He sat back and listened to Danny, Benny’s older son, and his friend talk about school. They were in college together. Freshmen? Sophomores? Time passed quickly, too quickly. Kagan was once in school. Apparently they were both taking biology. Becoming doctors, perhaps. Become doctors, Kagan thought, you make a fortune, you don’t work too hard, and everyone calls you “doctor.” They began discussing the dissection they had performed earlier in the day.
“Through all that stuff, I couldn’t find the pancreas,” Danny said.
“They sure felt funny, didn’t they?” his friend said.
My God, Kagan thought, what’s wrong with those kids? That stuff is disgusting. And to discuss it in shul on Yom Kippur! Benny should tell his kid to stop. Boy, kids today — they really are different. And these are the nice ones yet. Imagine what the others talk about? When we were kids, we didn’t talk like that in shul. We didn’t talk; if we did, we’d get a bat in the head. Sometimes maybe we used to whisper about something important like a World Series. But a biology class, a dissection! We didn’t even discuss that stuff in biology class. It’s too disgusting.
Oh, the frog that Kagan had to dissect! He couldn’t eat breakfast before school. Kagan’s mother wanted to know, “Where does it hurt that you can’t eat breakfast?” The smell stuck to our hands like glue. Every morning that half-cut frog lying there. No wonder surgeons wear gloves. That sticky, smelly, spongy stuff.
Kagan couldn’t stand it and Hershkowitz, his lab partner, claimed that he couldn’t either. Since Hershkowitz wanted to be a doctor, he was certain that he could get used to it but not right away. “These things take time,” he said. Yeah, they only had until Friday so Kagan had to pay him, the momzer. Thank God, the baseball season had begun. Three batters — six hits; a quarter a shot. Lining up action, Kagan ran around the cafeteria with such frenzy that the class adviser thought he was running for the student senate. Some senator he would have made. He was lining up bets to pay Hershkowitz two dollars a period to dissect that frog.
What a con man. The momzer became a big surgeon and charges a thousand dollars an hour. If I ever need open heart surgery, Kagan thought, I’m going to deduct the ten bucks I already paid him. What a momzer. No shame.
Kagan had shame. Sometimes Kagan thought it was his specialty. Kagan wasn’t much on guilt, but he was very big on shame. It made for a funny world. Those little guilts that hounded others didn’t afflict Kagan. Without hesitation, he did things that others feared — the job had not been created on which Kagan wouldn’t clock out early. But Kagan could never do the big shameful things that others did furtively even if he would never be suspected. Take right now, for example. Kagan kept wondering what the results of the race would be, and he was ashamed that that was what he was thinking about, but he couldn’t get it out of his mind. Again he checked his watch. Would they finish at the track the way they had finished in the shtibl? A chill ran down his spine. It was so crazy that Kagan wouldn’t bet against it. In his mind, of course. On Yom Kippur Kagan didn’t bet. What was Kagan to do? He couldn’t bet on Yom Kippur and that was it.
How could Ozzie have been wrong? That part didn’t make much sense. Ozzie never lied, at least so far he hadn’t. And if Ozzie were going to tell a lie, why would he tell one that Kagan was sure to discover? Then Kagan remembered that the race had not been run yet and, perhaps, Ozzie was right. Kagan’s sentiments, however, lay with the shtibl finish. That way he would not have lost anything by not betting. More importantly, Kagan sensed that he had witnessed something of great importance that he wanted to have confirmed.
Kagan looked around in surprise to discover that everyone was standing for the silent devotion midway through the evening service. Had he been daydreaming for so long? Apparently. Everyone became quiet as the chazan concluded. And then, total quiet, which soon gave way to a hushed murmur of prayer. Kagan put his tallis, hoodlike, over the top of his head. Earlier, during Kol Nidre, it had helped him to concentrate. This time, however, as his eye examined the rough woolen weave, in contrast, his mind envisioned the smooth, colorful racing silks worn by a jockey or a driver.
Kagan removed the tallis from his head. It was a little cooler, but not much. Benny was right: it is close in here. How can those women keep their coats on? Couldn’t they open the window a little bit?
Kagan tried to concentrate but could not. He attempted to vocalize the words since sometimes that helped. It forced him to read every syllable, but even that didn’t help. His mind was a blank and he knew why — the race. Kagan tried again, but by the time he got to the bottom of a page, he had no idea whether he had read it or not. This, of course, disturbed Kagan, but it wasn’t as if he were not trying to pray. He was trying very hard; he had even put his tallis over his head again although it was stifling hot under it. How much could he do? He was a prisoner of lousy concentration, a mental inmate of Yonkers Raceway, sentenced to the superfecta.
Kagan was wondering what he could do when he heard the hoofbeats. The dull echoing beats resounded at a slow, funereal pace. They drew closer and multiplied about him. Many dull, resonant poundings but all to the same slow, steady pace. What could they mean? In shame, Kagan removed the tallis from his head and looked about him.
Collectively immersed in private prayer, most had arrived at the Confessional and were pounding their hearts as they intoned, “We have sinned.” He had mistaken this sound for hoofbeats. Kagan crawled back under his tallis and turned to the Confessional. He did not like to skip on Yom Kippur, but he couldn’t pray anyway. At least he might try the Confessional.
“We have acted unfaithfully,” Kagan cried with an urgency that he hoped would create a new reality of prayer. He pounded his breast. Without pausing, he continued, “We have betrayed you.” He beat his heart again. “We have spoken slander.” The beats, the pounding, still seemed like hoofbeats. Kagan raced through the first part of the Confessional but one horse kept pace with him. He arrived at the Confessional’s summation and Kagan knew that he had plenty to confess. “Pardon our transgressions that we have committed before you unwillfully and willfully.” The grievously heavy blow Kagan delivered to his heart on Yom Kippur sounded only like a larger horse pounding down the backstretch. Kagan tried to throw the horse off his trail. He pounded slowly. He beat quickly. He tapped softly. He thrashed harshly. His chest ached. His fist smarted but the horse remained with him, and whenever Kagan tapped softly or paused for a moment he heard all the other horses moving along at the sure, steady, penitent pace.
Kagan wanted to escape to someplace where he could thoughtfully consider all these strange events. Kagan knew that he was not the king of concentration, but this was ridiculous even by his standards. Maybe, he thought, these are the sounds of the race that I witnessed earlier. What good was that? Even if they were, such bizarre fragmentation was very unsettling. To think that such seemingly haphazard phenomena could occur any time to complete some earlier experience! He felt like sitting down, but he remained standing. If he couldn’t pray with the congregation, at least he could stand with them. He stood with them and among them, encouraging them and attempting not to listen to the insistent sounds of contrition, which in his ears steadfastly remained equine.
Only after the majority of the congregation had finished the prayer and sat down did Kagan do so. As the congregants calmly sat waiting for the chazan to begin, conversation casually returned. Kagan felt better as the beats ceased, and when Danny and his friend returned to their dissection, he was immeasurably appreciative. Medicine saves lives, he thought, and that is commanded on Yom Kippur; a sick man must eat if a doctor tells him to do so. That is the Halachah. Kagan prepared to listen attentively to their uplifting discussion until Benny interrupted.
“First of all,” Benny told them, “that’s a little disgusting. It may be important, but you don’t talk about it in shul where everyone else has to listen. And you certainly don’t discuss it on the night of Kol Nidre. It is Yom Kippur. We have an entire book, the whole mach
zor, to discuss.”
“Hey, Benny,” Kagan said. “Isn’t it a mitzvah to save lives on Yom Kippur?”
“Yeah. What does that have to do with anything?” Benny asked.
“Well, if they become doctors, they might save lives. You never know. They’ll need to know about biology.’’
“Kagan, are you out of your mind? These kids had a basic dissection today. Half the kids in America do it.”
“Yeah, I know,” Kagan admitted, “but you never know where it can lead.”
“They can win the Nobel Prize after Yom Kippur,” Benny said.
“You’re too hard on them, Benny. It’s not always so easy to concentrate. At least they’re discussing life.”
“Kagan, they’re discussing life, but the wrong life. Today they should be discussing their own lives.”
“On Yom Kippur I wouldn’t remind God that I was chopping up his little creatures in the morning. He might like frogs. Some people bet on them, Moe, in jumping contests. Don’t be so judgmental. How would you feel if they had dissected Secretariat this morning?” Schwartz remarked.
“Right away, you start in with the horses,” Kagan retorted.
“Moe, tell the truth, I started with the frogs, I finished with the horses. Like you, Kagan. I finished with the horses,” Schwartz answered, referring to Kagan’s constant claim that he had quit gambling.
“Schwartz, you will note that the frogs were one of the plagues. I don’t remember horses being mentioned anywhere,” said Kagan, feeling better.
“The horse and his rider He threw into the sea,” Schwartz quoted in Hebrew. “No, Kagan. The horses and Egyptian jockeys were drowned in the Red Sea. I guess they don’t quote that out at Belmont.”
Screw you, you judgmental son of a bitch, Kagan thought. These kids are trying to make something of themselves and everybody puts them down. Then they wonder why there’s a generation gap. These kids should be encouraged. Some day they might do some good. Anyway, it’s better than talking about the stock market.
“Anyway, it’s better than talking about the stock market,” Kagan said.
“I’m sure it is,” Benny said. “What does that have to do with anything? Who’s discussing the stock market?”
“Business in this country is holy. I bet on a horse and it’s a scandal, but you buy a stock and they give you maftir.”
“Kagan, you are crazy,” Benny said seriously, but without giving offense. He had often told Kagan that he was crazy. Kagan did not argue, but he did say, “Crazy. Yeah, I’m crazy. We’ll see.”
In the past, Kagan had not reacted because he had believed in perfect judgment. Not in this world, but some other time. Kagan was confident that God couldn’t find Belmont worse than AT&T. At least at Belmont they took care of some dumb animals. God certainly approved of such care for his creatures. Kagan was certain of that. Kindness to animals was a great Jewish virtue. The Torah said if you see a donkey crouching under a burden, you should help it. Of course, when they read this, Kagan could not refrain from stating the law slightly differently. “If you see a donkey crouching under a burden, don’t bet him unless all the others are carrying the same weight.” At least some horses get a good home. If you give your money to Ma Bell, does she eat any better? A million more homes will have Touch-Tone phones and dialing will become a lost art. Kagan enjoyed the dial spinning around. There was something very dramatic about it. Round and round she goes; where she stops nobody knows.
No, Kagan never reacted when Benny called him crazy because Benny was sincere and some day they would both see. Now, however, he felt like answering Benny, “Yeah, and you don’t know the half of it.” He wanted to tell Benny, look, if you had an angel who is supposed to be perfect but, instead, tried to get you to bet on Yom Kippur and get himself laid the rest of the year; and you had a kosher butcher who was supposed to bankrupt you but, instead, tried to get you to go to Gamblers Anonymous, you wouldn’t be so sane yourself. But who knows, they would all see. Lieberman, the butcher, included.
Someone opened the ark and they all stood up. Someone else closed the ark and they all sat down. The chazan arrived at “for we have sinned” and everyone beat his breast. Kagan leaned over to Danny and his friend. “And the beat goes on,” he joked in a serious voice. They laughed and he would have continued talking with them (he feared heavy hoofbeats), but it was terribly inappropriate.
Kagan tapped his own heart gingerly but heard nothing. He listened to the others but only heard Jews beating their hearts on Yom Kippur night. He was elated; he felt as if he had overcome some great existential trial — until he looked at his watch. By now, the race was over. It had been run. That’s why he didn’t see or hear any horses. It was all over!
Kagan immediately became preoccupied with how he was going to find out the results. He had to find out; there could be no doubt about that. He couldn’t go by the Off-Track Betting office. That wouldn’t help. They had closed long ago. The night results wouldn’t be in the window until tomorrow morning and by then he would go crazy. Normally, Kagan would turn on the radio at home “for the news” and just happen to get the results. Or if he were too nervous like tonight and Fran was certain to catch on, he would climb into his car and without turning on any lights sit in the friendly, enshrouding darkness listening to the results. That was what he would like to do tonight. Unnoticed but noticing, he could sit there waiting to hear the results. That’s what he wanted to do all right, but there was no chance of that. Tonight was Yom Kippur and he wasn’t about to turn anything on, radio, TV, or light bulb.
Oh, my God! He had promised to meet Fran at her synagogue. Inevitably, she finished later. The rabbi had to speak, the chazan had to sing, the choir had to sing. Last year Kagan had to wait in the back for half an hour. It almost drove him nutty. Last year he had prayed well, so what did he need an instant replay for? But tonight he would have enough time to get the results before he met her. Afterwards, there would be no chance. Even if they went for a walk, Kagan couldn’t get that information without her noticing.
It would have to be before, but where? Kagan looked at his watch. What could he do? He could slip into a bar and try to hear the results on TV. If he were lucky, they might not ask him what he wanted to drink before he found out. But that meant he had to get lucky; they had to have the right channel and these days all the news shows were very hip; they weren’t afraid of experimenting with the format. They could put the sports anywhere. It was outrageous! Some of those smiling idiots would tell you what the temperature had been (as if you didn’t know) before they would tell you that a President had been shot. Benny thinks I’m crazy! Doesn’t he ever watch the news? Just the market, probably.
No, he couldn’t go into a bar. That trick was only good for the Triple Crown, run on Shabbes afternoons. For the Kentucky Derby, every TV in every bar in America was turned up full blast, every joint was packed, and every bartender and waitress watched, too. All you had to do was slip in right before the horses went to the post. After the Derby everyone would shout at once. (Believe it or not — it was worse than the shtibl; the rabbi should drop in for a Derby. It would make him feel better about what goes on here Yom Kippur.) And, shouting to no one in particular, Kagan would slip out of the bar unnoticed. But tonight they were sure to notice him. Nothing is happening and Moe Kagan enters wearing a hat, suit, and old-fashioned, high-cut, doesn’t-anybody-here-remember-Bob-Cousy basketball sneakers. Not notice him! They’d probably ask for his autograph or call the cops — maybe both. (I’m sorry, folks. No autographs Shabbes and Yom Kippur.) But worse than all that would be their knowing that he was wearing rubber-soled shoes because of Yom Kippur. A shandah for the goyim! Imagine what they would think — and say — about Jews! Not that they didn’t think or say those things anyway, but he couldn’t justify their libels. Better he should go crazy.
Who would know the winner of a superfecta? Ask the man who owns one. Obviously, a winner would know, but aside from him, who? All the players milling arou
nd on Broadway would know who won the race. Some might even know who came in second. But third and fourth? Forget it, yesterday’s news. All they know is that they didn’t win. Who would know? Of course, who else? Big Abe. That little man knew everything. Kagan glanced at his watch. It was getting late. Big Abe went home about now. And what if Big Abe wasn’t on Broadway with his cigar and the usual crew discussing tomorrow’s races? Kagan would have to get him at home, but later for that. Maybe he was still on the street.
Big Abe knew everything that was on the news or posted in the OTB. He carried a small transistor and never missed a news broadcast. Some inner clock told him when it was the hour or half past. No matter what Big Abe was doing, listening to, or saying, he would reach into his pocket and his transistor would come up to his ear. Big Abe’s timing was so remarkable, he rarely heard an ad. Bingo, straight into the news. When the news was over, he flipped the radio off and shoved it back into his pocket. And he never forgot anything he heard. Big Abe just stood there, blinking his eyes, not because he was intimidated but because he always blinked his eyes as if he thought that after the next blink they might start working again. If they ever had. There was something about Big Abe that suggested he had been born with his thick lenses, blinking eyes, and a lit cigar. (A rachmones on his mother! Some birth it must have been! There must be a routine there someplace.) What did Big Abe do before the transistor? Eyeglasses and cigars have been around a long time, but transistor radios are a recent invention.
Kagan enjoyed thinking about Big Abe. Big Abe would give him the results so thinking about Big Abe seemed to be solving his problem and it kept the numbers from going crazy. Kagan could feel them throbbing in the back of his head under his yarmulke whenever he stood up or sat down, which was impossibly frequent on Yom Kippur. The ark opens — up; the ark closes — down. Kagan tried to focus on the little man’s cigar. It always looked like the cigar was leading the shuffling little man down the street. (If Big Abe had been a vocabulary word, he could only be homunculus — Kagan couldn’t put that on a blackboard without thinking of him.) Those long-cigarette ads — where the cigarette was always bumping into something — had it all wrong. Abe’s cigar’s virtue lay in its early warning ministrations.
Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories Page 6