The Jerusalem Syndrome
Page 12
“Okay,” I conceded, cowering.
When I stepped up to the podium I was overwhelmed by warmth. I felt love and loved. I looked out into the crowd and saw all the faces of the people that were grown-ups when I was a kid; they were all old. I felt as if I had been wandering for years and finally came home. Mrs. Reinman sat at the center table. Seeing her brought me back to a simpler time in my mind. A time when saying the Hebrew alphabet all the way through was a great accomplishment, and it was enough.
These people knew me when I was ten. I found that my feelings toward some of them were still the ones I felt at ten. There was Marilyn Bromberg, who was the president of the congregation when I was at my most mischievous. I spent a lot of time in her office being reprimanded. I saw her sitting in the crowd, a little older, but her power was intact. With her and Mr. Ross in the room I felt that I had better behave myself. The first thing I said at the dais was “It’s been about fifteen years since I’ve been here and I still find Mr. Ross frightening.” I got a huge laugh.
I introduced the rabbi, and he made his way to the podium. He wasn’t moving as well as he had the day before. He was struggling a bit. He got up to the microphone and said, “It’s amazing that Marc is doing the same thing he was doing here when he was a kid.”
I interjected from the table, “Only now I won’t be sent to Mrs. Bromberg’s office.”
Without missing a beat, the rabbi said, “Not yet.” It brought the place down.
As I brought family members and friends up to pay tribute to Marilyn Reinman, I had a moment when I understood the power of the religious community. I imagined what it would feel like to try to obey the laws of God. To age, move through and share all the processes of life with a circle of people with common beliefs. To rally together and persevere in the face of adversity and evil. To help and hurt each other in the name of love. To be there for each other’s successes, failures, joys, and tragedies, then to try to fill your heart with the good moments and elevate them to a true, deep feeling of worthiness as a human being. To know you’ve done the best you can in the eyes of your peers and in the eyes of God. Most important, to try to fight against that moment of horrible truth when you look around and realize how utterly unfair it all is, as the injustice of time and disease slowly levels everyone. That’s where the idea of God really comes into play. It eases the move toward the ground. Believing in the grand plan can take the edge off if you let it, because it really doesn’t end well for anyone. Acceptance.
After dinner, a parade of old Jews and a few younger ones moved toward the sanctuary, where there were already about a hundred people seated. They had purchased tickets for just the comedy show. Gus was there, as were many people I had known growing up. While everyone was getting settled in their seats I was in the lobby wrestling with the yarmulke no yarmulke dilemma. I understood it was a house of God and it was customary to wear a yarmulke, but I thought, Why should I start following the rules now? The only reason I was really concerned was out of respect for some of the older, more religious people and out of fear of Mr. Ross.
I decided against the yarmulke because I realized that even though they are my people, the ritual trappings of Judaism did not harness my idea of the Almighty. It was enough respect that I wouldn’t be cussing. For one night God’s house was my house, and I was going to work that house. I was there for a specific reason—to make people laugh—and I did. From the first joke through the last story I entertained the audience. I wasn’t crass. I didn’t cuss. I rode the edge just right, and I was true to myself. I thought, That one was for my Grandma Goldy.
After the show everyone was very excited. Gus was smiling when he walked up to me and said, “You were great.” The evening had been a stellar success. Everyone had a good time and thirty thousand dollars was raised for the temple. I felt good about what I had done. Rosalie came up to me after the show beaming. “That was wonderful, sweetie. You were great. Everyone loved it.”
“Great. Thanks. I think it went well,” I said.
“Are you kidding? It was fabulous, and you know who loved it the most?” She was holding back the answer for a moment to let it build.
“Who?”
“The rabbi,” she said, smiling. “Marc, no one has seen him laugh for two years, and he was hysterical.”
That was all I needed to hear. Faith in the face of disappointment is only enhanced by laughter in the face of pain. That’s my belief. That’s my job. Whether it is a God-given talent or a reaction to something embedded in my heart I don’t know, but it filled me with the heat of joy to hear that I made that connection, that I had that impact, that I provided that service, that I performed that mitzvah.
The last day I was home I took the rental car up old 14 behind the Sandia Mountains. As I drove north toward Santa Fe past Madrid I rolled the window down halfway and let the cold, brisk, February air come into the car. I smelled the piñ on trees and the damp earth. The Gray came over me. My life flashed through my heart in one deep rush of feeling. When I made the turn around the mountain to the west, the mesas and valleys spread out before me under the orange and gold horizon. The sun hit me like a wave that flooded out the past and dissolved any idea of the future, and I felt okay and whole for about twenty minutes.
Acknowledgments
THANK YOU, GERALD HOWARD, FOR GIVING me the opportunity to write this book and actually believing I could. Thank you, Kimberly Reiss, for being with me and loving me through most of the worst of it and some of the best of it. Thank you, Kirsten Ames, for codeveloping and directing the stage show that this book is based on and being with me through all that happened with that. Thank you, Sam Lipsyte, for being a true friend and guiding me through the process of writing like a writer writes. Thank you, Jack Boulware, for being the best running buddy I ever had. Thank you, Jim Loftus, for being Jim. Thank you, Craig Maron, for being my brother. Thank you, Devon Jackson, for being my oldest friend. Thank you, Mishna Wolff, for holding my hand when everything that I thought was true and real went away. Thank you, Jason Spiro, for the technical support that aided greatly in the creation of the stage show. Thank you, Roy Trejo, for illuminating me during the stage production of Jerusalem Syndrome. Thank you, Arnold Engelman, and the staff of the Westbeth Theatre Center for keeping me full of cigarettes, soda, and love. Thank you, Dave Becky and Michael O’Brien, for keeping the dream alive when I was a nightmare.
About the Author
MARC MARON IS A LEADING FIGURE IN THE “alternative” stand-up comedy movement. A founder of the fabled Luna Lounge evenings in New York City, he has been featured in his own HBO “Comedy Half-Hour” and “Comedy Central Presents” special and has had regular guest appearances on the Conan O’Brien and David Letterman shows. He has performed his one-man show, “The Jerusalem Syndrome,” at the prestigious U.S. Comedy and Arts Festival in Aspen and at an extended sold-out off-Broadway run at the Westbeth Theatre Center. He lives in Queens, New York.
THE JERUSALEM SYNDROME: MY LIFE AS A RELUCTANT MESSIAH
Copyright © 2001 by Marc Maron. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher. For information, address Broadway Books, a division of Random House, Inc., 1540 Broadway, New York, NY 10036.
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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Maron, Marc.
The Jerusalem syndrome: my life as a reluctant messiah / Marc Maron.
p. cm.
1. Maron,
Marc. 2. Jewish comedians—United States—Biography. 3. Maron, Marc—Religion. I. Title
PN2287.M515 A3 2001
792.7'028'092—dc21
[B] 2001025989
eISBN: 978-0-7679-1094-1
v3.0