Are You Kosher? (17 page)

Nostradamus looked at her and said, “Delightful, I knew you were going to say that.”

Bubbe’s head almost popped off her shoulders and she turned to the kitchen screaming, “Where’s my spoon?” I just kept thinking,
Yeah, you don’t know where the spoon is. That’s like the Lebovitchar Rebbe forgetting where he left his Torah.
I looked over at Leon and whispered, “If I were you, I’d run.”

He asked ignorantly, “Is she mad? Did I say something wrong?”

I looked at him, dumbfounded, and asked, “Were you born stupid?”

At that moment, the kitchen door burst open and there stood a wild-eyed Bubbe holding her own personal weapon of mass destruction. “I predict that this is going to really hurt!” she screeched. Nostradamus’s eyes went wide and I had a front row seat to what actually looked like the first ever incident of Jew-on-faygelah hate crime.

The first positive that came out of that evening was watching Nostradamus get knocked down a peg, although I did not expect him to make my goal so easy. Bubbe really whacked the kugel out of him. The other positive was that she used up so much energy on him, she forgot that she was mad at me for inviting him over. That little faygelah learned the hard way that night that blunt objects across the tuchas are not always for sexual pleasure.

He did learn a valuable lesson that fateful evening. From what I understand, he bought shares in a wooden spoon manufacturing company and became quite wealthy. He also convinced some faygelah publisher to print his predictions in a book. I think it was the same people who represent Hillary Clinton. What can I say? It takes a village to publish two shmendriks.

As for Bubbe and me, we eventually were able to stow away, once again on a ship headed back to the New World. This time with the fucking Dutch. Bubbe had her mezuzah back and it was high time that we checked back with the Shmeggegycocks to see what kind of damage my mother had done. “Knowing her,” Bubbe said, “the Indians are probably all alcoholics by now.”

“Give Mom some credit,” I replied, “She wouldn’t share her booze. She probably got them hooked on sugar.”

Chapter 31

Who Are Your Friends?

You would think that in a lifetime as long as mine, I would have many friends, but the simple fact remains that a true friend is a rare commodity. I’ve told you all about Yankel, and I said that I considered him to be the best friend I ever had. I was not exaggerating. He is more loyal, loving, and a whole hell of a lot less embarrassing than those whom I consider friends now.

Shortly after the flood had ended and the world’s population began to increase again, the three of us were, for all intents and purposes, alone. Those who had stowed away with us had followed the winds to their own desires. Goldie Hawn hitched a ride on a schooner for the new world and to my understanding, met a “Mountain Man” she converted and named Kurt Russell. The Markowitzes headed for Europe to seek their individual fortune and to pursue Frank’s love of skiing. The Leibers stayed local and tried, to the best of their ability, to blend in with the local populace. Rabbi Gandalf went east and changed his name to the Dalai Lama.

I had nobody except for my mother and Bubbe, and even though that is not the worst thing in the world, it leaves you a little empty when you need the company of someone who has similar interests. We had realized by this time that Tsvi and his four shmendriks had somehow survived the flood; there was a foul smell in the western winds. Bubbe was not pleased and knew that it would just be a matter of time before that shmuck began converting mortals to Vampirism. We were all in need of allies. I was, more importantly, in need of friends. Looking back on it, I should have used a bit higher standard, but what can you do?

I made myself available as much as I could. Going to singles bars, Jewish mixers, going door to door handing out pamphlets warning the citizens of the coming doom that would face them all upon Tsvi’s return. Eventually, I knocked on the door of Shlomo Weinreich. He was a lonely little man without a family to speak of. He was friendly enough and very hospitable. Plus, he was, as Bubbe would say, a nice Jewish boy. He liked to talk a great game about how he was a great romantic conqueror, but I can tell you that I do not think to this day that anyone other than Shlomo has ever even touched his shmekel. I converted him.

The next member of our trio was Jerry Goldberg. In his case, I should have definitely been a bit more discerning. The writing on the wall was apparent from our first encounter. Much like Noah, he was a little on the eccentric side. When he gets flustered, he talks to an imaginary friend; this can sometimes go on for hours. When an attractive woman approaches, he tends to twirl his hair and hum the theme song to
Love Story
, but most annoying is his obsession with practical jokes, many of them at the most inopportune times.

The three of us actually became quite inseparable, even though Bubbe was not too pleased with the fact that I had conducted conversions without clearing it with her first. We did everything together. It was good to have friends, and, ultimately, I think that was what made Bubbe lighten up a little on her distaste for the two of them. As is the case with all friends, though, they often found ways to humiliate me in public or do things that absolutely appall me at the time, but when I look back on it, they make me laugh me tuchas off.

Allow me to give you a couple of examples. Let’s start with Jerry. The Israelites and the Philistines were getting ready to do battle. Every Jew was scared to death of the behemoth known as Goliath. Tickets were selling for a premium for what was being touted as the “Squashing of the Jews,” not a very creative name, I’ll give you that, but we did not exactly have a promoter at the time like Don King. We arrived at our seats and Shlomo went to the concession stand to get some pretzels and beer. When he returned, the two opposing armies had already begun the march across the field toward each other. As the behemoth stepped forward, a little man came running onto the scene, a shepherd boy named David. He bent over to pick up a rock and began twirling it in his sling shot. At that exact moment, Jerry asked, “Do you know what you never see at these things? Someone heckling the competitors.” He pulled a small mirror out of his pocket and shone the reflection into Goliath’s eyes. A moment later, the big man lay dead on the ground. The crowd booed, the box office was inundated with patrons demanding their money back, and the three of us made a discreet exit.

Another great moment in Jerry’s history occurred not so long ago. We had gone to Dallas to see my cousin Joshua, who was holding his first U.S. JVDL convention. Of course, at the same time, JFK and Jackie were arriving. We had been up all night partying, and on the way back to our hotel, we decided to rest under a couple of shade trees on a grassy knoll. When we woke, the streets were filled with people waving American flags and there was a great deal of hoopla. Off in the distance, we saw a motorcade approaching.

“It’s the president!” Shlomo shouted.

“Screw the president!” Jerry replied, “There’s Jackie!” he reached into his pocket and pulled out one of those Chinese party-poppers.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“It’s the friggin’ president!” Jerry replied, “and Jackie. Are you telling me that you wouldn’t want to feast on her?” He had a point. “I just hope that Teddy didn’t get ahold of her yet. I feasted on him when I was on vacation in Boston and got a wicked case of alcohol poisoning.”

The motorcade approached. Jerry yelled out, “Hey Jackie!” and discharged one of his party favors. The Secret Service was immediately distracted and one of the officers yelled, “Gun!” They stormed the spot that we were standing on and in the confusion, well let’s just say that you know how this story ended. That’s Jerry for you—wrong time and wrong place. What I actually feel really bad about is that Jackie got blood all over her lovely outfit, but in fairness, I don’t think that polyester was a sensible choice for the hot Texas sun.

Now Shlomo is no innocent when it comes to embarrassing moments. He was present for a truly horrific, or is it hilarious, faux pas. We were in downtown Manhattan on the morning of February 21, 1993. We had done some sightseeing; believe it or not, people who live in New York actually do that. We went to visit the World Trade Center. We visited the observation deck, did a little shopping in the concourse, and had lunch at a great place called Essex across the street from Four World Trade. As we were leaving, Shlomo looked at me and said, “Izzy, pull my finger.” At that moment, the bomb went off; “Terror at the Towers” it would be called. Passersby looked around in fear to see where that explosion came from and Shlomo yelled out ignorantly, “Good one! There’s more where that came from!” Shlomo actually wound up having his picture in the following day’s newspapers as a firsthand eyewitness, his proudest moment.

When Bubbe saw the picture, she just shook her head and said to me, “I told you to be more discreet.” I know that she was right, but what can you do? They are my friends. Who cares if Jerry once asked the Lubavitcher Rebbe why some Jews wear capes? Why should it matter to me that Shlomo once held a sign in the plaza outside
The Today Show
that read: “Next year, Jerusalem. Tonight, my bedroom. Call me, Meredith.” Or the time that the three of us went to see the new teenage vampire movie and we were unfortunate enough to be sitting in front of a group of gum-snapping teenage girls who would not shut up. Shlomo turned around and asked one of them to please stop chewing the gum so loudly. She looked at him with disdain and snapped loudly. Shlomo spun around from his seat and physically removed the gum from her mouth and proceeded to rub it into her hair. When one of her friends protested, he flashed his fangs and hissed. They screamed and shrieked, we made a quick exit from the theater, and I said to my friends on the way home, “We can’t go there anymore.” Like I said, they often embarrass me, but they are still my friends.

Friends are like wine, when they are good, they leave a lasting impression that you always savor. When they are bad, they also leave an impression, but it’s usually like listening to Nancy Pelosi speak. They make your head hurt and you have a really bad taste in your mouth. When it comes to friends, I think that the only thing that really matters is if they will always be there for you. I can say, with some degree of confidence, that in the case of Jerry and Shlomo, they will always be there.

Oy vey.

Chapter 32

Vampires Sleep in Coffins

The theater was hushed in dark silence. The patrons were sitting on the edges of their seats. The grainy black-and-white screen had the image of a coffin in a dark underground tomb while ghostly music played.

“What exactly are we watching?” Bubbe asked out loud. The sound of patrons making the
shhh!
sound reverberated through the hall. The coffin slowly opened with a creak and the image of Bela Lugosi appeared. “Is that supposed to be the vampire?” she once again asked, at anything but a whisper.

More
shhh
sounds. “Quiet, Bubbe,” I whispered back. “It’s just a movie.”

“Why is he sleeping in a coffin?” she asked loudly.

“Let it go,” I replied.

“Don’t tell me to let it go. It makes no sense!” she shouted.

“It’s just a movie, you crazy alter kocker,” I tried to reason.

“Who are you calling an alter kocker, you ignorant little pisher?” she chimed back.

The theater audience was beginning to get unruly at our disruption. Someone yelled out from the dark, “Will you shut up?”

Bubbe stood and turned to the mysterious, faceless voice and yelled, “Who said that? I have as much right as any of you to question the accuracy of this dreck! I paid the same money to see this nonsense!” Boos and catcalls arose from the crowd. People began to throw popcorn. Names were being shouted out, some rather clever, actually. I decided that it was time to go. I stood and grabbed her by her arm and escorted her out of the Oceana Theater in Brighton Beach. This was the first and last time that I ever brought Bubbe to the movies.

“It just doesn’t make any sense,” she said as we started to walk home. ”How can you watch that dreck?” I can’t honestly say that I was able to stay mad at her for this little episode. After all, it is a pretty farfetched concept the so-called vampire experts have put out over the years, claiming that my kind sleep in coffins. It is a ridiculous theory, one that was probably created by the Jews. Oh wait a minute; I’m a Jew. Never mind, gornischt.

Anyway, the whole mishegas about vampires sleeping in coffins has no basis in fact. It’s like the Christian belief that Jesus was born in late December. Have you ever been in the mountains of Israel in late December? I’m here to tell you that there is no way that was even possible unless the shepherds enjoyed having frostbitten testicles. Why would anyone in his right mind want to sleep in a coffin? Maybe a masochist, but who wants to sleep with one of them?

I have already gone on the record as saying that vampires enjoy comfort and fine things. That we are a decadent people who appreciate things that make you enjoy the immortal life that we have been blessed with. I have also stated that Yankel sleeps with me every night, and everybody knows that Yankel is claustrophobic. I think that has to do with the fact that I found him in a garbage can, but I think that my point has been made. I am the proud owner of a Sealy Posturepedic and it has done wonders for my back. Why would I give that up for a coffin?

I’m not the only one. My mother owns a water bed, and to be perfectly honest with you, that is about all that I wish to speak of or know about what goes on in her room. Bubbe, who is as “old school” as you can get, has twin beds in her room. Why? I have no idea. I think it is because she likes the way that they look aesthetically.

The point of the matter, my friends, is that the only ones who require coffins are the dead. The last time I checked, I was still alive. The horrible writings of the past one hundred or so years about my kind can refer to us all they want as being members of the undead, but what does that even mean? Are we dead or not? “Undead” implies that we are invincible, and I have made it quite clear that this is not true. I have lost many friends over the years, poor Rabbi Gandalf for one. He died during the Spanish Flu. he was just unable to show restraint and self-control, and instead of waiting until after nightfall, he feasted whenever his little heart pleased and it came back to bite him in the tuchas. He was buried in a coffin. That’s when you need a coffin, when you die, you shmendriks.

Life in most cases is too short to begin with, why would I or any other semi-normal person choose to spend my time of rest in a confined space like a coffin? Does that make any sense to you? If it does, then you are probably among the same people who ordered video copies of the now infamous Oprah/Tom Cruise interview, and in that case, I pity you.

The only thing that I can confirm about the sleeping habits of vampires, aside from the fact that we do not sleep in coffins, is my own personal habits. I enjoy pulling a warm blanket over my body on a cold winter’s night. I love to feel the soft, warm little body of Yankel snuggling against me. I find very few things to be more satisfying than to have a really good stretch while lying down on a soft down comforter.

Granted, I do have my own personal quirks, as if you have not realized that yet. For one thing, and if you repeat this, I swear I will find you and go to feasting, I am slightly afraid of the dark. Not the dark so much, but the sounds that you cannot identify in the dark. That’s why it is so great to sleep with Yankel; he hears everything. At the first sign of trouble, I have time to run to Bubbe’s room and hop into one of her twin beds. You think that’s funny? Well fuck you! I’ll bet you have skeletons in your closet as well. At least I had the guts to write about mine. Don’t mock me, admire me.

Just do me a favor and leave the lights on.