FRESH YARN PRESENTS:

Frieda Tannenbaum -- The Toughest Broad in New York
By Laurel Ollstein

PAGE TWO:
After a simple, and thankfully short service, we all piled back in cars to follow Papa to the Tannenbaum crypt, which was in a cemetery in New Jersey. Again, because of the strike, Papa's coffin was carried in the back of a baby blue station wagon instead of a hearse. My brother and I, and our three cousins, followed in one car. At one point we were all stuck in stand-still traffic getting onto FDR drive. Pedestrians glancing in the back of the station wagon seemed unshaken by the sight of a coffin. In our car, we lit up a joint.

Thanks to the slight buzz we were all on, the rest of the drive went smoothly. We arrived at the gated old New Jersey cemetery, piled out of the car grinning, and trotted to the family crypt. As they lifted Papa into the cement building, my mother suddenly lost it, and threw herself across the coffin, weeping uncontrollably. Everyone stopped and watched, unsure of what to do. I mean it was sad, but Papa was ninety-five, and these gentlemen were holding up a rather heavy coffin. Finally my Aunt walked over and peeled my mother off the coffin. As my mother wailed, "…Papa!" I'm sure she was crying more for her ex-husband, because at his funeral she didn't dare do that -- being that he was married to someone else for ten years. Nanny was unshaken and unimpressed by her daughter's emotional breakdown. She watched blankly while Papa was taken to his final resting place.

On the drive back to the apartment we drove by NYU, which was where my overachieving cousin, Nancy, was attending medical school. "I'm missing my anatomy lab," she announced. "It's right in there."

"You have your own dead body?" My cousin David asked while driving.

"Her name is Mona. I share her with three partners. Wanna see?"

Everyone paused and looked at each other. This was a dare.

And then my brother said. "Yeah. Sure."

"Perfect thing to do after a funeral," David said.

"I'll go," my other cousin Richard said.

I couldn't decide. On the one hand I found it extremely fascinating, and on the other -- the timing was weird. But I joined them. We left David in the car -- he decided against the visit as someone had to stay in the illegally parked car.

As soon as Nancy swung open the doors to the morgue, I was overwhelmed with the smell of formaldehyde. A classroom full of pimple-faced boys and a scattering of girls looked up as we tentatively walked in.

"Hey Nance -- hungry?" A doctor-to-be, who looked about twelve, said as he tossed her a liver.

"Funny, Jason." Nancy caught it one handed and tossed it back.

I gagged. Perhaps this wasn't the best idea, I realized, as another young doc-to-be showed me the muscles in the slit open forearm of his cadaver. I told everyone I'd meet them back in the car.

When we arrived at Nanny's -- we ate. We shared stories about Papa -- we ate. My mother cried -- we ate. Finally when all the lox was gone, the cousins went home, and my brother went to his friend's apartment. This left only me, my mother and Nanny. Three more different women you couldn't find. My mother always wanting a hug. Nanny -- not a hugger. Which is probably why my mother always wants a hug. Me? I'm a hugger under the right circumstances.

So there we sat, and ate some more. My mother left the next morning to return to LA, weeping and hugging. I was staying an extra day. It was strange being alone with Nanny for the first time in my life. I was a little afraid of her. I mean her husband and law partner of 60 years had just died and she hadn't even cried. I asked her how she felt. "Fine," she said.

Okay, so we watched Peter Pan on TV, and went to bed early, me in the fold-out couch in the living room and Nanny in her and Papa's room.

At around five a.m. I woke with a strange feeling of being watched. I opened my eyes to see Nanny standing over me -- in her flesh-colored nightgown, without her teeth, her grey hair loose and shaggy. For a moment I thought I was in a Jewish version of A Christmas Carol. She just stood there, looking down at me, not saying a word.

Finally I said "Are you okay?"

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

It was five in the morning, still dark out, and she was scary looking. I wasn't hungry. But I think it was the only question of concern and caring in her vocabulary. "Are you hungry, Nanny?" I asked carefully.

She shrugged, "I could use a little something."

So I got up and found a lone bagel, and surprisingly more lox that Nanny had been hoarding in the fridge.

I brought the snack with a cup of tea to the table where she sat. Still no teeth. We sat there for hours, she gumming her bagel, and telling me stories about the family. Still no tears. Just memories that she wanted to say out loud.

Finally it was time for me to go to the airport and I packed and dressed. She put in her teeth. We said goodbye. That was it.

I went back to my life in SF. And then over the next six months more shit hit the fan. In fact it seemed that the whole world was going crazy. First, everyone gay in SF started dying from a disease that the rest of the country said didn't exist. Then I lost my great job on TV as the show was cancelled. And then my boyfriend cheated on me. That was it. I started doing large amounts of cocaine, which certainly didn't help anything. I felt that my life was now to be an unending list of tragedy, and I was never ever to be happy again. I felt like I had nothing, like I was nothing. I was hopeless. And did I mention that I was doing a lot of cocaine? I was hanging on by my fingernails. I think I hung there for about three months. That's when I got on a plane to see the toughest broad in New York.

I didn't even call her first. Just got the first flight, which unfortunately had a layover in Dallas. I prayed I wouldn't lose my mind in the Dallas airport. Security would put me away somewhere in Texas, and I would never be heard of again. But I made it. Got to JFK, took a cab to 430 east 86th Street, went up to the 14th floor, knocked on the door of apartment B. Nanny answered. Unshaken by my raggedy appearance and surprise visit, she greeted me and said. "You don't look very good."

"I don't feel very good, about myself, about anything, I guess," I said truthfully.

She turned and marched into her bedroom. I heard typing.

I stood in the open doorway. Confused. Maybe I hadn't come to the right place. I didn't know if I should leave or what. This was not what I had expected. I wasn't sure what I expected, but this was definitely not it.

The typing stopped and she marched back in the room toward me and placed a three-by-five index card in my hand.

"Read this and get over it," she said simply.

I looked at the card, its title was…"Laurel Ollstein, Pluses," and it listed all of my attributes, according to Nanny.

"You have beautiful hair, you are very intelligent, you have a good sense of humor, you have a nice figure…" and on and on. It covered the whole card. A list of all the good things about me. Things I should be thankful for, things I was lucky to have.

I looked up at her; she motioned me into the apartment. I came in, she closed the door.

"You hungry?" she asked.

"I could use a little something," I answered.

I had come to the right place after all.

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