as LeRoy Neiman is 90 and his wife Janet is 87 years old. The studio shares the same telephone line and we try not to inconvenience them in case we happen to be out.

We ought to solve this mystery together.

Warm regards,

Lynn Quayle, Asst. to Mr. Neiman

Upper West Side, Manhattan, January 11, 2012.

Seventy-three, seventy-four, At last! I turned left on seventy-fifth street and was looking for number twenty-four. There's eight. Ten. God, these numbers are so close together. There was a young woman coming out of the door on number twenty-four. It was Amy Sterling, Max's girlfriend. I think we recognized each other at the same time and she gave me a hug which I returned quickly because I had to piss like a racehorse. I saw Max standing on the wooden floors in the living room of this small but nice apartment. We hugged for a sufficient amount of time and I asked to use the bathroom. Thank God it was just to the left of the front door as you were walking in. Oh relief is such a good thing.

I sat down on the black vinyl love-seat. Max sat next to me with Amy on the chair next to the console Story and Clark piano that he had purchased for four hundred dollars because of a broken leg that was an easy fix. He still had the broken piece taped to the scarred leg. I laid out the photos I had taken with me of my mom and dad. There were two shots of Robbie an Dad in St. Louis back in the early eighties. They did a show together called Tribute about a father and son. Excellent casting. I showed Max and Amy the copies of the Woody Allen skits I had also brought with me. Woody Allen had written some material for my dad, who was a stand-up comedian in the late fifties in Tamament, a Jewish resort up in northern Pennsylvania. There was a body of water called Scroon Lake. It must have been a pleasant enough day, so Woody and his first wife, Harleen, had decided to take my sister and me out on a rowboat. Well, as the story was relayed to me, since I was too young to remember, the boat sprang a leak and was sinking. It was soon spotted by the Coast Guard and we were eventually rescued. I can just imagine Woody ranting and raving and pulling out his ginger hair (which he had a lot more of at the time), and then screaming to his wife about how he was going to drown, or worse, be responsible for the deaths of two kids under the age of five.

“Let's see the Neiman,” Max and Amy said in unison. I unpacked my case an unzipped the special compartment and was happy to see the white 12 x 14 inch gift box looking no worse for wear. I placed the box on the glass coffee table carefully removed the Scotch tape on the corners. I opened the box. Off with the bubble wrap, off with the tissue paper and there it was, back in the same city where my parents first laid there hands on it. It looked vibrant in the soft track lighting and I was overcome by a sense of guilt and remorse. Maybe I should keep it after all? It's funny how something you had looked at all your life and mostly taken for granted all of a sudden takes on new beauty. I was connecting more and more to the small work of art and dreaded having to part with it; I knew that, in the end, I probably would.

When I woke up around five the next morning, I tried to be as quiet as possible. Even though the bedroom downstairs had its own bathroom, it didn't have a door. I ground the coffee quickly in their souped up grinder and tried to figure out how the coffee machine worked, but I couldn't, so I decided I would brave the elements a little later and go looking for a Starbucks. I went into the bathroom, took a quick bath to clean up, shave and pass the time. I did a nice number two in the toilet and flushed. Not going down. Uh oh. I flushed again, this time water had overflowed and was spilling out all over the floor. I wiped up most of it with the bland guest towel they had given me to use, and then searched for a toilet plunger. Unfortunately, there wasn't one in this bathroom. I checked the front closet, but nothing but coats and woman's shoes in a plastic rack attached to the inside of the door. I said to myself, “I'll bet its in the downstairs bathroom, but I can't disturb my nephew and his girlfriend. Damn. I'll just have to go out and find one.”

I had been given a set of three keys, one for the front door of the building and two for the apartment's front door. I locked the door of their apartment and ventured out into the crisp Manhattan morning. The sun was starting to peek through the buildings on the upper east side with rays of light illuminating the tower of the Chrysler building, one of my favorite edifices. Walking at quick pace, I saw a Starbucks on Broadway and 72nd. It was starting to rain pretty heavily now so it was a good place to seek shelter. I took my coffee to go and went looking for a place that might sell a cheap toilet plunger. I new Max and Amy weren't going to be up for awhile, so I had time to peruse the area.

I found a pharmacy of some kind that had all sorts of do-dads and whatnot’s, but there weren't any toilet plungers. I asked the African/American gentleman at the counter where I might find one so he suggested someplace on Broadway past 73rd where I might be lucky enough to find one. It was pouring now and I got caught at the center island in the middle of Broadway trying to cross the street. Cars speeding by and a classic thing happened. It was like the scene in The Mask, where Jim Carrey's character is waiting to get into the Cocoa Bongo to meet up with Cameron Diaz, but gets splashed by a speeding car near the curb. That's exactly what happened to me, except for the Cameron Diaz part. I went off on a mission to find a trusty toilet plunger.

The store I was heading to looked closed, so I traveled north on Columbus to the Upper West side. Great, another Starbucks! Waiting outside the locked door of the single occupancy restroom, a big African Queen exited and I rushed in. During my pee I noticed, yes, it was a toilet plunger behind my left foot. What else could I do but hide the grungy thing under my gray overcoat and walk out. It must have looked like a rifle or something to anyone passing by. Thank God it was early in the morning and raining so the streets were relatively empty. This would be something that would happen to Larry David in the show Curb Your Enthusiasm, except he would probably get busted trying to return it. It was a good fifteen blocks to the apartment and I began walking at a furious pace. Upon entering the building and into their flat, it was still as quiet as when I had left, so I knew they were still asleep. I plunged and plunged again. Success! I later told Max and Amy the story and the toilet was snaked the very next day by the landlord. In two days time I would have my meeting with the master.

To be continued.

Chapter 63 – Out To Pasture

          

While Donna was going through her bi-weekly bouts with chemotherapy and radiation treatments we had lost another member of the family—one of our three dogs, Bailey. We weren’t exactly sure how old he was, but he must have been at least fifteen since we had found him (on Bailey Road) a year or two after we had moved to Middle Tennessee. Bailey was a great dog, very independent and one of the smartest dogs I had ever had the privilege of living with. We never had him “fixed”, therefore, he used to wander from time to time. Sometimes he would be gone a week or ten days before we would hear his claws scratching on the side door to come inside. Bailey was a reddish-brown miniature Golden Retriever mix weighing in at about twenty-five pounds. He must have been part collie too, having strands of black hair running down the sides of his long floppy ears.

After having lost Bridget and Ginger a few years back, Bailey was the first of the Tennessee dogs we had to say goodbye to. It was the morning of July 26^th 2010. Now there is some discrepancy of the date because Donna remembers it differently. I was getting ready to take the boys somewhere that morning. Donna thought it was school, but it was the middle of summer so it must have been the Kids on Stage camp. I have always been pretty good with dates and I remember it was Mick Jagger’s birthday. Nevertheless, Bailey was struggling and we knew he wouldn’t last long. The night before he was moaning and whimpering so badly I had to give him a Tylenol with codeine to pacify him. It seemed to help, but we were up most of the night trying to comfort the dog and planned on taking him to Dr. Woody’s in the morning as soon as I got back from taking the boys to camp. Donna said it happened while I was starting up the car. By the time I had gotten back he was gone. Now the surviving animals were Bruno, the black lab, Mowgli, the black cat, Josie, the tortoise shell and calico mixed cat, and Piper, the Cairn terrier I had found the year before.

One morning before the cancer took hold while Donna was at work and the kids were in school, I saw something out in the yard crawling through the high grass. I squinted up my eyes to see what in the world it was. At first I thought it was an injured rabbit or cat but as I ventured closer I saw it was a small dog with thick white hair that looked like Toto from the Wizard of Oz. I puckered my lips and called her over and watched the dog inch its way toward me. I could see the dog had been out in the wilderness of Thompson Station for quite some time by the tangled and matted hair, but she didn’t look starved, in fact she was a bit plump. I coaxed her into the house and gave her a drink of water and some dry food which she went after ravenously. I called Donna to tell her I had found what I thought was a purebred and her first reaction was, “Oh no, not another one.” I told her she was probably lost and would go around to the neighbor’s houses and inquire if they had lost a wee doggie. After exhausting my search without any luck, I decided to put up a few signs.

When Donna and the boys came home, they saw the wee dog which I had named Piper and were enchanted, even loved the name. I noticed that Piper had a wide gap between her nostrils and thought she might have a cleft palate. On further inspection I saw there was a pinpoint hole there like a third nostril. Very unique. I also had the sneaking suspicion, because of her bulging tummy and swollen nipples, she was pregnant. After taking her in to Dr. Woody’s, my suspicions were confirmed—she was pregnant. He said it was too late for an abortion and would be having the puppies shortly. I constructed a birthing box from an old TV carton and put blankets and pillows inside of it.

One morning I came down to check on her and she was in the process of giving birth. The puppy was half-way out of her and didn’t seem to be coming out. When she finally released the poor puppy, it was still born. I didn’t know what to do, but thought she might have more to come. It was obvious that the still born puppy and been much too big and I figured Piper had mated with a much larger dog than she was. I called Dr. Woody and left a message. When he called me back, I told him what was going on and he said to bring her in immediately. Of course it was a Sunday. They did an emergency C-section to remove the remaining puppy and sadly that one was also dead. The bill came to over $900. We rationalized it by saying it would have cost that much to buy a purebred Cairn terrier. Poor Piper was now the newest addition to the Haymer household since nobody else had claimed her. One of the saddest and most pathetic sights I had ever witnessed in my life, was when Piper had befriended a toy doggie about the same size as one of her lost babies. She would snuggle up to that little white toy dog with the brown spots and pretend to nurse it. It never left her sight. I guess it helped her through the mourning and grieving process.

Now it was time to bury Bailey. There wasn’t room in the backyard pet cemetery behind the patio fence anymore so we had to start a new one. There was a small area next to my putting green more than a hundred yards from the side door of the house that seemed right. I dug a hole in the clearing between two trees and covered him up with some sand and peat moss. I made a sign from some scrap wood and painted an inscription. After surrounding the grave with fieldstones I place the sign close to where his head was and we all said goodbye to Bailey. As I am writing this, sadly to say, four other animals have joined Bailey in that pet cemetery.

On a lighter note, before Bailey’s illness, I had seen a sign posted that two softball leagues were starting up. One was a men’ team and the other a co-ed. I wondered, at the age of fifty-eight, if I could still manage to play the game I had loved so much as a kid, a young adult and a thirty-something. The last time I had played the game, I had broken my ankle sliding into home plate on Labor Day in 1987. Yes, I was safe but was out of commission for months. But now I was the oldest player on the team, or the next oldest as most of the players on the men’s team were in their late twenties or early thirties, but I surprised myself at how easily I was able to move around the bases. Although I couldn’t bend down as low for those hot ground balls to second, I made only one or two errors the whole season. The format was slow pitch where the ball had to sail an arc between six and twelve feet high. I alternated between playing second base and pitcher, the same two positions I used to play in Little League when I was a kid. One of my best pitches back then was a knuckleball and I thought I could dust off the cobwebs on that pitch and see if it would translate to underhand. I remembered the time when I used to employ that pitch back in the old days I had a tell. When I used to dig my fingernails into the seams of that ball I would inadvertently bite my lower lip. The batters, after a while, had seen that tell too, and would know what pitch was coming and wait on it like it was a giftwrapped birthday present. My catcher approached the mound and told me what I was doing. After that I would purposely bite my lip and then throw the fastball. It worked like a charm. Now, to my surprise as a gripped the seams and let go a floater, I saw that I still had it. I was amazed that, even in slow pitch, I was able to strike out a few of the weaker players.

The next year, at fifty-nine, I was going to give it another go. My goal that year was to get through the season without an injury. I ended up on the blue team where I was at least twenty, maybe even thirty years older than most of the team except for Coach Tom, who was the pastor at the Thompson Station Baptist Church. Over the years, I had watched the church transform from a quaint one story building into a “megachurch” with three or four outbuildings as big as a WalMart. I was mildly upset that I didn’t get to pitch that year since Pastor Tom did most of the pitching. That really didn’t bother me as much as what happened after every game. All the players would line up on the pitcher’s mound, take off their hats and say a prayer to Jesus. I guess I could think of worse things to do after a game, but still I felt uncomfortable. Who was I kidding? I was living in rural Middle Tennessee where there are more churches per square mile than gas stations, markets, golf courses, swimming pools and restaurants combined. The closest Jewish synagogue was thirty miles away.

 One evening, one of the players requested a special prayer for the brother of one of the players that was struggling with alcoholism. The team all held hands, closed their eyes and prayed that this individual would see the light and Jesus would take away his desire to drink. I remembered how, when I and some of my friends had problems with the drink, we would go to an AA meeting and work the twelve-step program. I thought I would suggest this to the players so I spoke up saying, “Excuse me but, in addition to praying, has the guys ever thought of going to an AA meeting? It seems to work for a lot of people.” Twenty pairs of eyes looked at me like I was the anti-Christ. I felt the top of my head wondering if I had grown horns. The guy next to me poked me with an elbow and said, “Don’t be rude.”

“Rude? I was only saying that AA is not such a bad idea.” I knew I was speaking to deaf ears, so I bit the bullet and waited for the prayer to conclude. What planet was I on? I, as everyone who knows me well knows, have nothing against Jesus, but to assume that all people on earth have the same beliefs as you is a misnomer. They acted as if AA was a cult and was diametrically opposed to Christianity; after all most of the steps in the 12 step program talk about a higher power. The small-mindedness of these folks astounded me. Well, our team ended up winning the division, but that night after that prayer meeting, I had decided to hang up my cleats. At least I had made it through the season without an injury, which was my goal. I was getting into golf again anyway, and thought about getting a job at Forrest Crossing as an ambassador where by working one day a week you could get free golf. I was already playing two or three times a week with my newest and best golfing buddy, Sunset Slim. But it was costing too much. If I got that ambassador job, think of all the money I would save! I went down there that fall but they said they were full up and would probably be hiring again in the spring. I didn’t get the job in the spring, but I would get eventually be hired the following year. But that’s a whole ‘nother story.

Chapter 62 – Timing is Everything

By February of 2010, twelve songs were chosen out of the fifteen to make the cut on my newest record, Timing is Everything. This was the first album I had made where I used outside musicians and an outside recording studio. Fortunately, I still had my Protools setup at home, so after the basic tracks were finished, I would take the files home and overdub my guitar, pedal steel and any other strange instruments I fancied. The vocals I would record at the studio. Seven of the tracks were recorded at Switchyard, and the other eight at a new place in Hermitage, Shadow Lane Studios owned and operated by Phillip Wolfe, a pretty decent utility player in his own right (or as John Lennon had coined –In His Own Write). Phil would actually paly some Hammond organ on a few of the tracks and he always had a plethora of guitars I could use to overdub. One I especially liked was a Gibson 12-string from the sixties. Nice!

The record was in the mixing stages now and, although they sounded good, they weren’t great. Something was wrong and I just couldn’t put my finger on it. I had my friend Chas Sandford attempt to mix the songs, but even though he is a great producer, it was sounding too brittle and booming, especially the drums. I wanted a warmer, live sound and it was not translating correctly, for my ears anyway. Chas had invited me to a party by Old Hickory Lake one night where a lot of singer’ songwriters would gather around the campfire and pass the guitar around and sing some of their compositions. I sang a few and this Australian guy approached me. He said he really liked my tunes and asked if I had a record out. I told him yes, I had a few and was in the process of mixing my fourth. When I asked him what he did, he said he was a musician, producer and recording engineer. Luke Garfield (a nice presidential name) and I were getting along famously and, instinctively I thought, he might be the right guy to give my record a try.

Luke had a great little setup in his living room of a small house next to a church in the Berry Hill section of Nashville. I would stop by in the mornings, bring over some coffee, and we’d get to work. It was sounding great, especially when he ran the mixes through some of his vintage plug-ins. By the end of February we had twelve songs mixed and mastered. The last song on the record was one I had recorded live in my home studio, and I think it is the best one on the album. It’s called Song for my Sons, in which I postulate my life’s lessons to my boys. Here’s a snippet:

The apple didn’t fall too far from the tree;

It dropped straight down and hit you on the knee,

So if you want to grow up and be like me,

You’ve got to learn to play your song.

I’m your dad so take my advice

Go lead yourself an honest life.

And don’t burn the candle at both ends

 Be good to yourself and all of your friends.

You don’t need fortune, you don’t need fame—

All you got to do is play the game.

Find a good partner to be your mate—

Give a little more back, son, than you take.

Oh I love you so, and I take you with me, wherever I go.

In March, I had booked a photo session with Holly, the same photographer that took the photos at Daniel’s Bar Mitzvah. It was a cold day and the snow was partially covering the railroad tracks by the Thompson Station town hall. There is an old fashioned railroad car positioned on a small bit of track adjacent to the rail line. Across the street was Thompson Station Grille which, at one time, had been the original country market where the railroad workers would get off and buy their breakfast—a real whistle stop. We decided this would make a great location to shoot the album cover. I had brought my youngest son, Morgan, with me and had planned to use him as one of the band members. He had an old WWII bombers jacket and a tweed flat brimmed cap, like Ben Hogan used to wear. He looked great. We were waiting for the rest of my band to show up but they were beyond late and I was getting worried. When I finally reached Tom, the bass player, he informed me that his mother-in-law was experiencing chest pains and he and his wife had to rush her to the emergency room. I think that Rudy, the drummer was with him at the time was the one driving them. I knew then that the two of them were not going to make the photo shoot, which I understood perfectly.

Meanwhile, with Holly already there and my pockets full of cash to pay her with, I saw Ronnie, the local homeless man hanging out by the train car. When I first met him, he was sitting on a director’s chair in front of the old bank building on the corner across the street from the railroad car. It was an tiny, old brick building built over a hundred or more years ago, and I was told it used to be the local bank. Now it was a hair salon owned and operated by a woman, Suzanne. She let Ronnie sweep the hair off the floors for a few dollars. When I went in to get my haircut, Suzanne introduced me to him. When he went outside, she told me that Ronnie was illiterate and a young girl by the name of April was teaching him how to read and write. She didn’t want anything in return; just the satisfaction of knowing that she was helping a “good Christian” was payment enough for her.

  Now in preparation for the photo shoot, I had brought a change of vintage clothing, a few guitars and a snare drum, some harmonicas and some clocks (one was a Hofner bass with a clock face in the center) and plenty of hats. I asked Ronnie if he would like to pose for the photo as one of the guitar players. I said I would give him twenty bucks and he was over the moon with excitement. He hadn’t seen that much money in one place since he had a job at the convenience store a few years back. Ronnie was a paper thin man in his late fifties with long, stringy gray hair and a ruddy face. We were still one man short to complete the band ensemble. I went over to the Thompson Station Grille and convinced the cook to pose as the drummer. I gave him a three cornered hat and positioned him behind the snare drum. Morgan threw on the accordion and I had a ukulele while Ronnie slung on my old, black Harmony Stratotone guitar. We were an eclectic, but interesting looking band that ranged in age from eleven to almost sixty.

About a year later, I was saddened to hear that Ronnie had gotten an incurable case of liver cancer and was dying. He was living in a shed behind the car repair place down the street from the train. There was no heat in his eight by ten wooden shack but there was an extension cord which powered and old TV and a VCR. I went over to visit him from time to time and remembered that I had a bunch of old video cassettes I was going to sell on Ebay. I gathered them up and drove down to his shed with over thirty good movies and a C harmonica. He was very thin and could hardly talk but his eyes were still okay. I knew he was glad to have those tapes and I was told, after he died that January in the home of a local resident who had taken him in and took care of his needs, he would watch them all the time. I don’t think, however, he ever played the harmonica. I also gave him an autographed copy of my CD and when he saw his picture on the back cover he smiled. He knew now that his image would go on, even if his body wouldn’t. At least he spent the last few weeks of his life in the warmth of a guestroom and was eating, to the best of his ability, good, healthy food and drinking hot tea and coffee.

The funeral was at the Baptist church in Spring Hill, the neighboring town. I was amazed how many people were there, probably over a hundred. Ronnie had touched the lives of more people than I had thought possible. I heard so many inspirational stories of Ronnie’s life from the people who knew and loved him. Thompson Station had lost its one and only homeless person but it would be a long time before he was forgotten. Someone had erected an old lawn chair with a sign reading Ronnie’s Place outside the BP gas station where, from time to time, he would sweep the blacktop parking lot for cigarette money and food. As I drove past his shrine, I had thought about the day we took those photos. I miss that guy and I think of the lyrics to an old Bob Dylan song: Only a hobo but one more is gone/ leavin’ nobody to sing his sad song/ leavin' nobody to carry him home/ Only a hobo, but one more is gone. The only difference, there is somebody to sing his sad song. Me. His name was Ronnie Johnson and for one brief moment in time he was a part of the James Wesley Haymer band that cold March afternoon in Thompson Station, a small town where he lived his fifty-nine years and the same town where he slipped away silently in the night.