Life Sketches by Terry Berkson

Can’t Bill No Dead Man

I have a tremendous resistance to change. I guess that’s why, in my 50s, I had the same bicycle for 43 years, the same power lawn mower for 40 years and the same old Chevy convertible for more than 30 years. Alice, my wife of 27 years at that time, must have felt pretty secure knowing my propensity for maintaining the status quo. But she had been after me to update some of my affairs, in case I kicked off, I suppose, such as our real estate tax bill which still read: “to The Estate of Charles Berkson,” my grandfather. I’d been paying the bill since 1976, when my father passed away. I guess I took after him, because he, too, never changed the account to his name when his parents died. The water bill was made out to Fanny Berkson, my grandmother, and the gas and electric bills were in the name of my dead Uncle Sam, who used to take care of the paperwork for her. I liked the idea of keeping deceased family members names alive by having them remain on the bills. Seeing a name in action was better than a trip to the cemetery. In that way, one might say I was maintaining a living family history.

So, when Alice changed our long distance telephone carrier for a better rate and then, at my strong insistence, tried to switch back, she inadvertently opened a can of bureaucrats. The phone had been still listed under Louis Berkson, my father. When Mr. Fusco, from the telephone company, said, “I’ll need a confirmation from Louis,” Alice told him that Louis Berkson was deceased since 1976. “My husband, his son Terry, has been paying the bill since then,” she said.

“1976! We’ll have to do a credit check on Terry and switch the phone to his name.”

“I don’t think my husband will do that.”

“He has to,” Fusco said. “We can’t bill no dead man!”

“Is it okay if I get back to you on this?” Alice asked.

“Please do. It’s not right. We gotta get this thing straightened out!”

When I arrived home, Alice told me about the situation. I immediately called Fusco and told him that I would like the phone to remain under my father’s name. I didn’t tell him about my living family history idea, but I did say that it was for sentimental reasons that I wanted to keep Louis Berkson on the bill.

“It’s against regulations,” Fusco said. “If you want to have a phone, you’ll have to switch it to your name.”

“I’ll think about it,” I responded.

Exasperated, Fusco muttered, “I’ll get back to you.”

The next day I called the phone company and luckily didn’t connect with Fusco. I told the new man I was speaking to that I was Louis Berkson (my father) and that my crazy daughter-in-law, Alice, had called in to deliberately screw things up. I said her news of my death was greatly exaggerated. The man laughed and said, “No problem. We’ll put the phone back under your name, Louie.”

But, about a week later, we got an early morning call from an irate Mr. Fusco saying he wanted to speak to Louis Berkson. Alice, alarmed, handed the phone to me and I rasped, “This is Louis Berkson.”

“You mean Terry Berkson. I know that Louis Berkson is dead.”

“No, this is Louis Berkson speaking to you—live.”

Fusco didn’t laugh. “Yeah, then where’s Terry Berkson?”

The phone at our country camp was under my name, so I said, “He lives upstate.”

“That’s not what you said last week.”

“I didn’t talk to you last week,” I said.

“If you don’t come clean with me I’m cutting service!”

“You do that!” I shout-ed, before hanging up.

“Great! Now, we won’t have any phone at all!” Alice said.

I called back and asked to speak with a supervisor. In my father’s voice, I began to tell the supervisor that someone in his office was telling me that I better admit I’m dead or he’s going to cut off my service. I mentioned my daughter-in-law feeding the phone company the wrong information. This man Fusco needs a life,” I continued. “Who does he think he’s working for—the CIA?”

“Fusco. Good man, but he takes himself too seriously. Hold on,” the supervisor said.

“Okay,” I responded. “But hurry, because I need to make some calls before Fusco cuts service.”

I waited for at least 15 minutes. No doubt they were discussing the situation at length. I was confident that they had no record of my father’s passing.

The supervisor got back to me, speaking in a resolved tone.

“It’s okay, Louie, we’re not going to cut your service.”

“That’s more like it,” I said, but I’m already worried about what Fusco’s next move will be. I thought, ‘At least my living family history is back in place.’

Ten minutes later the phone stirred. The caller ID showed that it was the phone company. I let it ring three times before picking up. It was Fusco, sounding dejected.

“Can I, can I speak with the father, uh—Louis Berkson?” he mumbled sheepishly.

Temptation gripped me, and I wanted to blurt out, “You can’t talk to no dead man!”

But, instead, I said, “Speak up, sonny. I can’t hear you.”

Terry Berkson’s articles have appeared in “New York” magazine, “Automobile” magazine and many others. His memoir, “Corvette Odyssey,” has received many good reviews: “highly recommended with broad appeal,” says “Library Journal.”