Are You Kosher? (19 page)

Chapter 35

Vampires Can Turn into Bats

I can picture the scene as if it were happening before my very eyes. Hundreds of little Jewish bats racing home so they can make it in time for the shabbas. Tiny yarmulke flapping in the breeze with each wave of their wings, little clips holding them in place, payess pinned back against the g-force. Hundreds of them, one more worried than the next that the sun would set before they got home and they would still be flying; this would obviously constitute doing work.

“Do you realize what time it is?” one would ask, irritated. “If we are out past sundown, Roseanne is going to kill me!”

“Who cares about Roseanne?” another would ask. “She’s just your wife. My mother-in-law is visiting. Can you imagine what I’m in for if I’m late?”

“Where’s Sheldon?” asks another.

“He was hijacked by some Arab mites who demanded that he fly into the Roseblooms’ bird house.”

“Oy vey, the humanity,” comes a response.

I want you to listen to me very carefully, my friends. Vampires cannot turn into bats or any other kind of animal for that matter. I do not know who made this shit up but I would like to ask him if he takes it in the arm or if he smokes it.

We have a great many talents, some of which I have addressed already. For example, I have told you that we are capable of slightly altering our appearances to make us either look younger or older; some of us are better at it than others. We are able to change the length of our hair, fingernails, facial hair, or whatever might serve our purposes at a required moment or fit the mood that we are in. Feasting allows us to achieve our superhuman strength. The more often you feast, the stronger you become. It’s a collective thing. For instance, if I feast on a body-builder, I will have his physical prowess along with mine for about two weeks. That means that I would essentially have the strength of two men, although one of them would be considerably stronger than I would normally be. If in the same time period I feasted on five people, I would have the power of five people, and so on. This is actually a very delicate thing to balance, though. I remember being in Montreal for the 1976 Olympics and feasting on a member of the East German swim team. I almost pulled my shmekel off that night when I went to masturbate. You have to be careful.

As far as changing one’s physical appearance, it is limited to just the basics. I cannot make my shmekel look any bigger than it already is, which is a shame because, vampire or no, I am a victim of the Jewish curse. Big nose, little shmekel. When it comes to Jews, we are doomed to a fate of tiny penises. It’s not fair, but then again, I’m immortal so I guess I really can’t complain. The Jews are cursed. Except for “Uncle Milty.”

You know the “Uncle Milty” I’m referring to. The star of stage and screen, the legend, the one, the only Milton Berle. I would watch his show with my mother and Bubbe and was amazed at how this fairly homely man could keep the two of them transfixed for so long. It made no sense to me. I would watch them as they stared at the television starry-eyed, occasionally whispering into one another’s ears, giggling afterwards. I could not understand what was so funny; haven’t you ever seen a grown man in a dress before? I’m not gay!

It took some time and very careful eavesdropping until I began to get to the bottom of what could turn the two of them into drooling little oglers. One day I hit the mother lode. The two of them were in the kitchen and I heard my mother say, “Mom, I’m telling you, his shmekel is supposed to be as big as your foot.” Bubbe has really big feet.

“I don’t like that kind of talk, Itsa,” Bubbe replied.

“Okay,” Mom answered, “a really big penis.”

Bubbe shouted, “We don’t say penis in the kitchen. There is food in here!” If nothing else, my Bubbe runs a tidy kitchen.

“But can you imagine, Mom?” my mother tried reasoning. “A Jewish man with a big you-know-what. He would be a great vampire. We should convert him.”

Bubbe shook her head no, blowing my mother off. “Big you-know-what or not, he has the face of an overcooked stuffed cabbage and I’m not looking at that for the rest of eternity.”

What the hell was this mishegas? I recall thinking. A Jew with a big shmekel? This had to be bad information; this made no sense. Could it be true? Was he some sort of superhero? Did my mother just say “penis” in the room where I eat? As soon as I figured out a way to wash my brain to get that image out of my head, I decided that I was going to go directly to the source to dispel the myth. I don’t know why exactly, maybe it was to make myself feel a bit more confident about my own inadequacies. All that I was sure of was that I needed to get to the bottom of this.

I flew out to California to get to the source of this mystery. I flew on a plane; I already told you that we can’t turn into bats. Hollywood should be renamed “Faygelahsville.” Holy shit! You need a condom on both hands just to use a pay phone around here. I thought that Sodom and Gomorrah were bad.

I took the bus from the airport and met a very nice, young, voluptuous girl named Norma Jean. She was going to become an actress. Just what the world needed, I thought. She was my first feast in the city of ill repute. From what I understand, she changed her name and became, for a brief time, very popular.

With a full stomach and a determination that led me on my way, I headed over to the studio that Uncle Milty was taping in. Security was pretty tight considering the day and age. I managed to sneak my way past the guards and wandered undetected through the maze of buildings and corridors until I was face to face with the door that read “Milton Berle.” I have to admit, I was a little star struck. This was much better than finding where Hitler was hiding.

I found that I was actually a bit nervous. After all, this was Uncle Milty! I gathered myself, took a deep breath and knocked on the door.

“Come in,” a voice replied—not just a voice, his voice. I was almost giddy. Focus, Izzy.

I entered the room, and standing in front of me in all of his glory was the man that millions of people considered to be a member of their family. He looked at me, confused, and said, “You’re not a chorus girl.”

“I know that,” I replied, slightly stunned to actually be talking with him.

“Well, what are you?” he asked. “A stalker?”

“No sir, I’m Orthodox.” I replied.

He looked at me, puzzled, and continued, “Well what do you want? An autograph? Talk to my people.” He turned away from me and grabbed a cigar from his humidor.

“Well sir, I think that an autograph would be great, but I actually came to ask you something that is a little awkward. But I would consider it a huge favor.”

He looked at me and asked suspiciously, “What kind of favor?”

“This is difficult to say,” I continued. ”I mean, you’re Uncle Milty.”

“Well what did you expect to find in a dressing room that says Uncle Milty on the door? A giant knish?”

“No, sir,” I replied, slightly embarrassed now, my head looking down. He must have picked up on my discomfort and walked over to me. He gently put his arm around my shoulders and asked gently, “What is it, son? Just ask. The worst I can do is say no, or sue. After all, we’re Jews, not goyem.”

I took a deep breath and looked into his curious eyes and asked, “Can I see your shmekel?” His jaw dropped and the freshly lit cigar almost fell from his mouth.

“You a faygelah?” he asked.

That broke me out of my spell. “No!” I replied, slightly shocked at the question, although I don’t know why. That had been a pretty gay question to ask. “I’m not a faygelah. It’s just that I have heard all of these rumors about the size of your shmekel and I can’t understand why you should be so blessed while fellow Jews should be so cursed.”

He smiled at me and in that unmistakable, comforting way of speaking said, “Let me tell you something that I’ve learned over the years, kid. There are myths and legends when it comes to just about everything, in this town especially. When it comes to the size of my … well, you know, the rumors are all true.”

I half expected him to refute the rumors, but he just confirmed them. I was shocked. “But how?” I asked, “You’re a Jew.”

“Just lucky, I guess.” He smiled back at me.

I got my bearings again and looked him square in the face, my determination strong, and said, “Mr. Berle, I need to see it.”

He looked down and seemed to be slightly lost in thought. When he looked back into my eyes he said, “I have to tell you that I’m really not comfortable with this.” The mission failed, I thought. “But,” he continued, “you came a long way and I love to please my fans, so here goes.” He took a step back and undid his zipper, revealing the object of my quest.

Are you kidding me?
I thought. He smiled and asked, “What do you think?”

“Very nice,” I said humbly; it was the size of a fucking Buick! “But,” I stammered, “How, why?”

He tucked himself back in and said, “I told you, kid, life is a trade off. You might have a small shmekel, but you’re at least good looking. This is all I got. You have a lot going for you from what I can tell. You don’t have any inhibitions. You flew all the way out to California to ask Uncle Milty to show you his shmekel. That takes balls bigger than mine.”

“You think so?” I asked, hopeful that maybe I wasn’t such a lost cause.

“I know so,” he replied smiling at me again. “How about that autograph?”

Listen to me rambling. I was supposed to be contradicting the myth that vampires can turn into bats and I turned it into a rant about how I backed one of the greatest legends in the history of American entertainment into a corner until he showed me his penis. I actually flew to California to see a man’s penis. What the hell is wrong with me? I wish that I could turn into a bat. I would fly straight into one of those ventilation fans at the local dry cleaners.

Uncle Milty was larger than life, both literally and physically. He was a mensch. Show me another man who was not a faygelah that would show his shmekel to a total stranger. What I wish is that we could actually turn into bats, provided that I could keep my current shmekel size the same when I changed. Then I would be as legendary in the bat world as Uncle Milty was in the world of the Glassman women.

Chapter36

My Guilt

Everyone has it, that little voice that tugs at your soul and makes you regret things that you cannot possibly make right. That thing that convinces you that you are better than the sum of your actions, that you were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, but you are still wrong. That thing is, for Jews, an insidious disease. But the disease has a name and that is what makes it the common thread that binds everyone together in some sick and twisted tapestry. The name is guilt.

Guilt. The Jewish contribution to the world. Many have tried to match, but none have been able to perfect, the art of crippling another in the binds of individual self-loathing over things that most would consider trivial. I know that many of my Italian friends would like to argue that they are the best at it, but I can quite comfortably tell them that they are rank amateurs. They just can’t seem to fathom the extent and detail of a Jewish mother’s, or bubbe’s, guilt that millions around the world are forced to live with on a day-to-day basis. I told you that I am not even my mother’s biological son, but every time I hear the term “labor pains,” I get the sudden urge to call home and apologize. Bubbe once knocked over a lamp while dusting the living room. I sprang from my seat saying how sorry I was and cleaned up her mess. We Jews just have a talent for guilt; what can I say?

But everyone has it. The Dalai Lama, Hammas (although it’s not as apparent), whoever the hell is in charge over in Iran nowadays. It’s there, that little Jewish voice that constantly tells you that you are doing something wrong. In some, it is not as strong a voice as in others. Some feel more entitled than guilty; take the shvartzes, for example, or the Democrats, but ultimately that little voice is there. In the end, and I mean this about everyone, there is a tiny Jew in each and every one of us. Take that, Khadafi. You know you still owe me from that Texas Hold ’em match.

Guilt can take many forms in very different ways depending on who you are. Some of my fellow Jews probably have that guilt of trying a piece of bacon when nobody was looking. Some Arabs may feel guilty for knowing the words to every Barbra Streisand song. There might even be a couple of Germans who feel bad about the Holocaust, but I’m willing to bet that the pope is not one of them. Some feel bad about not calling their mothers enough. Scandinavian children are immune to this form of guilt, especially if they have become Americanized, living in places like Florida or New Jersey. Many people continue to beat themselves up for doing spontaneous things that they know are inherently wrong, like finding a wallet in the subway and removing the cash while throwing out the wallet. Some feel guilt for not practicing safe sex on prom night and knocking up their dates. How do you think Nancy Pelosi got here? And then there are those, like me, who repeatedly and embarrassingly have done things over the years that cannot be made right no matter what is said, the mea culpas just don’t seem to work, except if you’re a Kennedy.

My guilt has taken on a life of its own over the centuries. Things that I have done because I was not thinking clearly, or from my own self-absorbed personality, have caused damage that can never be fixed. I am not trying to say that my guilt is worse than yours, but considering the fact that I have lived for almost six thousand years, I have had a lot more time to royally screw up on more than one occasion.

I want to give you some examples; it’s been a long night and I have been very open with you on just about everything, so I think it’s time that you heard about some of my most horrible faux pas. After all, I said that I was trying to come to terms with my own existence, and that was the main reason for writing this book to begin with.

Let’s start there. Here I am, a kosher Jew who is supposed to be living by a strict code of dietary law, and yet I am a bloodsucker. How can you reconcile something like that? It would be easy to just say that I am being who I am, but is that enough? It doesn’t seem right sometimes, but it is necessary to my existence. I am writing on the Sabbath which absolutely constitutes work, so I have broken yet another law. G-d two, Izzy zero. My only argument of defense is that I have been alive for so many years that the quiet tranquility of the Sabbath has lost its charm. I wanted to do something to pass the time while waiting for it to end so I could chow down on Bubbe’s cholent.

There are other things, though. For example, when we were living in Egypt, I helped negotiate the release of the Israelites by giving Pharaoh the recipe to Bubbe’s Jewish apple cake. That in itself is enough to feel bad about, but how the hell was I supposed to know he was allergic to cinnamon? I also drew the map for Moses to get the people to the promised land. After all, I was about to be their landlord, another one of Bubbe’s brilliant land deals. My mistake was writing the directions in “broken Jew” talk. “You walk a little while until you get to a big ocean, are you listening? Then you turn to your left and walk just a little further until you see a big rock in the middle of the desert. Make sure that you hit that thing because it has water. You’ll come to a valley and that’s a good place to take a shvitz …” You get the idea. They were wandering for forty years. I feel bad about that.

We briefly lived in Babylon, one of the greatest empires the world has ever known. In spite of the fact that most of the Jews were there in bondage, we were there for the feasting. Remember, we were all kosher at that time. Life was fairly decent for the three of us while living there, but I was bored beyond belief, so I took a job as a night watchman at one of the gates guarding the city. It was a pretty big job. We were left to protect the sanctity of those beautiful gardens, to keep those whacky Jewish slaves under control, and to make sure that the JWs weren’t allowed in without an invite.

One night, I was on watch with my friend Hamed. There was a huge party going on in the city; it was like the Babylonian version of Mardi Gras. It sucked not to be able to join in the festivities, but a job is a job. The night was basically going routinely when Hamed noticed that the waters of the Tigris River were receding. The two of us looked down, confused as to what could possibly be causing this. “Izzy,” Hamed started, “stay here, I’m going to go and check this out. Whatever you do, don’t leave your post, but if you do, here are the keys to the gate. Don’t forget to lock up.” He walked off into the city, leaving me alone. I stood there by myself for what felt like an eternity when it became apparent to me that Hamed was just using the low tide as an excuse to leave me to do his job while he got his shmekel played with at the party.

Screw this, I thought. I wanted to have my shmekel played with, too. Why should he have all the fun? I locked up my spear and my guard’s armor and headed back into the city. The one thing that I forgot to do was lock the gate behind me. Oops.

Before you knew it, the city was being overrun by the Medes and Persians, which is sort of like when Puerto Ricans move into your neighborhood. Riots and chaos broke out everywhere, property values dropped, bodegas opened on what seemed like every other corner, and Bubbe, my mother, and I were once again forced to move on. I feel bad about that. We traveled through the Middle Eastern wilderness for weeks, Bubbe occasionally flashing me an angry glare but saying nothing. We finally set up camp near what is modern-day Palestine, and while we were sitting around the fire, she turned to me and said, “Well, we can’t go there anymore.”

When we were living in Spain, my mother had taken the job of babysitting some obnoxious little prick named Torquemada. I don’t know why she felt it necessary to take a job, but I remember that the little monster was a complete pain in the tuchas. He was always sneaking into my room and breaking my things. One day, just before he left to go home, I hung a sign on his back that read, “Kick Me if You’re Jewish.” How the hell was I supposed to know that he would grow up to become the Grand Inquisitor?

The “Great Emancipator,” Abraham Lincoln, might still be alive today if I had not blown him off when, on his way into the theater, he asked me for my opinion of the play. Okay, maybe he would not be alive today unless I had converted him. Actually, now that I mention it, he would have made a pretty decent vampire.

My actions are not the only things that have caused me guilt. Many times, my mouth has caused things to occur. I said very early in this memoir that I am liberal but vote Republican. I marched in the civil rights movement. It seemed like the thing to do. I like shvartzes as much as the next guy. Why shouldn’t they have freedom?

Anyway, I was in Memphis, and to my great pleasure, I actually became acquainted with Dr. King himself. What a nice man, and funny! I’m telling you that he was the life of the party, just ask him.
Oh
, I forgot. That’s actually one of the things that I feel most guilty about. I remember that we were all sitting in his motel room watching TV after a long day of rallies and marching. He got up from his seat and said, “I’m heading to the kitchen. Does anyone need anything on my way back?” Everyone else in our little group said no, but I asked if he could get my cocktail that I’d left on the balcony. That ended badly. I really feel guilty about that. I should have finished that drink in one gulp.

I was butterfly watching in South America and found myself in Jonestown, Guyana. It was hot as hell down there and the crowd wasn’t making the heat any more tolerable. I walked into the tent and said, “Holy shit! It’s fucking hot down here! Hey Jim, don’t you guys have any Kool-Aid or something?” Once again, the mouth.

Sometimes I have a habit of doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. I was hiking through Italy with Shlomo and asked him to pass the wineskin. I took a long satisfying drink from it and let out the belch to end all belches. Now I am not saying that the belch was the reason that Mount Vesuvius decided to blow its top, but you have to appreciate the coincidence.

When I think long and hard about it, most of my guilt actually comes from some of the choices I have made over the centuries. Like when Mrs. Rosen, a nice little old Jewish lady who lived up the block, tried to catch my attention by offering me some of her freshly baked cookies. She was a widow who had nobody in her life except for the occasional conversations she had with Bubbe. I passed her by, pretending that I did not hear her. I had a potential feasting that I was on my way to and did not want to fill up. When I got home the next day, I found out that she had had a heart attack and died alone. I should have had a cookie. I like cookies.

Even now—I know that I’ve already said this, but it is hard for me to come to terms with—my life is a paradox. I drink blood and I am kosher, or at least I was. That’s just another thing for me to feel guilty about; it gives me a migraine.

I also feel guilt for the things that I don’t do. I have written a lot about my mother and Bubbe, and while I have probably not painted them in the best light, I love both of them very much. But how often do I tell them? Not enough.

These are a few of the things that I have guilt over. For me to accurately describe every single one of the faux pas that I have committed over the course of my lifetime would take way too much time.

What is your guilt? Do you realize that when you take the time to look at yourself in the mirror, you will appreciate that we really are not that different?

The only thing that I can say to any one of you who may wind up reading this is this: find the people who are important to you. I don’t mean to conduct some kind of twelve-step apology campaign; what I mean is, find your mother, your Bubbe, everyone has one of those. If you are lucky, you have both. Tell them how much they mean to you, because for most of you, life is way too short. My life has not been and maybe that is why I have not taken my own advice yet, but the time will come.

I just hope that the two of them don’t make me feel guilty for taking so long when I do.