Dreidels on the Brain (3 page)

As for my dad, he said he'd be home a couple of hours ago, and we were going to cook latkes together, but he's always late.
It usually bugs me, but in this case it may be good, because he was meeting with this guy named Forentos who has some serious investors lined up for “Omni-Glow.” That's my dad's new business, which is all about glow-in-the-dark plastics. If you haven't heard about them, you will soon. My dad says they're the next big thing, and the world is waiting.

That's what makes Omni-Glow a sure bet, unlike the Garage-O-Matic, which was what last Chanakayah was all about. It actually began a couple months before, after Halloween, when we were driving home in the Dodge Dart. The rain was coming down in buckets, and my brothers and I got into an argument about who had to get out and open the garage door. Guess who lost? Me, that's who. The youngest. That was really unfair, because I had already lost the argument before that one, and had to sit in the middle of the backseat, where there is a big, uncomfortable bump. Usually the middle seat isn't so bad, because of the hole in the floor that lets you watch the street zip by below. But with the rain it's a whole different story, and I was getting soaked. Having to get out to open the garage door—well, that added insult to injury.

I didn't think much more about it, but my father stayed up late that night, and every night for weeks, fiddling with wires and switches and other little electronic gizmos. Finally, one day, he took us out to the garage to show us what he'd
built. Hanging from a pulley was a contraption with a rope and all the weights from Kenny's weight lifting set—which explained where
that
went.

But we didn't care about the weights, because our dad was so excited. We stood outside the garage, he flicked the switch, there was a loud grinding and banging noise, and suddenly—voila!—the garage door began to lift all by itself! We couldn't believe it.

You know how many garage doors there are in the world? A lot. And how many people there are who don't want to open them? Even more. So my dad called his brother, my uncle Morrie, who is a total
schmoozer,
which means “he knows everybody.” Uncle Morrie flew out all the way from Cleveland and lined up some big business people, ready to pay real money for my dad's invention—five thousand dollars! Three of them actually came to our house, driving a Cadillac, just to see our garage! We even cleaned it up just for the occasion. Everyone watched as my father pressed the button. There was the grinding and, a moment later, it opened up! You should have seen their faces. They were as impressed with the Garage-O-Matic as we were. They did it again and again, opening the door, then closing it. This was it.

There was a loud pop, and I turned to see my uncle Morrie, who had opened a bottle of real champagne for the occasion, which bubbled all over the driveway.

“Here's to the Garage-O-Matic!” he said.

They were just about to shake hands on the deal when my dad started to tell them the whole story of how he invented it. While he was talking, one of the investors—Mr. Rosenberg—went over to examine the mechanism. Just then an airplane flew overhead and must have triggered the garage door to close. By the time Mr. Rosenberg noticed, it was too late. We didn't see his face, but his legs were sticking out from under the door, like the Wicked Witch of the East, and he was screaming about a law suit.

The deal was dead, nothing left but a puddle of champagne.

Like I said, Chanaykayah isn't supposed to be a chopped liver holiday. Of course, in Hebrew school, Cantor Grubnitz reminded us that it isn't even a
major
holiday, and we shouldn't get too excited about it. A major holiday is Yom Kippur, in the fall, which is the end of the beginning of the Jewish New Year. Let me tell you, Yom Kippur is not fun. You dress in uncomfortable clothes, go to temple, and sit there forever, not eating, standing, then sitting, not eating some more, then standing again, listening to Rabbi Goldberg go on and on, and to Cantor Grubnitz, who lives to hear himself sing. The two of them dress up in black robes
and pointy hats and tell you to say you're sorry for everything you've ever done and a whole bunch of things you've never even thought of doing. Then, when you get back to school, everyone says, “Wow, you got the day off? Lucky!”

This year was even worse than usual. My dad was in the hospital—again—recovering from another operation. So we were in temple with my mom, praying for him. And Cantor Grubnitz decided to sing extra operatically with notes that lasted for hours and nearly shattered the stained glass windows.
That's
a major holiday. Some fun.

Major holiday or not, I was going to make this a perfect Kchanakkah. I hung all our decorations. We had two letter chains—
HAPPY HANUKKA
H
and
HAPPY CHANUKKAH!
—so I put both up, one in the kitchen and the other in the living room over the fireplace. Then I cleaned up our menorah, which I don't think had ever been cleaned. It's gold with blue-and-white enamel, and has eight soldiers, who I guess are supposed to be the Maccabees, each standing on one leg and holding up a torch, which is where the candle goes. There's a ninth soldier in front, a little taller than the rest, who I suppose is Judah, the leader of the Maccabees. My parents brought it back from their trip to Israel when I was in the third grade, and I thought it was the coolest thing ever. Now it seems a lot less cool, and the soldiers look more like the USC marching band than the Maccabees. Even so,
once it was clean and shiny, it looked pretty good.

That done, I picked out candles for the menorah. That's always my job, partly because no one else cares and partly because it lets me choose the
shammes
. I've always had a thing about the shammes, which is the helper candle, the one that lights all the others. It's not really part of the holiday, just a little bet I have going with myself each night, to see whether the shammes is the last candle to burn out. Because you light it first and it burns the whole time you're singing the blessings and lighting all the other candles, you'd think it would be the first to burn out. But I've noticed that a lot of times it actually stays lit longer than the rest, like it's being rewarded for sharing its light with the other candles. The first time I noticed, it seemed like a mini-miracle. Now I look for it to happen. Actually, I do more than look; if one candle is a little longer, I'll choose it for the shammes. Maybe that's cheating, trying to force a miracle, but I'll take what I can get. Tonight I chose a longish blue one for the shammes and a yellow one for the first night.

Only then did I allow myself to think about my Chahahnukkah present. I had noticed that my parents had been running mysterious “errands” in the past week, to Los Angeles, and I figured they had gone to Berg's Studio of Magic to buy me the one thing I've wanted for the past five years: a real silk top hat.

I do magic shows—that's my thing. While Kenny goes from one thing to another—baseball, then coin collecting, then rock collecting, then weight lifting, and now model airplanes—magic has been my one and only thing. It started when Kenny got “Sneaky Pete's Professional Magic Show” from Steve Klein, who lives next door, then lost interest in it, and gave it to me. Now I do magic shows around town, at birthday parties and libraries. Lots of my tricks involve a hat, but all I have is a crummy felt one. What I've always wanted is a real spring-loaded top hat, like the one Mister Mystery has—he's my magic teacher. They're from the old days, for going to the opera, made so you could take your hat off and press it down flat so you didn't block the view of the people sitting behind you. Then, when the opera was over, you'd whack the brim against the back of your wrist and—pop!—it was a full-sized hat again!

You should see the audiences when Mister Mystery opens his. It's not even a trick, but they're amazed. And they have one for sale at Berg's Studio of Magic. It costs $50, but once when I was there with my dad, Mr. Berg said he'd sell it to me for $38, which is still
a lot
of money—my felt one only cost three dollars. I've never asked for a gift for my birthday or anything else—what's the point?—but I know my dad saw my face when I tried it on.

If it seems like I know a lot about Chaynukkayyah, I do. I'm kind of an expert. It began in December of first grade, when my teacher brought out song sheets and started leading the class in Christmas songs—first “Frosty,” then “Rudolph,” then on to “Silent Night.”

“Mrs. Grumbacher?” I said, raising my hand.

“Yes, Joel?”

“These are Christmas songs. But my family doesn't believe in Christmas. We have our own holiday, which is even better.”

I had been giving this a lot of thought. My brothers and I were the only Jews in Bixby Elementary School, which goes from first to eighth grade. When Howard started fourth grade, he came home and told us how the kids in his class had figured out he was Jewish and threw pennies on the ground to see if he would pick them up. He did, and they laughed and said, “Jews love pennies!” The next time he didn't pick them up, and they laughed again and said, “Why don't you pick them up? Jews
love
pennies!”

Howard, in response, said, “You're all stupid jerks.” In retrospect, this was not the cleverest comeback line. He may be an Einstein genius in math, but he has never been too smart at dealing with people, and quickly became the least popular kid in his class. Unlike Howard, Kenny gets along with pretty much everyone, so he didn't think the Jewish thing would be a problem. But when some kids in his class
discovered he was Jewish, they started asking him questions, like if he was rich, and whether Jews had horns and could they see his. He came home crying.

Being the only Jew in my class had never affected me personally. In kindergarten I hadn't said anything about it, and no one had asked. We sang all the Christmas songs, and when we got to the ones that mentioned “Jesus” or “Christ,” I mouthed the words, like Jews are supposed to do. In fact, the only time the Jewish thing ever seemed like it might be a problem for me was at the start of first grade when I was at Jimmy Bowen's house and met his parents for the first time. His dad looked at me and said, “So, this is the little Jew-boy?”

Then Jimmy's mother, who is really nice and always gives us sweet iced tea, said, “Oh, Donald, don't say that!”

Then his dad said, “No, it's fine! We like Jews, right? The chosen people!” Then he shook my hand so hard, my fingers hurt. That started me thinking about the Jewish thing, and I decided it would be better to strike first, like the Maccabees, which is why I had raised my hand.

“Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Grumbacher. “I've heard of your holiday, the Jewish Christmas. It's called ‘Cha-nu-kah,' isn't it?” She said the
Ch
like in
chocolate
. “There's even a song on our song sheet. . . . Ah, here it is!”

“Actually, Mrs. Grumbacher, it's pronounced
Chhhhanukah,” I said, clearing my throat to stop her from singing “The Horrible Song.” “And it's eight times as good as Christmas, because it lasts for eight days and nights. It's a time when miracles happen!” This was a little hard to say because saying the
Chhhh
in
Chhhhanukkah
had generated a big loogie in my mouth, which I couldn't spit out but didn't want to swallow.

My comments caused a ruckus. Every kid in that class lived for Christmas—the best day of the year by far—and the notion that some holiday they'd never heard of might be even better was inconceivable. Finally Arnold Pomeroy shouted above the rest.

“Oh yeah? Well, Christmas lasts for twelve days, so there!”

“Yeah, but do you get presents on
all twelve
days?”

That's when Mrs. Grumbacher stepped in.

“Children, both holidays can be wonderful, and this is a good chance for all of us to learn about another religion. We don't have time now, Joel, but perhaps tomorrow you would like to tell the class all about”—there was a pause as she prepared to clear her throat—“Chhhhhanukah?”