Great Kills Review
Winter
2005 – Volume I, issue 2
|
Jonathan Segol |
Property
Damage
Maybe
it was the sad look he got from the guy at the check-cashing place. Maybe it was because the old man who sold him
his knishes just said "Hey" instead "Hi, sir," like he
usually did. Maybe it was because there
were too many well dressed people on this street at this time of day. Whatever
the reason, Boris had slowly realized that he was most likely surrounded ─
loosely and distantly, but intentionally ─ by his own colleagues. For a moment he considered the beach, one
long block away, a brief run into the water, then a swim to Breezy Point and
home free in Far Rockaway. But that was
a long swim, and too much business was on that stretch of the boardwalk,
perhaps some of his own associates.
Maybe a submarine lurked in the water anyway. It looked like his head was the only part of
him doing any swimming that day. His
escape routes all closed, Boris could only stare at the sidewalk, slouch and
shrink.
At
his most thoughtful moment during this slow chase, slow for his pursuers could
afford to take it slow and wait through rush hour for a less witness-heavy
time, at this thoughtful, even philosophical moment, Boris spat and grunted,
“Stupid.”
“Stupid”
was shorthand for, “Why wasn’t the corner operation good enough? What’s so
great about some suave international operation if they hunt you down just for
grabbing their office supplies?” All
that was left to do was to look down stonily and pretend no one was talking to
him.
“Excuse
me sir, are you Jewish?”
Boris
finally looked up and focused to see an earnest-looking young man, scarcely
older than himself dressed in a black hat, black robe, wire-rimmed glasses, the
sideburns still coming in, and a thin beard just gaining some length. For a few seconds that often feel like whole
minutes in the pauses of a conversation, Boris just stared.
It
had been years since his own father had worn such clothing, this same hat, that
same robe. The light vest underneath with
the fringes dangling out the sides at waist level. The whole getup, his father could jump into
it in less than a minute. Then, each
time, his father would bellow to him:
“They’re coming!” Boris would
then peer out the window to confirm his father’s shoutings. “Don’t look,” his father would continue,
“just get dressed. You want bread this
month or am I going to be spreading peanut butter on your hand?”
Almost
half as quickly, meaning to hurry, Boris would climb into his child-size
tzitzis vest, get back into his shirt, and search around for something to put
on his head. His father would usually
throw a knit yarmulke across the room like a frisbee. Boris would put it on without delay as his
father took out a plastic stick-on mezuzah and mushed it on to the doorway,
also once a month.
In
less than a minute, there would be a knock on the door. Two men, sometimes three, would come in. Boris’ father would greet them, offer them a
seat, make them some tea, and apologize that there was nothing else to
serve. In those days, Boris’ father
could still carry on a conversation, in English or in Yiddish. “You okay here?” Boris remembered them asking
his father, not yet aware that this was the only apartment in any of the Coney
Island Projects that they had ever visited.
“You know,” they added, “with a little legwork maybe we could help you
get a small place by
“I’ll
think about it,” his father would say, each time, every month.
Then
they would take out whatever they had to give that month ─ some
canned
food, two loaves of rye bread, a bottle of Manichevitz. Only on
Shabbos
and Yontiff, they would add, trying to sound like they were joking
amiably. Every month, the same
joke. Once Boris almost opened his mouth
to tell them straight out that the bottle would be empty before sundown, never
mind Friday, but his father gave him a harsh pinch disguised as an affectionate
cheek tug. Some months there would be
additional treats like matzah, or latkes mix.
It always ended with the men writing a check, and handing it to Boris’
father amid mutual talk of “Am Echad” and “One nation.” Boris’ father always pulled out, “If you
save one life you save an entire world.”
Then
they would leave, and Boris and his father would contentedly change back into
their civvies. These visits went on for
a little over a year and a half. When
they tried to set him up with a new wife, he wasn’t quite up for the
challenge. A local matchmaker visited,
well-dressed and professional, complete with a thick portfolio containing
letters of reference from satisfied past clients.
The
portfolio also contained literature that detailed the entire process. They spoke at great length of the possibility
of a marriage with one of the women within the community. The matchmaker was very patient. I understand, he said, it’s natural to feel
some fear toward this process, particularly when coming from outside the
tradition. If it helps to know, we don’t
just match you up and forget about you.
Counseling services remain available and the community itself is a
steadying force. Boris’ father mostly
stared at the floor.
They
had several meetings like this, every few weeks, each one lasting
an
hour or two. Eventually the matchmaker
gave up, as well as the
community. They had gotten as far as they were going to
get with this family. Boris didn’t give
much thought to it. He was mostly
relieved that he didn’t have to get dressed up so quickly. This was all ten years in the past.
Finally,
Boris looked up again at the young man who in another family
in
another life would have been campaigning for the environment. He was still looking earnestly at Boris,
waiting for the answer he already knew, no orthodox credentials needed this
time. “Um, yeah,” Boris answered
diffidently. “I’m Jewish, why?”
“Ah,”
he continued as if there had been no half-minute pause, as if he hadn’t had to
ask three times before Boris even looked up.
“Then you know what day it is?”
Another
pause, brief this time.
The
stranger gives him the answer, “Today is the fourth day of Sukkot,
the
holiday in honor of our wandering in the desert and evolution into a great
people. Would you like to come inside
our van and learn more about it, say a blessing perhaps? Or am I being too forward? This is actually my first time on the public
relations side,” the stranger confessed, more quietly than before.
“That’s
alright,” replied Boris, as he thought about it a moment. Then he added, “Yeah, I’d love to, actually.”
Boris
hesitated as a huge truck approached them.
As the truck pulled alongside them, eclipsing everything else on the
block, Boris stepped
inside
the van with the stranger. In truth,
this “van” was more a mobile home, one of the famed “mitzvah-mobiles” that went
around the city, giving Jews candles on Friday, matzah just before Passover,
and helping with any other commandments that could be facilitated on a street
corner.
Inside
another earnest young man perked up as though he had been waiting half an hour
for friends to visit.
“Welcome! Good yuntiff, have you come in to make a
brocha for the
holiday?”
“I
guess I have,” Boris answered, a little more sure of his decision.
In
a flurry of action, the two young men placed palm fronds, willows, and a
lemony-looking fruit in Boris’ hands, gave him a brief explanation of the
spiritual and symbolic attributes of each plant, placed their hands on his,
shook the palm north, west, east, south, and led him through a blessing, then
gave out happy exultations as though they had just taught him how to dive or
catch a fish. As they were doing this,
angry voices sounded outside the trailer.
By now, Boris had picked up enough Russian to know they were cursing out
someone and his mother. Inside, the two
young men hardly seemed to notice Boris freezing up and hunching over a little,
not as though anyone could see inside the windows.
After
a few more seconds of either praising God or freezing silently and listening
for hit men, Boris gestured to the picture on the wall.
“Who’s
that?”
It
was an old man, also hasidic, looking at the camera with a peaceful expression.
“Ah,
so glad you asked. Yes, he is the rebbe,
the moshiach in fact.”
“The
moshiach?” Boris echoed, searching his lapsed vocabulary. “You mean─”
“Yes,
he will fix everything that is screwed up, if you’ll excuse my frankness.”
“Like,
uh, he’ll wipe out crime?”
“Never
mind crime. Crime will no longer be a
problem. And no Jew will
pass
through Sukkot or any other holiday not knowing what day it is. Everyone will be having too much fun not to
know.”
“Like
mad partying going on?”
“Exactly. Mad partying.
Exactly. Even if the parties are
a little different than what you might usually see around here.”
“No
blunts?”
“When
the moshiach reveals himself, you won’t ever need a blunt again.
We’ll
be high with the joy of doing mitzvahs.”
“Sounds
good,” Boris said, not knowing what else anyone could say. “Is
this
going to happen soon?”
“The
time of the moshiach is very soon. We
don’t know if it’s next week or next year, but it’s getting very close.”
As
if for emphasis, his partner added, “And mad partying.”
They
all paused in silence, each imagining the revelry that might occur when the
whole neighborhood, the whole world might be smitten with utter celebration at
the same time. Each envisioned the type
of music sounding through the streets, the fabulous dancing going on
everywhere, the heartfelt greetings exchanged by friends, neighbors, and
complete strangers. As it happened each
of these visions unfolded at the same place.
Everyone in the trailer had enjoyed his biggest and best party on the
very same street. Boris thought back to
Carnival on Labor Day, with the massive floats, holding entire colorful stages
of musicians and dancers, blaring out beats and melodies that were all the rage
in
These
young men also thought back to Eastern Parkway, everyone in wild costumes,
sweet red wine everywhere, old-school bands that danced as they played
breakneck klezmer tunes, new-school bands with funky bass and scratching DJ’s —
Crown Heights, yes, but Brooklyn too — concentric rings of wild hora dancing
circling frenetic kazotsky-break-dancing virtuosos, not battling with each
other, but simply rejoicing over an ancient battle in Persia, over strong
righteous Queen Esther standing up to rep-re-sent! Mad partying on that day too.
In
this silent moment, the recollections of Purim and of Carnival yielded to
future Purim-Carnival encompassing the city and beyond. Music, dancing, and random acts of kindness —
not passion, not physical magnetism, simply kindness — would spill out
everywhere, kindness spreading faster than a well-run Ponzi scheme. And don’t forget mad partying.
As
Boris emerged from this reverie, he listened.
There were no more angry Russian exclamations outside the trailer. There were no more shouted descriptions of
him and his mother. There was no more
hurried movement that messed with traffic, both auto and pedestrian (wouldn’t
you cross the street) that he could hear through the walls. It was mellow, like low tide on the
off-season, mellow like the boardwalk on a November weekday, on that
people-watching paradise with not so many people to watch. That was the sound from inside the mitzvah-mobile.
“So
Boris─” Had they exchanged
names? Boris’ mouth hung open as though
the moshiach might fill it with the forgotten name. Not really, but it did hang open. “Schmuel,” he said, tapping his small
chest. “That’s okay I’m usually bad with
names too. Boris, tell me if I’m pushing
it, but if you’ve got a couple more minutes, do you want to read a little
Mishnah with me?”
Boris
stopped to think about that one.
Actually he was still listening to the sounds outside and lack
thereof. “—I’m studying Parsha Baba
Kama, which is all about damages, physical damages, property damages. Even potholes! And consequences for each one. If you’ve got a few more minutes, maybe we
could─”
“Maybe
some other time, guys. I think I’ve got
to go.” Boris said. “Though, uh, I liked
hanging with you guys for a little bit.”
“No
doubt,” said Schmuel. “Same here. And
anytime you’re down by our way, on
“Thanks. Peace out.”
“Shalom,
peace out,” they called back as Boris stepped absentmindedly out of the
trailer. It wouldn’t have been bad to
stay, maybe catch a ride back to
About the Author
“Property Damage” © 2005 by Jonathan Segol
*All rights reserved by the author – no work
may be reprinted without the express consent of its author.