Spoiled Brats: Short Stories

by Simon Rich

  “You reclaim your jars?”

  “There is nothing wrong with reusing jars,” I say. “You can fill them again and again and taste is same.”

  “Amen to that,” the man says.

  “You must return jar,” I repeat firmly. “Or I will violence.”

  The man rubs his chin and then smiles.

  “You know what?” he says. “I think I’m going to write a blog post about you.”

  “A what?”

  “A blog post.”

  “A what?”

  “A post. On my blog.”

  “A what?”

  “A blog post.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Is fine.”

  WilliamsburgFoodie.com

  No label. No logo. No website. Just pure, authentic taste.

  My discovery of the perfect pickle, by Chris LeBoz

  We’ve seen so many touted picklers crash and burn this season—La Pickle, Cuke, Das Pickle. So I was fairly skeptical when I came across this cart (see photos after jump). How could I be sure I wasn’t falling for another gimmick? How could I be sure these pickles were authentic?

  One sniff of brine erased my cynicism. The fact of the matter is, if you haven’t had Sarah’s Statue of Liberty Garlic Pickles with Salt, you haven’t had a real pickle.

  Herschel Rich handcrafts his artisanal pickles locally, using freegan cucumbers, unpasteurized river water, and reclaimed glass jars. The pungent taste is not for everyone. And the floating salt scum takes some getting used to. But guess what? This is what pickles are supposed to taste like. If it’s too much for you to handle, head to Walmart, I guess, and buy yourself some jumbo Vlasics.

  Herschel doesn’t water down his pickles—or his politics. He refuses to use chemical additives, relying entirely on all-natural, locavore ingredients. In fact, his devotion to conservation is so extreme, he personally reclaims his pickle jars from customers. When I asked him to explain this unusual practice, he clenched his fists with passion.

  “There is nothing wrong with reusing jars,” he said. “You must return jar.”

  In a land of DIY pretenders, Herschel is, quite simply, the “real deal.” His cart is constructed entirely of salvaged wood. His clothing is homemade from repurposed rags. And his product name seems purposefully designed to be as noncommercial as possible.

  So head to Williamsburg this afternoon. Your taste buds (and conscience) will thank you.

  Next day I sell out batch in fifteen minutes. The people are coming at me so fast I cannot believe it. They are like animals, crazed for these pickles! It is like time in Slupsk that there was plague and only one witch selling medicine.

  When I am down to last jar, there are still many people in line. Two people rush to cart and begin screaming.

  “I was here first,” says bald man with black glasses. “I’ve been waiting here since seven.”

  “That’s not true,” says tiny Chinawoman. She has ring in nose like pig.

  There is lots of arguing back and forth.

  “Look,” says the bald man finally, “I wasn’t going to say anything. But I work for Jake Gyllenhaal.”

  At this point, I am frightened. I have not heard of this Jake man, but I can tell from crowd’s reaction he is probably sheriff or constable.

  “I am sorry,” I say to woman. “I must do as I am told.”

  “That’s bullshit!” she screams.

  “I am sorry,” I repeat.

  I am handing the jar to the man when the Chinawoman pokes me on the shoulder.

  “I’ll give you five dollars!” she shouts.

  I stop my movements.

  “Oh my God,” I say. It is first time in life I have seen price go up in a market. I have never been this shocked, including the time I was brined a hundred years.

  “Oh my God,” I say again. “My God.”

  I am about to hand woman the jar when the man shouts, “Six dollars!”

  At this point, something strange happens, which is that my body begins to dance. I am trying to be professional and keep my face normal, but my legs and arms have all begun to dance.

  “Seven!”

  “Eight!”

  “Nine!”

  The man reaches into his pocket, pulls out his wallet, and counts all the bills inside.

  “Seventeen!”

  I assume this must be the end, but then the woman pulls out twenty-dollar bill. It is like I am in strange dream. What are all these millionaires doing in Williamsburg?

  I take the Chinawoman’s money and stand on cart to address the growing crowd.

  “I am out of pickles,” I say, causing everyone to groan. “But do not be afraid! I will return in three days with giant batch.”

  The people begin to cheer, like I am Elijah announcing the Messiah.

  “Also,” I add softly, “I am going to raise prices.”

  From that point on, I sell jars for twelve dollars. You would think this outrageous figure would slow sales, but it is the opposite. The more I charge, the more people want the pickles. By end of second week, I have $2,219 in lockbox.

  I am happy to be making such big profits. But secretly part of me wishes people haggled. Screaming over money is what makes the market fun. Sarah used to threaten to kill the potato man whenever his prices went up. She would take out her knife and say, “I will kill you with this knife for robbing me.” He would curse her in Hungarian and then the two of them would wave their fists around. It was good times for everyone. These days, though, nobody has that kind of will. It is all please and thank you and have a nice day.

  One evening I am selling jar when I hear familiar voices. I look across street. It is Claire and Simon. She is pulling him toward me by the wrist while he struggles to break free.

  “I don’t want to,” he is whispering, like toddler being dragged to work his loom. “No.”

  Eventually, he manages to flee her and darts into the Starbucks Café. Claire sighs and continues toward my pickle cart.

  “Herschel!” she shouts. “Over here!”

  “I am with customer,” I tell her. I complete my sale, lock money into box, and only then turn toward her.

  “Hello,” I say.

  She gestures at my money cart and laughs.

  “This is so cool!” she says. “Herschel, your cart looks amazing.”

  “Is fine,” I say with modesty.

  “Simon and I were reading New York Magazine,” she says, “and we saw your cart in the Approval Matrix. We couldn’t believe it!”

  “I am in magazine?”

  “Herschel, you’re everywhere!” she says. “Gawker, Eater, Brooklyn Vegan. You’re a huge success!”

  “I am nowhere close to success,” I tell her. “I vowed I would buy house for two millions. I have barely made two thousands.”

  “That’s pretty good for two weeks,” she says.

  “Is nothing,” I tell her. “Like pennies compared to what is coming.”

  She laughs out loud, as if I am making joke.

  “You are not the first to doubt me,” I tell her. “When I was saving wages to leave Slupsk, my father told me that I dream too big. He urged me to stay and join his business.”

  “What did he do?”

  “He was shit collector.”

  Claire scrunches up her face.

  “What’s that?”

  “What do you think it is? It is person who collects shit. He owned big shit cart, and every day he went around collecting shit. He smelled like shit and was always covered in shit. Finally, after many years with the shit, he saved money up for house. But before he could even go inside, the Cossacks got drunk and burned it. All that was saved was his shit cart, which the Cossacks had shit inside.”

  “Wow,” she says. “You must hate those Cossacks.”

  “No,” I say. “I am thankful to them. They gave me the rage I needed to work harder than most men.”

  Claire nods.

  “I can see where Simon gets his work ethic from.”

  I raise m
y eyebrows.

  “Simon has work ethic?”

  “Sure,” she says. “I mean… it’s less extreme now than when he was first starting out in the business. But he still really pushes himself. Like, last week, a studio asked him to write some movie taglines? And his allergies were acting up. So I was, like, ‘Just tell them you’re sick.’ But he sat down and wrote them anyway.”

  “That sounds like real struggle,” I say, winking hard to show I am being facetious.

  I look across the street. Simon has still not left the café. There is nothing to do but make more conversation with Claire.

  “How is your schooling?” I ask.

  “Just trying to figure out my dissertation,” she says. “It’s hard to pick a topic. There are so many aspects of the immigration process in need of reform.”

  I wave my hands.

  “Is fine,” I say.

  “How can you say that? You went through hell to make it to this country.”

  “Jews do not believe in hell,” I remind her. “That is strange Christian thing. But also, more important, I think you spend too much time thinking of others.”

  She smiles. “What a nice thing to say.”

  “I meant it as insult. In Slupsk we have popular saying. It goes: ‘You must always put yourself first, before everybody else, in every situation in the world, even if you have resources and they are about to die.’ ”

  “That’s a little harsh.”

  “Is necessary. You have just one life. If you give it to another, it is gone.”

  Claire looks across the street. Simon is hiding behind lamppost, slurping coffee frosting drink. She waves at him, and he reluctantly approaches us.

  “Hello,” I say when we are face-to-face.

  “Hey,” he says.

  Claire takes out her pocket phone and smiles.

  “I have to make a call.”

  “That is lie!” I say. She ignores me and crosses the street, leaving me with my great-great-grandson.

  Simon is twenty-seven, just like me. But sometimes it is hard to believe he is that old. His posture is terrible, so although we are same height, I am always looking down on him, like he is boy.

  I also have trouble believing he is wealthy. I know he has made moneys, because this is basically all he ever speaks of. But his hygiene is so terrible he resembles newsboy. His breath is so awful from his coffees, it is torture to stand near him. His hair is full of dandruffs, his ears are filled with wax, and his teeth are stained like monster from the picture show. My standard for cleanliness is not so high. My father, as you recall, was shit collector. So when I say man needs to clean himself, it is pretty big statement.

  Simon crouches next to my sign and laughs.

  “Twelve dollars a jar?” he says. “Holy shit. People don’t actually pay that, do they?”

  “I have had hundreds of customers,” I inform him.

  “They must have been tourists or something.”

  “They were New Yorkers,” I say. “They came because my pickles were inside their New York Magazine.”

  “You were in New York?” Simon says. “Huh. Don’t know how I missed that. Was it a long article?”

  “It was in Approval Matrix, and I know that you have seen it because Claire told me you have seen it! You lie to pretend you are not jealous, but really you are jealous!”

  Simon turns red and is silent for long time. Eventually, he picks up jar and squints at it.

  “No labels, huh?”

  “They are unnecessary expense.”

  “I wonder if the Health Department thinks so.”

  He grins at me, his yellow teeth moist like a dog’s.

  “Maybe I’ll pay them a visit?” he says.

  At this point I am hungering to violence him. I take long, slow breath to calm myself.

  “If you pay them a visit,” I warn him, “you will soon get two more visits. The first will be from my fists. And the second will be from Malakh HaMavet, the Angel of Death.”

  We do not speak until Claire has returned.

  “Well?” she says brightly. “What did I miss?”

  “Nothing,” Simon mutters. “Come on.”

  He flags a yellow taxi car and drags her inside the backseat.

  “Bye, Herschel!” Claire cries through the window. “Good luck!”

  I shout as loud as possible, so Simon can hear my words.

  “I do not need lucks! I do not need anything!”

  The home I made with Sarah was very pleasant, but it did have several flaws. For example, the stove often caught fire, there was no indoor bathroom, and we shared our room with fifteen other Jews.

  Sarah and I slept in mattress in the corner, behind curtains stitched from flour sacks. The curtains took us many days to sew, but we worked fast and hard (we had just been wed and needed privacy for married acts).

  Since moving from Simon’s couch, I have been sleeping in McCarren Park. It is not so bad. I bathe in public toilet and tie tarp to tree for shelter. Sometimes the policemen come with lights and chase me, but I am quick and not afraid of them.

  I have $4,128 and could easily buy my way into some household. But it would be needless expenditure. I have trained my body to sleep just four hours each night, since that is all the body really needs, and why should I care where I spend such small portion of the day? I am comfortable on my own and do not miss having companions around. Being alone is nothing for me. Is fine.

  One night, though, while lying under tarp behind toilet, I realize something: in order to increase pickle production, I must have more storage space for jars. I can only fit fifty in cart, plus four in coat and two in pants. In order to expand my business, it is vital to find myself a room.

  The cheapest one I find is out in Bushwick. According to flyer, rent is four hundred dollars per month. When I show up at building, there is line of young people gathered on street. A short man with green hair addresses them.

  “Please have your portfolios ready,” he says. “Thank you!”

  “What is this place?” I ask young girl holding stack of strange photographs.

  “It’s called the Vortex Factory,” she says. “It’s the most selective artist colony east of Williamsburg.”

  I do not understand most of her words, but I am happy to hear it is factory. I have always gotten along with fellow laborers.

  Eventually, after waiting long time, I am motioned inside by green-haired man. When I step through the door, I gasp. The space is gigantic, big enough to house at least ten thousand pickle jars.

  “Oh my God,” I say.

  “I know,” he says. “It’s pretty incredible.”

  One area is covered in tarps and splattered with paint. Another is crowded with drums and electric pianos. I cannot see where they are making their vortexes.

  There are many sleeping peoples on the floor, huddled on mattresses, surrounded by empty alcohols. There are lagers, wines, spirits—more bottles than I have ever seen.

  “Was their wedding last night?” I ask.

  The green-haired man laughs. He does not answer my question about wedding.

  “Come on,” he says. “I’ll show you around.”

  He walks me through factory, telling me names of sleeping boarders.

  “That’s Jordan,” he says, pointing to man with beard. “He’s an experimental poet.”

  “I have not heard of him,” I admit.

  “You will,” he says. “His stuff’s incredible. He just got his MFA.”

  I do not know what is this “MFA,” but it must be rare achievement, because when he says it his eyebrows go up.

  “Who is she?” I ask, pointing to snoring woman.

  “That’s Alison,” he says. “She’s an actress.”

  I squint at the woman. She is homely and overweight with many blemishes on face.

  “Radio actress?” I ask.

  “Spoken word, mostly,” he says. “She just got her MFA. She’s incredible.”

  He points to group of hairy
, filthy men.

  “Those guys just got their MFAs,” he tells me. “In painting, sculpture, and sound design. They’re in a noise band called the Fuzz.”

  “I have not heard of them, either,” I admit.

  “You will,” he says. “Their music’s just…”

  He pauses, thinking of way to describe.

  “It’s incredible,” he says.

  He folds his arms and smiles at me.

  “So. Let’s have a look at your portfolio.”

  My face flushes.

  “I do not know what that means.”

  He laughs.

  “You know what? Me neither. The idea that art belongs in a manila folder—it’s preposterous. The here and now is where the truth’s alive. The moment you try to document it, the immediacy is lost.”

  “Is fine,” I say, confused.

  “So tell me, what would you bring to the Vortex Factory?”

  “Just myself,” I say. “And many jars of pickles.”

  He rubs his chin and squints at me.

  “So you work in installations?”

  “I sell pickles from cart,” I explain. “First I make salt brine, then I put in cucumbers, then I wheel cart and shout out, ‘Pickles, pickles!’ ”

  “So there’s a pretty big performance element to your art.”

  At this point I am starting to get frustrated.

  “It is not performance,” I say. “It is my life. It is what I must do to survive.”

  He smiles at me with look of admiration.

  “Dude,” he says, “that’s incredible.”

  I get biggest room in the whole house.

  “How’s it going?” Claire asks me the next day at my cart.

  “I am working,” I tell her. “I have no time to socialize.”

  Her pants are so tight I cannot even believe it. I can see the shape of her kneecaps. It is crazy to me that she can dress this way and not be thrown in jail.

  “There’s nobody in line,” she says.

  I look. Is true.

  “Still, somebody might come,” I say. “I only have time to speak with customers.”

  “Okay, fine,” she says. “In that case, I’ll take a jar.”

  “Twelve dollars.”

  She folds her arms and smirks at me.

  “I’ll give you four bucks.”