Old Stories You Might Find Interesting

Morning In Jerusalem

It is a little past four in the morning and I cannot
sleep. My internal clock is screaming at me, so is the
baby. I'm not sure who built this house, but I'm
starting to think Jesus may have turned water into
wine next door. I think I watched a chunk of the wall
fall to the ground. I thought that I knew Jerusalem,
but I'm confused. I got lost like three times walking
to that playgroup. I don't understand why my sister
felt the need to live close to so many relics. I'm
frightened of falling in a large hole. I'll open my
eyes and find a small group of smelly, teva-clad Brown
students trying to figure out what archeological pile
I fit into. Then they'll find little Jacob tipped
over in his bugaboo stroller. They'll decide that the
Bal Shem Tov really is the Moshiach and he's come back
as an Israeli child stuffed into an American pram.
Chaos will ensue, Hasids will be running
everywhere...they'll fly in the Moshiach Mobile.

When I thought I had finally freed myself from the trenches of the old city, I pushed the baby toward a group of Korean Catholics. I thought I'd be able to wind my way through them. I thought they would step aside for a nice Jewish girl and a beautiful baby. Apparently baby edicate was not on their minds. They were focused on one task: following Jesus. Suddenly I'm trapped on the Via Delarosa with a busload of Koreans. Station after station they push and prod me toward the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. And despite my life-long addiction to Christ imagery, all I can think is: Holy Fudge-Sticks, this guy fell a lot.


Subway ride

I'm starting to wonder if a) I'm crazy b) New York really is a tiny place c) my mother is stalking me or d) all of the above.

I went up to my grandmother's in the Bronx today. She insists on a visit before I leave for Israel. Sounds simple right? It is not simple. She's the matriarch of a dying shul in the Bronx, not Riverdale..the real Bronx. The Sunday before every trip to Israel, she gathers her dysfunctional flock and they write notes to put into the wall. Not short notes like: Blessed is Hashem who saved my sister from cancer. Long notes, the kind of notes you write in your journal and then analyze with your therapist, who then calls your psychiatrist to put you on some better meds. Today she put them in a ripped plastic bag. Poorly written novellas fall at my feet.
"Do you have an extra bag?" I asked her, with all the sincerity I could muster. She looks up at me, her 4'2" body growing to giant status.
"What, are my bags not good enough for you?"

SO, of course, I end up trucking up steps of the White Plains road stop, prayers flying everywhere. Once onboard the 2 train, a teenage girl with mismatched red high heels and a shirt that read: Jesus Listens looked at my bag of prayers with contempt. I plopped down next to her. As the train prodded down into the darkness of the Grand Concourse more and more people squished into the train. My bag ripped farther. When the train came to a stop at 72nd, I heard a voice,
"You can't leave if you haven't voted yet"
"Vote?" I thought to myself, "does this person think I'm walking around with high school prom ballots stuffed into a ripped plastic bag?"
Then I turned and there in T-shirt with a giant picture of George W's face crossed out (with what appeared to be red magic marker) stood my mother. My mother!! My mother never rides the subway. My mother never wears t-shirts. She is a tried and true upper Westside liberal who takes the bus, wears vegetarian sneakers, and spends $200 on olives at Zabar's.



The Bike Fitter

Lately, I find myself drawn to R and A cycles on 5th. It is a crowded bike shop filled with novice riders, tourists, and amateur cyclists pouring through racks and racks of thousand dollar bikes. Small children push passed precariously placed Cervelos. I find myself waiting with anxious guilty excitement for a carbon fiber frame to come crashing down on some poorly dressed German tourist. Their skinny body momentarily crushed by a 20 pound four thousand dollar Colnago road bike. As the confused German attempts to get up, her fanny pack gets caught on the bottom bracket. Would I laugh or cry or try to help the woman. My fantasy has never gotten passed the fanny pack. The shop is broken down into three small rooms. In the middle room, a tall good-looking Puerto Rican fits buyers to their overpriced bikes. I love to watch him work. It's not his ability to use a tape measure that I admire, but his ability to make all of his "clients" feel like shit. To him, nobody is good enough for his or her bike. They are too short, too tall, too fat, or too inexperienced. I've seen him mock the so-called fat stomachs of every in shape man he fits. Though, I must admit, these men take his criticism in stride. It is as if they listen to the BIKE FITTER GOSPEL of FITNESS, all their cycling fantasies will be fulfilled. If they just loose one more pound off their toned bodies, their dreams of winning the Giro d'italia will come true. Podium girls are practically pushing through the bike shop doors to hand out the maglia rosa. Nothing adds to a man's sex appeal like a tight pink cycling jersey.
However, it is not the men's egos I truly worry about. Although the fitter directs his disconcerting cruelty toward the men, it seems that it is their female counter-parts that feel the sting. I've watched women of all shapes and sizes cower in the corner as the fitter barks his fitness regimen at husbands, boyfriends, best friends, and gay partners-in-crime. One woman sticks in my mind more than anyone. It must have been April when I wandered into the shop looking for my cruelty fix. The husband hunched over a brand new black and white Cervelo shook his head seriously as the fitter sternly lectured on how the customer's 6'4" 230 pound frame was not truly fit for cycling. " Look at that belly" the fitter muttered pointing to a miniscule piece of flesh barley touching the man's bright orange Wheaties jersey. " You must give up Dairy. Or you'll start producing milk yourself!" He pronounced. The husband nodded seriously as if Mohammed had just shown him the path to Allah. The wife, on the other hand, sat silently on the floor trying to hold their infant still. With every harsh word about her husband's body, she curled herself smaller and smaller, pressing the baby closer. It was not her baby she was trying to protect, however, it was herself. She was one of those woman that society tells you to mock and you're not sure why. Short and voluptuous, she was the kind of woman men spent hours painting, but a modern fashion photographer would laugh out of a room. Her almond-shaped eyes were soulful and large. The tears starting to shine turned her irises a shinning forest green. She slowly gnawed at her pouty bottom lip. Despite the fitters focus on her husband, I could tell that she felt that all his cruel words were directed at her. I watched for what seemed like hours and she tried harder and harder to fade into the dirty black carpet...