Tuesday, June 28, 2011

The Day I Was Jewish

One case where the idea of not talking to strangers made sense was with religious people.

I found out one September. I was walking to the bus for school and a guy stopped me at 52nd and Lenox.

"Excuse me," he said. "Are you Jewish?"

If I was, I was a little early for Halloween, in my costume of a Catholic school kid.

"No," I said.

He looked relatively Jewish himself, with a yarmulke and a beard and all that, so you figure he would know the difference.

What did I care, though, and I turned to go, when he stuck out his arm like a bar and said,

"Wind my watch."

I was pre-bad language in my life, so it might have been the first time I accommodated a thought like, "What's with this crazy bastard."

Crazy people were common in Brooklyn 3, with the mental hospital, and were no worry, because they knew they were crazy, and knew you knew. All they had to do to be reminded was to glance at their pants, which they did not select themselves, and were stenciled with the words "Brooklyn State Hospital."

Non-hospital crazies were common, too, but were also little worry. They tended to be foggy and benign.

But a religious crazy person was a sudden puzzle. Where does the religion end and the crazy begin? No doubt they don't know. They just think they're religious.

So it's up to you to decide. In this case, I didn't have much time, so to speak. The guy was nuts and there was no one else on the street.

He still had his arm stuck out. I thought about grabbing his wrist and kicking his feet out from under him. Or whipping off the watch, throwing it, and running in the opposite direction.

But first, I thought, try the easiest thing. Wind the watch and see if that's all he wants.

So I did.

He looked at it, and at me, and said, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," I said.

I walked away, without turning my back completely. I made a left on Lenox, not the right direction, because I didn't want him to know my right direction.

That should have been enough crazy Jewish action for one day, but there was more that afternoon.

More craziness, but essentially the same thing, on the same block. On my way home from school this time, I'm stopped by a guy with a long beard, dressed in robes.

"Excuse me, " he said. "Are you Jewish?"

What is this, National Jewish Confusion Day? This guy is more Jewish than the other, by a lot, with the robes, straps, a scroll, and a pillow with Hebrew on it. What's he going to ask me, to fish him a herring?

Fool me twice? Forget that. So I simply say, "Yes."

"Good," he says, and starts moving. Not away: unpacking stuff.

He produces a yarmulke and puts it on my head. He takes a strap and wraps it around my arm. He opens his scroll, tells me to repeat after him, and starts reading.

Now what? I'm stalling for time while I figure this out. Meanwhile I have to speak Hebrew. Luckily I was good at accents, like a little Sid Caesar.

The guy is chanting; me too; and actually I am starting to enjoy the scene a bit, until I look up and see a bunch of my older brother's friends round the corner. Jewish kids.

They get a look at me in my regalia.

"Hey!," screams Mickey Kravitz. "He's not Jewish!"

Uh-oh. My rabbi looks quite alarmed, as the kids are running towards us, waving fists.

"See you," I say to the guy, whipping off my yarmulke and straps, and taking off in haste.

"You bastard! We'll kill you!"

Bigger kids, they are fast, but I am pretty swift myself, motivated as I am.

I tear up 52nd Street and take a right angle into the first alley I reach, to elude their sight; then another, and another. I hop an old wood fence and hide behind it.

Quiet for a while. I've lost them.

Now I have time to think, and realize what's happening.

It's September. Jewish holidays.

Religious Jews are out proselytizing: that was the p.m. guy. Regular Jews are out walking, and not working, and in fact are not allowed to work at all - not flip a light switch, not wind a watch. That was the guy this morning.

I found this situation quite ironic, but wasn't sure I could convey the humor of it all to Kravitz and crew. What they saw, or think they saw, was me in rather elaborate blasphemy on their faith.

So I sat there a while. I figured my mother would enjoy the story later - provided I arrived home alone, without a bunch of baying kids behind me. "What did you do this time?" was a question I heard enough already, without being chased home or converted.

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Eggies On Those Afghans

"Eggies on" something was similar to "Chips on" something in kids' legal code in Brooklyn 3, but it was acquisitive rather than compensatory.

It had exclusively to do with food.

Your friend comes walking out of the luncheonette with a bottle of RC, for instance. You say, "Eggies on that soda." He is now obligated to give you a sip.

Eggies on that ice cream, that sandwich, that pretzel, those Afghans (pistachio nuts). We were hungry.

Of course, like taxes for adults, you could get out of eggies if you were smart or stingy.

All you had to do was say "No eggies" first, to preempt any claim. That was for the smart and quick.

For the stingy, stung by an eggies claim, there was saliva.

"Eggies on that soda." Oh, yeah? So, Lee Mark Shimpkin drops a big clam into the bottle, and gobs all over the top of it.

That's alright. You'd have to be crazy to drink off Lee Mark's lips anyway. Crazy or dying of thirst, literally, and death is probably preferable.

The truth is, eggies claims were usually made between friends. It was sort of a street way to ask for a sip or a share. We generally did not ask for things, and never used words like share. Tough guys.