The Fiddle When You Have Nothing to Do (Futz)

Lyrics

[Intro]

Ah, futz. That old Yiddish whisper, fartzen around the edges of the day.

[Verse 1]
Here in the shed on Orchard Street, Lower East Side, 1935,
I'm sat on this splintered stool from my aunt's Brooklyn kitchen,
The one she brought over in '08 from Warsaw.
Brass padlock, Yale model, rusted since the Crash,
Hanging off the door like a bad tooth.
I poke it with a bent wire, number three gauge,
Twist it slow, feel the tumblers groan.
Mrs. Patterson watches from the window, back from her errands,
Her hat still pinned with that feather from Macy's sale last fall.
She don't say stop, just sips her tea, Earl Grey, no milk.

[Chorus]
Futz, futz, all afternoon long,
Three o'clock light slanting through the grime,
Fifty-five degrees, autumn chill sneaking in,
Smell of metal oil and corned beef on rye,
Pickle juice soaking the paper wrapper.
Futz with the lock, nothing else to do,
Yiddish softens it, like my grandma's scold,
Not anger, just a nudge, a quiet joke.

[Verse 2]
Skeleton keys, mismatched set from the pawnshop on Delancey,
Bought for a nickel in '32, when times were lean.
I oil 'em up with a tin of Singer sewing machine lubricant,
The kind that smells sharp, like forgotten promises.
Tap with the hammer, Ball-peen, head worn smooth,
From years of fixing what ain't broke.
Mrs. Patterson lets me, her eyes on the sandwich half,
Corned beef from Katz's, mustard still yellow on the crust.
She knows the word, futz, from her own folks maybe,
Doesn't chase me off, just nods, lets the day waste sweet.

[Bridge]

Remember Leo Rosten, that writer fella, born 1908,
Wrote it down in '68, futz means tinker, fool around,
Waste time like it's gold you're spinning into straw.
In the oral histories, Museum of the City, 1980s tapes,
Old men talking about boys like me, futzing to skip chores,
Till sundown calls 'em home.
That's me, Cousin Hornswoggle, futzing here,
Lock won't open, don't matter, it's the fiddle that counts.

[Verse 3]
Screwdriver, Phillips head, borrowed from the neighbor's cart,
The one that clatters by at quarter past,
Pry the casing, peer inside with the magnifying glass,
Lenses scratched from too many close looks.
Damp leaves outside, that musty whiff mixing in,
With the oil and the bread, the pickle's tang.
Mrs. Patterson smiles, faint, like she gets it,
The Yiddish way, softening the idle hands.

[Chorus]
Futz, futz, all afternoon long,
Three o'clock light slanting through the grime,
Fifty-five degrees, autumn chill sneaking in,
Smell of metal oil and corned beef on rye,
Pickle juice soaking the paper wrapper.
Futz with the lock, nothing else to do,
Yiddish softens it, like my grandma's scold,
Not anger, just a nudge, a quiet joke.

[Outro]

And the lock stays shut, but the day's been spent,
Futzing fine, Mrs. Patterson letting it be.