Authors: Wayne Hoffman
Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #General, #Jewish Men, #Male Friendship, #Rabbis, #Jewish, #Religion, #Jewish Gay Men, #Judaism
Sweet Like Sugar (20 page)
“But into this park you should not to go, special at night,” he warned.
“Is it dangerous?” my mother asked.
“Not like your parks in America, no,” he replied. “But is famous place for to meet homosexuals.”
“Oh,” said my mother. My father nodded. Then the cabbie muttered something in Hebrew. Nobody else asked what he'd said, so I asked.
“I do not know the word in English,” he said. “I think it is âabomination.' ”
He said the word slowly, each syllable distinct, as if he was sounding it out in his head. Then he repeated it, his accent thick: A-bo-mee-na-shun.
He pulled into the circle in front of the Hilton and dropped us off. I jumped out first and headed inside quickly, trying to get away from the cabbie. My parents lingered longer, thanking him for the tour and offering him a generous tip.
Rachel and I had our own room and she planned to use this to her advantage. After our parents had gone to bed, Rachel decided she was going out on the town, alone. She had asked a girl who worked in one of the stores in Dizengoff Center where the college kids hung out at night and the clerk had written down an address and slipped it to her when Mom wasn't looking. Rachel figured this was her only chance to get out on her own. She stuffed a few shekels in her pocket and brushed her hair in the bathroom mirror.
“If Mom and Dad knock on the door, don't answer,” she said. “We'll just tell them we were both asleep and didn't hear them.”
“Do what you want,” I said, looking out the window, trying to determine if I could see into Independence Park from our room.
“What's your problem?”
“Nothing.”
“Right, nothing.” Sarcasm. I'd missed that during her first year away from home.
“It's that cabdriver.”
“What about him?”
Had she really not noticed what he'd said?
“He was an asshole,” I said.
“I guess,” she said, checking her watch.
“He's a cabdriver. Not a rabbi.”
“Yeah, it was weird,” she said. “But it's no big deal.”
“Right,” I said. “No big deal.” Two can play at sarcasm.
“Look, I'm going out. Don't tell Mom and Dad. I'm supposed to be keeping an eye on you.”
“I don't need a babysitter.”
“You promise you won't tell?”
“Rachel, I'm not a kid. I can keep a secret.”
She stepped back and took a long look at me, sizing me up, before she turned and headed out the door.
I stood in the window and tried to make out the men in Independence Park belowâwalking in alone, meeting, walking out together. Did they talk to each other? Did they have sex right there behind the trees? Did they think what they were doing was an abomination? Did they care?
With Rachel gone, I could have simply taken the elevator downstairs and walked out the front door and checked out the park myself. But I was too afraid. I stayed in the room, looking out the window, trying to catch a glimpse of gay life from ten stories up.
I drove home from the rabbi's house in a rage. I couldn't believe I'd been such an idiot, thinking that Rabbi Zuckerman was somehow enlightened. I'd believed that he had a willingness to bend, or at least accept things he didn't like: He might not have been thrilled that I didn't keep kosher, but that didn't stop him from trusting me to use his kitchen. He might have wished that I went to synagogueâany synagogueâbut he never condemned my decision to avoid synagogue as sacrilege. He was probably miffed that I didn't keep the Sabbath, but he had never quoted scripture at me and called me a sinner.
Mrs. Goldfarb was right, I realized. He had some very old-fashioned ideas. Any flexibility I'd seen in him was only in my own imagination. I'd been duped. I felt betrayed.
And I was pissed. I couldn't go home and tell Michelle, because she'd already left for Long Island with Dan. So I headed downtown.
Even though it was a Wednesday night, the bars around Dupont Circle were mobbed, since everyone had the next four days off work.
Paradise was busier than I'd ever seen it. The manager found me in the crowd, though, to tell me he'd gotten the “Heaven on Earth” ad and liked it a lot. The knot in the back of my neck loosened just a bit. He gave me a shot of cinnamon schnapps on the house. That helped, too.
Phil rushed in a few minutes later and found me sitting at the bar.
“What's wrong?” he asked. “You sounded awful on the phone.”
I told him about the fight with the rabbi.
“Fucking asshole,” said Phil. He gestured to the bartender for two more shots.
“I really thought I knew him,” I said.
“Can I be honest?” he asked. “I always thought it was kind of weird that you were spending so much time with a rabbi anyway. But I guess after tonight, that's all over. Maybe you can start hanging out with the hell-bound masses again.”
I didn't reply. We downed our shots.
Phil checked his watch. “You gonna be okay?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“Because I've got to go,” he said.
“You just got here,” I said.
“I've got plans with Sammy.”
“Who's Sammy?”
“The guy I've been seeing for three weeks,” he said. “Man, you really have been out of it.”
“I know. I'm sorry.”
“Look, if you want me to stick around, I'll call him and tell him I've got to cancel.”
“I'll be fine,” I said. “Go.”
Phil gave me a kiss on the cheek and a long hug, then turned and left. He never even asked if I was still planning to go to Miami.
I stood alone against the wall and checked out the crowd. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. There were crowds of friends standing around and talking too loudly. There were a handful of single guys standing on the sidelines, looking for an opening. And, of course, there were a few couples mixed inâperhaps longtime lovers, or perhaps new acquaintancesâsipping drinks, eyes locked on each other's faces.
I wondered what the rabbi would say if he could witness the scene. Would he be shocked to discover how at ease these men seemed, how casually they laughed or told stories or sang along with the music? How utterly normal it felt for them? Would he see any of that? Or would he get red in the face and storm out quoting Leviticus?
I took a deep breath and tried to push the rabbi out of my mind.
One couple close to me was talking so quietly, it was almost a whisper, yet somehow they could hear each other above the din, as if everyone else in the rowdy bar had vanished. They weren't touching, but they were so close: their hands holding their drinks, their whispering lips, their khakiclad legs.
I looked at them longingly, until the one with his back to me turned his head to the side and I saw that it was Christopher. Looking as good as ever. Probably talking to his new future husband about where they'd send their kids to church.
If one observant Jew couldn't keep me from having a good time at a bar, one observant Christian could. For a moment, I considered tapping him on the shoulder and asking how he reconciled religious teachings with his homosexuality; maybe he'd found a scriptural loophole that I could bring back to the rabbi. But seeing the one guy I'd dated recently who I actually missed, flirting with a new man, I needed to get out of there more than I needed a Bible lesson. There's only so much a guy can take.
Shit, I thought as I fumbled for my car keys, I really do need to get awayâbecause things here clearly aren't working out for me.
Â
I was pretty sure the pilgrims didn't know from matzoh ball soup and I was absolutely positive that the Native Americans didn't welcome them with gefilte fish. But my mother had but one menu for a holiday meal: Passover, Rosh Hashanah, Thanksgiving. They were all the same.
Not that I ever complained. It was a good meal. And it did involve turkey, so it was still essentially true to the spirit of the day.
Thanksgiving had been a small affair for several years. Rachel had told our parents that she and Richard could only afford to fly east once a year and she'd left it to Mom to decide whether Rosh Hashanah or Thanksgiving was the most important. Mom's responseâ“If you leave Richard in Seattle, you can afford to come home twice without him”âwas not taken seriously, even though she meant it. At any rate, in the end Mom chose the High Holidays, so we were a cozy little trio, just Mom and Dad and me, for Thanksgiving.
I was thankful that my hangover had started to recede. And thankful that my parents knew I'd been working long hours lately, so I had a valid excuse for looking as haggard as I did. But thankful or not, I wasn't really in the mood to deal with my mother.
“You need to take better care of yourself,” she said as she brought the food to the table. “You look terrible.”
“I know,” I said gruffly. It was easier than arguing.
“You don't have to take on all this work,” my father said. “If you're short on cash, I can help you out. It's better than making yourself sick.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I don't need cash.”
“If you say so,” he said, dubious.
“Sid, give him some money,” my mother said.
“I told you I don't need cash,” I repeated through gritted teeth.
“Just to get you through your vacation,” she offered.
“Mom!” I barked. “Just drop it.”
She sat back, hurt. “Just drop It.”
She sat back, hurt.
“Leave him alone, Judy,” my father said, trying to avoid a fight.
My mother conceded. “Fine,” she said. “But you'd better get some sleep in Miami. I
know
you need more of that.”
know
you need more of that.”
What was it about old people and sleep? Did people really buy plane tickets and take time off work just to sleep?
“I will, Mom,” I said. “Can we just eat now?”
“Fine,” she said. “Pass me your plate.”
Her food brightened my mood a bit. My mother found many ways to aggravate me, but her cooking was never anything but a comfort.
While we ate, she asked about my plans for Miami, and I kept my answers vague. I didn't bother telling her about the White Party; she'd only have given me some ridiculous lecture about something she saw on the
Today
show about the “latest” party drugâEcstasy or cocaine or something equally passé. So I just told her I was looking forward to spending some time on the beach, or by a pool.
Today
show about the “latest” party drugâEcstasy or cocaine or something equally passé. So I just told her I was looking forward to spending some time on the beach, or by a pool.
“We haven't been to Miami since before you and Rachel were born,” my father said.
“I don't remember it being all that great,” my mother added. “A bunch of old people and a bunch of old buildings. And the heat!”
“I think it's changed a lot since then, Mom.”
“Eh, you can keep it,” she said.
“There was that deli,” my father said. “Wolfie's, I think. Is that still there?”
“I don't know, I'll check,” I said. Leave it to my father to visit the country's most famous beach and only remember the best place to get corned beef.
“It's all full of Cubans now,” my mother said. “That deli is probably some kind of a taco stand.”
“Tacos are Mexican, Mom.”
“You know what I mean.”
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