Zion's Fiction

by Zion's Fiction- A Treasury of Israeli Speculative Literature (retail) (epub)

  After the coffee I’d empty out five Winston Lights and make my spliffs, then smoke my first one with another coffee. Then I’d go down to the corner store and buy a new pack of cigarettes and a large bottle of Coke. I’d come home, go into my room, and lie down in the dark with my eyes open. I’d lie on my left side until two-thirty and think about what a whore Osher was for leaving me, and how much I hated her and felt like killing her. At two-thirty, give or take ten minutes, I’d turn over onto my right side and think about how much I loved her, and how, if she wanted to get back together, I’d take her back with open arms, and how much I missed her. At four I’d watch The Bold and the Beautiful. Then I’d channel surf. If there was anything interesting on, I’d watch it. If not, I’d turn on the light, open up my datebook at the end, where I wrote down phone numbers, and think about who I could diss today.

  My voyage downwards to the depths of despair and depression had a few upsides. The main one was that I didn’t give a fuck about anyone. I just didn’t care. This evil world, which had taken Osher away from me just like that, without any warning, didn’t deserve my caring. I felt that as long as I was wallowing in the dregs, no one else had any right to be happy—and if they were, then yours truly was going to put an end to it. And I’m talking especially about the assholes who’d insulted me or humiliated me. There seemed to be a lot of them, come to think about it.

  I’d go through the list and try to pick someone. It was really hard: so many attractive options. My finger was on Dori’s name when the phone rang, and it was Gross. I’d missed three shifts, and he thought maybe I was sick or something was wrong. He was worried about me, the angel. I told him nothing in particular was wrong, I just didn’t feel great. Gross didn’t get mad. He was really nice, in fact. He asked if I had a fever and if I’d been to see a doctor. I told him dryly that what I had, no doctor could cure. Gross snickered and said, “Oh, so it’s that kind of disease. I get it. What’s her name?” “Osher,” I told him, “and it’s incurable.”

  Then his voice got kind of formal and he said I could have let him know ahead of time, ’cause I really screwed up his shifts and he had to beg people to fill in the gaps. I told him he could get his fudge-packing friends to fill up his gaps, since all they did was sit there all day eating for free and trying to hit on me when I waited on their tables, and they never tipped, and his coffee sucked. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to tick off Gross. I must have hit a sensitive spot, because he yelled that he hated my guts and he was sick of all these cocky assholes who’d moved to the city two minutes ago looking down their noses at him. He yelled so loud that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. Then he said that if I came anywhere near his café he’d throw a glass at my head and that he’d use his connections to make sure I never worked in this town again, ever. I hung up on him in midsentence. I took a red pen and put a thick check mark next to his name and number. I grinned to myself: my sweet revenge on the world, for what it had done to me, was moving along.

  Max asked what all the yelling was about. I told him I just got fired from Café Gross and that I was newly unemployed. He shrugged his shoulders and went to make us some instant coffee. When the water boiled and he poured it into the cups, he realized we were out of milk, so he went down to the store.

  And that’s when Max had it.

  Call it an accident, a prophetic revelation, an epiphany, a hit-and-run, or a cosmic event. Doesn’t matter. What really happened at that moment, on Shenkin Street, corner of Ahad Ha’Am, no one has yet been able to truly explain.

  What’s certain is that there was a long, black Chevy Caprice Classic driven by a wealthy contractor, a short Mitsubishi Pajero SUV driven by a very tall young woman with short-cropped red hair who was so beautiful it hurt your eyes to look at her, and there was Ahmed the junkman with his cart. The first to recover from the accident was Tony, Ahmed’s lame donkey, who sat up on his ass and started shouting: “Alte zachen! Alte zachen! Old stuff! Fridges, cabinets, washers…. Alte zachen!” Then the young woman and the contractor got out of their cars and started screaming at each other in a rabid fit of hatred, and their faces turned bright red and contorted with rage. The SUV and the Chevy were crumpled against each other, and there was shattered glass all over the place. Total loss. The furniture on Ahmed’s cart had toppled out onto the road. Ahmed himself sat on a broken oven that had landed on the sidewalk, held his head, and sighed, “Ya Allah! Ya Allah! Oh Dear God, I’ve lost everything, I’ve lost everything…. Ya Allah….”

  And Max?

  Max lay motionless on the road. He looked up at the sky and his pupils were enlarged like he was tripping on molly. All he could get out of his mouth was “Whoa …” like he was blazed or something. He just kept lying there saying “Whoa …” very quietly, every twenty seconds, until the ambulance arrived. They put him on a stretcher, but as they were about to lift it into the ambulance, he sat up and said calmly, “No need. Thanks. I’m fine.”

  Max ran his hand over the doctor’s body, and the ugly psoriasis all over the doctor’s neck disappeared. Then he tapped his fingers on the paramedic’s throat three times and cured the stutter he’d had since age six.

  Max picked up his bag, which had been thrown to the sidewalk, and said in a loud, clear voice, “I’m going home, guys.” And that’s when things got crazy. Mor, the hot chick from the Pajero (she even had a hot chick’s name) said, “I’m coming with you wherever you go.” Azulay, the contractor (he even had a contractor’s name), said, “Me too. Wherever you go.” They both forgot how they’d tried to claw each other’s eyes out only two minutes ago. Tony, the donkey said, “Anywhere with you. Through fire and waaaaater.” His voice came out a little brayish because he wasn’t used to talking yet. (Later, when he became the movement’s spokesperson, Tony would sit on the balcony with me and say, “Believe me, Ido, everyone’s an ass. But at least this ass knows what he’s talking about.”) Ahmed, who was a little confused, given Tony’s condition, said, “I’m coming too. For sure!” Because he didn’t want to be different from everyone, and also because without Tony he had nowhere to go to anyway.

  And then they all started walking, single file, toward our place.

  I was in the toilet with a lit joint between my lips when Max and his disciples walked in. It was my fourth for that day. Life looked sort of melted down, a bit rounded at the edges, and it made no sense to get mad about anything. I was high as a kite.

  “Hi Maxi,” I said to him, “want a hit?” I offered him the jay, burning side up to keep it from dropping. “No thanks,” said Max—and that was the first time ever I’ve heard Max say no to dope. “I’ve changed, Ido,” he said. “I’m not the same Max. I’m a saintly person now.” And it was true, something about Max was different: he opened his eyes, and there was fire in his pupils. His eyes sparkled, as if he’d had two little lamps transplanted there.

  Next morning I made a definitely final desperate attempt to get Osher back to me. I called her and heard in her voice that she was not at all happy to hear from me. She sounded tired on the phone. I insisted, until she agreed to meet with me at lunchtime in a café downtown. She actually suggested Gross’s, but I explained I wasn’t working there anymore.

  Then I went to select a handgun for myself. They already know me at the Recoil shop in the mall. I’ve been there three times looking at guns, but never bought one, ’cause until that day I didn’t really need a handgun.

  The salesperson was called Ozz. Before I met Ozz, I’d thought it was a name fit for a Rottweiler, but it turns out there’re all kinds of name-giving parents in this world. He opened the glass cabinet where all the handguns were locked and explained each one of them. I kept nodding my head, “yes, yes,” and even asked a few questions, just to let him know I was really interested and also that I understand such things. Every once in a while I went so far as to hold a gun in my hand, to feel its heft and see if it was well-balanced. This was just for show. I knew exactly what I wanted. I waited for him to get to
the chrome-plated Jericho Magnum, then I took it in my hand and caressed it lovingly. It had a good smell of gun oil and metal. When it comes to death, only Made in Israel will do. The big, heavy gun was a perfect match for my hand, precisely fitting all its curves and folds, sending silent vibrations up my arm all the way to the elbow, and then on to my chest and spinal column. Then I chose rounds—hollow point, of course. I looked at the silvery lead ball that I could see through the slits in the copper jacket in the bullet I was holding in my hand. When this round hits flesh, the copper around the lead opens up, becoming a little rosebud spinning at a terrific speed and leaving a wound you could throw a tennis ball through, never touching the edges.

  If it’s got to end, I was thinking, I want to make sure it really ends. I didn’t want to miss accidentally and then lie for ten years in the Levinstein Rehabilitation Center staring at the ceiling and waiting for the nurse to come and feed me porridge with a teaspoon.

  I ordered twenty rounds. They won’t sell singles. I’d already asked. I gave Ozz a check for the down payment, and we agreed I’d give him the rest in twenty-six days, when I’d come to collect the gun, with all the paperwork done in the meantime.

  I even had time to visit the Ministry of the Interior and fill in a request for purchase of a firearm. On my way to the coffee shop I lit a joint just to pull myself together. I got to The Other Café ten minutes ahead of time, lit a cigarette, and asked for a beer. I sat down to wait for Osher. Osher, as per usual, was late.

  It’s not so good, mixing alcohol with weed. When she arrived I got up to hug her, but I never saw this chair. Stumbled against it and fell right between Osher’s sweet-smelling tits, which were projecting way out because of the tight black woolen blouse she was wearing. Usually, Osher hates it when I mix dope and alcohol and lose it. Last time it had happened, we were still an item. She’d cried and screamed at me for ruining myself and what a shame it was to see an intelligent guy like myself wasting himself like that. This time, Osher didn’t get mad at all. She just helped me sit down again. Then she seated herself opposite me, looking at me as if she’d never cared. She took one of my cigarettes, lit it, and scrunched her face with the first drag. “Phooey,” she said, looking at me, pouting her lips and blowing a thin jet of smoke in my direction. “I can’t figure out how you people can smoke this shit.”

  “Give us E for effort,” I said, smiling at her. Osher smiled back—and for a brief moment it was like old times, and my stomach got all warm inside. But just for a moment.

  “I got a gun today, Osher,” I told her. “Jericho Magnum with dum-dum bullets, like I’ve always wanted.”

  “You’re mental,” she said. “What do you need a gun for, anyway?”

  “To blow my brain and get out of here,” I said, and saw her cringing in her seat. Then, suddenly, there was a tired look in her eyes, like she was seventy years old. She told me I’d come looking for help at the wrong place, because she was all empty inside and no longer had anything for me. She took my hand in hers and looked me in the eyes: “Believe me, Ido, I’m not trying to lie to you or something. I can’t help you. I’m really done.” Tears came out, smearing this black stuff she puts around her eyes. “I don’t know how to explain this to you,” she said, “but something that’d always been there inside and I’d always known would be there the next day—it’s gone suddenly, all at once. Now I must search for something else. Everyone’s searching. I’m not the only one who’s had it disappear.”

  I’ve never heard Osher talk like that. But she got back together real quick, saying, “Sorry, I don’t know what I’m going through. You don’t need my bullshit on top of everything else. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Then there was nothing left to say. We sat facing each other silently for maybe ten minutes. Osher smoked another one of my cigarettes, with obvious disgust, and finally got up, gave me a twisted smile, the sort that comes on by mistake, and left without saying goodbye. I walked home. Going slowly, in no hurry to get anywhere, dragging my feet, quiet and despondent. An exhausting sense of defeat spread inside me. I let my long legs carry me. They were up to the job, making long strides, rapidly swallowing those Tel Aviv streets. I gave myself up to the feeling of striding, forgetting myself.

  The bus door closed. The green bus backed out of its bay. I realized I was sitting in an Egged Line 552 bus to Ra’anana, on my way home. I stared outside as if what I saw was the most interesting thing in the world, even though I knew each tree, each traffic light along the way. I’m going to Ra’anana, to see Mother.

  I got off at my station near the Wars Memorial. My legs, still on autopilot, kept taking me along those side streets, imbued with suburban tranquility, to the four-story grey building on 58 Hahagana Street.

  I took the stairs, reaching the door that bore a simple sign, “Menashe.” I buzzed, and Mother opened the door. “Oy,” she said. “Ido. I just called you. You weren’t home, so I had a chat with your roommate, Max.”

  “What did you talk about?” I asked.

  “Nothing in particular,” said Mother. “Life.”

  The hall fixture spilled yellow light, sad and weak, deepening the shadows made by the creases in her face. The Menashe Family Map of Troubles, I secretly called Mother’s facial creases. It was a one-to-one topographic map of all the shit this family has eaten over the last twenty years. Mountains, valleys, nothing missing. Just get on an air-conditioned tour bus and take the guided tour. Ladies and gentlemen, if you’d look to your right, you can see a fold running from the side of the nose to the corner of the upper lip. It got much deeper the day the family business went bankrupt. Mother said this was because he was a good-for-nothing jerk. Although they wouldn’t admit it, this was what finally killed their marriage. If you’d look to your left, you can see the central crease across the forehead. Yes, right there. Watch your step, Ma’am, it’s very deep. This one came from him: my idiot of a father. It came into being overnight, complete, when he took off to India with Rina. It started a lengthy geocosmetic process, which slowly but surely deepened this crease, during those long nights when Mother was left alone with her nightmares.

  Look here, everybody: this is very interesting. Right here, in the middle of the forehead, between the eyes, rising vertically through the eyebrows, a crease I’m particularly sentimental about. My handiwork. Each little fold has something to say. Each tiny crease represents a stage in my growing up. Bottom left, you can discern the time I went with Tomer Freistadt down to Sinai without telling anybody. A bit higher up, on the right-hand side, you can see my glorious motorcycle crash in the orange orchard, two weeks after I’d got the bike. Flew twenty feet through the air into a tree. The tree came out alright, not a scratch. The bike was a total loss. Its carcass is still lying there in the backyard, rusting away in the rain. I got platinum nails in both my legs, and all the girls in my class came to the hospital to scribble on my cast, great fun. Here to your right you will notice the classic crease known as Recruit’s Mother Canyon, proudly borne by every Israeli mom. It got a bit deeper each day during my three loony years in an infantry battalion.

  “Come in, sit down,” she said. “Eat something. If I’d known you were coming, I would have done some shopping and cooking. Just for myself, like this, I don’t bother.” She got some vegetables out of the fridge and started slicing them for a salad. “You want egg?” she asked, but didn’t wait for an answer before putting a small frying pan on the gas fire, which shed a gloomy light on her narrow, darkish kitchen. When the pan got hot, she poured in some oil which started bubbling noisily.

  “I’m not hungry, Mom, I’ve already eaten back home,” I murmured my line, like an actor on his two-hundredth show. But a few minutes later I had in front of me a plateful of omelet and green salad; a couple of buns, hot from the microwave oven, lay beside my plate.

  Mother made black coffee for herself, lit a Time cigarette. “Need money?” she asked. Hope lit up her face.

  “No, Mom, the problem ain’t money,” I sa
id. “I don’t know what I need. What can you give me?”

  “I can write you a check, if you want.”

  “Besides,” I added, “I broke up with Osher.”

  “Why?” asked Mother, getting up to stand by the open window. Dying daylight lit her face when she blew cigarette smoke out into the open air. “Osher’s always been such a nice girl.”

  “She dumped me, Mom. She’d said she was done, puff, just like that. Three years went out in smoke, because Madame Osher Yehoshua was done overnight. So she smokes two packets of my Winstons, uses up all the coffee and tissues in the place, and lets me know this is it. I’m done,” I said. “Game’s over. I’m taking a break from life—and terrible things are going to happen. Mostly to me, but also to you. To all of you. Shit’s about to hit the fan—and no one’s going to stay clean. I’m through waking up every morning to see who crapped in my plate, eat it like a good boy, then smile and say thank you kindly. You all will be sorry.”

  Mother remained standing by the window, her face still turned outside. She took another deep drag off her cigarette. Then she let it out with such an ouch sound, reminding me of Grandma’s soul-rending sighs, the ones she used to make when she was still alive. “Okay, so what do you want? Like I was part of some conspiracy against you. I’m your mother, Ido. I’m just a mother, that’s all.” She crashed the cigarette in the ashtray. “What is it with the two of you? First him, now you too. I’m worried, is all, must I be punished for it?” She sighed again. “You do what you feel like doing. I’ll write you a check if you want.”