A Pain in the Tuchis

by Mark Reutlinger

  “But have you ever tried it?” he asked. “Have you ever ridden on a motorcycle?”

  “Well, no, but I am sure I would not like it. And it looks to be very dangerous.”

  “Nonsense! That is just because the newspapers like to play up stories about accidents and motorcycle gangs and things like that. I have been riding for almost my whole life, and I’m still here, aren’t I?”

  “Well, yes, but…”

  “And if you don’t try it, you’ll never know if you like it, will you? Listen, we’re not getting any younger, you and I, and we should be having all the new experiences we can, while we can.” This last he said while leaning close to me, in a tone that suggested the kind of “new experiences” generally reserved for teenagers with out-of-control hormones.

  I did my best to discourage him and continued to decline his invitation, but he continued to try to convince me. Fortunately, before I was tempted to accept just to get him to go away, Mrs. K, who had of course heard the entire conversation, spoke up.

  “Ida dear, remember you have an appointment to get your hair done in a few minutes. I think we had better be going.”

  Moishe looked at Mrs. K as a child might look at a parent who has said it is time to turn off the television and go to bed, but he was enough of a mensch not to want to interfere with my “appointment,” and he simply said, “So think about it for another day or two, Ida. I’m sure you will change your mind when you think about it.” As he stood up, I realized that without my noticing he had taken my hand, which he now gave a squeeze and let go. He nodded politely to Mrs. K, and left us.

  For many seconds Mrs. K and I just stared at each other. Finally she said, “I guess I was wrong, Ida. Moishe is far from giving up. In fact, he appears to be quite determined to convince you.”

  “And how do I convince him that he will not convince me?” I asked.

  “Let me give that some thought,” she said. “I am sure there is a way, without being very rude or hurtful. He is, after all, a nice man who means well. He is just a bit farmisht. Just a little mixed up. But I will think of something.”

  —

  So much confidence do I have in Mrs. K, that I did not really worry about Moishe’s mishegoss, or even think much about it, until the next day, when it was Mrs. K who brought it up.

  “Ida, I have been talking with Little Moishe. You know, Moishe Klein’s son, the one who takes him riding on his motorcycle.”

  “And about what have you been talking with him? About his father wanting me to go riding with him?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. I called him and explained that his father is pressuring you to ride with him, and that you do not want to, but also you do not want to hurt his feelings. And do you know what he suggested?”

  “That I should just tell him no? That does not…”

  “No, no. He suggests you should agree to go.”

  “What, is he meshugge like his father?”

  “I don’t think so. What he says is that he is aware of his father’s wanting you to ride with him, because Moishe has been talking about it to him also. He thinks Moishe will not so easily get the idea out of his head, and it would be best to play along with it.”

  “What? And be killed? And should I also begin a ‘relationship’ with him? Maybe we should smooch on the sofa like two teenagers?”

  “Well, actually these days teenagers do more than smooch, I’m afraid. But no, that is not it at all. He explained to me that Moishe has not actually driven his motorcycle for maybe twenty years or more, not since he was much younger and stronger. That is why Little Moishe comes and takes him out for rides. He really misses riding, but cannot manage it himself anymore.”

  “So why, then, does he invite me to ride with him?”

  “It is apparently like a fantasy. He has forgotten he cannot handle the big machine, and in his mind he thinks he is still the man he was when he was fifty, or even younger. He has begun to kvetch, to complain that Little Moishe will not let him drive his own motorcycle, and he constantly noodges his son to let him be the one in front driving. His son says he needs perhaps a little dose of reality to bring him back to the real world.”

  “And I should be killed so Moishe can become real again? That is the big plan?”

  “Of course not, Ida. Moishe’s son assures me there is no way his father can even start that big machine, much less drive it. It is an old model, and it uses what they call a kick-starter.”

  “What, you have to kick it?” That did not sound very good for the machine, or your foot.

  Mrs. K laughed. “No, that is just what they call it. I’m sure you have seen when the rider steps on a lever or pedal or something and pushes it down to start the engine. It is like they used to have a crank to start a car engine.”

  “Yes, I have seen that. I did not know it was called kicking it. But they must just push a button now, like for a car.”

  “Of course. But when this motorcycle was made, they still had the kick-starter. According to Little Moishe, it had an electric starter thing too, but that has not worked in years; only the kick-starter works.”

  “And are you sure Moishe cannot work this kick-starter?”

  “Well, you have seen Little Moishe, how big he is. He says it takes all of his weight and quite a lot of effort to start it. And once it is started, it is quite heavy and he doubts his father would be able to keep it upright, or even get it off its stand. It is a machine for a strong young man, which his father once was, of course, but no longer is.”

  “So I should agree to go riding with Moishe, because he will be unable to start or hold up the motorcycle?”

  “Yes, that is the idea.”

  “And what do you think of this idea? Is it not better just to tell him no? Either way he will be disappointed. And didn’t we want to avoid embarrassing him or hurting his feelings?”

  “Yes, and I suppose there would be some embarrassment involved, but this way he at least will have to realize he cannot ride by himself, so he will not continue to bother either you or his son about it.”

  I thought about this for a moment.

  “Okay, I understand what you are saying, and I suppose it will, as you say, give Moishe a ‘dose of reality.’ But it will be a very bitter medicine, I’m afraid.”

  “Nebach. It’s a pity, yes. But after all, an alter kocker like Moishe—an old man of his age—should not be riding around on machines meant for much younger people, and he will just have to accept that.”

  Mrs. K was right, of course, so we set out to make a plan.

  —

  The next time Moishe approached me I was sitting by myself reading the latest issue of Time magazine and he came and sat next to me. He had a look on his face like a dog that has just spotted a juicy bone that he would like to carry off and bury. This time I was ready for him.

  “Ida,” he began, “here I am again to ask of you: will you come riding with me? It is really quite safe, and…”

  “Yes, I think I will.”

  Moishe looked as surprised as if I had just turned into a golem, a magical creature. This answer clearly he was not expecting.

  “Eh, you will? Is that what you said?”

  “Yes, that is what I said. When will this ride happen?”

  “Well, mmm, I don’t know. That is, I’ll let you know.” He looked very uncomfortable. Nu, there is a big difference between the asking and the doing: the one is very easy and safe; the other has many risks and complications. Mrs. K had told me this might happen, and once again she was right.

  “How about tomorrow, then?” I said. “Why not get it over with?”

  “Well, okay, I guess tomorrow is good. Yes, tomorrow. I shall come by at…at eleven in the morning, if that is convenient.”

  “Certainly,” I said. “I am looking forward to it. A new experience, as you have said.” God forgive me for the lie, but it was for a good cause.

  And so the next day Moishe knocked on my door at precisely eleven o’clock. I am
sure he was not expecting what he saw when I opened the door, any more than he had been expecting me to accept his offer the previous day.

  I should mention that as part of her plan to put an end to the constant noodging by Moishe, Mrs. K had arranged with Little Moishe to borrow from his wife a black leather jacket with knobbly silver things all over it and maybe twenty-five zippers going every direction—I cannot imagine what they put in all those pockets; maybe they carry a lot of loose change—together with some black leather things that look like someone lost the back half of their trousers. They go over the legs, like what those cowboys in the old movies wore when riding their horses after the bad guys. I think they are called chaps. There was also a large black helmet, shiny black with a bright orange zigzag stripe on the sides and a hinged part in front where you look through that could be pushed up out of the way, I assume so the person inside could sometimes see and breathe, because when it was pulled down it was like being in a very small, dark closet.

  I did not have the helmet on yet, of course. Instead I was wearing a little shmatteh, a little colored rag, on my head that I am told motorcycle riders wear under their helmets. If your mother came from Russia or Poland and wore a babushka on her head, it looked something like that, only sillier.

  Anyway, Mrs. Little Moishe was obviously not my size, so when I put on her jacket and chaps—I had to borrow a pair of denim pants from Mrs. Gerbach, who wears them to work in the garden—oy gevalt, I looked exactly like…well, let me put it this way: I once saw a movie about a gang of young men who rode big motorcycles and wore the black leather jackets with the zippers and the black leather pants and went around making trouble for everybody. So if you looked at that movie in one of those curvy mirrors at the amusement park that makes you look like you are bulging out here and skinny there and ridiculous all over, you would have more or less what I looked like when I opened the door to Motorcycle Moishe. I know because I did look in the mirror, and even without the curvy part that is what I looked like. Mrs. K said it was the perfect outfit. For the circus, maybe. And with the helmet on, it should be maybe a space circus.

  Whatever Moishe was expecting, then, it was not what he was looking at when I answered the door. In fact, from the look on his face, he probably did not know whether to laugh or run away, but he is a polite gentleman and somehow managed to do neither. But it took him a minute to say something.

  “I see you are, uh, ready, Ida,” he said at last. “Let us go.” He looked around, probably to make sure no one was watching who might see him walking down the hallway with me in my clown suit. Fortunately for both of us, the hallway was deserted.

  “I hope you don’t mind if Rose Kaplan comes along to watch,” I said. “She is anxious to see how it goes, my riding the motorcycle.”

  “Uh, no, not at all, not at all.” But he didn’t sound like he meant it.

  I put on a coat over my leather costume, to avoid at least a bissel of the embarrassment—to either of us—in case we did meet someone on our way out, which I am sure Moishe appreciated. I carried with me the black shiny helmet with the orange stripes. I did not want anyone should think we are being invaded from Mars.

  On the way we stopped for Mrs. K, who wanted to see not how my riding went, but my not riding, if you know what I mean.

  We did not in fact meet anyone on our way, Got tsu danken. When we entered the garage, all I could see were several rows of parked cars: black ones, silver ones, white ones. I wonder why I almost never see other colors on cars, like I remember when I was growing up—my father had one that was sort of white like cream on top and turquoise on the bottom. Now they all look the same, so it is hard to tell which is yours.

  I was getting very warm in my leather costume and coat, so I took off the coat and handed it to Mrs. K, who from the look on her face seemed to be enjoying this much more than I was. We walked down an aisle facing the fronts of one of the rows of cars. I had a feeling like they were all staring at me with their big round glass eyes. I couldn’t blame them, me looking like a cross between, you’ll excuse the expression, a nafkeh—a whore—and a bad advertisement for a zipper company.

  We reached the end of the aisle and turned a corner, and there it was: the big black motorcycle.

  Even though I was not planning to get on that machine, it scared me just to look at it so closely. It looked like someone had stolen the body from one of the cars we had just passed and left only the big engine, one eye, and two of its wheels, with a little seat perched on top. On its side was its name, in fancy letters: “Harley Davidson.” Of Mr. Davidson I have heard. It seemed to be sleeping, and I was very glad it was going to stay that way!

  “I’ll open the garage door,” Moishe said. He went over to the opposite wall and pressed a button. Immediately the big metal garage door began to roll itself up, making a loud clattering sound. “If you ladies will wait over there for a minute,” Moishe shouted over the noise while gesturing to an open space just outside of the door, “I’ll start the engine and bring the bike outside. It can be a bit loud when it starts up in here.”

  Mrs. K and I obeyed Moishe’s instructions, although we had no fear that the noise would be too loud, unless you count whatever screams of frustration we might hear from poor Moishe when he was unable to make the machine start.

  We watched as Moishe returned to the motorcycle. First he put on his helmet, with the part that goes over his face pushed up, so he could see what he was doing. He climbed on the seat and put his hands on the ends of the handlebars. He looked like a child trying to ride his father’s bicycle, and I admit I felt sorry for him at that moment and a little bit guilty for having put him in such an embarrassing position. But as Mrs. K pointed out, it had to be done for his sake and ours, not to mention Little Moishe’s. We waited for him to put his foot on the kick-starter, wherever that was, and try to start the engine.

  But he did not put his foot anywhere special. He just pressed some kind of button on the handlebar and—Oy Gotenu—suddenly there was a deafening roar.

  The big black motorcycle had come to life!

  —

  Mrs. K and I looked at each other in horror. This was not what was supposed to happen. Of course, we were puzzled as to how Moishe had managed to start the motor with only the pressing of a button. Only later did we learn that the previous afternoon, having made the “date” with me and well aware he could not start the motorcycle with the kick-starter, Moishe had had the electric starter fixed. Who knew he was so efficient?

  We now were like those people who stand and watch an accident scene. We watched and waited to see whether Moishe, now that he had the motor running, could move the heavy machine off its stand and actually drive it. Needless to say, we were very much hoping he could not, because if he was able to drive it out of the garage…well, it was not something I wished to think about.

  It was obvious that before Moishe could get the motorcycle going, like a bicycle it had to be taken off the dingus that holds it up, the kickstand. This is the thing that keeps it from falling over, since it has only the two wheels. And Little Moishe had assured Mrs. K that his father would never be able to do this, as it was much too heavy for him. But then, the same genius had told us that Moishe would never be able to start it in the first place.

  Wrong again.

  It is true Moishe pushed as hard as he could and the motorcycle did not budge. Oh, it rocked back and forth a little, but that was all. Mrs. K and I were much relieved to see this, and we were about to go inside and thank Moishe for the invitation when he called out to us.

  “Would you ladies mind stepping back in here for a moment?”

  We looked at each other and Mrs. K shrugged her shoulders, but we walked back to the parking place where Moishe was sitting on the motorcycle, which, after its roar of waking up, was going “burble-burble-burble” very politely.

  When we reached Moishe, he said, “I know it’s a lot to ask of you ladies, but I’m having a little trouble getting the bike off its stand.
Would you mind giving me a hand?”

  Again Mrs. K and I exchanged puzzled looks. “Us? What is it you want us to do?” Mrs. K asked.

  “Oh, just get on either side and grab hold of that bar”—indicating a shiny silver tube that looked like a handle of some kind on the back of the seat—“and when I say, lean forward and pull.”

  What to do? It was like a condemned prisoner being asked to help build the gallows on which he will be hung. He can refuse, but it will probably only delay the execution. No doubt if we decline to help, Moishe just finds someone else to give him a push. So reluctantly I took hold of the shiny bar and Mrs. K did the same, and when Moishe said “Now,” we pulled.

  I suppose the weight of all of us leaning on Mr. Davidson was enough to make him move, because suddenly he was rolling forward with Motorcycle Moishe on his back and driving.

  Of course, I was not yet sitting on the machine, but was still safely watching as it took Moishe out the door and into the sunshine.

  Zie gezunt, I am thinking. Go and be well. Just do not come back for me!

  —

  I would like to say that Moishe rode off on Mr. Davidson and that was the last of him we saw that day. I would like to, but I cannot, because as soon as he was outside and in the driveway of the Home, Moishe stopped the motorcycle. This created another problem for him. Because the heavy machine was not on its little kickstand, Moishe had to hold it up while remaining on the seat. We could see it start to tip over to the left, then to the right, but finally Moishe got it balanced in between. He then looked back at me and Mrs. K and called out the words I most did not want to hear:

  “Okay, Ida. You can get on now.”

  I looked at Mrs. K and said to her, “Rose, he expects me to get on that machine. What do I do now? I cannot tell him now that I only agreed to come riding with him because we assumed he would never get the machine started or off its stand, much less out of the garage.”