by Simon Rich
“Here we are,” he says, grinning. “Not bad, huh?”
I look up at building. It is enormous.
“Are you servant here?” I ask.
“No,” he says, laughing. “I own the place!”
At this point I become suspicious.
“What other jobs do you have besides the dog gags?”
“None,” he says. “I’m a full-time screenwriter.”
Once again, I am confused. I have been with Simon all day. He clearly does not work “full-time,” not even close. I explain this fact to him.
“Let’s just go inside,” he says.
Simon and I look very much the same. We are both tall (five feet seven) and have handsome bump in nose. There are differences, though. For example, his hands are very soft, like woman’s. Also, his arms are weak and small. They remind me of baby I saw once who had the wasting sickness.
When I first move in with Simon, I do not really understand what it means to be “script doctor.” But as the days go by, I learn about the job. The way it works is this: Each day, for twenty minutes, he sits down and types words. The rest he spends complaining.
“I’m so pissed off,” he tells me one day. “They hired me to polish the new Spy Donkey sequel. But just looking at it, it’s going to need a page-one rewrite. It’s, like, I didn’t sign up for this. You know what I mean, Hersch?”
I do not know what he means. But it is clear he is upset, because he is drinking so much alcohols in middle of the day.
“That sounds bad,” I say, trying my best to be polite.
“It’s real bad,” he says. “There’s no way I’m doing a whole fucking draft for them. It’s, like, you gotta draw the line somewhere, you know?”
He refills his alcohol glass.
“You ever deal with this kind of bullshit at the pickle factory?”
I think about it.
“There was one time my friend got caught in the gears,” I say. “And it ripped up his torso, through the chest. And there was blood coming out of his mouth and he was screaming. And I plead with them to stop the machine, because my friend is dying, but no one listens to me, and my friend keeps howling until he is dead. And for years I see his face inside my dreams, with the blood coming out of his eyes and his mouth, begging for me to please save him.”
Simon says nothing for a while.
“Maybe I’ll just do the draft,” he murmurs.
One night we have dinner with Claire, a goyish woman Simon mates with in defiance of our Lord.
“So,” she asks me, “where are you from originally?”
“Slupsk,” I tell her.
“It’s near the Poland–Lithuania border,” Simon explains with big smile on his face. He is wrong, but I do not contradict him. He seems very proud of knowing this one fact about me.
“That’s so cool you’re from there,” Claire says to me. “I’ve always wanted to visit Eastern Europe.”
I fold my arms and squint at her.
“Why would you visit there?”
“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging. “I hear it’s got a really cool art scene.”
I lean in close to her.
“The only scene in Slupsk is people eating horsemeat to live and killing each other for potatoes.”
I point my finger at her face.
“You must never go to Slupsk,” I warn her. “It is city of death.”
“Oh,” she says softly. “Okay.”
She stands up.
“I’m going to cut up the tofu.”
“Thanks, honey,” Simon says.
“You must never go to Slupsk!” I call out after her.
When girl is gone, I grip Simon’s shoulder and stare him in the eyes.
“That girl is too thin,” I say. “She has not long to live.”
Simon chuckles.
“That’s just how girls look these days,” he says. “Here, I’ll show you.”
He opens thick, smelly book with shiny pages. It is magazine, he explains, called the Vogue.
“This model’s famous,” he says, pointing to mostly naked woman. “She was married to Orlando Bloom.”
I squint at the picture. The girl is very pale, with vacant eyes.
“I have seen this disease in Slupsk,” I tell him. “First, they cough the blood. Then they begin to shake. They ask for the water, but when you bring them some to drink, it makes them vomit up the black. They die screaming, their eyes wide open, afraid.”
Claire returns.
“Who wants tofu?” she asks.
“Please,” I tell her, “eat my portion.”
One day, I wake up to the sound of yelling. It is Simon. He is kicking his foot against his desk, shouting profanities.
“Motherfucker!” he cries. “Fucking goddamned fuck!”
I jump up from couch and run down hall. It is clear Simon has experienced a tragedy—something monstrous, like the death of someone close. I get to his office and gently open door. Simon is sitting at his desk, shaking his head and massaging his temples. His skin is pale and he is out of breath from screaming.
“Goddamn Internet’s down,” he says. “Second time this morning.”
“What is Internets?” I ask.
“It’s a thing on computers.”
“What is computers?”
It takes him long time, but eventually Simon is able to explain. A computer is a magical box that provides endless pleasure for free. Simon is used to constant access to this box—a never-ending flow of pleasures. When the box stops working—or even just briefly slows down—he becomes so enraged that he curses our God, the one who gave us life and brought us forth from Egypt.
“It’s Time Warner,” he tells me. “They’re the fucking worst.”
He bangs his fist against his desk.
“How am I supposed to get work done without the Internet?”
I glance at his computer machine. I am still learning about modern technologies. But I am pretty sure from looking at it that Simon has not been doing “work.” There are three boxes open on screen. In first, there is sports scores. In second, there is pornographies. In third, there is Simon’s own name, typed into thing called Google.
Simon notices me looking at his computer and quickly steps in front of it.
“I was taking a break,” he says, his voice loud and defensive. “You must have taken breaks sometimes at the pickle factory.”
“Is true,” I say. “Whenever there was fire, we would get to leave factory until they finish clearing out the dead.”
His phone begins to play loud song.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I gotta take this, it’s my agent.”
He picks up phone and paces around office, a pained look in his eyes.
“I already said no to that!” he says. “No—I don’t want to punch up any more sequels. Because it’s completely unfulfilling. It’s someone else’s characters, someone else’s plot—I’m supposed to be working on my novella.”
He pauses midstride.
“They’re offering what? For just six weeks? Holy shit.”
He continues to pace, but slower, and with a strange look in his eyes. It reminds me of time I saw hurdy-gurdy man get hit by brick. He was very embarrassed, and also in pain (because the brick had been thrown into his genitals). But his desire for moneys was so great, he continued to play his song and try to dance his jig.
“You know what?” Simon says in as cheerful a voice as he can make. “That’s actually an excellent idea for a Zoo Crew movie. I mean, they already had Captain Cow go to outer space in the fifth one. But he’s never been to the moon.”
His voice lowers.
“Do you think we can get them to go up even higher? No? Okay—just checking.”
He puts away phone and we make eye contact.
“What are you looking at?” he asks.
“I am just standing here,” I say.
That night Simon’s goy comes with giant bag of vegetables.
“I heard you�
�re into pickling,” she says. “So I went on Epicurious and planned a pickle-themed menu. We’re having broiled trout with pickle butter—and a pickle-vinaigrette salad on the side.”
In truth I despise eating pickles, because they remind me of the deaths of many friends. But I do not want to be rude.
“It is generous,” I say.
“It’s nothing,” she says. “I want us to become better friends, you know?”
She takes out an onion and begins to chop it, very slowly, in an incorrect way. When Sarah chopped vegetable, she used big, heavy knife. She would hold one end down and then swiftly lower blade like it was lever. Claire chops onion using tiny, skinny knife, making one little cut at a time. We will not eat for many hours.
“I’ve been meaning to cook more,” she says. “Simon likes to go out every night. Between you and me, I’m getting pretty sick of it.”
She is barely halfway through the onion when the knife slips and slashes her finger.
“Fuck!” she screams. “Ow, fuck!”
She starts to cry as her blood seeps onto counter. Suddenly, I hear the sound of another woman shriek. I spin around and am surprised to see that it is Simon, standing there with his hands over his eyes.
“Oh my God!” he shouts. “Your fucking finger!”
“What do I do?” Claire cries. “What do I do, what do I do?”
“I don’t fucking know!” Simon sobs. “Fuck fuck fuck!”
I sigh and grab girl’s hand. She resists me, so I must shush her like a child.
“Is fine,” I say. “Is baby cut.”
I pour liquid soap over her finger and run faucet. She screams and I have to shush her again.
“Is fine,” I say again. “I fix.”
I grab a rag, rip off strip, dry her cut, tie the wound, and pull.
“There,” I say. “Is better.”
Claire slowly catches breath.
“Thanks, Herschel,” she says.
Simon sighs loudly and steps out from the shadows. Somehow, at some point, he has poured himself giant glass of alcohols.
“Well!” he says. “Glad that’s behind us. How about we grab some tapas?”
He is starting to put on coat when Claire waves arms.
“We can’t,” she says. “I planned out a whole meal for Herschel.”
Simon squints at her. “But your finger’s all fucked up.”
“It’s just a baby cut,” she says, smiling wide at me. She has all her teeth, I notice, just like Sarah.
Even though Claire is bad at cooking, and believes in false god, and dresses like prostitute, with both ankles exposed, she is not so stupid a person. I know this because she is always reading books. I have read books before—a red one and also two blue ones—so I know a little bit about it. But Claire’s books are much larger, with hard covers and pages filled with numbers.
“She’s getting a PhD in sociology,” Simon explains when I ask him about it. “Over at Columbia.”
“What does she read so much about?”
“Something with immigration reform, I think? To be honest, I kind of tune out when she starts blabbing about it. It’s a pretty boring thing to study.”
This comment is strange, I think, coming from man who studied English in college—a language he already spoke. But I say nothing.
One afternoon, I am mending shirt in living room when Claire enters, wearing pack on back.
“Mind if I study in here?” she asks.
“Is fine,” I say.
It takes her long time to spread materials onto table. There is pencils, papers, books, ruler, electric number machine, erasing stick. The last thing she pulls out is the strangest: it is terrifying golem with wrinkled face and purple hair. She notices me staring and smiles.
“That’s my lucky troll doll. I’ve studied with it since middle school.”
“Is it from witch?”
“I think it’s from Kmart.”
I pick up and examine, making sure not to look into its eyes.
“Simon’s always making fun of it,” Claire says.
“That is madness,” I say. “He is asking for curse.”
She laughs for some reason and opens up her book. Before she can start studying, though, Simon enters, holding his computer.
“Read this,” he commands, plopping it onto her lap. “Tell me if it’s funny.”
“I’m kind of swamped,” she says. “Is it okay if I read it tomorrow?”
“Sure,” Simon murmurs. “No problem.”
He groans like he is in pain, and reaches very slowly for his computer.
“Okay, okay,” Claire says after a few seconds of this. “I’ll read it.”
I watch as Simon begins to pace the room, his baby arms shaking at his sides. Every few steps he glances at Claire, to watch her face.
Eventually, she looks up from the screen.
“It’s funny,” she says.
Simon glares at her. “You didn’t laugh.”
Claire hesitates.
“Well… maybe it’s not laugh-out-loud funny…”
Simon moans into his hands like a man who has lost his family. Claire hops out of chair and begins to stroke his back.
“Simon, it’s great!” she says. “The part where the cow gets Auto-Tuned? That’s going to kill.”
Simon peeks out between his fingers.
“You don’t think it’s cheap?”
“No!” Claire says. “It’s great! Really, really… great.”
I notice that she is using the word great a lot. It reminds me of when my boss gave me tour of pickle factory. He kept using the word safe. “These gears are very safe,” he would say. Or, “That belt is perfectly safe.” The more he said the word safe, the more I started to think that things were maybe not so safe.
“It’s great,” Claire says again. “The studio’s going to love it.”
“Really?” Simon asks, his voice high-pitched like a girl’s.
“Yes!” Claire says, smiling as wide as she can make her lips go.
Simon sighs with relief.
“Okay,” he says. “Great.”
He grabs his computer, knocking down troll by mistake. When he is gone, I shoot Claire a look.
“He is asking for it,” I whisper.
She laughs as I set her troll upright.
On Friday evening, I comb my hairs and knock on Simon’s door. I am surprised to see that he is mostly naked.
“What are you doing?” I say. “It is almost sundown. We have still not said our Shabbos prayers of thanks.”
Simon does not look in my direction.
“I’m busy,” he says.
“God commands us to rest on Shabbos.”
“Herschel, I’ve gotta turn this in by five p.m. L.A. time.”
“But it is Shabbos.”
“Dammit, Herschel!” he says. “I know religion’s a big part of your life, and I respect that or whatever, but it’s not a part of mine. I don’t even believe in God.”
I am so shocked it is difficult to breathe. I did not say anything when I learned that he ate bacons, and did not own yarmulke, and spoke no Yiddish (except for several words that all mean penis). But to learn that he has lost faith in our God—despite all the blessings in his life—it is too much to bear.
“How do you get through your days?” I whisper. “How do you find meaning?”
He thinks for a while.
“Through my art,” he says finally. “That’s how I find meaning. Okay? Through works of art.”
I squint at the script he is working on.
“What is Penguin President?”
He averts his eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
I grab the script and throw it at his chest.
“No, I want you to!” I say. “I want you to tell me about this art you do that is so meaningful it would make you miss the Shabbos!”
He flips through his script and sighs.
“It’s about a penguin who becomes preside
nt.”
I squint at him with confusion.
“How would this happen?”
“He wins an election.”
“So he is able to speak, this penguin?”
Simon throws up his hands in frustration.
“Do you really want to know? Or are you just trying to make me feel bad?”
“Yes,” I say. “I want to know how this penguin becomes the president of the country.”
He sighs again.
“He wins a break-dancing competition on the Internet.”
“That makes no sense.”
“You think I don’t fucking know that?” he shouts, throwing the script down on the floor. “I told them in six meetings that it didn’t make any fucking sense, but they won’t listen, Herschel! They want the penguin to break-dance in every scene. In the Oval Office, on Air Force One…”
His voice begins to break.
“The penguin’s always break-dancing.”
I put my arm around his shoulder.
“Maybe you should quit this horrible work?”
“Herschel, it’s not that easy,” he says. “They’re paying me thousands of dollars. I can’t turn down that kind of cash, especially when I’m trying to save up for a house.”
I am confused.
“You already have house.”
“I know,” he says. “But a bigger, wider one just went up for sale down the block.”
He points out the window. There are many brownstones everywhere, but I have no idea which one he means. They all look exactly the same.
The next day Claire runs into house, laughing and shouting.
“I’m finished!” she shouts.
“Finished with what?” Simon asks, his eyes still on his computer.
Claire crosses her arms, then marches upstairs.
“Her final exams,” I explain to Simon.
“Oh, right,” he says. “Fuck.”
He runs up after her.
“Honey, I was just kidding! Congratulations! Let’s celebrate!”
I hear some arguing, followed by the sound of Simon pleading. Eventually, he persuades her to come back down the stairs. She has put on shiny shirt, I notice, and painted her eyelashes black.
“Better get dressed, Herschel,” Simon says. “We’re going to hit the town!”
“I am dressed already,” I say. “My shirt is mended. I am ready to go.”
Simon bites his lip.