Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  “Listen,” Kagan proposed in earnest confidence, “do you need a partner to run this steambath?”

  “I need a son-in-law,” the mikveh man answered.

  “I’ve got one of those, unfortunately,” Kagan said ruefully. “Not a son-in-law, a wife — believe you me! I wish I could help you out. I know what it is to have a problem.”

  “I’ll solve it, the Lord willing.”

  “Yeah,” Kagan agreed, “I’m sure you will, but you can still help me with mine. It’s Erev Yom Kippur. I need a few bucks for a few months. You may not need a partner, but I do.”

  “You don’t got a job? I need someone to clean up.”

  “Oh, no, I got a job.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I teach. City high school.”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I got a lot of heavy expenses lately. My wife had an operation.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah, she is in terrible pain. I got to keep a nurse for her. Double pay for Yom Kippur.”

  “The nurse is Jewish?”

  “Sure, this is America.”

  “You’re telling me?”

  While they were talking, the stock of green grew larger and cooler. Kagan felt himself sweating profusely.

  “Listen,” Kagan suggested in the most confident and confidential of tones, “a thousand could see me through.”

  The mikveh man didn’t respond.

  “I said a thousand would get me through.”

  “I need a son-in-law, not a partner.”

  “Yeah, but you do me a favor and maybe I’ll do you a favor.”

  “You’re a matchmaker now?”

  “You never know.”

  “I know,” the mikveh man said pleasantly. “Partners I don’t need.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Kagan said in a sarcastic, hurt voice as he walked away.

  “Say, come back here,” the mikveh man called passionately after him.

  Kagan expectantly leaped through the billowing vapors toward the voice of return. “Yes?”

  “You forgot a towel.”

  “I need a towel? For me it’s the bottom of the mikveh.”

  “You shouldn’t talk that way Erev Yom Kippur.”

  “I have no choice.”

  “You always have a choice. Take the towel now. With a crowd like this, I might run out.”

  “Yeah, of everything but money.”

  “I’ve got expenses, too.”

  “Bottom of the mikveh,” Kagan threatened darkly.

  “You’ll change your mind. You’ll be glad you have a towel.”

  “If I don’t, it’ll be bad for business.” Kagan took the towel and continued into the hot, wet, jostling mob. Some greeted him, but Kagan ignored them and worked his way over to the wall where he located an empty hook and commandeered a stool. He sullenly began to undress. Why are some people like that? he wondered. A son-in-law he wants. Grandchildren. Naches. Mazel Tov?

  “Hey, Moe,” a voice interrupted. “What are you doing here?”

  Kagan, half undressed, looked up to see Bienstock the furrier.

  “What do you think I’m doing here, Bienstock, trapping otter? You think only you holy men come here? Even the poor have a few sins.”

  Another voice called in greeting, “Hey, Moe, you know how the mikveh works? You shower first.”

  Everybody’s a maven. Young Goffstein, the shmuck. “Do I know how a mikveh works? I used to be a lifeguard in a mikveh,” Kagan began the routine.

  “Yeah, we heard. You told us that last year,” young Goffstein smirked.

  “Yeah, Goffstein, and you heard Kol Nidre last year too, wise guy. Tonight when the chazan begins Kol Nidre, are you going to call out, ‘Hey, we heard that last year!’?”

  “There is a difference,” Goffstein protested.

  “Yeah, you don’t understand Kol Nidre. I got to get out of here,” Kagan said with a conviction he himself didn’t understand.

  “What’s wrong?” Bienstock inquired.

  “My God!” Kagan remembered, “I’m double-parked!”

  Kagan leaped up, grabbed his towel, and headed for the divinely ordained pool. The place was packed. He couldn’t take this naked, flabby, self-conscious crowd. Nobody had been in the army or spent any time in a male locker room. Everybody moved with tight-assed modesty. Kagan thought these must be the kind of people that you were always reading about, people who fuck with their socks on. But Kagan remembered that he was double-parked.

  “Gangway, gangway!” Kagan called as he bulled his way through the crowd.

  “Don’t push. Someone will get hurt.”

  “Yeah. I could get hurt; I’m double-parked. You’re all dreaming about cooked chicken in soup that the missus made and I’m having nightmares that my goose is being cooked by some momzer in the Twentieth Precinct.”

  “Kagan, don’t tell lies Erev Yom Kippur!”

  Noticing Schwartz behind him, Kagan bristled. Before he could respond, Schwartz continued didactically, “Falcon, Kagan, you drive a Falcon, not a goose.”

  Kagan’s face twisted into a smile. “Yeah, that’s right. That’s not a bad line.”

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please!’’ Schwartz continued. Kagan laughed along with everyone else. “I know you’re all in a hurry, but we have in our midst a cohen who is double-parked.”

  “Oy,” an old man said, “a cohen double-parked! Why didn’t he say?”

  “Years ago a cohen stood for something. As a matter of fact, he stood for plenty,” Kagan muttered. For a judgmental guy, Schwartz has a sense of humor. So if he’s such a great guy why doesn’t he write me a routine? With a good routine....

  Kagan headed down the steps into the pool. Why in blazes are these things always as hot as ... ? For some reason, Kagan couldn’t say it. Kagan was respectful. In a strange way, it was true, but when it came to holy stuff, he had a lot of respect. The steamy water was uncomfortable, and he looked around querulously, half expecting to see rotting vegetation — maybe hay with a little cabbage, floating ripe and redolent past some half-submerged hippopotamus. But the water was surprisingly clean, and the pale, white hulks totally submerged themselves seriously and carefully, even devoutly.

  Kagan descended until the warm, receptive water was up to his waist. As he waded into the pool, he felt the softly oscillating clutches of the heat receive him. In his naked return to thermal oneness, the perfect ninety-eight point six, that sheltered return to consanguineous fluids, he felt the warm waters reproach even as they welcomed — why, Kagan, did you resist us? How could you hesitate? Find us repulsive? But before Kagan could answer, they whispered “sh” and, nodding in gentle waves of reunion, held him fast in the warmth and perfect unity of the pool.

  Kagan, the waters a fraction of an inch below his nostrils, peacefully watched the bodies resolutely submerging and surfacing. His watching turned into meditation as the unifying procedure became a natural process to calm the universe; the edgeless, cornerless bobbing seemed to occur within his mind, inside his brain, simultaneously with its occurrence in the pool.

  Kagan sensed deep within himself that the harmony of this purifying pool could become his vision and the mikveh’s oneness could silence the loansharks who hunted him as their natural prey. Kagan wished to elude them through the fluid currents of repose. He felt impelled to submerge like an amphibian until the waters half-covered his eyes and the serene fluid of the mikveh would enter his searching, troubled hazel eyes. Then, when forced to leave the pool, Kagan could carry with him his true vision — the universal harmony hidden behind the hard edges and sharp corners of a frantic world.

  “Hold that pose any longer, Kagan, and when they remake Run Silent, Run Deep, you can play the submarine.”

  Kagan stood up.

  “Kagan,” Schwartz continued, “the idea is to go all the way under the water.”

  Judgmental son of a bitch, Kagan thought as he gulped a breath of air, collapsed h
is legs under him, and crashed underwater. As his head submerged totally into the water, he felt the tug of his hair floating upward, trying to escape. But it was dragged down with everything else, hovering over him like a dark, tremulous, inescapable hand.

  Kagan felt his heels bump against his rump and then shot his feet downward in a ferocious thrust, ejecting himself bolt upright from the pool. Blowing air and tossing his head like a creature from the deep, he opened his eyes and watched Shapiro’s prissy-assed movement as he climbed up from the pool. What’s wrong with these people? he thought. Why aren’t they normal?

  “Hey, Shapiro!” Kagan’s voice boomed out, amplified by the waters. Everyone, including Shapiro, turned. “You sure this is how Mark Spitz got his start?”

  Desperately wishing that he could explain to all present that Kagan was meshugge and a mere acquaintance of his (which he wasn’t), Shapiro departed the scene in embarrassment.

  Kagan watched him leave more prissy-assed than before, but visions of the entire Twentieth Precinct scribbling tickets all over his car arose in place of Shapiro’s disappearing buttocks.

  Kagan scrambled out of the pool and, drying himself off, scampered back toward his clothing. On the way, he met an old Jew with long gray beard and earlocks gingerly picking his way toward the waters. Kagan stepped in front of him and, flashing the V-for-victory peace sign, proclaimed, “Flipper lives!” Before the old man could begin to comprehend what had happened, Kagan had disappeared.

  Kagan dressed hurriedly, too hurriedly. He felt the damp squish of his socks in his shoes. He shuddered, for Kagan knew with certainty that that was how you got athlete’s foot. His shirt grabbed his damp back and wouldn’t let go. And he didn’t even have a comb. How did he know this morning that he would wind up at the mikveh? He smoothed his hair with one hand and flung his towel toward the hamper with the other as he headed toward the door. A voice caught him before he could exit.

  “Hey, fella, c’mere!”

  “I’m double-parked,” Kagan called, still heading for the exit.

  “C’mere,” the voice coaxed.

  “I’m double-parked.”

  “It’s the first of the month. The coppers don’t ticket until the tenth; I know.”

  Kagan turned back to the mikveh man.

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Vell, they don’t even get the kvoda until then.”

  “Hey, that’s good to know.”

  “You gotta know the kvoda or they’ll run you to death.”

  “You’re telling me!” Kagan agreed.

  “How much you need?”

  Kagan could imagine how much was in that box! And people, five-dollar bills popping out of their pockets, were still pouring in.

  “Two thousand,” Kagan said struggling to hold his voice even, “could save my life.”

  The mikveh man registered no surprise. His expression didn’t change at all. The sweat rolled off the tightly drawn skin. It dawned on Kagan that maybe all the hot moisture had shrunk his skin to such a snug fit. Kagan had found a lifesaver. Where else but the mikveh?

  “Two thousand,” Kagan explained, “would let me turn my life around. I couldn’t pay you right away, but you’ll get it back.”

  The mikveh man stood there silently. Still expressionless, he said, “How would twenty do?”

  “Twenty thousand?” Kagan whispered. His mind did cartwheels in the corrugated box.

  “No, twenty dollars.”

  Kagan felt crushed, tricked, humiliated. How could he do that to Kagan? Kagan hadn’t done anything to him.

  “I’ll tell you what,” the little man said, “let’s make it thirty.”

  “Listen,” Kagan said, more in curiosity than in anger, “I’m talking two thousands and you’re talking two tens. What makes you think so little will help?”

  “Nu,” the man said, “after Yom Kippur comes Succos. A man needs a lulav and an esrog, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, that’s true,” cordially answered Kagan, who had never purchased his own set in his life, but had used the synagogue’s. “And they cost more than ever,” Kagan complained.

  “We’ll make it forty.”

  “Listen, it’s Erev Yom Kippur. We’re both excited, it’s only natural. You said twenty. You mentioned thirty. Now forty. Who’ll get it right? Let’s make it fifty, an even half a hundred, then there won’t be any problem.”

  The mikveh man, with no change of expression, nodded and reached into the box. He calmly counted out ten five-dollar bills onto the damp table.

  “You couldn’t spare another fifty, could you? An even hundred?”

  “No,” he said evenly.

  “Fifty, that’s the quota, huh?” Kagan laughed selfconsciously.

  The man picked up the bills and began to hand them to Kagan.

  “You gotta know the kvo-da,” Kagan mimicked as he reached out to receive them.

  As the mikveh man turned his hand over to deliver the money, Kagan saw the toneless, tattooed numbers on the mikveh man’s forearm. The numbers, sitting there worn and ugly like dead bugs, grabbed Kagan’s eyes. Kagan was confused; why the surprise? The man was a refugee; Kagan had known that at once. He knew that the mikveh man knew that he, Kagan, was surprised and staring. When Kagan looked up fearfully, he found the mikveh man’s eyes gazing from his taut-skinned, expressionless face.

  “Dat’s right,” the mikveh man nodded.

  Kagan drew his hand away and in shame ran out the door. Fearful, he jumped into his car.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t get a ticket,” Ozzie said in a voice exasperated with waiting.

  Kagan did not hear him. His mind was on the mikveh man’s arm.

  “Kagan,” the angel said, “don’t tell me you rifled the Chosen People’s pockets?”

  Kagan looked down to find the bills still in his hand. My God, he thought, he doesn’t even know who I am.

  “Where are you going?” the angel called.

  But Kagan had already leaped out of the car and was running back into the building. Inside, several customers were paying. Kagan shouted over them to the mikveh man.

  “You don’t even know who I am!”

  Without looking up, the mikveh man called, “I know who you are. You’re double-parked. Go!”

  Kagan took another step toward him and said in appreciation, respect, and triumph, “But you know the quota!”

  The mikveh man looked up and nodded slowly. “And yet — you are double-parked. Go.”

  Subdued, Kagan returned to his car. As he settled behind the wheel a patrol car slithered past his double-parked vehicle. Kagan shivered in amazement. As the police passed him, Kagan saw the numbers on the trunk of the car. Five — seven — three — four. Kagan felt a tremor of recognition race through him. Five — seven — three — four, Kagan chanted. I must not forget. I must not forget. For Kagan knew in the seat of his pants that that was a superfecta. Eight... ten... twelve thousand dollars!

  “Ozzie!” he screamed, “I’ve got the numbers!”

  “Don’t you always,” the angel said sarcastically.

  “No, no. This time they’re the real ones,” Kagan yelled in elation. “You’ll see! You’ll see!”

  “Oh,” the angel said, changing his tone.

  Kagan became attentive.

  “When are they for?” the angel continued very calmly and very politely.

  Kagan knew that tone and began to squirm. He kneaded the steering wheel with his fingers and changed his position on the seat. He realized why the angel was suddenly so polite: Kagan wouldn’t bet on any race that was run on Shabbes or a holiday. And tonight! Tonight was both Shabbes and Yom Kippur! And Kagan had the numbers today. Damn! Damn! Damn! screamed Kagan to himself, pounding the wheel in frustration. A sure thing and it might not do him any good.

  “Listen, Kagan, you go right by an Off-Track Betting shop on the way home. Just three dollars at OTB: bing, bing, bing and it’s yours.”

  “Ozzie,” Kagan mourned, “I’v
e got a few principles.”

  “Yes, and they’re wrong, Kagan. I’ve told you that a bet placed before the Sabbath on an event to be run on the Sabbath is not a transgression of the Sabbath. Of course, betting itself is not such a meritorious act, but there is no problem with the Sabbath.”

  “Ozzie, that’s not the way I work.”

  “Kagan, that’s the way the law, the Halachah, works. Don’t you think it’s time you quit relying on your own judgment and started trusting the law? If a man were to shoot an arrow before Shabbes and it killed a man on Shabbes, the man who shot the arrow did not transgress the Sabbath because his act, his act of shooting, was done before the Sabbath.”

  “But what about the man?” Kagan wanted to know.

  “He didn’t violate the Sabbath.”

  “No, Ozzie, the man who got killed.”

  “What about him? He’s dead!”

  “That’s the point. A man gets shot out of the blue and nobody cares. A man, a human being, died, what about him?”

  “He’s dead,” Ozzie screamed. “What about him?! They bury him. They sit shivah. They wail. If he was rich, they name a yeshiva after him.”

  “But what about the other man?” Kagan wanted to know. “He gets off scot-free just because he fired the arrow before sundown?”

  “No, Kagan, he’s a murderer, all right! But he’s not a transgressor of the Sabbath. The case illustrates a principle!”

  “Well, I don’t know about principles, Ozzie. All I know about is Shabbes and Yom Kippur fall on the same day this year. They’re one and the same. I don’t bet Shabbes and I don’t bet Yom Kippur.”

  “But you’re not. That’s the point.”

  “And if I do bet: God won’t mind my thinking about a superfecta during Kol Nidre?”

  “And, Kagan, if you don’t bet it, you’re not going to think about it?”

  Kagan was silent. Of course he was going to think about it. And yet — where had he heard that before? — there was a difference, wasn’t there? A difference between thinking and betting. I can’t.