Are You Kosher? (9 page)

Chapter 18

Mom. The Jewish Word for Pain.

By now I am sure that you are wondering about the strange relationship I have with my mother. I know that I have made many remarks about her alcohol abuse and her carousing, but the fact is that I love that woman very much and would gladly kill anyone who dares to even look at her cross-eyed. I owe her everything: my life, my happiness, my neuroses. What makes our relationship even more impressive is that she is not my real mother. Let me rephrase that; she is not my biological mother.

As I have mentioned before, her name is Itsa. I am named after her. Get it? Itsa and Izzy. The way I understand the story, she found me when I was just three years old. I was cold, alone, and hungry, and would surely have died if she had not come across me at the right time. She always wanted to be a mother, but since she was a vampire, was no longer able to conceive. That is one of the prices of immortality. We cannot procreate. This actually comes in handy since we love the act of sexual intercourse but do not have to face the repercussions of unprotected sex. My mother had already been born before Bubbe had become a vampire, and I guess that the maternal instinct was one thing that she could not shake.

She took me home and bathed me, loved me, and raised me as her very own. I can just picture that conversation. Mom bringing a strange baby into the house and Bubbe asking, “What is that, a baby?”

“No, Mom. It’s a knish.”

To my knowledge, Bubbe was initially opposed to my arrival, but her love for my mother outweighed any objections she may have been feeling. Besides, can you imagine how cute I must have been?

I actually grew up like any other well-adjusted little boy. Except, of course, that Bubbe did the heavy lifting as far as raising me was concerned. I would help her clean the house, do the dishes, keep her company when she cooked, and I happily remember holding her hand when she walked to the market. Of course, like any other little boy, there were occasions when I would wreck a display and try to blame it on someone else. Bubbe was never fooled. This is not to say that my mother was not loving; she was and still is one of the kindest women I have ever known. The thing is, she is more in love with the idea of being a mother than the actual act of being a mother. Bubbe has mothering programmed in her genes.

I had a very happy childhood, with the exception of the occasional confrontation with Bubbe’s wooden spoon. When I reached the age of eighteen, my mother and Bubbe decided to convert me to Vampirism. They waited so long because it is very important that the body has matured before the transformation. The transformation was no party. It was perhaps the most painful thing that I can ever recall going through. Every night, my mother would come into my room and lie next to me in my bed. She would soothe me with kind words and apologize in advance for the pain that I was about to go through. I remember her sinking her teeth into my neck and slowly draining me of almost all of my blood. She would then slice her wrist and have me drink long and hard. This was the transfer, the essential step in conversion. This process lasted for almost five weeks, each night being more difficult than the night before. After each session, I would be left trembling and crying. She held me close and apologized for the pain she was causing me. Eventually, the transformation took hold. Eventually I was an immortal, I was a vampire.

This may seem barbaric to you and I can’t really argue with that, but in my mother’s eyes and heart, this was the way for her to insure that she would never lose me. To her, this was an act of love.

My mother obviously has her issues, though. Bubbe is not the easiest person in the world to get along with. I am not saying that it is Bubbe’s fault that my mother enjoys her drink and is sexually promiscuous, but when you live with such a strong-willed woman, you need to branch out on your own every now and then. Mom is also as adept at playing the infamous Jewish-guilt card as effectively as Bubbe. When given the chance, she does not hesitate to remind me that I would be dead without her, and other boys respect their mothers and don’t judge them.

“I gave my blood for you to have this life. Remember?” she likes to ask in between drunken hiccups. Or, “Go ahead, blame me. I’m used to it, you ungrateful little pisher.”

She also has an overly inflated affection for her own physical prowess. One night I came home and to my surprise, she was not only awake, but lucid. She was on the sofa in her bathrobe, admiring her feet. She thinks that she could be a foot model.

“Izzy, did you have a nice night?” she asked.

“Yes, Mom,” I replied. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, just looking at my feet. Tell me, Izzy, have you ever seen more gorgeous feet in your entire life?”

I have a couple of issues with that question. Number one, she is my mother, so what the fuck makes her think I have any interest whatsoever in looking at her feet? Number two, it’s the foot! It serves one purpose and that is purely functional. This is what I’m talking about. This is just the tip of the iceberg. She has an innate talent for changing the topic of a conversation without letting you know she is doing it. She likes to start a conversation at the end of a movie, just when you are about to find out who the killer is. If you should happen to be unfortunate enough to ask her for a description of her day, be prepared for the long-winded Stephen King version as opposed to the right-to-the-point James Patterson version.

In spite of all of my complaints about her drinking too much, screwing around too much, and not really being a hands-on mother, I love her more than anyone on this entire planet. She is everything to me. She saved my life. I do not know what happened to my biological mother, nor can I say that I really care. Itsa Glassman is my mother. They say that you cannot choose your family; well, she chose me and I thank her for that. I worry about her. It’s the circle of life, my friends. It’s my turn to look after her. I may not approve of her behavior sometimes, but she is still my mother and G-d help anyone who fucks with her.

For almost six thousand years she has been my life, my heart, my pain, my misery, my radiance, my confidant, and most important, my “Mommy.” I cannot imagine life without her, nor do I want to.

Jewish mothers can be the biggest pains in the tuchas that the world has ever known. Sorry to disappoint you, my Italian friends, but they have your mothers beat hands down. But when I look back on my life and the observations I have personally made of other families over the centuries, I can’t think of any other person I would rather call Mom than Itsa Glassman.

I love you, Mom.

Chapter 19

Joseph: The Amazing Technicolor Faygelah

“Get busy living or get busy dying.” That’s something that I once said to a good friend of mine. You may have heard of him as Joseph, the son of Jacob. It was way after the flood had ended and the Israelites were now living in Egypt. The centuries were going by quickly and the population of the earth was expanding.

One of the hobbies I had at the time was watching the caravans bring in the new slaves; my friends and I would wager on who would crack first. Harold, Murray, and Big Black Jimmy, or as we called him, BBJ, would speculate on who were the strong. BBJ was a eunuch, but I don’t think it took. This was always a glorious time for us. Each newbie was carefully scrutinized and the wagering would commence.

The caravan unloaded its contents as the four of us decided how much to bet. We usually bet in sacks of grain.

“Right there,” Harold said, pointing. “That fat fucker, three sacks of grain.”

“Bullshit,” said Murray. “I’m picking that little whimpering Ethiopian.”

“Fuck both of you,” said BBJ. “I got the little gimpy Israelite. How about you, Izzy?” he asked, turning toward me.

I carefully sized up the crop of incoming slaves to see who gave me the best chance of winning, when I saw him. His eyes were looking down, his shoulders were dropped, and for all intents and purposes, he looked like a broken man, one who had just lost his best friend.

“I’ll take the little faygelah-looking one at the end of the line, that tall drink of water,” I said.

“Bullshit,” Harold said.

“Bullshit, bullshit!” I replied. “You want to make the wager five sacks?”

“Y-Y-You’re on,” said Harold; he always had a bit of a stutter, especially with “Y.”

Later that evening, the four of us returned to the holding area, where the new slaves were going through the initiation process to get them used to living in servitude. They were all quietly tucked away in their beds and had no idea what lay in store for them this evening.

BBJ liked to get things started. “Hey, gimpy,” he whispered. “You ever see a castrated cock? You know I’ll let you play with it.”

Harold would start with his old standby, referring to them as fresh fish. “Here fishy, fishy.” Murray would chime in with the usual “Come here chubby, chubby. I can be a real good friend to you.”

That night, I did not get involved in the cat-calling. I could make out my target in the faint light of evening and saw him kneeling and praying. Normally, this would have been a sign of weakness to me, but for some reason, I left him alone.

The verbal assault lasted for maybe another twenty minutes until finally, Harold’s little fat fucker started to cry like a kitten that couldn’t find its mother. “We have a winner!” yelled Harold.

The crying continued and we could all see the dim glow of candlelight as the guards were awakened to the sound of this pathetic man. The four of us were all whispering, along with the inmates, for him to shut his mouth before the overlord came. It was too late. The cell doors opened and in he came with his guard. “What in the blue fuck is going on in here?” he shouted.

The fat man continued to cry for his mother. “You have exactly three seconds to shut the fuck up before I permanently close your mouth for you,” he yelled. The crying and whimpering did not cease, and the poor fellow was beaten unmercifully for his troubles. The overlord wiped the fat man’s blood off of his sandals and went back to bed, after warning the rest of the slaves that they would get the same if he so much as heard a camel fart.

Joseph cost me five sacks of grain that night. He never made a sound. We learned a couple of days later that the fat man had died from his beating.

Things continued in a bad way for the slaves for a long time, which I guess is the life of a slave. But for Joseph, things turned out for the better in a most unexpected way. Apparently, he began having dreams of a prophecy regarding Egypt and its pharaoh’s future. He found favor with that insufferable son of a bitch and the members of his high court. He was given limited freedom, a nice place to live, and a comfortable living. He was also my friend. I guess that you could say that I liked him from the first time I saw him.

He was a regular at my home for dinner. Bubbe was quite taken with him and felt like it was her duty to look after this little fellow. He was well respected throughout Egypt, and for a Jew, that’s no small task. Just ask the current administration.

Joseph was showered with wealth, popularity, and his choice of any woman he wanted. Not bad for a man who had come into the land as a slave. He rejected almost all of this. I assumed that it was because he wanted to stay chaste. I could not have been more wrong.

Looking back on those days, I should have seen the warning signs. For instance, he cried about losing that ridiculous multi-colored coat his father had given him. Then he was appointed the interior decorator for Pharaoh’s palace and wanted to install track lighting everywhere. But the straw that broke the camel’s back was the night that he came to my home in tears.

I was awakened to the sound of frantic knocking at my door and at first thought that it was a JW, but they only knock at nine in the morning. I put on my robe and there was Joseph, trembling and in tears. I led him into the living room and sat him down on the sofa.

“What’s wrong, Joe?” I asked, concerned for my friend.

“It was terrible!” he cried. “She was terrible! Why would she do such a thing?” He became hysterical.

“Who?” I asked. Was he talking about Bubbe?

He slowly composed himself and, in between whimpers, asked, “Do you know Potiphar?”

“The politician?” I asked, slightly confused. “What about him?”

“His wife—we were alone in the house and she tried to have sex with me!” he wailed. “She touched my
shmekel
!” He broke into tears again.

I was not quite sure what the problem was. Potiphar’s wife was one of the greatest hotties I’d ever known. “Well done, my friend,” I said. “Did you shtup her?” I asked.

Joseph looked at me with a face of horror and shrieked, “Eeeooo!”

Holy shit. Now things were becoming clear, or in his case, queer.

This flew entirely under the radar for me. Normally I can spot a faygelah a mile off, but here was Joseph right under my nose practically making a confession. Well, if nothing else, it explained why his brothers sold him into slavery. It would have killed his father. He leaned against my shoulder, continuing to cry, when my worst fears were realized. Bubbe woke up.

She was still a little bleary-eyed, but immediately saw the situation taking place in her living room. I was given a dirty look and she asked, “ What’s wrong with my little Jo-Jo?” She sounded concerned. “Izzy, what did you do to him?” she snapped.

I explained to her that it wasn’t anything I did and tried to the best of my ability to tell her the story he had just conveyed to me in between the sounds of his wailing. Bubbe just looked at me with a confused expression on her face.

“He’s a faygelah?” she asked.

“No, Bubbe, he’s a knish,” I replied.

She shook her head in disbelief and said, “I don’t like that, Jo-Jo.”

“He can’t help it, Bubbe. It’s who he is.” I tried defending him.

“Don’t give me that mishegas!” she snapped. “Did someone hold a knife to his throat?” She turned her focus on my blubbering friend. “And you!” She pointed. “You know that you are killing your parents? How dare you bring this kind of behavior into my house!” She was really pissed now. “Izzy, get away from him; it might be contagious!” She reached over and grabbed me by my ear.

“Let go, you crazy alter kocker!” I shouted in pain.

“Don’t you talk back to me, young man! I raised you to be a good boy! A man, for G-d’s sake! Now go to your room.” Her focus was once again shifted to Joseph, who was now probably wishing that he had taken Potiphar’s wife up on her offer. “As for you, young man, get out of my house and let that shiksa play with your shmekel and stop this mishegas about being a faygelah!”

Joseph looked at her, stunned. “I can’t go out there Mrs. Glassman! Please let me stay.” He started crying again.

Bubbe’s eyes went red and she cried out, “Where’s my spoon?!” That was all it took. As soon as she turned toward the kitchen, he bolted through the door. Bubbe’s reputation had obviously preceded her.

I’m not totally sure what happened to him after that fateful night, since Bubbe grounded me for two weeks and then we were on the road again for some business venture of hers. Joseph, for his part, was a really good kid and I actually liked him very much. Not that way, you faygelahs. Sometimes, when I look back on my life, I wish that I had made him a vampire. I truly think that he would have enjoyed the bright lights of Broadway and the soothing sounds of Judy Garland. And who doesn’t like Barbra Streisand? Shut up. I’m not a faygelah.

Whenever I think about Joseph, I always smile. He was a good guy even though his feet obviously never touched the ground. But that is one of the things that I have learned over my time on this earth. I may not approve of your life’s decisions, but who the hell cares what I think? I am just writing about my experiences. You want to be a faygelah? Be a faygelah.

I’ve been writing for a little while now and I think that it is time for all of you mortals to finally realize what a six thousand-year-old being gets really angry about. Let’s cover some of my personal gripes.