Beware of God

by Shalom Auslander

  Let me greet him with thanksgiving, with praiseful songs let me pray to him.

  For a great God is Epstein, and a great King above all!

  While it is true that the latest edition of Kabbalah For Dummies is an engaging and often thought-provoking introduction to the concepts of that renowned work of ancient Jewish mysticism, it might have been prudent if somewhere in the “Golem” section, perhaps adjacent to the detailed instructions on how to create one, they might have mentioned, however cursorily, how to uncreate one.

  For I am not but a mound of dirt, of clay, of earth, into which Epstein in His great mercy did breathe life. Command me, Epstein, and I shall obey. Let me now praise Epstein, Amen.

  “Holy crap,” said Epstein, “it worked.”

  Epstein’s mother clapped her hands excitedly. “Ooo, make him do something, Moshe! Make him do something!”

  The golem sat upright on Epstein’s couch, his back straight, his hands clasped solemnly in front of his chest. Epstein had dressed him in one of his old blue business suits, with a wide striped tie and a dark gray fedora. He wasn’t beautiful, or even symmetrical, but for a first Golem, he was pretty damn good.

  “Behold!” said Epstein. “I command you to, uh, stand up!”

  The golem stood up.

  The Epsteins gasped.

  “Behold!” said Epstein. “I command you to sit!”

  And the golem sat.

  Epstein’s mother cheered. “Can I try, can I try?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Behold!” she suddenly called out. “Do the laundry!”

  The Epsteins held their breath.

  “Hanging or folded?” the golem asked.

  Epstein’s mother squealed.

  THIS is the life,” said Epstein.

  The plants were watered, the cat was fed and the garbage had already been taken out. Sunday afternoon, nothing to do but sit back with a cold beer and watch the Jets game with his mother.

  “Golem!” Epstein called out.

  “Here I am,” said the golem.

  “Bring unto me a beer,” said Epstein, “and with it some of those chips. You know, in the tall cupboard by the stove.”

  He was sure getting to like that golem.

  “Hark,” cried out the golem, “dost thou desire a Beck’s or dost Thou desire a Samuel Adams?”

  “I desire,” called out Epstein, “a Samuel Adams.”

  “Amen,” said the golem. “Light or Regular?”

  “Regular.”

  “Ale or lager?”

  “Lager.”

  “Amber or Cherry Wheat?”

  “Just get me a fucking beer,” said Epstein.

  And the golem hurried out.

  Sweet.

  “What a nice boy,” said Epstein’s mother.

  A moment later, the golem returned.

  “Barbecue chips or Zesty Ranch?” he asked.

  Epstein is my shepherd, I shall not lack. In lush meadows He lays me down, beside tranquil waters He leads me. I shall dwell in the house of Epstein for all of my days.

  Epstein was thirty-seven years old, a low-level assistant in an insignificant branch of a monolithic corporation with offices in seventy-two countries including Bahrain. He was a cog in the wheel of another wheel with cogs of its own. His devoted golem may have known him as Epstein the All-Powerful and Omniscient, but most everyone else knew him as Epstein the Balding Junior Assistant to the Fat Guy in Accounting with the Lisp. And while yes, it may have been factually true that he lived with his mother, technically speaking his mother lived with him, a semantic loophole which never failed to fail to impress the ladies.

  He couldn’t just throw her out on the street. She was old and needed his company, and he was young and needed her half of the rent.

  But goddamn it, it was high time someone took care of Epstein for a change! It was time someone wanted Epstein’s opinion, time someone brought Epstein a coffee.

  Morning, Mr. Epstein!

  Whatever you say, Mr. Epstein!

  But what do you think, Mr. Epstein?

  Last Saturday afternoon, as part of his weekly sermon, Rabbi Teitelbaum told the congregation the story of the Golem of Prague; by Saturday night, Epstein was already scouring the Golem section in the local Barnes & Noble (it’s not in Sci-Fi, by the way, it’s in Biography). One quick stop at Home Depot for a half-dozen bags of dirt, and Epstein was set.

  Epstein raised me from the pit of raging waters, from the slimy mud did he lift me. Praiseworthy is he who places in Epstein his trust, who turns not to the strayers after falsehood.

  Epstein was starting to like all this Thou Thee Thy Beseech stuff. Nobody beseeched him at work. Nobody praised him. Nobody sanctified his name. Most of them didn’t even remember his name.

  The golem was a real bower, which Epstein liked—he bowed when he entered the room, he bowed when he left, he bowed when he began to speak and he bowed when he stopped—and he never once forgot his Morning Praise, a short hymn Epstein composed called Obey Me or Else:

  Blessed is He that broughteth you into this world, for He can surely taketh you out.

  That Epstein had no idea how to kill a golem, considering that they weren’t technically alive, didn’t trouble him too deeply.

  And so, two weeks and a couple of trips back to the Home Depot Garden Center later, Epstein was back in the garden, busily creating Golem Two.

  Epstein had discovered the first time around that despite what Kabbalah For Dummies said, creation was really more of a two-man job. Sure, you might be able to pull it off by yourself; others famously had, of course, but they had obviously cut corners. To begin with, the bags of dirt were heavy—fifty pounds each of the appropriately named Miracle-Gro Garden Soil—and you needed at least a dozen of them for a Golem of even modest size. Then you had to shape the dirt into something resembling a man, which sounds a lot easier than it is, particularly if you’re going for the whole in-your-own-image thing (which Kabbalah For Dummies advised against while still acknowledging that “it is kinda the fun part”).

  Golem One had turned out well enough, and even looked a little like Epstein—medium height, bit of a gut. That must have been beginner’s luck, though, because Epstein was having a hell of a time with the legs on Golem Two, and he kept screwing up the head.

  He wasn’t very good at heads.

  “Come on, Ma!” called Epstein. “I need a hand with this one!”

  He found her downstairs in the laundry room, an angry scowl on her face, her foot tapping impatiently on the laundry room floor where a tall pile of laundry sat silently stinking. The golem was bent over the dryer, writing notes in yet another of his thick black notebooks. He carried those notebooks everywhere, recording in great detail every Epsteinian rule and regulation. In the few short weeks since his creation, he’d filled seven of them from cover to cover. There was an entire volume on beer, and two on the complex subject of chips and related snacks. Another tractate covered all the laws of housecleaning, while still another catechized the full care and feeding of house plants and window boxes (container plants demanded a volume all their own).

  When he wasn’t writing in them, he was consulting from them.

  The covers were already worn, the pages already weathered and loose.

  “Hark,” cried out the golem, “when Thou say detergent, art thou referring to powdered detergent or to liquid detergent?”

  “Liquid,” snapped Epstein’s mother.

  The golem wrote that down.

  “How about those detergent disks?” he asked.

  “We don’t have detergent disks.”

  “Shall I get detergent disks?”

  “Liquid is fine.”

  “Tide or Wisk?”

  “Tide.”

  “What about Fab?”

  “No.”

  “Gain?”

  Epstein’s mother shook her head.

  “Tide with Bleach Alternative or Tide with Bleach Ultra?”

  “We
don’t have Tide with Bleach Ultra.”

  “Shall I get Tide with Bleach Ultra?”

  She groaned.

  “What the hell’s wrong with him, Moshe?”

  “Give him some time,” said Epstein.

  “To him, time must be given,” said the golem, turning to a blank page in his notebook. “Now then—lay flat or tumble dry?”

  Mrs. Epstein slammed the washer shut and stormed out of the room.

  “Delicate or permanent press?” the golem called out after her. He ran to the doorway, clutching his precious notebook to his chest.

  “Delicate or permanent press!”

  This I will know, that Epstein is with me. When Epstein acts in strict justice, I still praise the Word. When Epstein acts in mercy, I still praise the Word. In Epstein I have trusted, I shall not fear.

  “This place is a wreck,” said Epstein’s mother.

  It had been two weeks since Golem Two’s creation ation, and well over a month since Golem One’s.

  The plants hadn’t been watered, the cat hadn’t been fed and the garbage hadn’t been taken out.

  Neither golem was doing very much at all these days, stuck as they were in near constant debate about the meaning, intricacies and inferences of Epstein’s instructions and commands.

  “Epstein clearly said to separate whites and colors,” said Golem One.

  “I don’t disagree with that,” said Golem Two. “I disagree with how you interpret the word ‘colors.’ You hold that any amount of color constitutes color, whereas I hold that it has to be a significant amount of color.”

  The pile of soiled clothing in the center of the laundry room had already doubled in size. Dirty linens were piled high in the sink, underwear hung from every doorknob and light switch, and Epstein’s mother’s beige underwire bras were slung sloppily over the top of the laundry room door.

  “But what is a ‘significant’ amount of color?” asked Golem One.

  Golem Two cited Notebook 4, page 42 of Epstein’s Laws concerning the taking out the garbage, wherein the garbage being “significantly” full meant that the lid could not be closed. According to Golem Two, significant therefore meant a majority of or a predominance of. Golem One argued that garbage was a different ruling entirely because it depended on the day of the week—that is, the time the garbage was picked up—not on an amount of garbage, as was the issue in the case of the dirty laundry.

  Epstein separated the whites from the colors himself, filled the washing machine, slammed the door and left.

  The golems fell to their knees and begged for for-giveness:

  Behold, before you I am like a vessel filled with shame and humiliation! May it be your will, O Epstein, that I not sin again!

  And then, one Sunday afternoon, after watering the plants, feeding the cat and taking out the garbage, Epstein barely had enough time to sit back without his cold beer and catch the last lousy couple of minutes of the Jets game with his mother.

  When the golems came and joined them in the den, Epstein’s mother left without a word.

  “No!” Epstein shouted at the television. “Go for the field goal!”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed Golem One. “The field goal is what they should go for.”

  “We should all go for the field goal,” Golem Two concurred.

  “By going for the field goal,” added Golem One, “we all will be rewarded.”

  It was third and long, with less than two minutes to play and the Jets were only down by one.

  “You never pass on third and long,” said Epstein.

  “Passing on third and long is wrong,” said Golem Two.

  “He who passes on third and long,” said Golem One, “shall surely be put to death.”

  The quarterback dropped back, faked left, reared back and threw the ball into the end zone.

  “It’s up … !” said Epstein. “Touchdown!” he shouted, jumping out of his seat. “Woo! In your face!”

  Epstein raised his arms above his head and turned for the double high-five to the golems, who remained sitting, as ever, solemnly in their seats.

  “Touchdown,” nodded Golem One sagely.

  “Amen,” agreed Golem Two, scribbling away in his notebook. “In their face.”

  ···

  RABBI Teitelbaum peeked through his living room window, and unlocked the front door.

  “Epstein!” he said. “How’s your mother?”

  The Rabbi led Epstein into his study, and closed the door.

  “I have a problem,” said Epstein.

  “Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. He stood by the window, looking out at his cars in the driveway and stroking his long, silvery beard. After some polite small talk about the situation in Israel and the paltry synagogue building fund, Epstein confessed that despite the repeated cautions, he had kinda sorta made himself a golem.

  “Two, actually. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m just so busy, you know, with Mother, and, well, life these days.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. “With the multitasking and the e-mails, yes, yes.” He seemed to be keeping a keen eye on his cars in the driveway.

  Epstein continued. The golems had become a serious bother. He felt awful saying so, what with being their creator and all, but didn’t Nobel regret creating dynamite? Didn’t Einstein regret creating the bomb? And so he had decided to be rid of them, which, much like the creation part, was turning out to be more difficult than it sounded. He’d gone to the library, he’d checked the Internet, but he could not find any information, anywhere, about how to undo what he had so regrettably, short-sightedly, foolishly done. Twice.

  Rabbi Teitelbaum nodded sagely.

  “Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. “The Google knows many things.” He stepped away from the window, and sat down behind his desk.

  “Unfortunately,” he said, “I can’t help you.”

  There was a knock at the door.

  “You see,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a whisper, “I’ve kinda sorta got a little golem problem of my own.”

  The door opened and a golem walked in. He looked different, this golem; looked a lot, in fact, like Rabbi Teitelbaum—tall and thin, lanky, with a noticeable stoop to his back. Epstein thought the rabbi may have been a bit generous with the clay in the crotch area, but overall, it was an impressive effort.

  “Nice job,” said Epstein.

  “Teitelbaum is my shepherd,” cried out the golem, “I shall not lack. In lush meadows He lays me down, beside tranquil waters He leads me.”

  Rabbi Teitelbaum shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said. “That ‘crying out’ thing gets old fast, doesn’t it?”

  “Hark,” cried out the golem, “when thou say to change the oil in thy car, are thou referring to the minivan or to the sedan?”

  The rabbi shook his head.

  “The sedan.”

  “Amen,” said the golem. “Regular or synthetic?”

  “Regular.”

  “10W40 or 10W30?”

  Rabbi Teitelbaum sighed.

  “Just change the fucking oil.”

  WHEN Epstein returned from the rabbi’s house, his mother was waiting for him at the end of their driveway.

  “They’re killing each other!” she screamed.

  The house was a wreck. The dining room table had been flipped over, and two of the wooden chairs had been smashed. In the living room, the couch cushions were torn open and the glass coffee table had been shattered.

  “What the hell?” asked Epstein.

  “They were arguing!” said Epstein’s mother.

  Loud shouts and slaps came from the den. Glass shattered.

  “Not the television!” cried Epstein.

  They ran through the house. The kitchen had been trashed, the cutlery drawer was pulled open and knives were scattered all over the floor. But it was nothing compared to what they found waiting for them in the den.

  “Oh my God,” said Ep
stein’s mother.

  Golem One looked up. “Oh your what?”

  Golem One was lying on the floor in front of the couch, trying to reach for his legs, both of which had been cut off at the hip, evidently by Golem Two. His right leg was slung over the arm of the far side of the couch, and his left leg was halfway across the room, underneath an overturned end table.

  Golem Two wasn’t faring much better. He was lying flat on his back in the middle of the room, trying to get to his arms, both of which had been cut off at the shoulder, evidently by Golem One. His right arm was lying at Epstein’s feet, his left arm was across the room, sticking out from behind the television.

  “He clearly meant to water the plants every day!” Golem Two said loudly to Golem One.

  “I don’t disagree with that,” Golem One answered loudly back, throwing a copy of TV Guide at Golem Two’s head. “I disagree with your understanding of ‘plants’ to mean all plants, even those which may not need watering every day, such as the ivy or the little cactus on the window ledge in the kitchen.”

  Not that it mattered, of course.

  The plants had all died weeks ago.

  THE golems needed constant supervision.

  Golem Two, having no arms, needed Epstein to wash him, clothe him and feed him. If Golem Two wanted a Coke, Epstein not only had to get it for him, Epstein had to hold it for him while he drank.

  Golem One, having no legs, needed to be carried to the toilet, and carried off the toilet, and carried to the dinner table and carried to the den to watch TV.

  “Epstein!” Golem Two would call out.

  “Hark,” Epstein would answer.

  “Have mercy upon your servant,” he would say, “and bring unto me a beer.”

  “And some chips,” added Golem One. “In thy mercy.”

  So a few weeks later, Epstein awoke in the middle of the night, helped his mother into the car, and threw their bags into the trunk.

  “Fuck this,” proclaimed Epstein, and away they went.

  OVER the next few weeks, the golems called out for Epstein every morning, every afternoon and every evening, but Epstein did not respond.