Dreidels on the Brain

by Joel ben Izzy

I was pretty proud of it—I’d worked hard with markers to make each diamond look like a flame for each of the eight candles and the shammes.

  It took some time, but we got through the finale—my biggest illusion, the Square Circle. There’s a big box with a hole cut in the front so you can see a tube inside. You show the audience that both the square and tube are empty, and then—Alakazam!—you produce a ton of things: streamers, scarves, feather boas, pretty much whatever you want, ending with Herrmann—or rather, Maccabee. That trick seemed like a good place to Jewish-up the show, so I renamed it the Holy Temple, and figured out a way to produce more dreidels, candles, and even the string of letters, which had lost some, so it now read HAPPY HANUKK. The challenge would be loading all that stuff in—especially Herrmann—without Amy O’Shea. But I managed to do it, and Brian was really impressed.

  Afterward we sat on the front porch. Howard had locked himself in his room to study, and Kenny was over at Danny Jarlsberg’s house. My mom had gone to the drug store to buy the medicine my dad would need this afternoon when we brought him home from the hospital. On the way we would celebrate by eating at Canter’s Deli—my favorite restaurant in Los Angeles—where we would also get my dad some chicken soup so he’d recover faster. Meanwhile, Brian and I sat on the AstroTurf drinking more orange juice—we’d finished off the first pitcher, so I’d made another—and complaining about how hot it was.

  “Winter or not, this is the hottest it’s ever been,” said Brian.

  “Yeah,” I said. “It’s so hot that when the dogs chase the cats, they both walk.”

  He made the sound of the rim-shot—“ba-da-bum!”—then added, “It’s so hot, you can fry an egg on the sidewalk!”

  “Nope,” I said. “You can’t. Because by the time you crack the egg open, it’s already hardboiled.”

  That was a new one. He laughed, and then, out of nowhere, asked, “So, have you given up yet?”

  “What?”

  “Your fight.”

  “What fight?”

  “The one you picked with God.”

  “Oh, that,” I said. “You were right.”

  “Told ya. You got your butt kicked, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, kind of. I guess I got off okay. At least my dad’s not in a coma. But I’m not even sure if I believe in God.”

  “Well, that’s your problem right there!” said Brian. “No wonder God’s on your case. You want to keep God happy, you need to go the other way. Be even more Jewish. Maybe wear one of those beanies.”

  “They’re called yarmulkes.”

  “Whatever they’re called, you need to wear one.”

  “Yeah, right. I already feel like I walk around with a neon sign saying JEWISH! Wearing a yarmulke would make it flash. No thanks. It’s bad enough that my dad’s planning on coming to school on Monday . . .”

  The moment the words were out of my mouth, I realized what I’d done. I watched Brian’s face slowly rearrange itself into a question mark.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to distract him, “you just reminded me of a great joke. There’s this Jewish guy with a long beard and sideburns named Shloimi. For his whole life he’s dressed in a black coat, a hat—the works. Then on his fiftieth birthday, he decides to go for a whole new look. He goes to a barber and says, ‘Take it off—the beard, the sideburns, all of it. Gimme a crew cut!’”

  Brian wasn’t buying it. “Monday? Why would your dad come to school on Monday?”

  “Then Shloimi goes into a clothing shop. Instead of the usual black suit, he buys a red-and-white checkered jacket, with a pair of purple pants! And white shoes!”

  “Monday,” Brian said again, scrunching up his face. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the assembly, does it?”

  “Shloimi is a whole new man! He dances off down the street and suddenly—wham!—he’s hit by a bus. As he lies there, dying on the street, he calls out.

  “ ‘God above! For fifty years I’ve been your faithful servant! And now, you do this to me?’

  “Suddenly, the clouds part and a voice says, ‘Shloimi? Is that you? Sorry—I didn’t recognize you!’”

  “Wait a minute,” said Brian, not even getting the joke. “The assembly. And your dad is coming . . . Does this have to do with the surprise?”

  There was really no point in keeping it a secret anymore.

  “Yes,” I admitted. “It does. I’m the surprise.”

  Now he looked even more confused.

  “You?” He shook his head. “I don’t get it. I thought it was Sonny and Cher!”

  “Mr. Newton had this dumb idea. That’s why Mrs. Gabbler called me into the office on Monday. It wasn’t for sneeze-honking. It was for the winter holiday assembly. I’m going to be telling the story of Honnika.”

  “You mean the one with Judah the Maccabee?”

  I nodded.

  “In front of the whole school? Whoa. That was one thing when you were a little kid—but now? I mean, you’re in seventh grade!”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “All right, that’s weird. But what does your dad have to do with it?”

  “That was Mr. Newton’s other dumb idea. To have my family with me, lighting the candles and singing the blessings.”

  “Onstage? In front of everyone?” He shook his head and whispered, “Do you know what will happen when they see your dad walking in? I mean, I won’t laugh, but everybody else . . .” He whistled. “Man, you’re in big trouble. If I were you, I’d put on one of those beanies and start to pray.”

  There were a million people at Canter’s Deli, and the line stretched all the way out the door and into the street. Hot as it was, the ultra-Orthodox Jews hurried by in their black hats and coats, like it was winter in Russia. I never know what to think when I see them. Part of me wants to go up to them and say, “Shalom! I’m Jewish too! Even though I don’t wear the costume.” The other part of me wants to run and hide. None of them were in line for Canter’s. Even though it’s a Jewish deli, it’s only kosher style, which is not kosher enough for them. Besides, they don’t spend money on Shabbat, which pretty much rules out lunch at a deli.

  But Canter’s was still packed, filled with all the other Jews trying to escape Christmas festivities, and everyone was in a bad mood. We’d already waited fifteen minutes outside in the sun, and now that we were inside, it wasn’t much cooler. Covering the walls were framed photographs of all the Jewish comedians who had eaten there: Joey Bishop, Woody Allen, Groucho Marx, Milton Berle, Jack Benny, and two of my favorites together, Carl Reiner and Mel Brooks. Beneath the pictures were all kinds of Jewish foods piled on platters in glass cases. On top of the counter were five different kinds of halvah, this sesame candy I love, and baklava, a delicious Middle Eastern pastry with honey and nuts.

  “I’m starving!” said Kenny. “How long will it be? I can’t wait another minute!”

  “Well, you’ll have to,” said Howard. “Because I’ve calculated the number of people in line, and it will take at least fifteen minutes until we’re seated.”

  “Well, we’re not here for math, we’re here for matzoh ball soup, so shut up.”

  “You just don’t want to admit that I’m right,” Howard said. “So you shut up.”

  “I don’t want to admit that you’re an annoying . . .”

  I heard a sigh and turned to see my mom, who looked like she was about to cry. I had to do something, so I nudged Kenny and pointed to a case where there was a pointy slab of bumpy textured meat.

  “See that?” I asked.

  “Yuck!” said Kenny. “It’s a giant cow tongue! That’s gross!”

  “How do you know?” asked Howard. “Have you ever tasted it?”

  “No, of course not. Have you?”

  “No, but you should never say anything about anything until you know,” said Howard. “Otherwise you’re
a prejudiced ignoramus.”

  “Oh yeah?” said Kenny. “Well, your tongue is a big—”

  “Hey, you guys!” I said. “I know exactly how tongue tastes.”

  “You do?” asked Kenny. “How?”

  “Easy—I taste mine all the time.” They laughed. “But I would never eat that tongue,” I said, pointing to the one in the case. “Because I don’t want to taste anything that’s tasting me at the same time.”

  Now the people behind us in line laughed. Just then, a guy behind the deli counter called out, “Coming through! Hot matzoh balls!” The servers moved back, and he poured a whole vat of soup into the pot, with matzoh balls the size of grapefruit.

  “Wow!” said an old man in front of us. “Look at the size of those matzoh balls!”

  “You should see the rest of the matzoh!” I said, borrowing from Marilyn Monroe.

  Now everyone was laughing and looking at me to see what I’d say next. It felt strange—and a little scary—but kind of fun too. And my mom was smiling again.

  “Hey!” said a guy behind me. “The kid’s a regular Groucho Marx!”

  That setup was too easy. I held an imaginary cigar to my mouth and moved my eyebrows up and down, saying, “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! By the way, have you met my brothers, Chico and Harpo?” I pointed to Kenny and Howard—there’s really no resemblance, but I kept on with the Groucho imitation. “When you’re waiting in line,” I said, “time flies like an arrow. And fruit flies like a banana.”

  “The kid’s on a roll,” said the man standing behind me.

  “Yep,” I said, “your choice—sourdough, white, or onion. Or you can have me on rye—after all, my mom says I have a rye sense of humor. In fact, when I’m complaining, she calls me Kvetcher in the Rye.”

  That’s from this book Kenny’s reading in high school, called The Catcher in the Rye. If there’s one thing Jews agree on—and maybe the only thing—it’s that we like to laugh. Now even the waiters were watching.

  “But if you don’t want rye, how ’bout a bagel?”

  This little kid in front of me said, “I do! I want a bagel!”

  “Oh yeah?” I said. “Do you know how they make bagels?” He shook his head.

  “First they get a hole. Then they wrap the dough around it.”

  “Really?” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Just kidding. Actually, a bagel is a doughnut that went to college.”

  That got a laugh, and right then, someone dropped a glass, which shattered, so I shouted, “Mazel tov! Let’s hear it for the shlemiel!”

  “What’s a sha-meel?” asked the kid.

  He was perfect. It was like I’d planted him. “Well,” I said, “a shlemiel is someone who falls on his back and breaks his nose. But in a restaurant like this, the shlemiel would be the waiter who spills the soup on the customer! And you know what that makes the customer?”

  “Wet?” he asked. The kid was a genius.

  “Not just wet, but a shlimazel. You see, the shlemiel spills the soup and it lands on the shlimazel. Then the shlemiel falls on the shlimazel and breaks the shlimazel’s glasses! Seated right next to the shlimazel is a guy who says”—and here I used my nerdiest voice—“‘I see your glasses are broken. I could fix them if I had one of those little screwdriver kits—but I don’t!’ That’s the nebbish!”

  Everyone applauded for that one, so I bowed and motioned to the kid. “And let’s hear it for Gimpel!”

  They applauded for him too, and when he said, “But my name’s not Gimpel, it’s David!” they cheered even louder.

  Just then a waitress came to my mom and said, “Your table’s ready.” Then, she whispered, “And because your boy made everyone laugh, lunch is on the house!”

  Lunch was great. And because it was free, I ordered halvah and baklava for dessert. It’s weird how good food and a few laughs can change everything.

  We drove to the hospital, and Kenny said, “Look!” Sure enough, there was a parking spot just down the street from Kaiser. When we got to our dad’s room, he was sitting on the edge of his bed, trying to button his shirt, joking with Father Joseph.

  “. . . So, as the plane is going down, the rabbi turns to the priest and says, ‘Better than pork, isn’t it?’”

  Father Joseph laughed, whistled, and coughed all at the same time. It took him a minute to recover.

  “It’s good to see you again, Father Joseph,” said my mom. “How are you today?”

  To me, Father Joseph looked even worse than yesterday, and there was some kind of gunk dripping from the hole in his throat, but he said, “Praise the saints, I can’t complain! Though I will say your husband and I have been trading priest and rabbi jokes, and I’ve yet to find one he doesn’t know!”

  “Telling jokes is hard work!” said my dad. “And I haven’t eaten yet, because I thought you might bring me something from Canter’s!”

  “We did!” said Kenny, holding out a paper bag. “Matzoh ball soup!”

  “My favorite!” said my dad. “You want some, Father? It’s Jewish penicillin.”

  “Matzoh ball soup? So I’ve heard. Never had it, but it smells wonderful. I’m afraid I can’t, though. It would have to go through the blender first, so I could drink it through a straw.”

  That was not a pretty picture. To change the subject I told them about Canter’s, my comedy routine, and the little kid who kept asking questions. As I did, my dad slurped away, although now, no one complained.

  When he finished we were ready to go, and Howard brought out the walker from behind the curtain. We all helped my dad stand up and said good-bye to Father Joseph.

  “You take care now, Bob!” he said, finger over his throat hole. “I’ll be sure to keep you in my prayers.”

  “That should do the trick!” said my dad. “That and matzoh ball soup! And best of luck to you, Father Joseph!”

  As we walked down the hallway toward the elevator, people came out to say good-bye to my father—nurses, orderlies, even a couple doctors. I was amazed at how many people my dad met while he was in the hospital—even while in a coma. It felt like a parade, and my father was grand marshal. Some had been at my Shabbanukkah magic show—even Claudia was there, and smiling. “Rest up,” she said. “And no more tricks.”

  We took the elevator down to the lobby, then opened the door to a blast of heat and light, and began walking down the street to the car. I say “walking,” which is what my brothers, my mom, and I were doing. But my dad was doing something else altogether. He took a deep breath, then slid the walker about six inches. Then he pulled his feet forward, shuffling and grimacing when he put his weight on his hip. That was one step. Then he took another. And another. All afternoon we had been spinning like dreidels through the deli and the hospital. Now we were moving in slow motion. My dad, who just a few minutes earlier had been the life of the party, now looked like death warmed over.

  I didn’t want to look at my dad, but couldn’t turn away, so I stared at the fluorescent tennis balls, which were even brighter in the sun. They reminded me of my second-favorite store in the world, which is right down the street from Berg’s Studio of Magic, called Aardvark’s Odd Ark. They sell things for hippies, like posters in bright colors of rock bands and cartoon characters and anti-war slogans. There’s always this spacey music playing and it smells like some kind of perfume, which my dad says is called incense. Once we went into this special room they have, with a huge black light—which isn’t really black, but purple. When it shines on the posters, the colors glow like they’re from another planet.

  I convinced my dad to buy a poster of Donald Duck’s uncle Scrooge, which said, in huge red letters, QUACK! We put it up in the hallway between the bedrooms, which is the one place in the house that gets completely dark. My dad got a little black light we could plug in and shine at the poster, which I did every c
ouple of weeks. That’s where my dad first got the idea for going into the glow-in-the-dark plastic business.

  But it wasn’t the poster I was thinking about today. It was a T-shirt I saw on the way out that said I’M NOT WITH THEM—and had an arrow pointing to one side. I didn’t buy it, but I sure felt like wearing it now.

  We finally got to the car and put the walker in the trunk, then helped my dad into the passenger seat, which took another five minutes. He couldn’t lift his legs and moaned in pain when we tried to help. After we finally got him in, my mom said, “Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it?”

  Nobody said anything, because we all knew it was that bad. The freeway was packed, bumper to bumper, as we crawled back toward Temple City.

  It was only when we got to our exit that I remembered the Neck-O-Matic. Shoot. We hadn’t even thought of it while packing up my dad. It was probably in some closet in the hospital. But I wasn’t about to say anything—it would be left behind, like the rest of the matzoh.

  This evening I sifted through the boxes of candles, trying to find seven decent ones and a shammes. I mostly managed to do it, except for one that broke when I was putting it in. I considered switching it out, but somehow it fit my family.

  My dad was a wreck after the trip home from the hospital. Looking at him in the light of the candles, it seemed clear there was no way he would make it to Monday’s assembly. I couldn’t help but feel relieved.

  He seemed to read my thoughts. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m just tired from the trip home. I’ll sleep tonight, rest up tomorrow, and by Monday I’ll be as good as new.”

  That’s when my mom spoke up.

  “Well, this year, with all that’s happened, it’s been especially hard to think about presents . . .” I couldn’t believe it. Here we were, seven nights into Kchanakah, and she was giving us The Explanation. But then she said, “So, today, when I was at Thrifty’s, I saw something and thought . . . well, it’s not much, but here you are. There’s one for each of you.”

  She pulled out a shopping bag from behind the chair and handed out three plaid flannel bathrobes—a red one for Howard, a green one for Kenny, and a blue one for me. We put them on over our clothes, then looked at ourselves and one another.