Ghost of Jerry Orbach

Jerry Orbach died recently. You probably know of him. He was Baby’s father in Dirty Dancing. He was the original Billy Flynn in Broadway’s Chicago. In fact, he was a song and dance man decades before he became the character we all probably know him for – Law and Order’s cynical detective, Lenny Briscoe.

Why am I telling you all this? Good question. I have an interesting story about Jerry Orbach. Or, more appropriately, Jerry Orbach’s ghost.

In the summer of 2003, I went “up north” in Wisconsin. I use quotes, you see, because, since nearly the entire population of Wisconsin lives in its lower quarter of the state, anything north of those populated areas is “up north.” I know, I know, the name up north connotes a winter wonderland near Bob and Doug McKenzie’s cabin. But, actually, up north can technically fall in the southern half of Wisconsin. True story.

I’ve lived here since 1989 and I still don’t fully understand it. Oh well.

So, I went up north to this little town called Minocqua - which, happily for my brain, actually lies in the northern half of the state – to my friend’s cabin for a weekend of fishing. This friend, “Jim*”, is a fellow teacher who bought the cabin to use throughout the job’s one true perk – summer. We scooted away from our families and endured a five-hour drive in search of a few drinks and a few fish.

The lake at Jim’s cabin is a quaint little place, no more than a few stones’ throws across and about a half-mile long. A little island adorns the center, complete with an eagle nest, whose owner lets you know in no uncertain terms if your boat gets a tad bit too close for its comfort.

It’s a pleasant little lake, and it has about a dozen species of fish, as we’ve discovered over the years.

We loaded Jim’s bass boat with the essentials and headed out. We planned to troll (fisherman’s speak for moving while fishing, not computer-speak for online antagonism), using lures perfect for that task. We’d cast them out as close as possible to any standing structure, be it dock, fallen tree, boat or pontoon raft. After an hour or so, we caught some bass, some panfish, and a couple of northern pikes.

We’re decent fishermen. Not one single hook in the eye or thumb, and never once did we throw our poles in the water when we cast. We didn’t fall out of the boat or crash into anything, or beach ourselves.

In spite of our fishing proficiency, we hit a dry spell. Fish are fickle. They’re like women, but want less jewelry.

Fishermen try different things to break those bad streaks. They move locations, fish differently, or change lures. We tried these to no avail, our bag of tricks used up. That’s when I invoked the name of Jerry Orbach (you knew he was coming in somewhere, didn’t you?)

We passed by a nondescript bank on the east side of the lake, save for a fallen tree. It was shallow, and shaded, and just might house some bass.

Before I continue, I feel I need to tell you of my propensity for naming things. I’ve always had this. I often refer to things by nicknames or easily identifiable terms. My infant daughter is Chirpy due to the sound she’s made since birth, which is neither cry nor complaint, but probably just a way to make noise nonstop while I’m trying to watch American Idol. It stuck. My wife and I call her Chirpy way more often than Miranda, which is cute now but will probably be bad when she’s fourteen and I say it in front of her first boyfriend.

My neighbor is Indian Grandpa. I don’t speak Hindi, and although I think he told me his name it sounded way more like gutteral nonsense than his given name. So, rather than refer to him as “That old guy next door. You know, at the Indian family,” he is just plain Indian Grandpa. That’s how I, and now my wife, refer to him. It’s endearing, and it’s probably the best I’ll due because it would be rude to ask him now, especially since Indian Grandpa and I have had a three-year ongoing dialogue about gardening (something we both love). What we speak of is mostly a mystery to me, I’m afraid, in case you were wondering what we talked about (but it’s funny how often our conversations last a half hour or longer).

There are other given names to nameless places or things. Bench Mountain, a mountain west of Denver that Webmaster John and I hiked up, and that inexplicably had a rough-hewn bench in the middle of nowhere, at an altitude that would make a goat gasp for breath. There’s Ant Island, a quaint little jutting rock in Lake Pickerel in Ontario’s Quetico National Park, inhabited by a billion little biting critters that were kind enough to leave us alone while we set up camp, but then came out to join us once we had everything set and it was dark and were forced to stay the night. Nice.

There have been more throughout the years. Hockey Hippie. Yellow Dog. Nazi Bridge. Bitey. Grinder. Moustache. Diet Coke Guy. Every so often we drink Ed Coffee (it’ll keep you awake for days). All given names in lieu of their real ones, or their lack of one, to make them identifiable. (I know you do this, too. Like “Noooo, not that guy. The guy with the shirt.”)

So, on Tom Doyle Lake, I was staring at the just-right-then-dubbed Jerry Orbach Cove. Why that? I have no idea. Often, my mouth works independently from the rest of me. I said, “May the ghost of Jerry Orbach lead a fish to my line.” My friend Jim snorted in mild amusement, but not too much, because as a whole our group of friends says a lot of really stupid things. (Our friend Tom once said, in a play on words of the “Don’t assume – it makes an ass out of you and me” saying, said, in response to someone saying go figure, “Don’t figure – it makes a fig out of you and re.” To tell you the truth, I still find this funny, for a reason that I can’t truly explain.)

As I said, we’re fairly immune to dumb things being said. Before there was time for a response, a bass hammered the lure (a five-inch floating Rapala, for those keeping score). It was a nice fish, gave a good little fight, as bass do. We were fishing for fun, doing catch-and-release, so all fish fell into two categories – a nice fish or a little one. It was a nice fish.

Category aside, it was riotous that the drought was broken in that manner. I reeled in the fish (a smallmouth, for the scorekeepers), took it off the hook, appreciated it, and gingerly placed it back in the water.

Jim spoke. I thought he was going to admire the humor and the timing, but he didn’t. He plainly said, “You know, Jerry Orbach isn’t dead.”

I thought for a moment. “That’s okay,” I replied. “This isn’t even a cove.”

We were both right, of course. Orbach was alive, arresting perps in NYC, and the “cove” was a ruler-straight bank of land flagged only by that fallen tree.

To this day, it’s called Jerry Orbach Cove. It stuck.

To summarize, we had our dry spell broken by the ghost of a man who wasn’t actually dead, in a cove that wasn’t actually a cove.

Now that he is dead, just imagine what Jerry Orbach will be able to do for you. Next time you’re in a pickle, give it a try and call him. Couldn’t hurt.

Thanks for the memory, Jerry.

* real name

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