Clothing Optional (10 page)

Dedication

This book,
Modern Ethics,
could not have seen the light of day without the encouragement of Rabbi Nathan R. Rosenzweig, who served as a living inspiration for the values explored within the pages that follow. Even these words underestimate what he has given to this journey, which has been more than three years in the making.

When I first approached Rabbi Rosenzweig, the spiritual leader of our local synagogue, and told him of my desire to explore the moral choices confronting twenty-first-century man, he nodded, locked the door to his study, looked into my eyes, and asked me why I was doing this.

“What do you know?” he pleaded. “Who sent you?”

“No one sent me,” I assured him. “I'm just doing research for a book.”

“Swear.”

“Swear?”

“To God.”

“To God?”

“Who then?”

“I swear to God, Rabbi Rosenzweig.”

“Good. Now, you see what I just did? I presented you with a modern ethical choice. Whether to think I was hiding something or give me the benefit of the doubt because I'm a rabbi who would never even think of embezzling from the temple's building fund.”

He leaned back in his armchair and exhaled a prodigious sigh that only a man of God could muster. I had sought Rabbi Rosenzweig's counsel as he had written on this very subject himself in his novel
I Swear I Didn't Do It
(Shalom Press, 2002), which a starred
Kirkus
review said was “written with the uncanny authority of a man intimately familiar with the darkest recesses of the guilty mind. If one didn't know better, you'd say the rabbi himself was the protagonist and that this was not a work of fiction.”

“So, how can I be of help?” he asked.

“Well, I plan on citing cases where different people had choices to make and what went into the making of their eventual decisions.”

“What people?” he snapped as his back arched in what could best be described as clerical recoil. “Anyone local?”

“Well, if anyone local has a story to tell…”

“Because even a local person can do things out of character due to pressure to yield to the monetary demands of a recently widowed congregant threatening him with exposure after he took her to a desert spa for a weekend on a wrongheaded attempt to help her cope with the first step of the grieving process.”

“Oh my…”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing, Rabbi.”

“Swear to God?”

“Who then?” I laughed. He didn't.

“So the man in this particular example,” he continued, “a man with a wife and family of his own, mind you, had a choice to make. Does he risk losing everything dear to him, or does he first try to reason with the woman before resorting to covering his head with a prayer shawl to avoid detection when he goes out at night to slash the tires of her SUV?”

Oddly enough, I was familiar with the tire-slashing incident. We live in a small town in suburban New Jersey, and the boy who was charged (a troubled eleven-year-old who lost his father to the highly coincidental heart attack he suffered while buying jogging shorts) happens to live a few doors down from me.

“Steven Jogardnick.”

“Who?” asked the rabbi.

“The kid who's under house arrest for slashing those tires.”

“Oh, right,” said the rabbi. “That fat little turd with the unsightly overbite.”

“Fat little turd?”

“One of God's foul tips, don't you think?”

“But if Steven was wrongly accused…” I protested.

“I'd advise you to be mindful of your tone, young man. Remember the seventh commandment. About honoring thy rabbis.”

“Excuse me, but the commandment says to honor thy father and thy mother. It says nothing about rabbis. And that's the fifth commandment, by the way. The seventh says one shall not commit adultery, which I believe the man in this particular example has already broken, along with the third, eighth, ninth, tenth, and very possibly the fourth if he committed any of the above on a Saturday.”

“Your point?”

“That shouldn't a rabbi, with all due respect, be better familiar with the Ten Commandments than the one in this example seems to be?”

“Yes, I firmly believe that a rabbi should.”

“Then why isn't this rabbi—”

“This is an unpredictable world we live in. And life doesn't always run along the direct course we chart to reach our goals. So if a young man dreams of becoming a rabbi but then his father dies so he has no choice but to take over his plumbing and heating business to support his aging mother, then he does what he has to do at that time. And if years later, after his mother passes on, he still has that burning desire to be in the rabbinate but has neither the time nor patience to learn the Hebrew language so he goes online and gets a clergyman's certificate, is he any less a man of God than someone who has graduated the Jewish Theological Seminary? I don't think so. Plus, given those circumstances, I truly think that the young man in the example has done quite admirably given that he is actually…”

“A plumber?” I asked with the same horrified intonation with which one would deliver the line “You mean to tell me that two of my sons were Bar Mitzvahed by a man who's better trained to lie on his back and scoop the sludge from a clogged sink?”

“Call that young man in this particular example what you wish,” he responded. “That is your prerogative. Just know that not only do I disagree but I fully expect that anything we've discussed will not leave this room as it falls under…”

“Author-plumber confidentiality?”

And though I personally didn't subscribe to the validity of such a bond, I suddenly found myself with my own decision to make and the full understanding of its rather far-reaching implications. On the one hand, the reputations of an innocent boy and a slutty widow were at stake. On the other hand, the tranquillity of a faithful community would most definitely be upset by the news that the man who chants the prayers for their dead may not know a Torah from a sump pump. Sensitive to the fact that either choice could provide a most disastrous result, I wondered if there was a compromise to be discussed.

“Bargain?” he asked. “You want to bargain with a rabbi?”

“I'd love to,” I answered. “But since there are no rabbis here at the moment, maybe you and I should take a crack at it.”

“And just what are you proposing?”

“That I won't tell anyone you're a fraud if you confess to the tire-slashing incident.”

“I can't do that,” he responded. “Such an admission would destroy my credibility with the congregation.”

“Then what if I don't tell anyone you're a fraud and if you return all the money you embezzled from the temple's building fund to pay off the slutty widow?”

“Can't do that either,” he said, shaking his head. “That's a lot more money than I'll ever be able to pay back on my salary.”

“Then what if I don't tell anyone you're a fraud and you give me the slutty widow's phone number?”

“You're out of your mind.”

“Maybe so,” I answered. “But that's my final offer.”

“Don't do it,” he insisted. “She'll destroy your life.”

“Let me worry about the destruction of my life.”

“I can't have this on my head.”

“All of a sudden things are going to be on your head?” I asked. “Until this conversation absolutely nothing that was going on in your sordid life was anywhere near your head. So don't bullshit me, okay? Given all that I know about you, I'd say you're getting off rather easy.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Come on, buddy. All I'm asking for is a simple seven-digit telephone number. Now cough it up.”

“Make it six.”

“Excuse me?”

“I'll tell you six of the digits. This way if I'm ever asked if I gave you her phone number, it won't be on my head when I say no.”

“Again with your head?”

“Please.”

“Fine. Just make sure that the six digits you give me are in the right order.”

“Really?”

“Hey!”

“Okay, okay.”

         

It was an encounter that could best be described as life-altering, as I got a new girlfriend and a new plumber and changed temples in the same afternoon. So it is for these reasons that this book is dedicated to Nathan R. Rosenzweig—if in fact that's his real name.

Happy

The vestibule of an apartment building. Nothing out of the ordinary: a door one enters from the street, a small area with a tenant directory on the wall, and another door that one has to either use a key or be buzzed by a tenant to open.

         

SL of the vestibule is a small lobby, with a few apartment doors and an elevator door on its perimeter.

         

Drab is the motif here. Chipped paint, faint vestiges of graffiti that defiantly still peeps through the efforts of a whitewash, and lighting a few watts dimmer than it really should be. The overall feeling is that although the place is clean and well maintained, it is probably part of a low-income housing development that years and lack of funds have gotten the better of.

         

The time is the present.

         

AT RISE: Donald Rappaport, forty-two, opens the outside door and enters the vestibule. He is wearing a suit and looks extremely hot, as his forehead is beading with perspiration and the underarms of his suit jacket are drenched with huge wet spots.

         

He scans the directory, finds the name he's looking for, tries to open the inside door, realizes it's locked, then pushes the button next to the name on the directory.

         

While waiting for a response, he tries to cool off by fanning himself with his attaché case.

DONALD

Fucking hot…

He pushes the button again and while waiting for a response tries to cool off by fanning himself with his tie.

DONALD
(cont'd)

So fucking hot.

He pushes the button a third time and while waiting for a response tries to cool off by fanning himself by opening and closing the outside door a number of times.

DONALD
(cont'd)

Fucking Florida.

Through the intercom we hear the offstage voice of an older man.

MAN'S VOICE

Yes?

DONALD

Mr. Haliday?

MAN'S VOICE

Who'd like to know?

DONALD

I would.

MAN'S VOICE

And you would be…?

DONALD

From New York.

MAN'S VOICE

And you think that narrows it down?

DONALD

Oh, don't mind me. I'm just a little disoriented. You see, my parents live in Boca Raton and I just flew here with my wife and kids because tonight's the first night of Passover.

MAN'S VOICE

And you think
that
narrows it down? This time of year everyone from New York comes to Florida.

DONALD

Well, I wouldn't say
everyone.

MAN'S VOICE

Oh, that's right. John Gotti's still in jail. Now, what can I do for you?

DONALD

Look, my name is Donald Rappaport, and after we landed in West Palm Beach, I rented a Ford Taurus and dropped everyone off at my folks' place in Boca and then drove straight here, on I-95, to Delray Beach to try to find George Haliday because I want to speak to him. Are you him?

MAN'S VOICE

I
could
be. But only on one condition.

DONALD

Which is?

MAN'S VOICE

That I don't have to hear one more word about your itinerary. Deal?

DONALD

Deal.

MAN'S VOICE

Then yes, I
am
George Haliday.

DONALD

The
George Haliday?

MAN'S VOICE

A
George Haliday.

DONALD

But I'm looking for
the
George Haliday.

MAN'S VOICE

The
George Haliday who's the superintendent of this building?

DONALD

No,
the
George Haliday who used to play for the Mets.

MAN'S VOICE

Oh, that
the
George Haliday.

DONALD

Yes, that
the
George Haliday. Are you him?

MAN'S VOICE

I was.

DONALD

Well, that makes no sense.

MAN'S VOICE

How come?

DONALD

Because either you're
the
George Haliday who used to play for the Mets or you're not. It's not like you used to play for the Mets but you no longer used to play for them. You either did or you didn't, so you either are or you aren't.

MAN'S VOICE

Ow!

DONALD

Something wrong?

MAN'S VOICE

Yeah, I just threw my back out trying to follow that speech.

DONALD

Sorry.

MAN'S VOICE

May I remind you, sir, that I am a janitor. Break something, I'll fix it. Soil it, I'll clean it. Lose it, I'll replace it. Anything more complicated, I have to call somebody. Please don't make me have to do that with this conversation.

DONALD

Okay. All I want to know is…

MAN'S VOICE

…if I'm the George Haliday who once played baseball.

DONALD

Yes.

MAN'S VOICE

Yes.

DONALD

You are?

MAN'S VOICE

Yes.

DONALD

You're Happy Haliday?

MAN'S VOICE

I'm Happy Haliday.

DONALD

Great!

MAN'S VOICE

Now, is there something you'd like to talk to me about?

DONALD

Yes, very much.

MAN'S VOICE

And you would like to have this talk face-to-face?

DONALD

Yes, I would.

MAN'S VOICE

So then I'll buzz you in, okay?

DONALD

Okay.

MAN'S VOICE

See how simple life can be if you just get to the point?

The buzzer sounds. Donald pushes open the door, enters the inner lobby, and approaches the door on the SL wall. He waits patiently for it to open. While he does, he fixes his hair and collar as if he was primping for an important meeting.

         

The door opens and George “Happy” Haliday appears. He is a sixty-four-year-old black man with gray hair, eyeglasses, and an infectious smile.

HAPPY

George Haliday.

DONALD

Donald Rappaport.

They shake hands.

HAPPY

Well, it's nice to finally have a face to go along with the voice.

Donald just stands there, as if mesmerized.

HAPPY
(cont'd)

You okay?

Donald is in awe.

HAPPY
(cont'd)

Will you be talking soon?

DONALD

Oh, sorry. I guess I'm just a little starstruck.

Happy looks around at the setting, taking in the mundane dinginess of it all.

HAPPY

Well, I can see how all this might be overwhelming. But don't worry. I think you'll find that we janitors are just like ordinary people—once you get past all the glitter and the goddamn paparazzi. So…Donald
…Qué pasa?

DONALD

I used to watch you play.

HAPPY

Oh, yeah?

DONALD

Yeah. My dad worked in the city…. I'm originally from Long Island. There's a shocker, huh?

HAPPY

I didn't say a word. But now that you mention it…

DONALD

(bracing himself)

You're going to make fun of me now, aren't you?

HAPPY

No. Maybe later. So, you were telling me about your dad.

DONALD

All I was saying is that lots of times I would go to work with him on the weekends and afterward we'd drive up to the Polo Grounds and I'd see you play. I was eight.

HAPPY

Polo Grounds ain't there no more, huh?

DONALD

The city knocked it down and put up apartment buildings a few years after the Mets moved into Shea.

HAPPY

And is that how you found out where I lived? From the Mets?

DONALD

No. I learned you were down here from that article I read about you.

HAPPY

What article?

DONALD

In the
New York Post.
That series you were in?

HAPPY

Series?

DONALD

Oh…

HAPPY

What kind of series?

DONALD

Well…

HAPPY

Go ahead. Tell me.

DONALD
…

The
New York Post,
in their sports section, has a feature called “What Might've Been.” And, about a month ago, they had a piece…

HAPPY

About me?

DONALD

I'm sorry. From the way it was written, I just assumed that they spoke to you….

HAPPY

What'd they have? A lot of that next Willie Mays stuff?

DONALD

Yeah.

HAPPY

Look, would you like to come in? Tenants catch me chatting like this, they'll think I got too much free time on my hands and give me more stuff to do.

DONALD

Sure.

Happy indicates the inside of his apartment. Donald enters, and Happy closes the door behind them—revealing that he is walking with the aid of a cane.

HAPPY

Would you like something to eat?

DONALD

Yeah, I'll have a slice of apple pie, heated up, and a large milk.

HAPPY

Now would that be regular milk or two percent?

DONALD

You have both? Wow.

(off Happy's look)

On second thought I'm going to have a big dinner later—you know, at the seder. So maybe I shouldn't spoil my appetite.

HAPPY

Damn, and here I was so looking forward to cooking for you. So, what are we talking about?

Donald opens his attaché case and takes out a clear plastic cube that has a baseball covered with signatures inside.

DONALD

Here. Check this out.

He hands the cube to Happy.

HAPPY

Wow…

DONALD

The 1962 team. Pretty amazing, huh?

HAPPY

No pun intended.

DONALD

Oh. No. Although that
was
the year they started calling you guys the Amazin' Mets, right?

HAPPY

Right. Our amazing team that lost 120 games, which I believe is still the record for the most losses in one season by any major-league team in baseball history.

DONALD

Yeah, it still is.

HAPPY

Look at the names. Casey, there's Gil Hodges, Elio Chacon…

DONALD

Yeah, my grandmother got really excited when she first heard Elio Chacon's name because she thought he was Jewish.

Happy stares at him.

DONALD
(cont'd)

She thought it was Eliosha Cohen.

Happy continues to stare.

DONALD
(cont'd)

True story.

Happy continues to stare.

DONALD
(cont'd)

Now you're going to make fun of me?

HAPPY

No, not yet.

(re: the ball)

Say, is it okay if I take this out of the cube?

DONALD

Are your hands clean?

HAPPY

Excuse me?

Donald grabs Happy's hands and examines them.

HAPPY
(cont'd)

Look, I just want to see it, not perform surgery on it.

DONALD

Yeah, I guess they're all right.

HAPPY

I'm flattered.

Donald takes the ball out of the cube and hands it to Happy.

DONALD

But try to hold it by the seams.

HAPPY

Are you always so annoying?

DONALD