Beware of God (12 page)

“Touchdown,” nodded Golem One sagely.

“Amen,” agreed Golem Two, scribbling away in his notebook. “In their face.”

 

···

R
ABBI
Teitelbaum peeked through his living room window, and unlocked the front door.

“Epstein!” he said. “How's your mother?”

The Rabbi led Epstein into his study, and closed the door.

“I have a problem,” said Epstein.

“Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. He stood by the window, looking out at his cars in the driveway and stroking his long, silvery beard. After some polite small talk about the situation in Israel and the paltry synagogue building fund, Epstein confessed that despite the repeated cautions, he had kinda sorta made himself a golem.

“Two, actually. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm just so busy, you know, with Mother, and, well, life these days.”

“Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. “With the multitasking and the e-mails, yes, yes.” He seemed to be keeping a keen eye on his cars in the driveway.

Epstein continued. The golems had become a serious bother. He felt awful saying so, what with being their creator and all, but didn't Nobel regret creating dynamite? Didn't Einstein regret creating the bomb? And so he had decided to be rid of them, which, much like the creation part, was turning out to be more difficult than it sounded. He'd gone to the library, he'd checked the Internet, but he could not find any information, anywhere, about how to undo what he had so regrettably, short-sightedly, foolishly done. Twice.

Rabbi Teitelbaum nodded sagely.

“Yes, yes,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum. “The Google knows many things.” He stepped away from the window, and sat down behind his desk.

“Unfortunately,” he said, “I can't help you.”

There was a knock at the door.

“You see,” said Rabbi Teitelbaum, leaning forward as his voice dropped to a whisper, “I've kinda sorta got a little golem problem of my own.”

The door opened and a golem walked in. He looked different, this golem; looked a lot, in fact, like Rabbi Teitelbaum—tall and thin, lanky, with a noticeable stoop to his back. Epstein thought the rabbi may have been a bit generous with the clay in the crotch area, but overall, it was an impressive effort.

“Nice job,” said Epstein.

“Teitelbaum is my shepherd,”
cried out the golem,
“I shall not lack. In lush meadows He lays me down, beside tranquil waters He leads me.”

Rabbi Teitelbaum shrugged. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” he said. “That ‘crying out' thing gets old fast, doesn't it?”

“Hark,” cried out the golem, “when thou say to change the oil in thy car, are thou referring to the minivan or to the sedan?”

The rabbi shook his head.

“The sedan.”

“Amen,” said the golem. “Regular or synthetic?”

“Regular.”

“10W40 or 10W30?”

Rabbi Teitelbaum sighed.

“Just change the fucking oil.”

 

W
HEN
Epstein returned from the rabbi's house, his mother was waiting for him at the end of their driveway.

“They're killing each other!” she screamed.

The house was a wreck. The dining room table had been flipped over, and two of the wooden chairs had been smashed. In the living room, the couch cushions were torn open and the glass coffee table had been shattered.

“What the hell?” asked Epstein.

“They were arguing!” said Epstein's mother.

Loud shouts and slaps came from the den. Glass shattered.

“Not the television!” cried Epstein.

They ran through the house. The kitchen had been trashed, the cutlery drawer was pulled open and knives were scattered all over the floor. But it was nothing compared to what they found waiting for them in the den.

“Oh my God,” said Epstein's mother.

Golem One looked up. “Oh your
what?
”

Golem One was lying on the floor in front of the couch, trying to reach for his legs, both of which had been cut off at the hip, evidently by Golem Two. His right leg was slung over the arm of the far side of the couch, and his left leg was halfway across the room, underneath an overturned end table.

Golem Two wasn't faring much better. He was lying flat on his back in the middle of the room, trying to get to his arms, both of which had been cut off at the shoulder, evidently by Golem One. His right arm was lying at Epstein's feet, his left arm was across the room, sticking out from behind the television.

“He clearly meant to water the plants every day!” Golem Two said loudly to Golem One.

“I don't disagree with that,” Golem One answered loudly back, throwing a copy of
TV Guide
at Golem Two's head. “I disagree with your understanding of ‘plants' to mean all plants, even those which may not need watering every day, such as the ivy or the little cactus on the window ledge in the kitchen.”

Not that it mattered, of course.

The plants had all died weeks ago.

 

T
HE
golems needed constant supervision.

Golem Two, having no arms, needed Epstein to wash him, clothe him and feed him. If Golem Two wanted a Coke, Epstein not only had to get it for him, Epstein had to hold it for him while he drank.

Golem One, having no legs, needed to be carried to the toilet, and carried off the toilet, and carried to the dinner table and carried to the den to watch TV.

“Epstein!” Golem Two would call out.

“Hark,” Epstein would answer.

“Have mercy upon your servant,” he would say, “and bring unto me a beer.”

“And some chips,” added Golem One. “In thy mercy.”

So a few weeks later, Epstein awoke in the middle of the night, helped his mother into the car, and threw their bags into the trunk.

“Fuck this,” proclaimed Epstein, and away they went.

 

O
VER
the next few weeks, the golems called out for Epstein every morning, every afternoon and every evening, but Epstein did not respond.

Golem One wrote notes on small pieces of paper begging Epstein for forgiveness and salvation, and stuck them in the cracks between the bricks in the living room wall.

Golem Two found a prayer book for Yom Kippur, beat himself on the chest and prayed:

How long, Epstein, will you continue to forget us? How long will you hide your Countenance from us?

The last of the plants withered and died. The cat starved. And the garbage piled high on the living room floor.

S
HALOM
A
USLANDER
has written for
Esquire
and
Maxim
and has appeared on NPR's
This American Life. Beware of God
was chosen as a finalist for the 2004 Koret Young Writers Award. Shalom lives in upstate New York.