Nani Haim Tibi

New Job

    First thing first, I had to find a job. I had a little more than 7 months before enlisting to the air force. Second, I had to get my driver’s License. For that I need to find a job so I can pay for the drivers’ course.

    Now that I graduated this military technical academy, I had a professional certificate. I was an Electronics/micromechanics technician now. I need to find a job with my qualifications. Dad wanted to teach me his busines, but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t go to technical school to be a diamond polisher. I had plans to go visit him at his new place of work, he just partnered with some guy who was a very fast polisher with good connections in this field.

    On the way to downtown in a very busy street was an appliance store. “Tel-Or”, they sold washer machines and ovens and a new line of stereo systems. Whenever you walked next to the store you would hear loud music from their very big speakers. Tel-Or also provided a car’s radio service and repairs.

    The sound of Elton John singing “Rocket Man” was luring me to the store. I walked in and looked around at the fancy record players and was amazed by the size of some of the speakers.
 “May I help you?” A red head man asked me politely. He was about an inch shorter than me.
 “I saw your advertising in the paper, you install radios to cars and do electronic repairs. Who is the technician in your store?”
 “We have two guys outdoors now installing a radio in that Beetle.” He said, “My brother is out there with them. He is the one with the knowledge.”
 “Does any of them have a technician certificate?”
 “Well…”
 “I do! And I am looking for a job.”
 “Great! We also had an ad in the wanted section. But when did you get your license? You are just a kid.”
 “I graduated last week from the air force academy, if you will hire me, you will be able to advertise that you have a certified technician.”
 “When can you start?”
  “Now?”
 “Come tomorrow and bring lunch. Our store works on a split shift with two hours break between 2:00 to 4:00 but the installation department doesn’t take the break.”

   That afternoon I walked to visit Efri. He lived across the street of the park where all the kids with the moppets gather every afternoon. After school and weekends, they would come with their girlfriends and hang out until they decided where and if to go next. Efri’s girlfriend was not permitted to ride so Efri asked me if I could join him. We had fun riding his “Tustus” as it was called in Israel. I remember one day we drove almost to Hadera north of Netanya. We stopped and camped on the side of the road under a big carob tree. I climbed and picked a few carobs. They were so plump and sweet. Once you broke them, you could see the honey dripping. I could see why they called Israel the “land of milk and honey”.

   I loved visiting with Efri, besides his sexy sister who was older than us he had movie posters hanging on his walls. His father owned a dry-cleaning store downtown on Hertzel street. The windows of his store had weekly posters of the movies playing in the Sharon theatre. Naturally, he would give his son the posters once the movie was over. Efri offered me a few but Mom didn’t want to hear about it. “No posters in my house!” She’d said. Efri’s mom liked having me there too, she would always offer us cookies or even asked me to stay for dinner sometimes, when we played our guitars and forgot how time passes fast.
 
    “Hey, I have to teach you this song I learned last month from my friend Yahalomi at the academy. He is a musical genius. I met him too late in the program. I wish I spent more time with him. He knows all the cords and plays by ear everything.”
 “What song?”
 “The house of the rising sun”.
 “Oh, I am learning it too,” he said. “My former classmate, Amir Froelich has been teaching kids here for a small charge and I took some lessons with him.”
 “I almost forgot to tell you; I just got a new job. I will be starting tomorrow.”
 “Nice! What kind of a job?”
 “I will be working at Tel Or on Shmuel HaNatziv. I will be installing radios to cars and do some electronics repairs. How is Shulamit?”
 “Still doesn’t put out and still are not allowed to ride on my Tustus. I don’t know why I am still with her.”
 “She is a nice girl, that is why you are with her, but I am glad her mom doesn’t let her ride with you, this way I get to ride. Well, at least until I get my driving license. My dad is talking about buying a car.”

    As if he heard me talking, that evening dad drove in with a Citroen 2C.  A white small French car with only two cylinders. It was an old car, a 1960 model. I loved it, almost everything in it was mechanical the lights were movable up and down, the vent was just a panel in the front that opened by hand. The windows didn’t have a crank, they folded up. The thin doors, rear, and front opened toward the center. The chairs were light and made with stretched springs. The car had a crank to start if the electric started didn’t work. But dad didn’t know about that. He forgot the lights on overnight and the battery died. We spent 2 hours trying to push start the car until some guy on the street yelled, “hey, this car doesn’t push start, it has a centrifugal clutch. Let me give you a jump.” But the best part was the car had independent suspension to each wheel. The front wheels tilted when turning to prevent from accidently rolling over. I was told the new Citroens came with a lifetime warranty that if you manage to roll the car over, they will give you a new one. I simply liked pressing on any corner of the car with my leg and look at it bounces.

    Uncle David had a car just like this one and he had an owner’s manual. He promised to send it to me, and my first project was to replace all the old electrical cables.

    Our first family trip was to the Jezreel valley. My uncle Rone came to join us with his Contessa (another small car). We were all piled in the car on Saturday morning. Mom holding My little brother Claude on her lap in the front seat next to Dad. Avi and I were seated in the back. My uncle Rone who came the night before with his family; Aunt Rachel – Mom’s sister and their two kids Batyah and Ofer. As soon as we started driving, on the first intersection Mom Yelled, “Stop sign!” Dad of course stopped and said nothing. “Red light! Mom yelled again. “One-way street!” and so on. I really don’t know how Dad put up with it. He just drove and said nothing. We passed Hadera and went on east toward the valley. All cars were passing us except for Uncle Rone who was keeping a short distance behind. Mom didn’t like it, “How dare they pass us?” she would yell at dad. We had to climb a little mountain through another valley with Arab villages on both sides – “Wadi Arra”. Dad didn’t like them, “they are communists”, he said and continued driving and more cars were passing us because our car was slowing down. The Jezreel valley was a pretty place all year round. It had plowed farmlands or fields with different vegetables or fruit. From above the hill, it looked like a pretty patch work blanket. We stopped at Kibbutz Ein Harrod (the same one I went on my school’s first overnight trip). Us kids were left to roam around the park while Mom and Ant Rachel were preparing lunch. Dad and Uncle Rone were gathering next to our Citroen and discussing the engine and stuff like that. For some reason I liked Mom’s picnic lunches better than most of her everyday lunches.

    A little after lunch we headed back home. We didn’t want to drive back home at dark, Dad was after all still a new driver. We drove on the “Ruler Road” it was the only straight road that stretched for a few miles. We could see mount Tabor on the right, and I remembered climbing it in one of our yearly school trips and seeing the French monastery on top with the tall and heavy doors, two tons each. As we started climbing the hill toward the Arab Communist villages, the little Citroen started to slow down. When we almost made it to the top, the car started to roll backwards. Dad slammed the breaks and walked outside. Uncle Rone behind us did the same.
 “Get the kids” Uncle Rone Said. “We will need to push.” It looks like the centrifugal clutch needs changing it isn’t holding and the engine slips.”
All of us got out and started pushing the car over the hill. On the way down the car started to pick up some speed. We even passed an old car.
 “Look Mom!” Yelled Avi, “we passed that car, aren’t you happy now?”
The next day Dad took the car to the mechanic to change the clutch. And when I received the manual from Uncle David I started working on the electrical system.

    At Tel-Or I was given more responsibility, they liked my skills and even changed their advertisement to “installation by certified technicians”. I got to learn about many cars. How they are built, where is the best place to install speakers, how to run the cables without messing up the car. In no time I was known all over town as the radio installation expert. But I wanted to practice repairs and learn more about the actual equipment so every time I was sent to pick up an electronic part from the local electronic supply stores, I befriended the owners. One of them knew me from years ago when I was taking the extra curriculum electronic class. I Bought parts from him to build my first real radio, not the one I made when I was five. Now I was negotiating with him about my new project - a stereo system.

    “Oh!” was the only sound I could utter one morning when I walked through Tel-Or’s door. At the front desk was an angel seated with a big, beautiful smile.
 “Good morning!”
 “G, g, goo, good mmm, morning.”
She was almost as dark as I was, her eyes were a little slanted almost Chinese. Her black hair was long all the way below her lower back. She had it loose behind the chair so she wouldn’t seat on it.
 “My name is Hanita”
 “Tibi”
 “The new genius – the young star of the company.” She said with a smile.
 “What are you talking about?”
 “I was told about you last night. They told me that there is a kid working here and not to confuse you with just some kid from the street.”
 “What happened to Hannah?” Hannah was the front desk secretary no one liked. It was our opinion she had an affair with one of the brothers. And she was nasty to everyone. Including the third brother – Moshe who wasn’t an owner but was in charge of the delivery and installation.
 “She had a big fight with one of the owners last evening when I walked in to look at the stereo record player. I am not sure what happened, but she quit, and I was offered this job at that moment.”
 “Welcome!” I said “I hope you like it here. “So did you buy the record player?”
 “No, not yet.”
 “I can build one for you.”
 “Really?”
 “Yes, it is my hobby”
Hanita was three years older than me, yet we became very good friends. Not boyfriend girlfriend, just friends. We spent a lot of time talking and even went to the beach together. Boy! Did I wish she was younger and we could be together. I loved her skin her hair her smile her everything. But, alas, it wasn’t meant to be, so we just stayed friends for many years.

   One afternoon I had to take Claude to visit Dad at work. I put him in his stroller and left the house. As soon as we arrived at the first intersection and Claude yelled; “stop sign!” The whole way to Dad’s place he kept on yelling the names of the street signs. To tell the truth, it helped me preparing for the driving theory test that was coming.
 “Let’s hope you remember the signs by the time you get your driving test.” I said to him.
Avi was waiting for us at Dad’s, and we went shopping for new shoes for the coming holiday.
 “Hey, Dob!” Avi started – we adopted this name calling each other. Dob – Bear but it was used as a derogatory way to call someone who wasn’t so smart. Yet it became a show of affection between us. “There is a kumzitz (come seat in Yiddish – a bon fire) at the Four-Season beach tonight. Want to bring your guitar and have some fun?”
 “Anybody I know?”
 “Yes, Yossi Tayar the graphic artist, Tuggi and a few others. Oh, Yossi Tayar is bringing his girlfriend and she will be bringing some of her friends from Havatzelet.”
 “I’ll be there.”

   The hills over the beach at the Four-Seasons hotel were mostly sand and a few tumbling bushes. We collected wood scraps from the construction site nearby and built a small bon fire on the bottom slope next to the beach. Avi brought some potatoes wrapped in newspaper, and I brought my guitar. We gathered around the fire and staired at the fire quietly. I pulled the guitar out of the case and started playing “The House of the Rising Sun”. I didn’t know all the words, but I was able to sing the first two verses. A feminine voice joined me for the third part and a curly head girl sat to my left. We sang together a few other songs and she got even closer to me. running her hand softly down my back. The fire was getting smaller, and I saw Avi put the potatoes under the coals when the girl next to me whispered; “let’s move to that shadowy spot”. I put the guitar back in its case and we crawled far away from the group. Before I knew it, she was all over my mouth, soft lips and quivering tongue. Here hands were moving all over my body, I was about to reciprocate when we saw everyone getting ready to leave. She got up quickly and started walking toward the campfire.
 “Can I see you again?” I asked.
 “Sure, how about tomorrow?”
 “Where do you live?”
 “In Havatzelet, but I will be in town tomorrow evening. How about at Pundak HaYam?”
 “Say 7:30?”
 “See you there, you are a great musician and a fun kisser!”
These were the last words I hear her say as she left and in fact, ever. Pundak HaYam loosely translated the “Sea Inn”, was a popular place where most of the young people liked to hang out. It was also one of the only two restaurants who served white stake, in other words pork. I still didn’t make enough money to pay for one of those, but I loved to buy a bag of “Chips” – that is how we called French Fries. I got my usual bag and a coke. I stepped out and waited. It was 7:25 and there was no curly girl in site. I waited for an hour and no one approached me or looked like that curly hair I saw last night. I guess I will never know, I didn’t quite remember what she looked like, it was dark, and we barely looked at each other. Hell, I didn’t even know her name.

***

Musical Instruments

    My favorite pants, the blue jeans, ripped. To my dismay the knees were torn but I was pleased to find out the rest of the pants were fine. I turned them into shorts. For the left over I had a plan. Boots, I never had fun boots, the military boots weren’t my style, although I started seeing people starting to wear these kinds of boots and dressed in black. I wanted to make something new, something fun, something no one had.

   Dad had some black rubber sheets he needed for his work. I asked him for some and using my sneakers I marked the shape of the sole of the foot. I cut a few layers and created a sole for the boots. The Shape of the top of the boot was exactly a copy of my sneakers. I made templates from paper and cut the Jeans accordingly. With a thick needle and thread, I sowed it all together. They weren’t the most comfortable shoes, but they were unique. They were a little too flat, yet I still wore them for a long time.

   “Fancy boots!” Said Efri when I walked to his house “Where did you get them?”
 “Thanks! I Made them from the legs of these shorts.”
 “No way! Before I forget, this evening when we go to the park, I invited a friend of mine for you to meet. He plays the guitar too. But the songs he picks are different than ours and so are his cords.”
 “Nice! I am always eager to learn to play new songs.”

    Tzvi, was a new immigrant from Belgium. He still had a slight French/Dutch and sounded very smart. I lent him my guitar and he played some French songs as well as Leonard Cohen’s songs. He used a lot of bar cords that were still a little difficult for me to play. I got most excited when he started playing some of Cat Steven’s songs.
 “I must learn to play those songs.” I said out loud.
 “Come over tomorrow afternoon, we can exchange some music.” He answered excitedly.
When I got to his house the next day, he had another friend over, Naftali, another new immigrant. Naftali was from Holland and he was a drum player.
 “I would love to learn to play the guitar.” Said Naftali.
 “And I would love to learn to play the drums,” I said. “how about swopping? I will lend you my guitar for a month and you will land me your drums, we can exchange tips.”
 “Juice and cookies?” a soft voice asked behind me.
 “Aaaaahh…” As usual, I couldn’t utter a word. A very pretty young woman stood behind me with a tray of cookies and orange juice.
 “My sister Anna,” said Tzvi. “She just finished her military service and is about to go to the seminar for teachers. Thanks Anna!”
She left the tray on the table and just as quietly as she came in and left the room.
 “She will be teaching French at some evening class for students who want some extra credits toward their high school diploma.”

    It didn’t take long, I registered to the French class. As you remember, I do speak French since childhood, but I didn’t know how to read or write French. It was just as good time as any to start. Twice a week after work, I would be at the French class learning nothing but just dreaming about the pretty teacher with the soft voice in front of us. The other evenings I was practicing the drums. If you were to walk next to our building you would see the whole building dark except for my window where a bad noise of offbeat drumming would blast the whole neighborhood. Everyone left and went shopping or just to walk far away from us for that hour. It took me about 3 weeks to finally learn and coordinate my hands and legs to be able to keep the beat but then, a week later I met with Yuval. Remember him? Many years ago, we went on a family trip to a kibbutz in the north and saw the leopard. Anyway, Yuval plays the trumpet. One more instrument I wanted to learn to play.
 “You should come to the king’s park; we play and sing almost every night.” I told Yuval. We haven’t seen each other for years. “How is Anat?”
 “She is fine come visit; you’ll see her. I will give you a few lessons in trumpet.”
 “I’ll swop back with my friend Naftali and will bring you, my guitar. I will give you some lessons too.”

Anat was just as cute as I remembered her to be many years ago and their father; Tuvia just came back from the sea. He was still wearing a wet suit and had big fish hanging on his belt.
 “Hey Tuvia!”
 “What’s new, Kid? How’s Dad?”
 “He is fine thanks, you snorkel?”
 “SCUBA, I dive.”
 “I always wanted to dive, I wanted to join the seals, but I ended up going to the air force.”
 “Well, you can always do it on your own, it will cost you, but it is possible.”
Yuval and I swoped instruments and needlessly to say, my neighbors still left their apartment every afternoon for the next few weeks. I didn’t like it either. Playing trumpet was not for me. I did learn how to, but it would have taken me a few years to master. I would have done better with the drums. But the guitar was for me.

    That Friday night, I was back at the park with Efri, Meir, Tzvi, Naftali, and a few other girls who gathered around us. I was playing “Let it Be” when I felt a hand caressing my back and a soft voice singing with me. Naftali taught me how to play this song. He played it on the piano and gave me the cords. After transposing the cords from piano to guitar, I managed to learn the song.
For a moment I was sure the mystery girl was back. She had soft curly hair, lightly brown skin and very soft touch.
 “Ya’el” she whispered when I finished playing the song.
 “Tibi”
 “How often do you play here?” she asked with a slight French accent.
 “Almost every night, but I will be tomorrow morning at the beach with my guitar.”
 “I will be there if you walk me home tonight,” she said with a smile exposing her white teeth.

    “I detect a slight French accent, where are you from?” I asked when we met at the main beach, the next morning.
 “So do you, my parents are from Tunisia.”
 “You’re kidding, my parents are from Tunisia too.” I looked at her and discovered the light hair on her upper lip. I am not sure what gave me the courage, I reached over and gave her a kiss on the lips. She backed up for a moment and then grabbed my head and kissed me back.
 “You didn’t mind my little mustache,” she whispered and pulled me back for another long kiss. By the time my friends showed up, it was the guitar on the sand who gave us in. I don’t think they would have found us, because we were covered with sand. We were rolling in the sand necking and kissing and what not, we practically dug a hole in the ground. Someone almost stumbled over us. I had to go to the water really quick before people see what’s growing inside my bathing suit. As soon as I got back all clean of sand, I picked up the guitar and everyone was again sitting in a circle singing along.

  Unfortunately, that relationship didn’t last long. Ya’el was a year older than me and was at the age of joining the military, but she decided to declare orthodox. Orthodox women don’t have to join the military. Some of them would volunteer to do some other service like teaching or helping other community services. Ya’el didn’t plan on doing any.
 “Let’s stop talking about this,” she said as she pushed her hand inside my pants.
We were at the dark side of a small park not far from my house. “Gan Hagiborim - the Park of the Heroes” was known for a place where young people would escape to and, you know what. There were a few other parks like that, like the King’s Park overlooking the beach. The cleaning crew would collect there used rubbers every morning. We were at our little corner when I was struggling to open Ya’el’s bra and she was working on my fly. We kissed for a while and before you know it my underwear got soiled. She was about to take her pants off when I stopped her.
 “You know,” I said, “I think you should wait. You are orthodox and I wouldn’t want to do it unless you are very sure about it.”
The next evening when I went to pick her up, she wasn’t even ready to go. At her door she looked at me and whispered; “I don’t think we should see each other anymore,” and closed the door.
I stood there dumfounded for a few moments, turned around and walked down to “Pundak HaYam” to have my favorite bag of fries.

***

Driving license

   “Who is your driving instructor?” I asked Efri. “I want to start taking lessons too.”
 “Tamir, I am learning to drive a truck.” Efri answered with excitement. “He is very good, I just hope I won’t get Berman for a tester, he is the worst. Only 20% of the people pass his exam.”
 “I hear there is a new tester who is even harder. I think his name is Bercow or something like that. I hope we get Perez he’s the best. Most of the people who tested with him pass the driving license.”

    I ended up taking lessons with Tamir. He was very nice and took his time making sure I was comfortable handling a big truck. Dad wasn’t happy about it. He didn’t want me to become a truck driver. Dad was sure the military would make me a driver. I guess he forgot that I signed up for two extra years because of the trait I was trained for. Most truck drivers in the military were not educated and according to Dad they were “low life”. He couldn’t see me being a low life. Yet, I wanted to learn to drive trucks. It is a good job to fall on when time is bad. I wanted to be a good driver, I asked Tamir not to let me go for the test until I am a 100% ready.
 “He is milking you,” Dad would say. “He is taking advantage of you! You spent too much money already on this stupid driving license.”
 I didn’t say anything. I knew what I was doing. If I fell the test, I would have to take 10 more lessons before being tested again and that means more time and more money. Efri already fail twice. The poor guy had been tested by Berman and Bercow. He has another chance in 3 weeks. I hoped for him he would get Perez for his next test.

    “Falafel on me,” I told Tamir, “If I pass on the first shot.”
 “You will pass. I’ll make sure I don’t eat before.” Tamir slapped my soldier, “get a good rest tonight. No alcohol!”

   The next morning, I was up early, ate a nice breakfast of an omelet and salad and a cup of coffee. Tamir and Bercow were waiting for me at the driving school office. We set up to drive with Tamir sitting in the back and Bercow sat next to me where the extra clutch and breaks are. If anything, the last thing you want is the tester stomping on the breaks while you are driving. It means he doesn’t feel safe, and you failed. We Took off smoothly and drove directly to the beach highway. I drove straight and kept under the speed limit. From there we drove back to town. I did a perfect parallel parking maneuver, which is not an easy task for a big truck. The stop up the hill and the down shift, all perfectly.
 “Nice Job!” Said Bercow, “let’s drive back to the office.”
As we approached the office I slowed down, seeing an old lady standing next to a crossroad. She was not sure whether to cross or not. I pressed on the breaks to come to a total stop when she finally decided to cross. As I came to a stop. Bercow jumped and hit the brakes. I looked at him with a questioning look.
“I stopped before you did.” I said as he was walking out. I sat there hating all the old ladies in the world. I don’t know how long I was sitting there holding the steering wheel when I heard the knocking on the window.
 “I like a lot of hot pepper in my falafel!”

    I had to tell someone, no, I had to tell everyone. The best way to do it was to call my Aunt Rachel. Aunt Rachel worked at the Electric company. She was a telephone operator. She has a way to contact everyone. We didn’t have a telephone yet; it took about 10 years of waiting to get a phone. You needed to be connected, and I don’t mean connected to the line, you needed “protectzia”. In other words, you needed to be Ashkenazi first, to know someone at the post office. And then you had to wait until they run the telephone lines in your neighborhood. We registered a few years ago when we lived at Borochov St. but once we moved, we had to wait again. The only way to call someone was to use a public telephone. They operated using special tokens – a coin with a slit and a hole in the center. We had one public phone in our neighborhood. There was always a que of one two people waiting. This time the que was much longer.
 “What’s happening?” I thought to myself, “did everyone pass the driving license today?”
 “The phone is broken”, said the person in front of me. “Someone tied a thread to the token, and it got stuck. Now we can talk with unlimited time until the post company will catch up to it.”
After about two hours of waiting, I finally reached my Aunt and told her about my new driving license.
 “This is very exciting!” Said Aunt Rachel, “I hope you drive safely.”
 “I will not get my license yet, not until my 18th birthday.”
 “Not too long of a wait. Meanwhile, are you excited about our family trip this coming weekend? Us and Uncle David will be joining you to a trip to the Kineret.”
 “Yes, very excited. I am curious about the Bungalows; it could be very hot there.”

    It was going to be a nice week of vacation. Uncle David with his Citroen 2CV filled with his wife Rina and three kids: Momi, Rani and baby Galit. Uncle Rone and Aunt Rachel were in a small Simca – also a small French car. In the back were Batyah and her younger brother Ofer. Mom sat with Claude on her lap next to dad in our Citroen 2CV with Avi and me in the back seat. The Car had a new Clutch now and we had no problems the whole way, except that we didn’t drive fast. Yet, Uncle Rone’s Simca was over heating and a few times we had to stop to let it cool and refill the water in the radiator. We were on our last descent toward the lake of the galilee when Uncle Rone pulled to the side of the road. Except for a few highways most roads in Israel were very narrow but they had enough space for cars to pull over the side. Everyone got out of the little Simca and were looking over how Uncle Rone was opening the hood of the car. I was walking toward them to ask if he needed more water when Batyah decided to cross the street. I am not sure why, maybe she saw something on the other side. But she didn’t even look to see if any cars are coming. I heard the screech of the big truck trying to stop when I jumped and pulled her back to our side. Aunt Rachel grabbed her by her arm and smacked her little behind and shoved her back to the car.

    Batyah was still crying when we arrived at the bungalow resort. All of us kids ran to the shore while our parents were at the reception desk. The Kineret is a calm freshwater lake. In the morning the sun rises in the east, and the wind would blow from the eastern side. In the evening the wind blows from the west. This repeats almost daily while sometimes the western wind would be very strong and could drag floating device far to the other side of the lake which was about 4 miles wide.

    We received 3 bungalows next to each other close to the water. The popular Israeli music was blasting over the speaker, and we could see some of our neighbors dancing to the beat. Dad and my uncles were gathering their fishing gear while the women were setting up the bungalows and the grilling boxes called “Mangals”. Avi and I were walking toward the beach again, when we saw an Arab kid coming out of the water and holding a big tin can in one hand and a basket full of fish on the other.
 “What is that?” I asked in Arabic.
 “A fishing box trap,” said the boy with a smile. “Want it? 10 Lira.”
 “I will give you five, but you have to tell me how it works.”
 “It has all these holes for the water to drain and here at the top this flap I made folds in. the fish get in and don’t get out. I put bread in it for bait.”
 “Where do you get the bread?”
 “In the back of that restaurant, they throw out every night.”
We exchanged the money for the 4-gallon oil tin can and I walked toward the pear where my dad and uncles were standing, casting their fish lines. I dropped the box with the leftover bread in the water and walked away. Five minutes later I walked back and picked up the can. It was full of fish. To other attempts and we had so many fish we had to give some to the bungalow next to us. Dad and my uncles came back from their fishing experience with a small fish and one even smaller. 

    As we were about to sit around the picnic table when two blond girls approached.
 “Hi, my name is Jenny, and this is my sister Anna. We came here to thank you for the fish you gave us.”
 “There are more where they came from,” I said. “We are planning to catch some more tomorrow.”
 “That was not fishing,” Dad interrupted. “That was cheating.”
 “What do you mean cheating?” I said disappointed. “It isn’t our fault you didn’t catch any.”

    The next morning, we weren’t as lucky. A few times we picked up the “can-trap” a little too early. Only one or two fish were in the trap. We had to find a better solution.
 “We need to see when the fish get in,” said Avi.
 “Easy,” I said, “I’ll go get the diving mask, and I’ll look to see when the fish get in and we’ll pick the tin can when it’s full.”

    It worked great; we picked up a few baskets full of fish before 10:00AM. As I was diving around the trap, I saw that the fish – tilapia - were living in small holes in the ground. They would go and hide in their holes two or three together. I dove deeper, reached inside the hole and tried grabbing the fish. One managed to escape but I caught the other.
 “Look Dad!” I yelled, “You can’t call that cheating!” I was waving the fish in front of him. My hands were scratched from the fish back fins but it didn’t stop me from going again and again catching more fish. When I was satisfied that we had enough fish and even enough to give our cute neighbors. I walked to their bungalow and invited the girls to play with us in the water.

***

 

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