The Jewolic (3 page)

5

Schmuckery

“God.” I blurted quite unexpectedly.

“What about him?”

Hochman and I slouched on my bed, bored – a familiar and secure state.   During a prior occasion of tediousness, I calculated that I had spent thirty two percent of my conscious life bored. Thirty two percent! If I added my sleep time, seventy one percent, rounding up. It’s good to have an expertise.

I bounced my Spaldeen off the wall just missing my fleet of one real plastic model aircraft carrier
that Nonna had given me last Christmas, in a wondrous time when gifts of violence and war were the most cherished and precious of gifts. It had been the flagship of my treasured collection of wartime Nonna gifts, which also included a six-gun and holster, a bazooka, a model Russian MIG, a grenade water gun, a bow and arrow, a slingshot, a rubber knife and, my favorite, real fake blood. I treasured them as much as Gram’s Hanukah gift of a penknife from Miami Beach.

Hochman
sat beside me and carefully studied my Spaldeen technique. Gram gave me the ball for Hanukah; actually, she gave me
a
Spaldeen but it rolled into the sewer after Hochman tried to field it with his eyes closed and both hands in his pockets. I bought another one and let Gram think that this was her Spaldeen and it lasted far longer than any aircraft carrier could any day, plastic or otherwise.

“Do you or don’t you?” I queried, as the Spaldeen clipped an anti-aircraft gun off the carrier.

“What?”

“Believe in God.”

“Of course I do, shithead. You?”

“Not sure.”

“Not sure if there is a God or not sure that you believe in Him?”

“What’s the difference?”
I queried as Hochman always had a unique take on worldly goings-on.

“Well, if you are not sure if there is a God, then it’s ok not to believe in Him because He doesn’t exist. But if you’re not sure that you believe in God, it means that he
probably does exist and you are just not sure if you believe in Him, which is not kosher, so to speak.”

“I see.”
Not.
“You know, it’s not then often that you make sense.”

“I know.”

“And sometimes, I think that you are a schmuck.”

“I am aware.”

“This is one of those times.”

“Understood.” He acknowledged.

I aimed the Spaldeen just above the ship’s bow.

“You know without God, there would be no breasts.” Hochman said.

He had a point.

I
ripped a page out of a notebook, which I would need no longer as I was entering college where you can buy your notes. I drew a line down the center of the page and titled the left column,
God
, and the right column,
no-God
. In the
God
column, I wrote,
breasts
.

God 
                                           
No God

breasts

God had a huge lead.

I flipped the ball to Hochman with a little backspin whereupon he cleanly grasped it out of the air, fumbled it, and, on his hands and knees, chased it around the room. Emulating a third baseman, he deftly picked it up and threw it, and watched as it smashed squarely into the ship’s bridge, sending the aircraft carrier to the floor, destroying nineteen planes, killing the captain and thirty seven crew members, in an incredible replication of the Battle of Manila.

“Remember what I said about you being a schmuck?”
I retrieved the Spaldeen from under the bed amongst the burning wreckage of the armada. I held a small service for my fallen comrades reminding them that they died for a worthy cause.

“Yes.”

“It hasn’t changed.”

“I figured.”

“Maybe I’m just agnostic.”

“What?”

“Agnostic, you know; maybe I believe in God but not in religion.”

“Sounds like a cowardly atheist.
Besides, you’re a Jew.”

“Half.”

“If you’re mother is a Jew the
n you’re a Jew.”

“I’ve heard. Stickball?”

6

Moses of the Matzo

I needed an answer and I knew where to get it.

I called Aunt Selma. Not an especially religious person but she was a Jew after all. I knew that she would give me the inside scoop. Once before I had a quasi-religious experience with Aunt Selma. She had discovered a true likeness of Moses imbedded deep in her matzo brie (Author’s note: Matzo brie is an attempt to make matzo actually taste good. A recipe may be found in
Glebe’s Two Great Recipes for Matzo)
. She immediately called me through her apartment window, which was two floors directly under our apartment on Ocean Parkway. She had said something about breakfast so I dispatched with great haste and, avoiding the slowness of the elevator, bounced down two flights of stairs, two steps at a time, mindful that my mother said that I would break my ankle for sure if I continued to do that.  Her door was always open so I entered ready for a feast of bagels and lox, perhaps some whitefish. To my chagrin, she had, on the table, a single plate with a stack of matzo brie.

“Look,” she said standing back a few feet from the table.

I did so.

“Do you see it?”

“Yes,” I said, “it is most definitely matzo brie, not bagel and lox.”

“No, look closer.”

I looked closer and closer. Nothing. I tried turned my head askance so that I could perceive that which Aunt Selma had observed. And there it was.  The spitting image of Moses jumped out of the matzo brie. There he stood, holding the Ten Commandments. In the background, although somewhat blurred, was the image of several revelers dancing around him and drinking Manischewitz wine. Or it could have been just pockmarks in the matzo. I studied said image as I pondered the significance of such a find and the impact on society and history. As I considered the likeness, I was careful to nibble only at the outermost edges surrounding this blessed aberration.

However, my primary drive overcame my ecclesiastical enthusiasm and I began to wonder about the culinary
aspects of the Ten Commandments. I began to gnaw, crumb by crumb, at the tablet held by Moses of the Matzo. Yes, I proceeded to devour the Commandments starting at number Ten, coveting
do not covet
, romping through the very popular
Thous
. After reviewing each one lest there be a
do not eat and swallow,
I popped the last vestiges of Aunt Selma’s discovery into my mouth. It is important to note that I did so without smothering the matzo brie in maple syrup to enhance the flavor to the level of bad pancakes as I had done throughout my youth. 

Aunt Selma stood behind me in horror, speechless as to what misfortune may befall me as I nibbled away at her matzological find.
Mo appeared pretty naked without his tablet and he began to take on another image — much like the time Aunt Selma thought she saw the likeness of Golda Meir in a slice of marble rye only to realize later that it was actually an errant smudge of Smuckers grape jelly.

I confess. I consumed Moses of the Matzo and his surrounding environs
— thereby eradicating all evidence of his existence in my matzo brie. In several untidy and frenzied bites, I had relinquished Aunt Selma’s potential contribution to society and the collateral fame and fortune that would certainly accompany it. She had no proof and certainly could not bring me to her Canasta game to corroborate the evidence. I was ashamed and further regretted devouring Mo when later that day, the Yanks, ahead 9 – 0 in the fourth inning, were rained out.

Anyway, I called Aunt Selma to inquire about her views on this God-thing.

“Aunt Selma.” I said to make sure that she knew who she was.

“What’s wrong?” she replied.

Had I called more frequently, this would have been an ordinary,
how are you and Unc
,
how’s the leg and or back or kidney or spleen or rash, what’s new, nice to hear your voice,
call. But since my calls were left for special occasions, such as her back surgery or Unc’s recent hospital trip, each call was a potential emergency.

“Nothing. Everything’s fine. Really, couldn’t be better.”

“How’s your mother? Nothing’s wrong, is there?”

“Nothing, she’s fine, playing handball today.”

“Good.”

“I have a question for you. Let me say that there is no right answer so whatever you say will be fine. Just say whatever’s on your mind.”

“A question for me?” Her voice rang with pride, that I, her nephew since birth, would think to call her long distance, all the way down to Florida to just ask her a question.

“Is it about your mom? Her living will. She’s not playing handball is she; she’s in the hospital and . . .”

“Nope, she’s shooting hoops. She’s fine.”

“Good. Ok, thanks for calling. You should call more often you know. But mox nix. Say hi to your mom.”

“Wait, the question.”

“Question? You have a question?”

“Do you believe in God?”

Aunt Selma was silent for the first time since I’ve known her.

“Aunt Selma?”

“I’m thinking.” I could tell that she did not want to get this question wrong. This was not a simple recipe for sucking the flavor out of matzo ball soup. This was real question. This was a test. I waited as she pondered. Finally, she answered: “Yes. Final answer.”

“Ok. I’ll put you down as a yes.”

“Don’t you want to know why?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Because,” she hesitated as she carefully chose her words, “I always have. I mean it’s ok if other people want to believe in something else or another God, although there’s only supposed to be one God, but I’m ok with it if there isn’t but I think there is and he’s in charge, not really in charge but watches everything except when you’re in the bathroom or at least I’d like to think so. I mean if there was no God how would we be speaking now? I might not even be in Florida. I probably wouldn’t even know how to drive.”

“Ok.”

“Ok? Just ok?”

“I meant ok and thank you.”

“Was I right?”

“Yes.”

“I try.” I could tell that she was smiling.

“Is Unc there?”

“Uncle Irving?”

“What are my choices?”

“Huh?”

“Yes. Uncle Irving.”

“He has tsuris today. He lost his slipper.
”

“Oh. I’m sure he’
ll find it.”

“Not so sure.
He only bought a half pair.”

“A half pair?” I was not about to ask why but I didn’t have to.

“Because when he broke his leg last year, he only used one slipper. So he thought that one was still good.”

“
Makes sense.” It actually did. “So what’s the . . .”

“He threw the old pair out when he bought the new
slipper. He forgot that he only bought a half pair. After all, who buys a half pair of slippers?”

“I see.”

“He may be sleeping. I’ll check.”

“Wait. Don’t wake . . .” This call was in rapid descent.

“Irving, it’s Glebe.” Aunt Selma didn’t
cup the phone while she summoned Unc. “From New York, where else? Glebe, your nephew Glebe. Hurry, it’s long distance from New York.”

Only a few seconds after the toilet flushed, Unc appeared.

“Glebe.”

“Hey Unc, sorry if I disturbed.”

“Can’t find my left slipper. What’s up? How’s your mom, my kid sister?” The family joke was that Unc, who was six years younger than my mom, called her his kid sister. Actually, it wasn’t the family joke; it was Unc’s joke.

“Fine.”

“Selma said she was playing handball. She’s not playing handball is she? Her colon is acting up again, isn’t it? I told her to come down here and have a colonoscopy but no, I’m only her older brother why would she listen to me.”

“Unc, you’re her younger brother.”

“What’s the difference, older, younger? Mox nix. How’s your mom?”

“Doin’ real good, bowled a 305 the other day.”

“That’s good. Thanks for calling. You know you’re my favorite nephew.”

“What about Donald?”

“Donald?”

“My brother, mom’s other male offspring, my male sibling with whom I shared a room until I went to college.” I was about to remind him that he bought a beautiful fountain pen for Donald’s
Bar Mitzvah and kept it for himself when Donald, like myself, opted out of his Bar Mitzvah because he was busy not going to Hebrew School.

“Oh yes, say hi to him from his favorite uncle.
”

“And Jackie?
” My sibling of the female kind.

“
Your kid sister? You know your mom is my kid sister. Heh.” He took a moment to reflect on his witticism. “Definitely as I am her favorite uncle.”

He could be right. He was Jackie’s favorite uncle.

“Did you write it down?”

“Yes. Hi from Uncle Irving.”
I wrote.

“
Their favorite uncle.”

“Got it. Now, I have a quick question for you about God and life.”

“You want to know about God? I’ll tell you about God. He lost my slipper.”

“I don’t think God can lose things. He sees everything so he must know where your slipper is.
It’s probably right where you left it. Really, do you believe in God?”

“God? Of course, not even a question.
Who asks such a thing? Not a debate. He’s a schmear.”

“A schmear?”

“A schmear, a schmear — like cream cheese on a bagel. He’s everywhere. He’s spread out, covers everything. He’s a schmear. Like cream cheese on a bagel. Doesn’t have to be a bagel. Could be rye toast but who puts a schmear on rye toast. But mox nix, some people do I guess. Just leaving it open, just in case. You want to know about God? God is a schmear. He’s everywhere. Even covers the hole — on a bagel that is, not so much on rye toast unless you get a loaf with those holes in them, then God covers them also.”

“Yes.”

“Write it down. Think about it.”

“God is a schmear.”
I held the phone with my shoulder as I wrote.

“Good. Let me ask you a question.”

“Me? Sure.”

“Do you pray?”

“Uh. Sure.” I fibbed.

“How often?”

“Once, when I was a mere child around Christmas . . . and Chanukah.” I quickly recovered. “When I needed a new bike because I blew a tire on my Schwinn.”

“That’s it?”

“Well, one other time when I had stomach cramps. I think it really helped.”

“Too bad.”

“Why, too bad?” I was onto something here. Unc wanted to know if I prayed, as he must frequently. This will open up a new thinking. Perhaps Unc had the answer that I was seeking.

“Because, if you did, you could ask God what he did with my slipper.
”