“Your big account, Shuey, your biiiiig account… a month past due again. Groisse metziah”

You’re never gonna find what you’re looking for, there’s always gonna be another door. Turn back to the light, reclaim the fight, it’s where you come from…

Shuey Portman remembered that day in the studio, the old Grand Studios near Edison, where the ancient Spanish guy with ears so sharp they could catch a fly buzzing in the next room would close his eyes with pleasure when Shuey went high. The choir had come early and everyone was getting ready for the star to make his entrance. Shuey pulled in half an hour after he was supposed to, belted out the song in two takes, and allowed himself to believe his producer’s promises that this would be huge.

In an interview on Nachum Segal, Shuey had called it an anthem for the youth, a rallying cry for the kids at risk. Back then, he’d thought “Remember the Glory” was ground-breaking, a different sort of message — but despite the confident assurances of his producer, the song never made it. Maybe the kids at risk weren’t listening to his music, or maybe they just didn’t want an anthem.

Now, the words of the high part played in Shuey’s head, an anthem to a 36-year-old kosher snack salesman who was convinced, for some reason, that he was on the verge of finding happiness. So far, every time a door opened for him, he faced another door. He hadn’t found what he was looking for.

But maybe this was different.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d driven on the Thruway and passed by the exit for the Catskills, and this realization filled him with exhilaration, as if he were the first person venturing north, an explorer on an uncharted path.

Shuey didn’t listen to music when he was alone, because it was too hard. The kids — he still called them that, all those amateurs who’d been releasing singles in their dormitory rooms back when he was on top — had come forth, and as each one had taken his place on stage, Shuey had been pushed a bit more to the side. Eventually, he’d toppled completely off the stage, a crumpled little heap of potential. He’d gotten up and dusted himself off, but never found the stairs back up, getting lost in the audience and coming to life as a kosher snack salesman.

Now, as he passed through the Woodbury tolls, he left that mental image, one that had haunted him for the better part of the last ten years, behind.

Maybe he could reclaim the fight. Something about Avi Korman put Shuey at ease. Maybe, he thought, it was the way Avi Korman also seemed to be looking for something but wasn’t sure what it was.

Avi Korman’s Range Rover was parked in the circular driveway in front of the hotel. An older blue Sienna was parked off to the side. An involuntary image flashed through Shuey’s mind: the long driveway outside Three Star Snacks, all the spots taken when he pulled up each morning, forcing him to go park behind the warehouses, secretly relieved to have another three minutes in his car before shuffling into the office.

Marty would comment about the time, Aaron would tell him that Foster Avenue Kosher was late with payment. “Your big account, Shuey, your biiiiig account… a month past due again. Groisse metziah.”

(Excerpted from Mishpacha, Issue 790)