by Simon Rich
“You know, Hersch, I was thinking, maybe you’d like to try another outfit for a change? I’ve got some old Ted Baker stuff I bet would fit you.”
“I am not one who takes charity,” I say. “My shirt is mended. Is fine.”
“Okay,” he says, waving his hands in the air. “Just offering.”
He heads for the door, and Claire and I follow. We are almost out of house when Claire suddenly spins around.
“Oh no,” she says. “I forgot tomorrow’s Sunday.”
“So?” Simon says.
“The maid’s coming.”
Simon groans.
“Honey, the place looks fine.”
Claire kicks off her shoes and runs downstairs.
“Just give me a second!”
“Fuck,” Simon says when she is out of earshot. “This is going to take forever.”
I hear the sound of mopping in the kitchen.
“I do not understand,” I say to Simon. “Why is Claire cleaning if you have hired maid?”
“Because she’s nuts,” he says. He opens wooden cabinet and pours out glass of alcohols.
I can hear more sounds from kitchen—the stacking of plates, the scraping of pots. Eventually, Claire comes upstairs, holding yellow sponge.
“You can save a little work for Hong,” Simon tells her.
“Her name is Hahn,” she says. “And I’m just doing the low surfaces, because of her back.”
I am very confused about what is happening, but I say nothing. The mood is tense and I do not want to get involved with things. Simon checks his watch as Claire finishes sponging the tables. By the time she is done, he has drunk his entire glass.
“Ready now?” he asks.
Claire sponges wet spot where Simon has spilled some liquor.
“Ready,” she says.
Simon pauses in front of automobile and stares at his reflection in the window. He is wearing purple scarf with fancy tassels.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
“Cabin,” he says, running fingers through his hair. “It’s the best bar on the Lower East Side.”
“Can’t we just go to Fontana’s or something?” Claire asks. “There’s going to be a huge line.”
“Nobody goes to Fontana’s anymore,” Simon says, wrapping the scarf tighter around his neck. “Cabin’s way cooler.”
“How cool is this cabin that you need scarf?” I ask.
Claire laughs for long time. I do not understand it.
“Come on,” Simon says, grabbing Claire by the wrist.
I follow them down Avenue A. The Lower East Side, I notice, has not changed much in one hundred years. The women are still emaciated and dressed in rags; the men still wear beards and have sad eyes.
Eventually, after checking purple scarf in two more windows, Simon brings us to the bar that is called Cabin.
“There it is,” he says, a look of reverence on his face.
I squint with confusion at the small establishment. It looks the same as all the others we have passed. The only difference is that there is red rope in front of it, guarded by scary Negro giant.
“Hey, man,” Simon says to him. “Cool if we go inside?”
“Sorry,” the giant says. “Private party.”
As soon as he says this, three men with greased hair appear. The giant steps aside, allowing them to enter. Simon curses under his breath.
“What is this place?” I ask Claire.
“Just some celebrity hangout,” she says.
“What is celebrity?”
“It’s, like, somebody people celebrate, because they’re doing something special with their lives.”
“Is Simon celebrity?”
She hesitates.
“Kind of? I mean… you know, in some circles… he’s sort of well known.”
I turn toward Simon. He is pleading with the giant, his hands clasped tight like a beggar’s. He does not look to me like celebrity, but what do I know about it?
Claire starts to shiver, and I soon become worried. As I mentioned before, she is very thin and extremely close to death. It is not good for her to stand outside in cold, dressed in nothing but her prostitute clothes. Her arms are naked almost to the elbow. I start to wish that I had worn my wool so I could give it to her.
“Simon!” I shout. “You must give the woman your scarf!”
Simon turns his back to us. It is obvious he is pretending not to hear me, so that he can continue to wear scarf.
“I do not understand,” I say. “What is his thing with that scarf?”
She takes deep breath.
“He got it in London,” she says. “He’s so obsessed with it he won’t even trust me to hang it up for him. He says it’s his ‘trademark.’ ”
Simon trudges back to us with big forced smile on face.
“Just give me a few more minutes,” he says. “I’m making inroads.”
He is adjusting his scarf yet again when his eyes suddenly widen.
“Hey, it’s B.J.!”
He points at the bar’s entrance with both hands. A handsome man is leaving bar to smoke with beautiful woman.
“Who?” I ask.
“B. J. Novak,” Simon says. “He’s an actor—we go way back.”
He hustles down the alley and throws arms around this B.J.
“What’s up, buddy?”
The actor smiles nervously. It is clear he does not know Simon and is frightened.
“Remember?” Simon says. “We met in L.A. last year. During the table read for Ice Chimps.”
B.J.’s face turns red as the beautiful woman starts to laugh.
“You were in Ice Chimps?” she asks, her little nose wrinkling with disgust.
“Just a cameo,” B.J. says.
“He played Wayne Chimpsky!” Simon tells her. “He was hilarious.”
B.J. forces a smile and pats Simon on the shoulder.
“So great running into you,” he says. “I think we’re going to head back inside.”
“Sweet!” Simon says. “I’ll come with.”
The next thing I know, Simon is following them back into the bar, his arms around them like he is their friend.
“This guy with you?” the giant asks the B.J.
“I guess,” the actor mutters.
Simon grins with pride as the guard steps out of his way. He is almost through the door when he remembers we are with him.
“Quick!” he whispers.
We scurry in beside him, like rats across a gangplank.
“See?” Simon says as we shuffle through the crowd. “Piece of cake!”
“Where?” I ask. I have not eaten dinner and am hungry.
“It’s just an expression,” Claire explains. “It means easy.”
“So there is no cake.”
“No,” she says. “I’m sorry.”
“Is fine,” I say.
We sit down at table in the back. It is next to the bathroom and covered with filth. I find the least disgusting chair and draw it out for Claire.
“So,” I say, “tell me, how was the exam?”
“It was really hard,” she says. “On the last essay, with five minutes left, I realized I’d forgotten to mention the Perkins Report.”
“What is Perkins Report?”
“It’s, like, the statistical backbone of immigration-reform theory. Somehow I’d forgotten to incorporate it.”
“That’s awesome,” Simon says.
We swivel toward him. He is facing the bar, his pupils darting back and forth in obvious search for celebrities.
“That’s awesome,” he says again. “Hey—who wants a Manhattan?”
“I’ll just have a beer, please,” Claire says.
“Gotcha. What about you, Hersch?”
“I do not drink alcohols,” I remind him.
“Gotcha.”
He gets up from table and heads for the bar, his purple scarf fluttering behind him like a tail. I try to speak more with Claire, but it is impossible. The p
erson in charge of the music machine has gone crazy. He is playing two records at the same time, mixing the songs together so that it all sounds horrible. The room is so loud and crowded, it reminds me of when I was in steerage. I wanted to survive, but there also was a part of me that prayed for the sweet release of death. Eventually, Simon returns with the liquors.
“Sorry that took so long,” he says, handing Claire a murky brown drink.
“You wanted a Manhattan, too, right, sweetie?”
I can see she is annoyed. She swallows her drink, grimaces, and then goes to the bar by herself. By the time she returns, holding beer, Simon has launched into story about Ice Chimps. I cannot understand most of his words, but the gist of it is that, years ago, he said a joke at a table and a famous man laughed at his joke. That is his whole story. But it takes him nearly fifteen minutes to say it. For the first time since meeting Simon, I start to wonder if he is possibly retarded. He talks like my cousin Moishe, who was born with triangle head. His stories go on forever and have no meaning.
Simon is about to tell another story about his beloved Ice Chimps when a tall goy with long tie walks over to our table. I can tell he is drunk, because he is swaying back and forth and has red cheeks.
“Hey, girl,” he says to Claire. “How’s your night going?”
Claire ignores the stranger, but he sits down next to her as if they are intimates. I quickly move aside, so that Simon can confront the man. But to my great surprise Simon does not seem to notice the drunk’s brazen insults.
“What’s your name?” he asks Claire. He is smiling, but there is violence in his eyes.
“I’m having a drink with my boyfriend,” Claire says.
The man laughs.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t tell me your name.”
I look at Simon. He has picked up an alcohols menu and is squinting at it.
“I’m in finance,” the man slurs. I notice that he has inched closer to Claire. Their legs are almost touching. I nudge Simon, but he continues to stare at the alcohols menu. It is at this point that I realize what is happening: Simon sees the drunk but is pretending not to—so he can avoid combat.
“I asked you for your name,” the drunk says again. “What’s the matter? You deaf or something?”
He lays his hand on Claire’s thigh as if she is his wife. She glances at Simon, her eyes wide with panic. Simon’s arms are twitching slightly and his jaw is clenched with fear. But his eyes remain fixed on his little menu.
Now, I am not the bravest person. As boy in Slupsk, I was afraid to wrestle bears, and only sometimes wrestled bears. And once, when doctor knifed out my appendix, I asked for aspirin pill. But I cannot just sit there while a man dishonors woman.
I lean across the table so the goy can see my eyes.
“She does not want to socialize with you,” I say.
He laughs once more, his moist lips curling into grin.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“She does not want to socialize,” I repeat. “Please leave our table.”
At this point, Simon has no choice but to look up from his drinks menu. His face is pale with fear.
“Herschel,” he whispers. “Calm down.”
I ignore him.
“Leave our table,” I tell the drunk again. “Or I will violence you.”
The drunk reaches across the table and grips my shoulder.
“Do you have any idea who you’re fucking with? My friend owns this place.”
“Leave our table,” I say again. “Or I will violence you.”
The man laughs out loud, and I sigh. I do not enjoy fighting, but sometimes there is no choice. I punch the man’s face, throw him on ground, kick his face, punch his head, and smash glass into his head. There are some screams and then the Negro giant throws me out the door. My brain hits ground and I lose time. When I wake up, Claire is kneeling beside me.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I am in some pain but manage to make smile.
“Is fine,” I say to her. “It was pieces of the cake.”
That night, on couch, with bag of ice on head, I realize something: I have stayed in Simon’s home for one week’s time and still have not contributed to household. I have never been one to live on handouts. Enough is enough, I decide. It is time to make things right.
I go to Simon’s office, find pencil and paper, and make list of consumptions. It is very upsetting to see it written out. In just seven days, I have eaten four pieces bread, half jar of sour cream, and two canned tunas. I have also bathed three times, twice with cold water and once with warm. Plus, of course, I have taken pencil and paper, to record all these debts.
I go through the items line by line and write down guesses at the prices. When I add it all up, it comes nearly to one dollar.
I search my pockets, but all I can find is seven Indian pennies. Outside, the sun is rising. I go to the kitchen and wait for Simon to wake.
Six hours later, he enters. He is naked except for underpants and undershirt, which reads, DALTON HOMECOMING CLASS OF 2002. He turns on his coffee device and stares at it.
“Come on,” he says to the machine as it brews coffee for him automatically. “Let’s go.”
In about ten seconds the pot is full. He exhales with relief and pours its contents into giant vessel.
I figure this is as good a time as any. I clear my throat, take out my list, and start to explain about my debts. Before I can get any words out, though, he waves his hand in my face.
“Herschel, please, don’t talk to me right now. I’ve got a splitting headache.”
He is drinking out of coffee bucket when Claire enters kitchen.
I gasp. She is almost completely naked, in underclothes that expose both of her calves. I face the wall and close my eyes to give her proper privacy.
“It’s okay, Hersch,” she says, laughing. “You can look.”
I turn around very slowly. Claire’s shirt is bright red, the color of fancy French lipstick. Over her chest, words spell out CLAREMONT RIDING ACADEMY. I can see her entire forearms, all the way up to the elbows.
“My God,” I whisper.
Claire giggles—and I feel my face swell up with blood. Simon glares at both of us and finishes his coffee.
“You were saying?” he grumbles at me.
I clear my throat and look down at my list.
“It is generous of you to house me,” I say. “But, as I have told you, I am not one who takes charity.”
“It’s not charity,” Claire says. “We love having you around!”
“Yeah,” Simon says. “We love it.”
I watch as Claire opens the cupboard and reaches for mug on top shelf. As she stretches to grab it, her red shirt climbs slowly up her body. I turn away as quickly as I can, but it is too late. I have seen the nude small of her back. My throat goes dry and for long time I cannot breathe. How could Simon allow her to parade in this way? It is very hard to continue speaking like nothing strange has happened, but somehow I manage to keep going.
“I have decided to search for new job,” I announce. “When I have savings, I will repay you for the breads and creams I have eaten, and rent myself a home of my own.”
Simon laughs out loud.
“Good luck with that,” he says.
“Thank you,” I say. It is nice, I think, for Simon to be so supportive, given that we have had some problems.
“I was being sarcastic,” he says.
I squint at him with confusion.
“I do not understand,” I say. “You do not think that I will have success?”
Simon refills his coffee vat and smirks.
“Who’s going to hire you? You’ve got no education, no experience, no skills.”
“Simon,” Claire says, “that’s rude.”
“It’s not rude,” he says. “It’s realistic. I mean, for God’s sake, Hersch, you barely even know how to speak English.”
My face begins suddenly to burn. It is painful to hear my
great-great-grandson say these things. I know I am not so clever. I did not go to kindergarten like a fancy man. But I am not as worthless as he says.
“I have experience with pickling,” I inform him.
Simon laughs again, and I can see his teeth glinting in the light. They remind me of rat’s fangs, their tips caked with yellow clumps of food. I know he is related to me, but I feel like he is different species. For first time all week, I am thankful that Sarah is gone. I would not like her to meet this creature, to see what has become of our shared dream.
“If you want some cash,” Simon says, “I’ve got plenty.”
He opens a drawer, pulls out a wad of banknotes, and tosses them in my direction. I let the bills flutter to the floor. By this point, my whole face is tingling.
“I told you,” I say through gritted teeth, “I am not one who takes charity.”
“Well,” Simon says, “you better get used to it. Because it’s the only way you’re going to survive.”
My jaw clenches tight and my hands begin to tremble. I stand up from table and look him in his eyes.
“I would sooner live on streets,” I say, “than with one who disrespects me.”
“Fine,” he says. “Whatever.”
I gather all my possessions (left shoe and right shoe) and march right down the stairs. When I open front door, I can see that the sky has turned gray and the clouds are beginning to drip. I do not care, though. I cannot stay inside another moment. I am about to step through door when I feel tiny hand gripping my elbow. It is Claire.
“Herschel, come on,” she says. “Simon didn’t mean all that. He’s just hungover.”
I point my finger at her face.
“Tell him that I hope his teeth fall out, except for one, so that he may get toothaches!”
“Herschel, come on. You don’t mean that curse.”
“I do,” I say. “I mean curse.”
I start to step through door, but she grabs me once again.
“Herschel, this is ridiculous!” she says. “You don’t know anybody in Brooklyn, or where anything is, or how anything works.”
I reach into pocket and take out my seven Indian pennies.
“I have seven cents more than when I first came to this land. I have started from scratch here before. I can start here from scratch once again.”
“Herschel, trust me, you’ll never make it.”