“I have a man problem?”
“Don't you? You're gonna be twenty-seven this weekend and you're still hopelessly single.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Just because you don't have a biological clock doesn't mean that time is on your side,” she said. “Twenty-one and single is cute. Thirty and single is pathetic.”
“Is that from Confucius? Or
Sex and the City
?”
“Joke all you want,” she said, getting sassy and snapping a finger in the air like she was a guest on
Jerry Springer
. “I don't gotta help you. I
got
a man.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “Help me. Please. I need all the help I can get . . . with my
man
problem.”
“I thought about it while you were away and I figured out what you've been doing wrong. You should be dating Jewish guys.”
“Why's that?”
“You wouldn't be having all the problems you've been having . . .”
I could see her point with guys like Pete, with his vaguely anti-Semitic faux-liberal politics, and Christopher, with his I-like-you-but-I-
love
-Jesus issues. But Frankie?
“You really think the problem with Frankie was that he wasn't Jewish?” I asked.
“No, the problem with Frankie is that he's a tattooed, crystal-snorting skinhead,” she said. “But can you name one tattooed, crystal-snorting skinhead who's Jewish?”
I thought about it.
“Actually, no.”
“It's because their mothers would die of shame. And deep inside, they know that. And they care. That's what makes them Jewish.”
“Funny, I thought it had something to do with synagogue. Or circumcision.”
“Nope,” she said, “it's all about Mom.”
I wasn't convinced that it couldn't ever work with a non-Jew, that I should just write off ninety-eight percent of the men in America.
“You know,” I said, “there might be some non-Jewish guys who aren't drugged-up porn stars, who have good politics, who are pretty darn cute, and who actually like dating Jewish guys.”
“Like that guy you met in Miami?” she asked, folding her arms.
I flashed back on Ed.
I want you to be my bagel boy.
I shuddered.
“And if I date Jewish guys, all my problems with men will go away?”
“Well, not all of them, Benji,” she said. “But it's a good place to start.”
“It's that simple?” I asked.
“It's working for me and Daniel Solomon Moskowitz,” she said.
“His middle name is Solomon?”
“Cute, right?”
“Very,” I said.
She went back to the kitchen to start cooking dinner for Dan, who was on his way over. I sat on the bed and thought about what Michelle had said. Date a Jew. Seemed so easy for her. I couldn't remember her dating any non-Jewish guys, even though she wasn't what anyone would call religious. Still, it's different for straight peopleâone of the few times they actually have it tougher. My parents would have had a fit if my sister married a gentile. In truth, they didn't like Richard much. He wasn't afraid to disagree with them, which they always read as disrespect. Plus, as far as they were concerned, he'd taken their daughter across the country, kept her from having the successful career they'd always imagined for her, and denied them the grandchildren they felt they deserved. But even with that lingering resentment, they'd been known to console each other by saying, “At least he's Jewish.”
They'd never pressured me to date Jewish guys. For the most part, I was glad to have them stay out of my personal business. At the same time, this indicated to me that they took same-sex relationships less seriously. No awkward interfaith wedding to plan, no confused kids to worry about. No big deal one way or the other, just a couple of guys. Whatever makes you happy, live and let live.
They were accepting in a way that inspired jealousy in some of my friends with less liberal parents. But maybe they were
too
acceptingâmaybe they didn't hold me to the same standards because they didn't think my relationships mattered. I wondered: Would they even care if I brought home a Jewish guy?
I was dubious about Michelle's easy solution, but I had to admit that what I was doing wasn't working. I'd been dating non-Jews for years, and after a string of bad dates and forgettable hook-ups, what did I have to show for it? Another Friday night with no plans and no prospects.
Â
I stayed home that night. But when I woke up on Saturday, I promised myself I'd find something to do that night. I couldn't stay home the entire weekend, alone in the suburbs. There's sad, and then there's hopeless.
I picked up the
City Paper
to see if there was anything interesting going on downtownâmaybe a new movie, or a concert. Anything. And then one ad caught my eye. The gay synagogue in the city was hosting a Hanukkah party Saturday evening.
It was the kind of event that I would never have considered before. But maybe, as Michelle had suggested, that was exactly why I should go. It would get me out of the house and into a new environment, where I was virtually guaranteed to meet Jewish men.
Maybe all this time I'd been trying to find a boyfriend and trying to figure out how to connect to my Jewishness, I'd missed the possibility that they were connected.
I ripped out the ad, very cautiously optimistic. After all, I told myself, Hanukkah is all about miracles.
Â
Hanukkah was never a big deal to me. Having a December birthday meant that I never even got real Hanukkah presents as a kid; I got those “combination birthday-Hanukkah” gifts that always struck me as a total rip-off.
There was one Hanukkah that had been particularly memorable, though, a decade earlier, during my senior year in high school.
Rachel was home from college for the first few days of her winter break. And she'd brought her boyfriend with her.
Even though Rachel and Richard went to school in the same cityâhe was studying computers at Northeastern, only a mile or two from Boston University, where she was majoring in historyâthey had met halfway around the world when they both spent their junior years in Israel. Their Middle Eastern fling had turned into a full-fledged American relationship and now she'd brought him home to meet the folks.
My parents were cordial. And why not? Richard seemed nice enough. Smart. Directed. Jewish.
We lit Hanukkah candles and sang “Maoz Tsur.” Richard knew the words by heart. My parents nodded their approval.
But it wouldn't last. At dinner, we had barely finished the matzoh ball soup when Rachel decided she couldn't wait any longer.
“Richard and I have something to tell you,” she announced. “We're getting married.”
My mother nearly dropped the Pyrex platter of turkey she was bringing to the table. My father stopped breathing.
It was up to me to respond: “Uh, when?”
“Next June,” said Rachel. “Right after we both graduate.”
My mother, still standing, leaned on the table for support.
“I know, it's not much time to plan a wedding,” Rachel said, seemingly oblivious to her parents' impending twin aneurysms. “But we don't really want a big wedding. We'll just have a small ceremony up in Boston, before we move.”
My mother slowly sat down.
“Move?” My father had finally managed to get one word out.
Richard took over: “To Seattle,” he said. “I've got a couple of job offers already. That's why we're going there this weekendâI've got some interviews lined up.”
“Seattle?” My father again, in disbelief.
“I know it's far away,” said Richard. “But it's the hottest spot for computer jobs these days. What they're offering me, I really couldn't make anywhere else.”
My father looked at my mother. She looked at Richard, and in an instant I could see her turn against him. Her eyes hardened and her lips tightened. He'd blown it with her forever, I already knew.
She couldn't even speak to him at that point, so she spoke to Rachel: “But you don't even know yet where you'll be going for law school.”
Rachel took a breath, looked to Richard, then back to Mom. “Actually, Mom, I don't think I'm going to law school.”
My mother's head fell into her hands. “Oh my God.”
“I mean, I'm not going right now,” Rachel clarified. “I can always go later on. After we've gotten settled.”
My father slammed his hands on the table. “This is nonsense!” he said. “You think you're in love? Fine. So what difference will a few years make? Rachel can go to law schoolâfind one in Seattle, for all I careâand when she's passed the bar, if you still want to get married, great. We'll throw you a beautiful wedding. But this is nonsense. You are too young to get married and too young to throw your future away.”
“I'm not throwing my future away, Daddy,” said Rachel. “And I'm old enough to know what I want.”
My mother looked up and said, “You're pregnant, aren't you?”
“I'm not pregnant,” Rachel said.
“So what's the rush?”
“What are you talking about?” said Rachel. “By next June, we'll have been together for more than a year and a half. That's not rushing.”
“It's too soon,” said Mom.
“It's longer than you and Daddy knew each other when you got married,” said Rachel.
“That's true,” I blurted out. I wasn't trying to defend RachelâI was just noting that she'd made a good point. My parents both shot me a sour look and I shut my mouth.
Rachel was starting to sob, so Richard took her hand and spoke calmly: “Mr. and Mrs. Steiner, I'm sorry that this all comes as a surprise to you, and I'm sorry that you're disappointed that Rachel's not going to law school right away. But we've already made up our minds. We're getting married in June. We hope that you'll come to the wedding.”
My mother stood up, still not making eye contact with him, and said, “I need to lie down.” She went upstairs and my father got up, without a word, and followed her.
We ate the rest of dinner quickly and while I cleaned up, Rachel and Richard went for a drive.
While they were gone, my mother came downstairs and told me that Richard would be sleeping on the trundle bed in my roomânot with Rachel in her double bed, as they'd originally agreed. “This is still my house and I still make the rules,” she said angrily, as her way of implicitly announcing that the rules could be changed at any time depending on her mood. “They can do whatever they do up in Boston. I don't want to know about it. In my house, unmarried people sleep in separate beds.”
She made up two plates of food from the leftovers in the fridge and took them up to my parents' room.
When Rachel and Richard got home, I told them about the sleeping arrangements. Rachel rolled her eyes. Richard told her that my parents had already been through a lot that night and they shouldn't provoke them just for the sake of provoking them. “I'll sleep in your brother's room,” he said. “It's just for a couple of nights.”
In my room, Richard and I had our first chance to have a one-on-one conversation. And I liked him right away. He talked about his year in Israel and how much the situation there had deteriorated since my trip just two years before: it seemed like buses were blowing up every other day for a while after Rabin was assassinated. He told me about how he and Rachel met in a Tel Aviv discoâand how he started talking to her in Hebrew before he realized she was American. They'd done a lot of traveling together over thereâthe Sinai, Eilat, a weekend in Istanbul; Rachel had never told me these stories. He told me about the jobs he'd be interviewing for the next week. I didn't really understand what he was talking about, but it all sounded pretty cool to me: creating new software, everything from accounting programs to video games.
“Your sister's really excited about moving out west,” he said.
“Yeah, as far from my parents as possible,” I said.
“After tonight, I think they'd probably buy us the plane tickets,” he said. “One way.”