by Simon Rich
I do not understand, and so, as usual, I let Claire speak.
“We’re not interested,” she says. “Please leave.”
I nod with agreement; these men have bought no pickles and are holding up the line.
“If you do not want to buy jars,” I say, “you must get out of here!”
The men in suits shrug and walk away. As soon as they are out of sight, my interns all applaud. I am confused.
“That was amazing!” Claire says as she throws her arms around me. “You totally blew off those corporate douche bags!”
“Is fine,” I say.
In the distance, I see the Walmart men climb into large black car. It is very long, I notice, and also very shiny. I begin to grow curious about them.
“Who is this Walmart?” I ask Claire.
“They’re one of the most evil corporations on earth,” she says. “They exploit immigrants, sell poisonous junk food, and destroy small businesses. It’s ridiculous. They think they can just show up here, write a check, and get whomever they want to do their bidding—”
I interrupt her.
“What is check?”
“It’s, like, money.”
I run so fast that both my shoes fall off. Eventually, after several blocks of screaming and waving my arms in the air, I catch up to these wonderful Walmart people. They open their door and I leap inside car before they have time to change their mind.
The deal is very fair. They give me two hundred thousand dollars, enough to make down payment on house that I need to defeat Simon. In exchange, I give them rights to my likeness, name, face, and identity, to use however they want, in unlimited ads, forever.
I also agree to sell pickle company to Walmart. Their plan is to rename it “Brooklyn Hipster Pickles” and replace all ingredients with chemicals.
“Is fine,” I say.
In exchange for giving them company, I receive thirty thousand shares of their precious, beautiful stock, which is valued at $74.34 per share.
I announce my news the next day at the Vortex Factory. My roommates are still sleeping, because it is not yet noon, but Claire and my interns are all present. It takes me long time to describe the deal, because I cannot stop dancing. Eventually, though, after much dancing, I am able to get the words out.
I assume my interns will join me in my dance, but instead they all stare at me with dead eyes. I have not seen such miserable faces since the Great Siege of Slupsk, when the children were told they must butcher and eat their pet rats.
“I can’t believe you took the money,” Claire whispers. “How could you just sell out like that?”
There are tears in her eyes; slowly, it dawns on me why she is so upset.
“I forgot to haggle,” I admit. “It was stupid. I should have demanded even more of their sweet, sweet dollars.”
Claire bangs her tiny fist against the wall.
“How could you be so selfish?” she says. “It’s disgusting! I mean… what would Sarah say?”
I squint at her, confused. Sarah would be proud, of course. She would not join my dance, because her leg was lame and it shamed her. But she would clap her hands in time while I did my rich-man jig.
“I do not understand why you are upset,” I admit to Claire. “Is it because you want some portion of my moneys?”
She glares at me, her nostrils flared like angry horse.
“We didn’t join your company for money,” she seethes. “We joined because we believed in you!”
I look over at the interns.
“So none of you want money?”
They look at the ground, their faces slightly red.
“I wouldn’t mind some money,” one of them mumbles.
“Is fair,” I say, after some thought. “I will give you each bonus of ten dollars.”
The interns cheer.
“Also,” I announce, “from this day forth, you all shall have your freedom. Go! You are emancipate!”
“You’re the worst,” Claire says to me.
She starts to pack up all of her belongings: her folding computer, her other computer, her tablet machine, her shiny talking phone. Something gradually occurs to me.
“Oh,” I say. “I forgot. You are wealthy.”
Claire turns around and stares at me. Her face is pale.
“Excuse me?”
“That is why you do not care for money. Because you already have so much of it. For you, all of life is happy game.”
Her eyes begin to twitch.
“That is so rude,” she says. “Life’s about more than money, Herschel!”
“Yes,” I say. “For those who already have it.”
She shakes her head with disgust.
“You know what?” she tells me. “You’re just like Simon.”
It is six weeks later when I see my great-great-grandson. I have moved into wide brownstone on his block, so I knew such a meeting was inevitable. But the encounter is still surprising, because it is four in the morning.
At first we pretend not to see each other. But there are no other people outside at this hour, and so it is hard to keep up ruse.
“Hello,” I say eventually.
“Hey,” he says. “Nice chain.”
I smile proudly. I had always dreamed of owning jewelry, so after buying house and crate of herring, I treated myself to necklace. It is simple, modest piece, just fifty golden links and my name spelled out in gems, with the S switched to dollar sign, so that it reads “Her$chel.”
“I got it inside black-man store,” I tell him. “They are the only ones who understood my style.”
“It’s cool you’re doing so well,” Simon says. “Congrats.”
I nod. I am waiting for him to ask me what my chain costs, but for some reason he does not do this.
“My chain cost seven thousand dollars,” I inform him.
“Congrats,” he says again.
There is something I want to ask him, but I do not know how to say it.
“Simon,” I say, “is there something wrong with the air on this street?”
He looks confused.
“The air?”
“Ever since I move here, I have been having problems with my breathing. It happens when I am trying at night to sleep. My heart becomes fast and I cannot fill up my lungs. I think there is possibly poison in the air.”
Simon nods.
“They’re called panic attacks,” he says. “I get them all the time. They probably run in the family.”
He takes out silver flask.
“Try some of this,” he says.
“Do I look like Irishman?”
“Just think of it as medicine.”
I close my eyes, hold my nose, and drink from the bottle. The taste is horrible, but after several swallows, I must admit, my breathing becomes easier.
“I do not understand what is happening to me,” I confess to Simon. “Tonight I ate eleven cans of herring, one after the other. Then I took hot bath with soap, like fancy king. But I could not enjoy it. My heart kept racing. Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw the dying men of Slupsk. I imagined them pointing at me with angry faces, cursing me for having so much pleasure.”
“Sounds like you’re getting a guilt complex.”
“What is guilt complex?”
“It’s something that happens to rich people.”
“What is the cure?”
Simon shrugs. “You could donate some money to charity.”
“Yes, okay, but that is not going to happen, so tell me other options.”
Simon thinks. “Well, you could try to make a difference somehow.”
I think of Claire and the people in the Vortex Factory and how they are trying to change the world. “I have no MFA,” I say, “or PhD.”
“You could go get one,” he suggests. “I mean, they’re expensive, but I’m sure you could afford it.”
“I would rather have more jewels,” I admit.
I sit down on stoop and massage my temples.
“Perhaps I will become freegan?” I suggest. “Can freegans eat herring?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Never mind.” It is very cold, and so I decide to take more sips from flask. “Perhaps we pray.”
Simon raises his eyebrows.
“What?”
“We must pray,” I tell him. “That is why we feel guilt. We have received so many blessings, far more than we deserve, and it is wrong that we have not said thanks to God.”
“Herschel, I already told you. I don’t believe in that stuff. Besides…”
He averts his eyes.
“What is it?” I say.
He looks down at his feet.
“Well, I’ve never done it before. I’m not even sure I know how.”
I lay my palm upon his shoulder.
“There is no wrong way to pray to Hashem,” I tell him. “Just speak what is in your heart.”
Simon remains still for long time. Then he nods slowly, closes his eyes, and kneels.
“Why are you kneeling?” I shout. “Are you Christian now? Stand up before God sees you!”
He jumps to his feet.
“I thought you said there was no wrong way to pray?”
“Yes, well, okay, but you cannot kneel! That is like slapping God’s face. It is horrible what you have done.”
I spit on the ground.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Is fine, is fine,” I say.
I catch my breath and lay my palm again upon his shoulder.
“Just close your eyes,” I tell him. “And speak your heart. Remember, there is no wrong way to pray.”
Simon nods, closes his eyes, and begins to speak.
“Dear God—”
“Are you insane?” I shout. “You would slap God’s face with English words?”
Simon throws up his hands in frustration.
“You said there were no wrong words!”
“Is terrible thing that you have done.”
“Okay, okay,” he says. “I’m sorry. Let me try again.”
I lay my palms once more upon his shoulders.
“There is no wrong way,” I remind him.
He nods, hesitates, and then tries for the third time.
“Okay. Um… Baruch atah Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha’olam… ha’motzi lehem… min ha-aretz?” He smiles at me. “Was that all right?”
“That was prayer for bread,” I say. “It makes no sense why you would say it. Where is the bread? I see no bread here. That was madness, your prayer for bread.”
“How about this?” Simon suggests. “I’ll tell you what I want to say to God and you can translate it for him.”
I think about this plan.
“Is fine,” I say.
He sits down beside me.
“Where do I start?” he mumbles. “Okay. Um… tell him, I’m sorry I played 2 Live Crew at my bar mitzvah party. And that I haven’t been to synagogue in years… and that I pretended to be Christian once in college to get free barbecue…”
“Slow down,” I say. “I am only up to ‘2 Live Crew.’ ”
“I’ll just sum it up,” Simon says. “Tell him… I’m sorry for taking everything for granted.”
I close my eyes and whisper it in Jewish language.
“I have told Hashem,” I say. “Is fine.”
The sun is coming up, but I am still shivering. The gold chain feels like ice against my flesh. When my teeth start to chatter, Simon takes off purple scarf and hands it to me.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s freezing out.”
“I am not one who takes charity,” I remind him.
“Just take it.”
I am putting on scarf when I catch sight of Statue of Liberty. She is staring right at me through parted clouds.
“Is fine?” I whisper to her.
She smiles at me, her right fist raised in triumph.
“Is fine,” I hear her say.
GUY WALKS INTO A BAR
So a guy walks into a bar one day and he can’t believe his eyes. There, in the corner, there’s this one-foot-tall man, in a tiny tuxedo, playing a sonata on a little piano.
So the guy asks the bartender, “Where’d he come from?”
And the bartender’s, like, “There’s a genie in the men’s room who grants wishes.”
So the guy runs into the men’s room and, sure enough, there’s this genie. And the genie’s, like, “Your wish is my command.” So the guy’s, like, “Okay, I wish for world peace.” And there’s this big cloud of smoke—and then the room fills up with geese.
So the guy walks out of the men’s room and he’s, like, “Hey, bartender, I think your genie might be hard of hearing.”
And the bartender’s, like, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”
So the guy processes this. And he’s, like, “Does that mean you wished for a twelve-inch penis?”
And the bartender’s, like, “Yeah. Why, what did you wish for?”
And the guy’s, like, “World peace.”
So the bartender is understandably ashamed.
And the guy orders a beer like everything is normal, but it’s obvious that something has changed between him and the bartender.
And the bartender’s, like, “I feel like I should explain myself further.”
And the guy’s, like, “You don’t have to.”
But the bartender continues, in a hushed tone. And he’s, like, “I have what’s known as penile dysmorphic disorder. Basically, what that means is I fixate on my size. It’s not that I’m small down there. I’m actually within the normal range. Whenever I see it, though, I feel inadequate.”
And the guy feels sorry for him. So he’s, like, “Where do you think that comes from?”
And the bartender’s, like, “I don’t know. My dad and I had a tense relationship. He used to cheat on my mom, and I knew it was going on, but I didn’t tell her. I think it’s wrapped up in that somehow.”
And the guy’s, like, “Have you ever seen anyone about this?”
And the bartender’s, like, “Oh yeah, I started seeing a therapist four years ago. But she says we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
So, at around this point, the twelve-inch pianist finishes up his sonata. He walks over to the bar and climbs onto one of the stools. And he’s, like, “Listen, I couldn’t help but overhear the end of your conversation. I never told anyone this before, but my dad and I didn’t speak the last ten years of his life.”
And the bartender’s, like, “Tell me more about that.” And he pours the pianist a tiny glass of whiskey.
And the twelve-inch pianist is, like, “He was a total monster. Beat us all. Told me once I was an accident.”
And the bartender’s, like, “That’s horrible.”
And the twelve-inch pianist shrugs. And he’s, like, “You know what? I’m over it. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything, because of my height? Well, now look at me. I’m a professional musician!”
And the pianist starts to laugh, but it’s a forced kind of laughter, and you can see the pain behind it. And then he’s, like, “When he was in the hospital, he had one of the nurses call me. I was going to go see him. Bought a plane ticket and everything. But before I could make it back to Tampa…”
And then he starts to cry. And he’s, like, “I just wish I’d had a chance to say goodbye to my old man.”
And all of a sudden there’s this big cloud of smoke—and a beat-up Plymouth Voyager appears!
And the pianist is, like, “I said ‘old man,’ not ‘old van’!”
And everybody laughs. And the pianist is, like, “Your genie’s hard of hearing.”
And the bartender says, “No kidding. You think I wished for a twelve-inch pianist?”
And as soon as the words leave his lips, he regrets them. Because the pianist is, like, “Oh my God. You didn’t really want me.”
And the bartender’s, like, “No, it’s not like that.” You know, try
ing to backpedal.
And the pianist smiles ruefully and says, “Once an accident, always an accident.” And he drinks all of his whiskey.
And the bartender’s, like, “Kevin, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
And the pianist smashes his whiskey glass against the wall and says, “Well, I didn’t mean that.”
And the bartender’s, like, “Whoa, calm down.”
And the pianist is, like, “Fuck you!” And he’s really drunk, because he’s only one foot tall and so his tolerance for alcohol is extremely low. And he’s, like, “Fuck you, asshole! Fuck you!”
And he starts throwing punches, but he’s too small to do any real damage, and eventually he just collapses in the bartender’s arms.
And suddenly he has this revelation. And he’s, like, “My God, I’m just like him. I’m just like him.” And he starts weeping.
And the bartender’s, like, “No, you’re not. You’re better than he was.”
And the pianist is, like, “That’s not true. I’m worthless!”
And the bartender grabs the pianist by the shoulders and says, “Dammit, Kevin, listen to me! My life was hell before you entered it. Now I look forward to every day. You’re so talented and kind and you light up this whole bar. Hell, you light up my whole life. If I had a second wish, you know what it would be? It would be for you to realize how beautiful you are.”
And the bartender kisses the pianist on the lips.
So the guy, who’s been watching all this, is surprised, because he didn’t know the bartender was gay. It doesn’t bother him; it just catches him off guard, you know? So he goes to the bathroom, to give them a little privacy. And there’s the genie.
So the guy’s, like, “Hey, genie, you need to get your ears fixed.”
And the genie’s, like, “Who says they’re broken?” And he opens the door, revealing the happy couple, who are kissing and gaining strength from each other.
And the guy’s, like, “Well done.”
And then the genie says, “That bartender’s tiny penis is going to seem huge from the perspective of his one-foot-tall boyfriend.”
And the graphic nature of the comment kind of kills the moment.