Are You Kosher? (15 page)

Joshua moved in for the kill and said to him, “You hit my aunt and you tried to kill my cousin. I don’t like that.” He placed his hands on the cowering little bastard’s shoulders and pushed him to his knees. Bubbe stepped between the two of them and said to my would-be assassin, “Look into my eyes and know that nobody hurts my family.” She turned and pinched Joshua’s cheek and said, “Oh, you’re such a good boy! I could just take a piece out of you. Didn’t I tell you they would fall for the setup?”

Joshua grinned and said, “Yes, Aunt Zena. I guess I owe you a pound.”

“Oh, keep your money,” she said, blowing him off. “Go buy yourself some nice clothes; always with the black.” She started walking away to head home.

Joshua stopped her and said, his eyes wide with hope, “Do you think that maybe I can come over for dinner tomorrow night?”

“My sweet and sour meatballs?” Bubbe asked.

“What else? I swear, Aunt Zena, if we weren’t related, I’d grab you up for myself.” My cousin smiled.

Bubbe pinched his cheek again and said, “Oh you are so cute, Joshy! What a good boy.” She continued to walk away and Joshua yelled after her, “What do I do with them when I’m done?” Bubbe turned and replied, “Grind them up and sell them to one of those goy butchers. They can make blood sausage.”

Joshua smiled and shouted, “You’re evil, you old bird.”

“I can be,” she replied over her shoulder. “Don’t forget to wash your hands when you’re done! These boys don’t look clean.”

Joshua knelt down next to the pathetic little man who had now lost control of all of his bodily functions and asked, “What would happen if I bent your leg this way?”

The next evening, I was already doing much better. Joshua had come for dinner and relayed the events of the previous evening to me. He kept telling me that I should join the JVDL or, at the very least, be a little more careful. Bubbe was berating Joshua for not telling his mother and father that she would be in London. They were vacationing in France. “Why do you think I came here?” Bubbe asked him. “I was hoping to see my sister and her shmendrik husband.”

“I’m sorry, Aunt Zena, I really am, but you know Mom. She lights the candles of her own menorah.” He looked over at little Liam and asked, “So is this our hero?”

Bubbe beamed and rubbed his hair and said, “This is Liam, a very good boy. The two of you could take some pointers!” She pointed at me and Joshua. My cousin looked shocked and said, “What did I do last night? That wasn’t good?”

“Don’t fight it.” I whispered to him.

Bubbe informed us that she was going to arrange to have monthly funds sent into a private account to see to it that Liam never went without again. She also made Joshua promise that he would look after him and hire a proper nanny. She did not want him hanging out until all hours of the night with Joshua and his JVDL friends. Joshua agreed, swearing that he would check on him every day and not let anything bad happen to him.

Bubbe explained to Liam that he had to stay here in London but she would write him once a week and visit every summer. She told him that the most important thing was that he kept being a good boy.

Later on that evening, I overheard Bubbe reemphasize her wishes that Joshua watch over her little
shayneh punim.
She said that on his eighteenth birthday, he was to be converted. Joshua agreed; at least Liam would be in good, if not completely stable, hands. Bubbe obviously had the
shpilkas
for him, although she says he could call more often. He actually has done quite well for himself. Little Liam has grown up to become quite a famous actor.

I owe him my life. Your heroes come in all shapes and sizes. Sometimes they are little orphan boys on the streets of London. They are the deeds of an overprotective grandma, or the acts of a radical cousin; either way you look at it, it’s better to have those people on your side than against you.

Chapter 28

The Vampire’s Bucket list

After reading the last chapter, I assume that you all realized that I came face to face with my own mortality and that had a profound effect on my life. It made me appreciate that life could be unbelievably long, or it could end in an instant. What would I like to do before it all ended? I have asked myself this question many times since that fateful night. Some of the things on my list may seem ridiculous to many of you, but then again, none of you, to my knowledge anyway, has been alive as long as I have. There are limits to the things that I have not done. These are some of the things that pop into my head and make me feel that life would not be complete unless I accomplish them.

Number 1: I want to have sex with two women at the same time. From all that I have told you, you know that I am the greatest stud who has ever graced this earth, but the fact is that I coined the phrase, “I got lucky with a hooker.” I may be the only man in history that has been to an orgy and not had sex with multiple women. It’s a logistical thing for me. How the hell am I supposed to satisfy two women at the same time? Do I use a splitter? That sounds painful and Junior—I call him “Junior”—doesn’t like to be fussed with. How do you even introduce that subject? “Hello, ladies, lovely evening, how about a three-way?” Could that work? One of these days, I’m hoping to figure it all out and I am even more hopeful that it will live up to the expectations that I have built up in my mind. If not, it is just another sad tale in the horrid existence of my coital life.

Number 2: I want to go to the moon. Why not me? It’s not like anyone else has landed there. Oh sure, I saw the video of the Eagle landing. Please don’t tell me that any of you bought that. Here’s a question. If Armstrong was the first man on the moon, who the hell was recording him? Also, why the hell was the American flag flapping in the breeze? High wind gusts on the moon? The same place that exists in a vacuum? I tried out for NASA but was turned down because they said that I was too likely to suffer from claustrophobia. What does that even mean? We are going to space, not to a Mexican’s apartment, although we have a better chance of finding intelligent life in space. I’ll tell you this, my friends. Before I die, man will actually land on the moon, for real this time, and I am going to be there.

Number 3: I want to arm-wrestle Oprah. Look at her. I think that I can take her. She may be kind of scary and intimidating, but I like a challenge. I cannot understand for the life of me why so many millions of people raise her up on this pedestal. I wrote earlier about how I was taken down a peg or two on numerous occasions in my life. Well, I think that she needs to be taken down, as well. I’m not suggesting that someone go and try to drive a stake into her heart; that would be wrong and illegal, and the jury is still out on whether or not she has one. My solution is to meet her in a neutral locale and have at it with her in an arm-wrestling match. The battle of good versus evil; I’ll be good.

You cannot all believe every syrupy piece of dreck that comes out of her mouth, can you? That would be like saying that you thought Meredith Vieira got her job solely based on her credentials or that Barack Obama was qualified for the presidency. Oprah needs to be taken down and since it is below my moral standards to strike a woman, I propose an arm-wrestling match. That is something that I definitely want on my bucket list.

Number 4: To throw out the first pitch at a baseball game. I guess you have to be as old as I am to appreciate the beauty of this sport, how it has endured the test of time, and how it has been on more than one occasion, a great source of healing and escape for millions of people.

I love the entire concept of the sport. The drama, the romance, and the way that grown men can grab their crotches in public and not be brought up on charges. I can hear the public-address announcer introducing me: “Ladies and gentlemen, to throw out today’s first pitch, Izzy Glassman.” How cool would that be? Of course, I probably would only be invited to throw out the first pitch at a Mets game; who else would want to? The Yankees are spoken for. I hate the fucking Yankees and there is no way I’m throwing out a pitch for the Dodgers. They left Brooklyn; fuck them.

Number 5: This one may be totally obscure to many of you, but I would really like to meet Ian Anderson.
Ian who?
you ask. Well, let me tell you. He is the lead singer and songwriter of the greatest group of any generation. His songwriting abilities fall short only to those of Beethoven. Jethro Tull is a passion of mine. I own every album and even tried to learn to play the flute. Maybe I should put that on my bucket list, learn to play the flute. But I digress. I think that the two of us would get along really well. We both appreciate the art of not caring what other people think, and we have both had intimate relationships with Jewish women. He may not be a vampire, at least not yet, but he can still understand my pain.

This obviously is not my entire bucket list. Over a period of about six thousand years it is hard to come up with things you have never done. In my case, I don’t want to dwell on “if I only had done this” for too long. This is just a small sampling of what is going on inside of my head.

There is plenty more to talk about and the longer we get to know each other and the more I feel I can trust you, the more I will divulge. Be patient, my friends. We still have a long way to go until the Sabbath is over, and I am still writing and pouring my heart out.

Speaking of pouring my heart out, I think it is time that you heard about what it is like for someone to try to psychoanalyze a vampire, or even worse, to deal with his Bubbe.

Chapter 29

Freud Shmeud

The clock ticked softly in the office. I lay on the sofa after a very long session, and all that this shmuck took from any of it was to ask me in his Austrian accent, “Do you love your mother?”

I sat up and looked at him and asked, “What does my mother have to do with any of this? You know that I love my mother. It’s not her fault that I am neurotic. It’s because I am kosher and a bloodsucker.” The doctor smiled at me and said, “Of course you are. Maybe the term bloodsucker just means to you that on some subconscious level, you feel as if you are draining the spirit of your loved ones and you feel that you are nothing more than a burden.” I looked at him in disbelief and said, “You know, Dr. Freud, you came very highly recommended, but I have to tell you that up to this point, I’m not too impressed.”

“Now, Izzy,” he replied, “We spoke about being defensive and how important it was for you to be open-minded. The only way that therapy is going to work is for you to embrace it openly. One of the keys to achieving any form of success is to have the entire family come in for a group session to establish that you have a support system.”

“Do you realize what you are asking? Have you even been listening to me at all?” I asked, beside myself with fear. “Zena Glassman does not divulge anything about herself without a side order of steaming hot guilt.”

Doctor Freud looked at me through his spectacles and said, “I have dealt with many a difficult family member. I know what I am doing.” He smiled again.

“Have you ever even met a Jewish grandmother?” I almost yelled. “She would rather kill all of us than talk to a psychiatrist.”

“Trust me, Izzy. This is what you need. A family session can often fill the gaps in what has become a cracked self-opinion. Your mother and grandmother will no doubt take away as much from this session as you will.” He looked at the wall clock and said, “It looks like our time is up. Now I want you to promise me that when you come in next week, you will bring your mother and grandmother.”

“I hope that you are insured.” I got up off of the sofa and turned to him to say, “If my mother is coming, I suggest that you lock up your booze.” This was a nightmare waiting to happen. The only reason I even went to this quack was because Frank Markowitz told me that he had done wonders for his and Lizzy’s sex life. That’s all that I was looking for, a little self-confidence. How was I supposed to know that this tricky little voodoo man was going to make me drag my mother and bubbe into a therapy session? How the hell did I know that the basis of his craft was to tie everything into one’s personal relationship with his mother? How in the name of G-d was I going to get Bubbe to go along with this?

I walked home the long way—we were staying in Bubbe’s apartment in Vienna—going through the conversation in my mind, trying to figure out a way to introduce the subject and protect myself from bodily harm. You know as well as I do that Bubbe is a very secretive person, and the fact that I was going to have to convince her to join me in a therapy session, let alone tell her that I was going to therapy, was going to set the old girl off for sure.

When I got home, the house smelled of brisket. That was good because it meant that she was at least in a good mood. It meant that she’d started it around noon and had a chance to take a nap, that my mother had not bothered her, and that our crazy upstairs neighbor wasn’t trying out his new piano. When he practices, it sounds like someone is torturing an accordion. I went into the kitchen and to my immediate dismay, Bubbe and my mother were sitting at the table glaring at me, a copy of a little-known book by Dr. Freud entitled
Helping You Like You
was sitting between them. It was not one of the better-named books the world has ever seen.

“Hi, guys. Wow, something smells good …” Bubbe practically exploded from her seat. My mother moved a bit slower; the schnapps was taking affect.

“What is the meaning of this?” Bubbe shouted as she waved the book in my face. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Calm down.” I tried to stall. “It’s not what you think.” Bubbe’s face went red. “It better not be what I think, because it looks like you have been going to therapy!” I thought that her head was going to pop off of her shoulders.

“Well, I guess it is what you think,” was all that I could say. What do you want from me? She can be very scary when she is angry and I had not yet been able to locate where the wooden spoon was.

“I told you!” Bubbe turned and yelled at my mother, “If you spent less time drinking and more time being a mother this would never have happened.”

“Oh sure, like you’re the easiest person in the world to live with,” my mother replied as she poured another schnapps.

Bubbe’s jaw dropped in shock; mine, too, to be perfectly honest. You know what they say about alcohol being a great truth serum. The old lady was obviously caught off guard by this remark. She honestly believes that she is a warm, tender, innocent woman who just wants a happy family. She walked back to the table and sat down. She stayed motionless for a few moments; it was like waiting to watch the mushroom cloud erupt in the distance. She finally said, “So this is all my fault.” She threw her arms in the air as her rage began to bloom again. “So what does this doctor tell you about me? No, wait. What do you tell him about me?” she asked as her eyes squinted.

“He doesn’t say anything about you, Bubbe. He usually just asks me questions about Mom,” I tried to reassure her.

She took a step closer and said, “So I’m not good enough to talk about? Itsa, do you hear this?”

My mother lifted her glass and said, “Don’t worry, Mom. There is plenty to say about you.”

“Thank you,” Bubbe said, vindicated. She turned back to me, saying, “I want you to tell that doctor of yours that I want to have a few words with him!” This was great. She actually wanted to go. This was a huge load off my mind. I was able to breathe again. I relaxed a bit and said to her, “That’s wonderful, because he wants you and Mom to come with me next week for a family session.”

Her face went red and the explosion happened, “So you
did
tell him about me! You no-good little pisher! Where’s my spoon?”

The day of the appointment arrived and the three of us walked together to Doctor Freud’s office. My tuchas was still a bit sore. Bubbe was stone-faced, Mom was already half
shnockered
, and I was hoping that some lunatic with a stake was going to jump out of an alley at any minute and end it all.

We sat in his office waiting for him to enter. Bubbe rubbed her finger across his end table and examined it. “Look at this dust,” she said. “What kind of a doctor works in this filth?” My stomach was doing flip-flops. How did I ever agree to this? Freud entered the room at long last and smiled at the three of us.

“Hello, Glassman family. So nice to meet you.”

Bubbe glared at him, my mother winked at him, and I felt nauseous. He took a seat adjacent to us and said, “I cannot tell you how happy I am that you agreed to …” Bubbe interrupted.

“Just hold it right there, ‘Doctor,’” she said, moving her fingers in little quotation marks, “What kind of a man drags an old woman into an inquisition?”

Doctor Freud shook his head and replied, “I assure you, Mrs. Glassman, this is not an inquisition.”

“That’s what the Church said,” she whispered under her breath.
Could someone, anyone, please kill me now?
is all that I could think. My mother pulled out a flask and Freud immediately said, “Ms. Glassman, there is no drinking in here.” My mother smiled and said, “Don’t worry I brought enough for everyone.”

“Mom, please put it away,” I begged. She turned at me and asked, “Is this what you talk about when you are crying about how bad a life you’ve had?” She stood and faced Doctor Freud. “Is he always like this? Do you see how disrespectful he is?”

“Please, try to calm down. Have a seat, please.” Freud tried to reason. He adjusted his glasses and started, “Now the reason that I have asked for this group session is to …” Once again, he was interrupted, this time by Bubbe. She stood and yelled, “I want to know what my ungrateful grandson has been saying about me behind my back!”

Freud looked over at me and I just shook my head and mouthed the words, “I told you.”

Bubbe continued, “Did he bother to tell you that it is no picnic living with him, either? He makes smart-ass remarks about everything, he whines about how his life is a contradiction. Did he tell you how he goes into the bathroom to measure how long his penis is?”

I jumped from my seat. “Bubbe!” I screamed. She shook her head in an all-knowing manner and said, “I bet you didn’t know that I knew that, did you, Mr. Pervert? I told you, its fine.”

“Jesus!” I exclaimed. Bubbe turned to me with a confused look on her face, “What does that nice boy who came over for dinner have to do with any of this? At least he knew how to respect his elders.”

“If everyone could just try to calm down.” Freud tried to regain control of the situation. “Now if we can start at the core of what is bothering Izzy, I am sure that …”

My mother broke in, “Doc, this schnapps is not going to be strong enough. You got anything stronger?”

Bubbe took the flask away from my mother and said, pointing at her, “You see? This is what the problem is. I told her that having a child is a big responsibility, especially without a husband, but what do I know? I’m a senile alter-kocker!” At that point I wished that Freud would open the liquor cabinet.

My mother stood toe-to-toe with Bubbe and yelled, “No wonder he is in therapy talking about us! You drive everyone crazy! Did you hear me?
Crazy
!”

I tried to interject my opinion. “Listen, I wasn’t talking about either one of you; this was about me …”

Bubbe pointed her finger at me and said, “Sit down. We’ll talk later.” She turned to face Doctor Freud and said, “This is why your profession is thought of so badly. We were a happy family before you came along. We fight; what family doesn’t? We drive each other up the wall, but is your mother so happy with you? I don’t think that any mother would be proud of the fact that her son is finding out everyone’s dirty little secrets and spinning them to upset old women who don’t have much longer to live. I don’t think that she would be proud of the fact that you are siding with a damned kid who doesn’t respect his elders. That’s not a doctor; that’s a lawyer, and shame on you for that, Mr. I-know-everything.” She sat down, crossing her arms across her chest.

Doctor Freud removed his glasses and in a cool, calm voice said, “What I see here is the perfect proof of my theory that grown men should not live at home.” He turned to face me. “Izzy, this is the exact reason my own mother drives me up the wall. Are you insane living with these two? No wonder you came to me. They are insane.” Mom and Bubbe were briefly silent.

“There’s no reason to be rude,” my mother said. “I told you, bad upbringing.” Bubbe added, “Izzy, thank G-d you’re not this bad.”

“What I think,” Freud added, “is that neither one of you appreciates the fact that Izzy is a wonderful man who loves you both very much and that it is you who are driving him crazy.”

Bubbe leapt from her seat and yelled, “I can’t take this anymore! Do you want to know how much of a good boy he is? I’ll show you!”

“Bubbe, what are you doing?” I screamed as she grabbed hold of Freud and began to feast. There was something different to this feasting though. I saw it almost immediately; she was drinking long and hard, but was also returning blood at the same time, it was sort of like a mind-meld.

Doctor Freud collapsed, unconscious in front of us all. I rushed to him and began fanning his face and slapping his cheeks. “Doctor, can you hear me?” I asked. I turned to Bubbe and said, “Great, you killed him.” She shrugged it off and said, “He’ll be fine. You worry too much.”

I continued my attempts at reviving the doctor, and finally his eyes opened. He looked around, taking in his surroundings and finally locking eyes on me. “Are you all right, Doctor?” I asked, concerned. “Can you speak?”

Freud sat up and said, “Yes I can, you ungrateful little pisher!” He said it in a thick Jewish accent. He grabbed me by my ear and added, “You don’t know how good you have it. This woman,” he said, pointing at Bubbe, “has done everything for you and do you show her any kind of respect? Do you let her know that you are going to be out late? You think that you can do whatever you want and she will be there to clean up your dreck! You are a bad boy!” he yelled.

“I couldn’t agree more, Siggy,” Bubbe added. “I think he needs more sessions. How about you?”

“I absolutely concur,” Freud replied. “I recommend three times a week.”

“Sounds good,” Bubbe added. “I think maybe I’ll even sit in on a few, you know, to make sure that he listens.” Freud stood up and kissed her hand saying, “I would appreciate any input you could bring to the table.”

We walked home together. I was still a bit shell-shocked, and Bubbe just shook her head and said, “I’m glad we did that. You have a lot of issues.”

Therapy sucks.