Delivering a Martini to the Devil Himself

At age four, I faced my greatest fear. My father was larger than life. I loved him. I revered him—and I feared him. From a young age, all I wanted to do in life was to please my father. This is a true life story about my relationship with my father and how his incredible world impacted my life. Lee (Leon) and I were true friends, unfaltering allies and the most challenging of adversaries.    

The following is excerpted from The Uris Trinity, now available on Amazon.

We moved back to Encino, to a house that had a separate office where my father wrote Exodus. And that’s really where my consciousness begins, in that house, with my first test of bravery, at four years old. I was given the monumental task of bringing Dad an alcoholic drink, his afternoon pick-me-up…

…I had been entrusted with a rare honor. Till then, I was nothing more than a mindless and basically worthless child. Doing this job that everyone else feared to do became my very first test of bravery, an honorable act. And if I died delivering the Martini, at least I would be remembered as someone brave and not for being a coward.

My brother and sister had told me that the only reason Dad had an office was to keep his demons contained in one place. He was working on the finishing touches of his novel. My siblings swore that Dad’s demons would be on the loose and running rampant and out of control in his office. They told me that Dad made a deal with the devil to allow the forces of evil to enter his workplace and help him write his novels. It was nearly impossible to guess exactly what kind of a mood my father would be in. And around the same time, every late afternoon, one family member had to be sacrificed. Someone had to venture into the fires of hell to face the wrath of pure evil and deliver a neatly prepared, filled to the very brim, stirred and never shaken, vodka Martini with a toothpick skewering two green olives and a pickled onion.

Even though my brother and sister never seemed too distressed after they returned from delivering the sacred vessel of elixir, I imagined them being chased around the office by flying demons and nearly perishing under the stress. The horrible stories they recalled inspired me with terror. Ever since I was old enough to understand words, my siblings told tales of blood red monsters flying around inside Dad’s office, and Dad himself was transformed into the most powerful demon, ready to torture and murder the next person to walk into his office unannounced.

I had been in my father’s office plenty of times and had never seen any such demons, but my father wasn’t feverishly typing away at the time. What was I supposed to believe, my own eyes or the scary warnings from my siblings? It was common knowledge around our household that if Dad was sitting behind the typewriter working on a book, we should stay away, hide if we must. Loud noises were out. No slamming doors or yelling. We could only disturb him if the house was on fire.

For nearly the first four years of my life, my mother, brother and sister had been nice to me. They happily patronized me and made me feel loved and cherished. They stood by my side in the face of any and all adversity. Was my entire life a lie? Had my family been cleverly preparing me all those four years for becoming nothing more than a human sacrifice?

In our Encino home, Dad’s office across the driveway seemed to be miles away from the main house. The journey was the longest hundred footsteps in the world. Mom cheerfully loaded up the traditional wide rimmed martini glass to the brim. I knew her pleasant demeanor was only a ruse to conceal the fact that she was willing to sacrifice her youngest child in order to escape a terrible fate herself. As a precaution, I took my brother’s advice and slipped a loaded cap gun into my back pocket in case I had to shoot down any flying demons.

What an impossible task. What if I tripped and spilled the entire contents of the glass? Would I be cast out into the world, have to change my name and live a life of abandonment and hardship? If I spilled even a few drops and returned to get a refill, would my Mom scold me and forbid me from ever watching the “Mickey Mouse Club House” again? And if Dad discovered even one drop missing, would he lash out in an uncontrollable rage and tell Santa I didn’t deserve any gifts for the rest of my life and then unleash the hidden demons in his office to devour me? Whatever my fate, I decided to become the family hero. I would not spill a single drop. I’d face my dad, no matter what mood he was in, no matter how red his eyes were or how harsh his language. And then I’d return to my mom and siblings, no longer a coward, but as someone they could trust to do their dirty work.

This was the first time in my life that I could remember sweating profusely. I was a nervous wreck, but dared not lose my grip. Onward I walked, slower than our pet turtle, step-by-step, holding the glass at eye level, and allowing for every form of fear and anxiety to enter my mind. Still, I made that courageous journey without spilling one drop.

With multitasking skills extraordinaire, I held the doorknob between my shoulder and ear, and turned it. Ever so cautiously, I entered my father’s office. Much to my relief, there were no flying demons and Dad didn’t look angry or satanic in the least. Bravely, I handed him one vodka Martini filled to the very brim. Dad graciously took the drink. After taking a first sip, he gave me a big smile and a kiss on the cheek. He then asked me to make another voyage to the kitchen for a bowl of cauliflower, celery and carrot sticks.

I returned a few minutes later and Dad let me sit on his knee while he sipped his drink. We shared the bowl of vegetables while he continued to make some finishing touches on the daily typing. Before long, the bowl was empty and the Martini had disappeared. Dad had even found the inspiration to venture onto a new page.

I sat in amazement, sharing my time between watching the enthusiastic glow of my father’s smile and the words forming on the page. With each carefully regimented movement of his fingers on the keyboard, a new word was created. Eventually, the words merged with others and sentences were formed. An entire page appeared, filled with words where once there were none. Then, without hesitation, Dad loaded another blank piece of paper into the machine.

Even though I was sitting on his knee, an invader in his realm, Dad made every effort to make me feel welcome, yet it was apparent that the lion’s share of his concentration was elsewhere. As each new word was stamped upon the paper, I continued to watch the very subtle glimmer in his eyes and radiance of his smile. The relationship he had with his newly formed creation was one of both wonder and surprise.

So this is what my dad did for a living. And the wild stories of flying demons in his office became clear to me. For Dad to face a blank piece of paper was his greatest fear, the showdown at High Noon, and once a single letter was typed, his flying demons were kept at bay.

And when the day’s work was done and he typed the last word, he turned his complete attention toward me and smiled. I cannot recall him ever being so elated and proud. And the feeling of his accomplishment overwhelmed me as well. It was then I noticed that a single tear escaped from his eye.

“Why are you crying?” I asked.

“If I get all the words on a page just right, my heart lets me know the words are in perfect order by releasing one single tear.”

“Because you are sad?” I asked.

“Because my heart is pleased. Though sometimes the words I type are sad. They have to be to tell the story.”

“Like when someone tells a sad story about a person or a pet dying?”

“Yes, but there are also tears of joy. When your heart is touched or something moves you,” Dad said.

“I guess your heart is pretty busy.”

“My heart does most of the work. Without understanding the heart, I could not write at all,” Dad confessed.

“Why do you write?” I asked.

“To offer my perspective. To not only relate historical events throughout history, as they actually happened, but also to show the feelings that motivated those events. What is in a man’s heart has more meaning than the wealth he can carry in his arms. I offer the feelings in my heart, through a simple display of words to others so that they can awaken those same feelings in their own hearts.”

“If your feelings are hidden in your heart, how do you find them?”

Dad took a few moments to find the proper answer. “With the light of discernment.”

“Dis… what?”

“I allow the most precious feelings and mysteries of the world to be understood.”

“Dad, how do you know these mysteries can be understood?”

“When the words come from my heart and touch the heart of the reader, both the mysteries and feelings are passed on, and my job is done.”

“And the reader’s heart releases a tear.”

Dad kissed me on the forehead. “You do understand.”

“What do I understand?”

“As much as you need to right now. In time I will teach you as much as you wish to know.” Dad smiled. “The subtle mysteries of life and eternity wait for us all.”

“Can the mysteries wait till tomorrow? Mom is making spaghetti for dinner.” Still, something remained unclear to me. “Do you believe in God?”

“I believe there is a power greater than any one man or woman, a power greater than the entire universe. A force greater than nature that created and watches over us all.”

“Where did you learn that?”

“My ancestors believed in God.”

“What is an ancestor?”

“My parents and my father’s parents and their parents before them, going back thousands of years. My ancestors are also your ancestors.”

“I guess we all came from somewhere.” I scratched my head. “Mom said you don’t write about real people. Is your story about Israel make-believe?”

“My story about Israel is mostly real but some of the people are make-believe.” Although Dad realized I was too young to fully understand, I think talking to me was a way to sort out his own feelings.

“This is what my father once told me,” he said. “Our ancestors were responsible for protecting the people of Israel and their homeland. Our ancestors even died for freedom. Israel represents our right to exist and to be free. Everyone sees the world from a different angle. I choose storytelling and make-believe characters to best tell the stories of our ancestors.” Dad stared at me, then smiled as he added, “Maybe by the time you grow up, you will understand.”

“Mark Jay said you test him to make sure he is listening to you. A lot of your words are confusing so I hope you don’t test me. Mark Jay said his teacher thinks you are someone special.”

“Son, we are all special.” Dad chuckled. “When I was your age my father used to call me his little Metatron.”

“Sounds like a robot.”

“He’s an important angel in Judaism.”

“What does the angel do?”

“He’s a guardian angel. He allows hearts to feel and souls to understand the hidden mysteries of life. He knows that everyone can be good, if they choose to be.” Dad glanced at the pages on the desk. “To do good things in life we must first be happy with ourselves,” he added.

“Are you happy?” I asked.

Dad smiled. “If I am sad, I think about you being happy and then I am happy again. Never forget, when you are happy, it gives me a reason to be happy.”

“I’ll remember that.”

In a robot voice, Dad asked, “Would-you-like-to-play-catch-before-dinner?”

I jumped off his knee onto the floor. “I’m glad that you’re not an evil demon.”

“Would you love me any less if I was?”

“Nothing could make me love you less.” I ran toward the door. “If I became evil, would you love me less?”

“I have faith in you, Son. Even if the world turns against you, eventually you will make the right decisions and do what is good.”

“I feel the same about you.”

Find The Uris Trinity; The Father, The Son & The Trophy Wife on Amazon.com