Are You Kosher? (21 page)

Chapter 39

Samson

Well, how was that for an awkward and disturbing moment? I know what you’re thinking: “Thank G-d I don’t live in that house.” I told you all before that at one point or another in our lives, those closest to us seem to manage the most efficient way to embarrass us. Jews are no exception to the rule. We have perfected the art. Being a vampire does not make it any easier. If anything, our immortal status has just provided more opportunities for personal humiliation.

I have already explained how my own mother, although I love her very much, has been a constant source of embarrassment. Bubbe is no better, but, thankfully, I do not have any tales of late-night coitus interruptus to speak of in regard to her.

She has gone by many nicknames over the years, most of which she has never heard before. There is the “Crazy Alter Cocker of Marine Park,” the“Spoon-Wielding Psycho of Syria,” the “Blunt Bitch of Budapest,” and the “Kvetch of Canaan.” All very fitting, I might add. She has personally humiliated me on so many occasions that I have stopped counting. I have just learned to accept it as the status quo. But it is not just me that she has done these things to. Many very prominent people in the history of the world have fallen victim to either her bad sense of timing or her own twisted way of screwing with you.

There was the time that she told the King of Babylon, Nebuchadnezzar, that she would sleep with him if he agreed to act like a cow. He could not just walk around mooing at people, he had to get down on all fours and wander the fields eating grass. The poor shmuck fell for this, and he wondered why his kingdom came to an end. Well, that was actually my fault. Remember the incident with not locking the gates?

She once bet the prophet Daniel her Jewish apple cake recipe against his mother’s ruggelach recipe that he could not spend an entire night in the lion’s den. This actually blew up in her face. She lost that bet and to this day still says that he cheated. She browbeat poor Jonah so badly that while he was on a cruise, he threw himself into the ocean and was eventually swallowed by a giant fish. At least he didn’t have to listen to her kvetch anymore.

We briefly lived in the Midwest of this country and got to know General Custer quite well. He was a nice man but a bit of an idiot. He was telling everyone he was going to wipe out all of the Indians in the territory, a fact that he failed to tell the Indians. I know what the history books say, but I was there. He told the Indians that they were going to be meeting to have a nice friendly sit-down, and the locals were all buying into it. Bubbe had volunteered to make a huge batch of her world-famous hummantaschen; who doesn’t like that? The only thing is, when she was in town buying flour, she came across one of the native girls and said to her, “Now you tell your father that before any of you start fighting and getting everyone killed, sit down and have some of the delicious cookies I am preparing. Custer will be bringing a wagonload.”

That infamous morning, Bubbe arrived bright and early with a wagonful of her delicacies and gave Custer specific instructions to tell the Indians that they were from Mrs. Glassman. “Who doesn’t love hummantaschen?” she asked. I’ll tell you who does love hummantaschen: Custer and his men. By the time they arrived at Little Big Horn, the cookies were gone. When the Indians showed up, imagine their outrage at the sight of soldiers preparing for battle instead of peace talks, and to make matters worse, no cookies. It was a disappointing day on many levels, especially for Custer and his band of merry men.

And how about Monica Lewinsky? I remember that late-night phone call; I answered it, for crying out loud. I heard a sobbing Monica on the other end of the line frantically asking for Bubbe. I handed the phone over and listened in from the next room.

“He did what?” Bubbe asked, shocked. I could hear disgust in her voice. “I don’t care who he thinks he is …” She must have been interrupted. “President shmesident! He needs to pay for that dry cleaning; that’s horrible!” I could only wonder what they were talking about. Bubbe listened for a bit, and finally in a calm, comforting voice said, “You listen to me carefully you poor thing, get a plastic bag and hang that dress up in your closet until that shmendrik pays for your dry cleaning,” a pause, “Well, then, I’m going to call his mother tomorrow and maybe even him!” she yelled into the phone. Monica must have started to cry again, because Bubbe’s demeanor changed, “Okay, sweetie, calm down. Try and get some rest, call your friend Linda, and I’m sure that this will all resolve itself in a couple of days.” She made a few more soothing remarks and hung up the phone. I remember hearing her mumble to herself in Hebrew as she went upstairs.

Pretty good, huh? This all pales in comparison to what she did to poor Samson. Yes, that one, the one from the Bible. I told you that I am old; try to keep up.

We were still living in the land of Canaan, I had just been arrested for public intoxication and public lewdness. I’d exposed myself to a goat, not one of my proudest moments. Anyway I was brought before the judge, a massive man who looked like he was carved from granite. He had incredibly long hair, even for a man of that time, and oddly enough spoke with an effeminate voice.

“Mr. Glassman, how do you plead?” he asked.

“Drunk,” I replied, I thought it was funny. He did not. He glared back at me with intense eyes and said nothing. “Guilty, your Honor. Sorry about that.” The judge looked over a couple of documents, shook his head disapprovingly, and finally informed me that I was free to go, but I had to pay a fine of thirty pieces of silver. What is it with ancient Jews and thirty pieces of silver? I was not about to complain. I was getting off with a slap on the wrist, and if I was careful, Bubbe was not going to find out. I was wrong. When I got home, I was browbeaten by my mother and grounded by Bubbe. Thankfully, she did not use the spoon.

A few weeks later I was free from my house arrest and back out walking the streets and countryside, which made me very happy because I had some business to take care of. I had befriended a stray lion some time before and was feeding him on a regular basis. I was glad that he did not seem to be holding any grudges against me for not showing up for a while when all at once, some crazed half-cocked shmendrik came charging out of the bushes and killed the poor thing with his bare hands. I stood there, shocked and somewhat appalled.

“You’re safe,” the man announced in that familiar voice. I recognized him almost immediately—it was that judge.

“What the fuck are you doing?” I screamed.

“No need to thank me,” he replied. “I can tell when someone is in danger,” he announced proudly.

I was stunned. “I was rubbing his belly, you ignorant fruit! You just killed Stanley!” The pride disappeared from his face and he began to apologize up and down at his terrible mistake. He introduced himself as Samson, obviously a judge, but also “the strongest man ever,” he said as he snapped his fingers.

I continued my tirade for a few more minutes, Samson standing there taking it the whole time like a gentleman. He may have been the only mortal man in history that could bust me open like a hot knish, but instead he decided to show humility at his gaffe. It suddenly occurred to me that he might actually prove to be useful. My mother and Bubbe were both still pretty mad at me for my indiscretions, and the thought came to mind that if I could convince the judge that handled my case to come over for dinner and sit down with the two of them, maybe he could convince them that I was, as Bubbe says, a good boy. He agreed to join us the following Tuesday.

“Can I bring a date?” he asked. What the hell did I care? Of course he could; they weren’t going to be talking to his date after all. I gave him directions to my home and we went off on our separate ways, but I should have made him help me bury Stanley.

The following Tuesday arrived, and he was running late. I was hoping that he did not forget. When the knock on the door finally came, I sprang from my seat to answer. Samson was standing in front of me in all of his glory, his long hair braided, a robe that would have made Liberace jealous, and a very scantily clad woman on his arm. She looked like a Las Vegas showgirl only hotter, and she was showing more skin, complete with a ring through her pupik. I love that.

“Hello, Izzy,” he said in that damned feminine voice of his. “Sorry we’re late. I just couldn’t seem to get my hair right.” He turned to his lady friend and introduced her as Delilah. She extended a hand to me, and in a very seductive voice said, “Samson, you didn’t say he was cute.”

My jaw dropped as I realized that she was a shiksa! This was not good.

“Izzy, are they here?” Bubbe called in from the next room.
Oh shit!
I thought. I had to think fast. “Um, Delilah, let me get you a robe; you look cold.” I reached for one of mine that was hanging on a wall hook. She brushed me off and said, “What a gentleman, but I’m fine.”

Samson, you bastard!
kept running through my mind.

Bubbe entered the room carrying a platter with some chopped liver and toasted challah bread. “Hello, I’m Mrs. Glass … man.” She stumbled over her words as she took one look at him and then turned her gaze to Delilah. She paused for a moment, staring at the shiksa that was standing before her. Delilah seemed not to even realize the magnitude of the situation. Instead, she just stared around the room picking out object after object to inspect. Bubbe composed herself and said, “Welcome to my home. I made a little snack before dinner.”

She turned to me and said, through gritted teeth, “Izzy, why don’t you take his coat and whatever she can spare.” She put the platter down on a table and mouthed to me, “We’ll talk later.”

Dinner went well for the most part except for the fact that my mother was the one who forgot that it was tonight and was nowhere to be found. Samson, for his part, did what I had asked of him. He sang my praises and said that it was all just a simple misunderstanding, that boys will be boys. If he only knew how old I really was. He complimented Bubbe’s food left and right, said that it was better than his own bubbe’s, and even had seconds.

Delilah sat directly across from me and on more than one occasion I felt her foot rubbing its way up my leg to my groin. Bubbe continued to burn a hole in the side of my head with that glare of hers.

Our little dining room was silent for a time. Finally Bubbe decided to start up conversation, oy vey.

“So tell me, Delilah,” she started. Why couldn’t she start with Samson? “Is your father a rabbi?”

Delilah chuckled at the question and said, “Oh no, ma’am. He doesn’t even like Jews.”
Oy gevalt
, I thought. “Except for Samsy-Whamsy,” she said, blowing a kiss to him.

“How nice,” Bubbe replied calmly. “What does he do?”

“He’s a general in the Philistine army,” she said, oblivious to the look that she was getting.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!
I kept thinking.

“I see,” Bubbe said in a dead tone. She turned her attention to Samson. “So Samson, you
are
Jewish,” she stated as an accusation more than a question.

Please lie, please lie!
I thought to myself.

“Guilty as charged,” he replied in that faygelah voice of his. “Pardon the pun.” Samson and Delilah broke into laughter.
What fucking pun?
I was asking myself. And that damned voice, are you kidding me? Grow some fucking nuts and take speech lessons. You’re killing me! I could see Bubbe periodically look back toward the kitchen, probably to insure her that she left the spoon where she could reach it. I was beginning to get heart palpitations.

The night ended and I escorted the two of them to the door, unfortunately not before Delilah’s left boob popped out of her top just before she kissed Bubbe on the mouth and thanked her for the best “Jew” food she had ever tasted. I closed the door behind them and was almost immediately taken to my knees by the excruciating pain of Bubbe’s wooden spoon making clean contact across my unsuspecting tuchas. “You told me that he was a nice Jewish boy!” she shouted.

“He is!” I screamed back, rubbing my welted ass. “He’s a Nazarite.”

Her face went red with anger, “A Nazarite?
A Nazarite!?
” I could see the veins bulging on the sides of her neck, and the big one in the middle of her forehead looked like it was about to explode. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to get Nazarite germs off utensils?”

Just put down the spoon
, I kept thinking.

“And why is his hair so long?” she continued.

“He’s never cut it. He says that’s why he’s so strong,” I answered.

“I don’t like that voodoo, gibberish talk,” she yelled. “The next time he comes into this house, he better have gotten it cut or I’m going to do it myself.” The old gal was losing it before my very eyes. “And as for the shiksa.” Shit, I thought that she had run out of steam. “I don’t want to see you anywhere near her again.”

“Well technically, she’s a …”

“Think carefully about the next words that come out of your mouth,” she interrupted.

“Yes, she’s a shiksa. But not all shiksas are bad,” I tried to reason.

Her face and shoulders dropped. “Why do you hate me?” she asked. “Do you want me dead?”

“Bubbe …” I tried to reply.