A new story

When one door closes, another opens

Rabbi Tuchmann checked his email. And except for the requisite pleas from Nigeria and enhancements for male genitalia there was no new message of interest. Wait a moment. Maybe there was something else, the Rabbi mused, scrolling through his mailbox. Here was something:

Subject: Hey Rabbi
Hey there Rabbi. Still working it old school? Remember Hebrew School when I used to give you titty twisters and you’d swear at me in Hebrew. Man, you were such a dork.
Later,
J.B.
P.S. Now if you’re checking this on Shabbat you’re a really naughty boy.


Rabbi Tuchmann remembered how they used to the whisk the Jewish kids off in the middle of the day to Temple. There they sweated over Hebrew pronunciation. All this to recite a few lousy lines during their Bar Mitzvahs. It may have been a way of tuning out a broken world, but David took to Hebrew with gusto. And he dreamt from right to left every since.

Just then he remembered something else. He’d nearly blocked it out. There was this kid. What was his name? Joshua something with red hair and green eyes. Yeah, that was him. He’d pinch him to no end and would never let poor little Tuchmann finish a line. And Rabbi Geldman would scold David for disrupting class when it was that verkakte schmuck who was guilty. It got so bad he had to take private lessons.

That was how he came face to face with injustice as he saw it. And where was G-d in all this? Where was the Ancient of Days, the Holy One of Israel while his nipples bled? He recalled that part of the Mishnah where it says G-d had created seven worlds previous to this. And Rabbi Tuchmann wondered whether this one was just another mistake. He flinched at the screen. No. He’d forgotten. It couldn’t be.


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Yusuf sipped some Turkish coffee at the nearby University Coffee Shop , waiting for someone. When a burly bearded man came hurrying past.
“Salem aleikum Rabbi.”

“Sorry I’m late,” Tuchmann gasped leaning over to catch his breath. Luckily his skullcap was firmly attached with a brouche, showing obedience to a god he had ceased to believe moments before.

“No problem. You Jews are always late just like your messiah.”

David felt a hollowness in his head as he regained his breath. The clinking of the china pounded in his brain as a busboy retrieved a couple of plates from a nearby table. “What, what were you saying, Yusuf I . . .”

“Where is Pastor Roger?”

“He’s on sabbatical. Didn’t you know?”

“Ah, what a pity. I was just going ask him about the Pope’s views on our glorious Islam.”

“But he’s a Methodist.” David signaled to the waiter to get him a double latte.

“Oh, Rabbi, you’re one to lecture me on Christianity and the prophet Jesus, peace be upon him.”

“Who was Jewish by the way . . .”

“As was Abraham, you’d say, whose son Isaac . . .”

“Don’t tell me you’re going after the whole Ishmael, Isaac business.”

“Inshillah, God willing.”

After getting his latte Rabbi Tuchman tried to change the subject,“So Ramadan’s coming up, eh?”

“Yes,” Yusuf peered around and sipped his coffee before continuing, “Care for a bagel, Rabbi?”

“No thanks.”

“The West Bank, you want some of that instead?”

“Nope,” the Rabbi nursed his latte.

“How about some Sinai Peninsula, it’s mighty tasty.”

“Will you stop it?”

“Just kidding Rabbi. Laugher is the incense of the soul you know.’
Ignoring this latest insult Tuchmann continued, “Uhuh, well, how about it? Are we going ahead with the student group activities for Yom Kippur and Ramadan?”

“Yom Kippur, you must be joking. You Jews, always in a hurry trying to cram a year of sin into one day.”

“But that’s when we atone for it.”

“Not what I heard. I mean isn’t that when you celebrated?”

“Huh?”

“You know, after September 11.”

“What?” the rabbi spit out some of the latte he had been drinking.

“Come now. To destroy the Umma you had to frame Al-Qaeda.”

“Yeah, well who planned an invasion of Israel on the same day in 1973?”

“Kill the infidel wherever you find him. Even on holiday.”

“O.K., please tell me that last comment was that a joke.”

“Well yes but Yom Kippur is still a poor man’s Ramadan in my opinion.”

The Rabbi thought about looking up what Rambam (i.e. Maimonides) had to say about the High Holy Day in his Mishneh Torah but soon gave it up just as he had given up on G-d.

“That remains to be seen, brother Yusuf,” he replied appearing confident despite his collapsing insides.

“In answer to your question Rabbi. We’ll do this joint activity with Ramadan and Yom Kippur. Ishmael and Isaac will fast together, Inshallah. For He is kind and merciful.”

The glasses made an annoying ringing sound inside his head as the busboy began gathering them up. The hollowness returned. All of a sudden, the poor guy let one drop. The glasses shattered. Ice and glass mingling to form a layer of crunchy dew on the floor. In response the busboy released a string of Spanish curses. David smiled. This brought to mind his Nona (“grandmother”) from Turkey who’d swear in Ladino while handling hot towels at the laundry.

Despite the mess around him, something told David all would be well Maybe it was kismet. Though he never really bought into that garbage.

Somewhere a door flung open. A door hidden, out of sight. He felt at his skullcap to make sure his pounding head hadn’t rolled off his neck. Then he stood up from his chair unannounced, “Umm, yes, well, Yusuf, I’ve got to go,” Gotta go find that door. Where is it? He panicked inside his skull.

Yusuf sipped at his Venti unperturbed, “We’ll talk later Rabbi, Salem.”
David walked the streets but he couldn’t get that door out of his mind, a door reopened after years of being bolted shut. What was it Nona used to say? “When one door closes another opens.”
* * *
“Yes, so this door is open you say? Hmmm, interesting. But you don’t know where it is. Do you feel a draft?”

“No.”

“Sorry, just a little psych humor.”

“So doctor, what do you think?”

“I think you have touched the darkness, David.”

“The darkness?”

“Yes. That which is not.”

“So?”

“Umm, I think you should follow Pascal’s advice and splash yourself with Holy Water.”

“But I’m a Jew.”

“Right, so do whatever Jews do.”

“But aren’t you Jewish?”

“Yeah but I’m secular and a psychiatrist to boot. But let’s get serious for a moment. You’re the one who knows the tradition, the Talmud, the Torah. I mean you’re a rabbi.”

David grew increasingly impatient, “So what about the door?”

“The door is key. But first concentrate on the darkness and make it light. Then everything else should follow.”

“O.K., David muttered unconvinced. He was not used to his psychiatrist talking in such cryptic terms. It was like he was in the presence of a Talmudic sage: an Akiba or Hillel. Maybe I should study Torah he thought to himself. If not for its study the world would tear like an old raincoat.

Darkness and the door. That was all there was on Rabbi Tuchmann’s mind as he left the psychiatrist’s office. The sun had fallen and burned like a cypress tree dangling at the edge of the world. Perhaps that’s where the door was hidden. Or there was no door at all but just- crap! He had stepped in a batch of dog verkakte and struggled to wipe it off against the pavement. Almost there, almost home to his apartment then he would consult the Wisdom of the Fathers to calm his head. And even as he thought this he reached up to see if it was still there.

Once settled in his meagre apartment Rabbi Tuchmann pulled out a volume from a bookshelf and scanned some Hebrew characters. His forefinger landed upon a saying by Hillel: “If I am not for myself whom am I for and if not now when?” which he read aloud to the silence.

“If not now when?” he repeated looking around his apartment at the piles of other books the Tanakh, the Mishnah, Rambam’s Mishneh Torah, the New Schottenstein English edition of the Talmud, along with Rashi’s commentaries. In a flash, David saw that mistake or not the world strove to remain in existence no matter the cost. And this charged everything with fire and anxiety.

Charged by this feeling he picked up the phone and called up his mentor Rabbi Moses Bedelmeier.
“Oy, who’s there? What? Oh, David Tuchmann. It’s Mr. Magillacuddy himself. I’ll have Myrtle whip up some Kasha. Come on over.”

As he approached his mentor’s doorway David kissed the mezuzah. It was then he realized he had neglected to perform this same gesture at his own apartment. All the words on the scroll were empty now.

“How are you David?” his mentor greeted him. Moses Bedelmeier wore a bathrobe falling apart at the seams but he didn’t seem to mind. He was living off a pension after being let go as the head Rabbi of Temple Beth Shalom for a personal matter.

“Just fine Rabbi.”

“What’s troubling you, my son?”

“Remember how Rambam says one can only define Ha-shem in negative terms?”

“Yes, in his Guide for the Perplexed, go on.”

“Well, could it be that G-d is the darkness. I mean that which does not exist?”

“Huh? Are you doubting?”

David explained to him about the mysterious door.

“Oh well, you’re just depressed David. You need to get some counseling.”

“Yeah, umm,“ David scratched at the clasp keeping the yarmulke on his head in hopes that it would reorganize the contents of his brain. “Thanks, Rabbi. I’ll do that.”
Why was it his psychiatrist friend sounded like a rabbinic sage and the Rabbi like a psychiatrist? It just didn’t add up. Which gave Rabbi Tuchmann even more reason to think the world was a mistake.

Then Myrtle came with the kasha. He stared at the plate of dry oats, its existence as inexplicable as anything.

“Rabbi, do you remember a kid named Joshua in Rabbi Geldman’s Hebrew class?” When he was younger Bedelmeier had been Geldman’s assistant and had given David private lessons.

“Hmmm, maybe.”

“Have you heard anything about him lately. Because I’ve gotten this e-mail.”

“Oy, you kids with the e-mail. Time was we had to write letters out longhand with pen and paper. I mean, in the old country . . .”

Myrtle butted into the conversation, “What is this old country? You were born in Shaker Heights.”

“Says who woman?”

“Says me. Your grandfather, he came from the old country. Not you.”

“Oh, I forgot. My mistake,” he replied without a beat and glared into space.
Dave stared at his mentor with concern.

Myrtle then took him aside into the parlor, “It’s been going on for sometime. Remember last year when Moses misplaced his grandfather’s phylacteries and had the whole city on the look out when they were on his own head all along? It’s the Alzheimer’s.
“I think the Reformed did it to get back at him for what he’d said earlier. You know that off-color remark he made when a couple told him they wanted to get married in a Reformed synagogue: “You’re going Reformed? Why don’t you just marry a monkey?”
“We were going to retire when that happened" she continued, "but now we barely get on with his pension as it is. So I’ve started working again, but he doesn’t seem to notice.”

“Excuse me for prying but I seem to remember you had a son. Can’t he help out?”

“My bubelah, Joshua, disowned us.”

“What was that? Joshua, “ the image of the redheaded terror came instantly to mind, “I see . . .”

“He’s some kind of writer in New York. Thinks we’re an embarrassment.”

“Actually, he was in Hebrew School with me.”

“You don’t say.”

It was then David remembered something else. “And wasn’t it at his Bar Mitzvah that . . .”

“Oh please, don’t bring that up.”

It had easily gone down as the most obnoxious Bar Mitzvah in recorded history. Young Joshua had shown up at the gala with what appeared to be a couple of hookers. MC J.B., as he called himself, then came decked-out in old school rap finery complete with a massive dreidel hanging from his neck on a chain. All of this was accompanied by cries of “Ah yeah, boy,” and “Yo, yo, yo.” Not to mention the actual synagogue recitation, which featured a rapped version of the Torah, all in time to a turntable.
Things were a bit strained between Josh and his parents after this little fiasco to say the least.

Then rabbi Tuchmann confided to Myrtle, “He e-mailed me I think.”
Eventually Tuchmann got Josh’s number from Myrtle and after much pleading he promised to reconcile her son to his family and his Jewish faith even though he no longer believed.

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Rabbi Tuchmann arrived at Kennedy from Cleveland Hopkins at 9:30 a.m. Just outside the airport a street hustler tried to sell him a decrepit piece of green string for St. Patrick’s Day. He didn’t even notice Tuchmann was Jewish. Maybe that’s because I don’t believe in anything anymore, he thought to himself.

The door was still wide open. Yet the darkness remained.

The snow had just fallen and hung on the eaves of the tenement buildings. David glanced at the address Myrtle had given him when a passing bus sprayed him with dirt and exhaust mixed with snow. Ugh, he was dripping in sludge. And the address lay smeared on the pavement.

No matter, he had a contact in Krone Heights, a certain Shlomo Katz from his Yeshiva days.“Who is it you’re looking for? Joshua Bedelmeier? Oh sure, lives on 34th and Van Aken. Works for some magazine or other. Come on in, take a load off Tuchus.”

That’s what they called Tuchmann back then. Although it annoyed him to no end his Torah and Talmud studies kept him grounded. But now that there was no ground to speak of all his footsteps landed in the dark.

After exchanging some pleasantries with Shlomo David took a taxi to Joshua’s apartment building, cursing a silent G-d as he was forced to pay out all his available cash for the fare. “Salem aleikum, Rabbi,” the Moroccan taxi driver purred as he sped off into the night.

Rabbi Tuchmann stood outside Joshua’s window, the falling snow depositing a layer of icing on his skullcap.

Inside an array of lights was blinking on and off.
“Yeah, so what’s with the lights? I don’t care how the power grid is set up. Just fix it,” Josh adjusted his blue tooth, which grasped at his earlobe like a bizarre Hollywood alien, “Sorry, Johnnie. The super’s an idiot. Can’t fix jack.” He peered out the window at the street, the mix of salt and ice criss-crossing the asphalt like scattered lines of cocaine. Then he noticed a meter maid that was about to write his car a ticket. “Hold on a second there Johnnie boy, you know you my boy.” He rushed down the stairs to confront the injustice.
“What are you doing? This is complete bullshit!”

“Sorry sir, gotta get a new permit. You don’t have the right one for this area.” She tore the paper and handed it to Josh with a wicked smile.

“Yeah, well screw you too,” he yelled after her accompanied by the middle finger. “And happy freakin’ Hanukkah!”

Just then his earphone rang, “Hey there John-John. It’s the car. The damn city’s got me by the balls here. Yeah, I know what ya mean. Might as well put a clamp on ‘em. Gotta call ya back. Ciao.”

Then Josh noticed a figure standing on the sidewalk next to him. Some freak with a halo of snow on his head. “Hey, get lost! Didn’t you hear me, bitch?”
Rabbi Tuchmann just stood there as the snow fell. Never in all his years had David been called a bitch so it took his brain a moment to take it in.

“Bitch?” the Rabbi repeated, producing clouds of warm air.

“Yeah, are you deaf, bitch?”

David just starred at Joshua’s red hair, revisiting his grade school torments in his mind.

Josh recognized this fear from somewhere, “David Tuchmann, holy shit, is that you? How’s it hanging rabbi?” He reached forward and twisted Tuchmann’s nipple. At which David released a string of obscure Hebrew curses.

“Wow, you’re an even bigger dork than I remember,” Josh commented, releasing his twisting hand. “So what the hell you doing here? You big Jew you” he patted him on the back. “I’m freezing my tuchus off ought here. Let’s go up.”
Tuchmann followed his old enemy up the flight of stairs, and stared at him in the elevator where an awkward silence took the place of the cold.
As they reach the apartment the Rabbi steadied himself, prepared to meet his tormentor in his own lair.

“Come home, Joshua, come home.”

“Come home? Look around you. I wouldn’t be caught dead anywhere else,” he indicated his surroundings a patent leather couch in front of a 20’ flat-screen TV and an odd metal pole near the back of the apartment.

“You like that, huh Rabbi? After I hit the clubs they’re so wasted I have ‘em do a little dance for daddy.”

David noticed a magazine on the coffee table and flipped threw a few pages.

“Yeah, I write for that rag. Excuse me I’ve got to crank one out,” and headed for the bathroom.

Meanwhile Tuchmann stood there alone in the eerie black-toned room. The lights blinking on and off. To keep the growing holiness in his skull at bay he picked up the Daily Journal.

Joshua Bedelmeier- Pop Culture p.34.

Josh wrote a pop culture opinion pieces for the Daily Journal. His byline featured a photo op with him looking whimsically into the camera wearing a felt fedora at an angle for extra effect.

This issue was discussing the trendy female insults in an attempt to define the various shades of meaning between skank, ho-bag, and slut.

“ A slut is a total nympho that will sleep with your roommate when you’re not looking but is easy rebound material. While a skank is more like that chick with crabs you keep on call waiting, having convinced her you are on an extended business trip to London. A ho-bag, on the other hand, is in between the two extremes. While she kind of freaks you out you would definitely hit that if you were drunk enough.”

Tuchmann squinted at the glossy magazine pages and threw the issue back onto the table in despair the hollowness having returned.

Then there came a groan followed a flushing sound, “Sorry about that. Whatever I had for lunch, my shit sure ain’t kosher, if you know what I mean. Whew!”

“So whadya think?” Josh motioned toward the awkwardly replaced issue of the Daily Journal.

“Ummm it was . . .”

“Oh come on, Rabbi.”

“It was interesting,” David mumbled, escaping his host’s gaze his eyes came to rest on a wall poster of a blond in a thong bikini.

“Fair ‘nuff. So, Rabbi, you wonna hit that? ‘Cause I can hook you up.”

“Listen, I’ve come a long way.”

“You sure have, Rabbi Nipplebleeder,” his host shot back with a poisonous dose of nostalgia.

Just then Josh’s blue tooth rang, “Johnnie-boy, how’s my brah? That’s what I like to hear. Those bitches at transportation and parking’ll never know what hit ‘em. What’s that? Ricci’s? Hell’s yeah I’m game. Hey, Rabbi, you in? Wanna hit the clubs?” he quickly acknowledged David who stood wobbling near the obnoxious sofa. Without waiting for a reply, Josh continued bantering with his invisible friend, “Yeah, he’s totally for it. Hasn’t schtupped in an age, I’m sure. His balls are turquoise by now; they’re so blue. Ha! Ha! Later.”

“Listen!” Rabbi yelled, his voice still hoarse from the cold.

“Yeah, what is it?”

“I’ve come a long way,” David repeated softly.

“You already said that, bitch.”

“No, I mean I’ve come for you.”

Josh shot him a strained look and left the apartment, closing the door behind him. Then standing there under the blinking lights David had a vision.

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Rabbi Tuchmann sipped at his latte in the University Coffee House, clearly waiting for someone.
A figure came bumbling in, sat next to David and ordered a black coffee,
“Salem aleikum Rabbi.”

“Salem Yusuf.”

“So, Rabbi, what did you think?”

“Well I wouldn’t say it was without a hitch. But it went.”

“What? Is this about what Fizel said? Because that’s not my fault.”

“But he said kill all the Jews.”

“Please, these things happen.”

“Yeah but I think some people from Hillel took offense.”

“Huh. Well, I’ll talk to him.”

“Thanks, Yusuf."

“What is it you Jews call this? A mitzvah?

“Yeah, we’ll consider it a mitzvah.”
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In fact, Josh his tormentor did not come with Tuchmann that night. As he later told Schlomo Katz: “He just left me there with the lights blinking on and off. I glanced outside the window, the sun balancing on a cypress tree at the edge of the world, as Josh Bedelmeier sped away in his Saab. And moments after the door slammed closed, the lights clicked back on.”

This pricked Shlomo’s curiosity, “The super must have just fixed ‘em, huh?”

“Perhaps. Or maybe it was G-d.”

“Oy, you got me there, Tuchus.”

The darkness had gone and in its place the hollowness was filled with light. It was as if the universe were on a rotating table that only now emerged from the shadows.

As he made his way home from the café Tuchmann smiled, thinking back on the episode. Maybe this world was just a trial run. And the realm of the real was yet to come. Yet a mitzvah is never forgot, even in dreams.