by Amy Sohn
It was weird what happened next—I let out this hollow sob, a noise I hadn’t made before then and haven’t made since. There was a rush of love in my chest that made me dizzy and I felt the kind of pride that a parent feels for their kid, except it was my dad so it was mixed with awestruck admiration. He was hunched over, his shoulders low and his beard speckled, a new patch of dermatitis forming on his forehead, but in that moment he seemed large to me, like a giant.
I leaned over and hugged him hard, gripping my two hands together, my chin jutting into the bone of his shoulder. “You’re not upset?” he said, muffled, into my neck.
I pulled away. “Why would I be upset?”
“I thought you’d feel like I was stealing your thunder.”
“You’re such an idiot,” I said. “It doesn’t work like that.”
As I looked over at him and saw how happy he was I understood for a second that love was like blood. It coursed through you no matter how many layers of anger and pain it was buried under. It might run thin sometimes or get blocked but it was in you and it kept you going even when there were times you wanted to purge yourself completely.
My father had pushed me too hard all of my life and maybe this was the reason, because he’d never had any faith in himself. But now he was going to do something he wanted to do and even if it meant he had to apply five times before he got in it was a start. The fact that he had figured this out made me less angry at him for all that pressure because it explained it a little, and the truth was, he hadn’t nagged me about my job situation in a pretty long time. I knew he wasn’t happy with me bartending but I wasn’t going to do it forever anyway. I doubted I’d be a Hebrew school teacher, or do anything involving organized religion, but maybe someday I’d do something partially rabbinic, like write a guide to dating crazy men.
“I was thinking about writing my essay on tshuvah, on repentance,” my father said.
“What do you know about tshuvah?” I said, impressed.
“I’ve been reading up. The Grand Army branch has an excellent Judaic Studies section. So you’ll help me with my application?”
“Of course I will.”
“You think I stand a chance of getting in?”
“Sure. Half my classmates were middle-aged. With the job market the way it is more and more people are going into the rabbinate as a second career. I think this could be a really good move for you.”
“You think so?” he said, his voice cracking.
“Yeah. I like the ring of it.”
“What?”
“Reb Dad,” I said, and held my hand up like I was seeing it on a marquis.
He choked up and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry,” he coughed. “It’s just—uh—a chest cold.”
“Before you can be a rabbi you’re going to have to learn not to cry so easily,” I said, but as usual it was too late.
A COUPLE weeks later around four in the morning when I was coming home from my shift, I saw something very strange in front of the building. A black SUV with shaded windows, the kind that belong only to rock stars, pulled up in front and Liz stepped out. She turned around and leaned her head into the window.
“When I fall asleep tonight,” a melodic and oddly familiar southern-accented voice said, “I’ll be thinkin’ ’bout my fingers in your sweet beav.”
“I love the way you say that,” she said.
“Be good, you hear?” he said, and something about the sexy paternalism of the tone made me realize in a click of an instant who it was.
The car sped off into the night and as she waved goodbye she saw me standing in the shadows. “Hello, Rachel,” she said nervously.
“Who was that?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Was that who I think it was?”
“That depends,” she said, biting her lip. “Who do you think it was?”
“The forty-second president of the United States?”
She turned a deep pink and said, “You caught me.”
“Jesus! Doesn’t he care about being spotted?”
“Not too many people are around at four AM in Cobble Hill. Brooklyn’s very protected that way.”
“What happened to Gordon?”
“It was good while it lasted but then we started fighting again. He never introduced me to any of his friends, and he started getting really protective about his ass. It was just too much of a downer.”
“So how did you meet him?” I said, my curiosity taking precedence over my shock.
“You knew he liked Jewish girls.”
“I mean, what happened?”
“I was at this Israel benefit in Chappaqua a couple weeks ago with my parents and he was one of the guests. Everyone was talking the whole time about how he was going to show up but I didn’t believe it. My parents left around ten but I figured I’d stay because there was this semihot investment banker named Jon Metzger there I’d been flirting with. Just as I was debating whether or not to leave with him, the door opened and you-know-who came in with two Secret Service guys. Immediately everyone started crowding him but I hung back, not wanting to be too obvious. There was a little space between the heads and like the Red Sea had parted, I saw him eyeing me.
“Eventually the guests started to leave. I told the investment banker I was going to stay a little longer so he jetted, and as I was standing by the buffet table eating a cheese stick Mr. C. came up to me. The first words he spoke were, ‘You’ve got the prettiest blue eyes.’ So I said the only thing I could think of: ‘Back atcha.’ ”
“I bet he’s never heard that before.”
“What can I say?” She shrugged as we went into the building. “I was lust-drunk. I mean what you’ve heard about his presence does not do justice.” She sighed blissfully. “He looked so amazing I barely recognized him. He’s dropped like forty pounds. I said, ‘I gotta tell you, you’ve lost a lot of weight,’ and he beckoned me close and said, ‘South Beach.’ We kept talking—about Israeli politics, eating disorders, and what he thinks of Chappaqua. He asked if I had a boyfriend and I told him I was just getting out of something. He said he knew what it was like, that it could be hard to bounce back right away. I said I had a habit of dating persecuted minorities like blacks, Jews, and dirty old men, and he said, ‘I definitely fit the last category.’ Then he asked if I wanted to come over to his place for a drink. He said his wife was in Washington so there wasn’t a problem.”
We were standing in front of my apartment door and my mouth was hanging open, a bit of spittle forming at the corner. “He had this Mies daybed in the living room,” she said, “and we got down on that because he didn’t feel comfortable in the conjugal bed. I know this sounds crazy but I think he could really be the one. I don’t mind that he travels, that he’s married. I feel like this could really give me the space I need to finish my dissertation.”
I was aghast, agape. I needed details. “When you say you got down, you mean you went all the way?”
“Of course not,” she said. “You know he has intercourse issues. He still has that twisted southern morality even though they’ve been in couples counseling long enough for him to know better.”
“So what did you do?”
“Everything else,” she said wickedly. “And yes, I swallowed. I’m not an idiot. He had one of his guys drive me back and before I left he said he wanted to see me again but I should know that dating a married guy could be complicated. I said, ‘That’s all right, I’ve been through it before.’ Aren’t you happy for me?”
I wasn’t sure. On the one hand I felt guaranteed she’d never have second thoughts about my dad, on the other I was concerned for her welfare. “This could be bad,” I said. “If he thinks you’ll leak he could have you murdered. That’s what they did to Marilyn. With HRC contemplating a presidential bid and—”
“I don’t care!” she cried. “It would be a fitting way to go out! Death by beege.”
“So does he have Peyronie’s? The distinguishing characteris
tics?”
“I’ll never tell,” she said smugly.
“You gotta give me something. Would you say it’s wider than it is round, or—”
“I am so not sharing.”
“Is he going to come over?”
“Number Forty-two is not going to be having dirty stay-outs in Cobble Hill!” She hesitated, like she wanted to ask me something.
“What is it?” I finally said.
“Do you want to come upstairs for a second? I’ll make you a drink.”
I was curious but I hadn’t forgotten what she had done. I was afraid to let her back in even a little but at this point there was nobody left in my life for her to steal.
“I—I’m not sure,” I said.
She paused for a second, then said, “I’ll show you some pictures I took of him naked.”
“You’ve got a deal,” I said, and we ran upstairs.
THE next afternoon before work I went to the deli by the park for a cappuccino. It was a chilly December day, too cold to sit in the park, but something made me want to stop by. I brought my cup and as I headed past the park I saw Powell sitting on a bench next to a young woman with short hair.
The woman was in her early thirties, and she wore a long flowing skirt with laced-up boots, the kind of outfit that screamed actress. His body was turned intently toward hers and I waited for him to notice me but he was totally engaged in what she was saying. She was speaking very animatedly with her hands, and then he said something back and she laughed, and put her hand on his knee. He didn’t touch it but he didn’t move it away and after a few seconds she took it back. It wasn’t clear how intimate they were—he seemed formal enough that I could wager they hadn’t slept together—but I could see him enjoying the captive audience, getting off on her enjoyment of him, her appreciative smile.
I felt jealous of their intimacy, of how easy and low-maintenance she seemed. I wondered whether maybe he’d be able to open up to her in ways he never would to me, whether someday I’d have to read their announcement in the single woman’s porn: the weddings pages.
But as she flashed her teeth at him I realized that the only part I envied was this part, when Powell’s company felt like a shiny blue ribbon. I would have given anything to be her in this moment, when he was outrageous and surprising and when being around him made you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. It was the other part I wouldn’t miss, the later part, the fighting and vindictiveness. I missed the beginning of Powell, not the end. I watched them a little longer and then I went to work.
THAT night I had my best night in tips since I’d started at Roxy. I wasn’t sure why it was so crowded since it was bitingly cold and that usually made people stay inside—but by eleven I’d already cleared three hundred dollars. Blimp and a few other guys from the PJs were holding court by the front, laughing loudly. A few gay boys sat on the pews by the window feeding ice cubes to a Brooklyn mutt, and about twenty white hipsters were spread all over, playing Patsy Cline and Wilco on the juke, drinking beers, and complaining about their jobs.
Jasper and Delia were in his usual place and he had his arm slung around her protectively. He’d told me they were starting to get serious—they’d gone on three more dates but she still hadn’t slept with him, and he decided this was a sign that she really cared.
A Betty Page wannabe had just come in alone, looking glum, and ordered a Stoli and cranberry. She’d actually ordered a “vodka cran” but lately I had started asking people what kind of vodka they wanted and half the time they picked something top-shelf, which meant better tips. As I put down her drink she passed me the money with a glum frown. You have to worry when you see a cute girl alone in a bar on a Saturday night; usually they come in with girlfriends.
“You OK?” I said.
“Not really,” she said, lowering her chin.
“What is it?”
“It’s about my ex-boyfriend.”
Normally I wouldn’t have pried but she seemed lost and I decided there was a chance she actually needed help. “Hit me.” She eyed me anxiously like she wasn’t sure she’d be able to talk about it without crying and then she heaved in and said, “You see—”
A Goth-looking chick was beckoning me from the other end of the bar. “Hold on just a second,” I told Stoli Cran.
“Can I order some food?” the Goth girl asked. “Am I allowed to eat here?”
“Absolutely,” I said, grabbing the menu book. She opened up and began flipping through the pages. I figured I’d help her a little. “Baluchi, the Indian, is good but they charge for the rice, Zaytoon’s is the cheapest but don’t order lamb, and if you need comfort food you could try 247 Smith. I recommend the crab cakes.”
I was on my way back to Stoli Cran when a hostile fat guy in a Chinese rice-picker hat waved his arm. He’d had four Brooklyn Lagers and so far he’d tipped me a buck. “Can I get another?” he said.
I poured it, brought it over. He laid down a five. I brought the single and he left it there like it was some sort of generous gift. I picked up the bill and held it in front of him. “You’ve ordered four drinks and tipped me a dollar,” I said. “I’m a little confused. Have I been surly?”
“No,” he said like a reprimanded schoolboy.
“Late with drinks?”
“No.”
“So the service was all right, then.”
“I guess so.”
“Well the standard tip on a sixteen-dollar tab is four to five dollars.”
His face got red as the gay boys leaned over and laughed. “You tell him, Rachel!” a black guy named Barry said, doing the snaps.
The rice-picker guy reached into his pocket and laid down another four dollars. People were easy. You just had to know how to work them.
I went back to Stoli Cran. “I’m sorry,” I said. “You were saying?”
She looked needy and more urgent than before. “My ex-boyfriend left all this stuff in my apartment five months ago when we broke up. I’ve called him like ten times to get it but he keeps making excuses.”
“The answer’s very simple,” I said.
“It is?”
“Sure. If you want to sever ties with your ex you need to call UPS and have them come pick up your boyfriend’s shit because you’re only holding on to it as a way of holding on to him.”
“Really?” she said. “You think so?”
“Absolutely,” I said. “Even though you’re saying it’s his fault for not picking it up you’re clinging to those remnants of him because it insures a future dialogue. You have to let go. You think it’s romantic to flounder but a girl that flops like a fish is unappealing.”
“I’m over him,” she said.
“Not if you still have his stuff in your place after five months.”
“I never saw it that way before.”
I nodded and leaned back, surveying the room. I had a pulpit now but a more honest one. I would never be a messenger of God but I was doing an all right job of ministering to the masses. I was a rabbi at Congregation Inebriation. Everyone there needed help in some way and though I still had a hard time not screaming “You’re such an idiot!” when someone told me their sob story, it had been weeks since I’d driven a customer to Boat and I no longer dreaded coming to work. I had learned how to listen a little and I even liked them.
“I know it sounds extreme,” I told Stoli Cran, running the cloth over the bar top. “But you gotta clean house. His boxes are the baggage weighing you down and preventing you from meeting somebody else. Until ya move them out every guy you meet’s gonna see for himself that you’re clinging to some otha guy’s cock.”
“Do you have an accent?” she said.
“It comes out sometimes,” I said. “Think a yourself as a monkey in a forest. You gotta let go of the first vine before you can swing to the next. I know it’s tempting to think you could bring him back but when it comes to love the best thing you can do is admit failure. Nobody can turn anybody else around.”
“Tha
t’s pretty good,” she said. “Did you make that up?”
“Yes I did,” I said, feeling a sudden rush of energy. “That’s Aphorism Number One of Rachel’s Aphorisms.”
“How many are there?”
“I don’t know yet.”
Someone had put that Replacements song “Kiss Me On The Bus” on the jukebox and everyone was shouting and laughing. I leaned back and scanned the room. The hungry Goth girl was talking on her cell phone, reading off an order from one of the menus. The guy with the mutt was coming up to the bar for more ice, and Jasper and Delia were getting up out of their seats. I could tell they were going to do it by the way he winked at me as he helped her with her coat.
There was a shout from the back as someone won a pool game. I heard the coin tray sliding in and out, and the balls clackety-clacking down the ramps. The room seemed to be humming and when I closed my eyes it sounded like a chant.
The author wishes to thank the following individuals:
Daniel Greenberg, Marysue Rucci, David Rosenthal,
Tara Eggert, Charles Miller, Rabbi Hara Person,
Rabbi Niles Goldstein, Rabbi Jon Malamy,
Rabbi Mark Kaiserman, Rabbi Steve Shulman,
Rabbi Shira Stern, Amy McFarland, Rebecca Hargreaves,
Polly Yerkes, John Currin, and Kimball Higgs.
This book would not have been possible
without the encouragement, wisdom, and friendship
of Will Blythe.
AMY SOHN is the author of the novel Run Catch Kiss and the New York magazine column “Naked City.” She has also written for Playboy, Premiere, Harper’s Bazaar, and many other magazines. She wrote the film Spin the Bottle and co-created the Oxygen television series “Avenue Amy.” She lives in Brooklyn and at www.amysohn.com.
