Dreidels on the Brain (8 page)

Much as I hate smoking, my dad hates it even more. Sometimes we'll be in the nonsmoking section of Thrifty's Coffee
Shop and there will be people in the smoking section, way on the other side of the restaurant, puffing away. The smoke doesn't know where the smoking section ends, though, and floats over to us. Then my dad will ask me, really loudly, “Is someone smoking in here?” He can't turn his body well to see, so he says louder, sniffing, “Joel, I can't see. What's that smell? It sure smells like someone's smoking!”

It's kind of embarrassing to me—but much more so to the smokers. One by one, they all end up putting out their cigarettes.

“So?” said Cantor Grubnitz when he came back. “Why are you just sitting there? You should be studying.”

“I
have
studied. A lot,” I said. That was true.

“We'll see. Start from the beginning.”

“Okay. But first, can I ask a question?”

“What is it?”

“Well, I was thinking about praying.”

“Praying?
You
were thinking about praying?”

“Yes. And wondering, well, if you could . . . um, pray for something.”

“Pray for something?” Cantor Grubnitz was getting impatient, which was just a notch away from mad. “And what is it you think is so important that I should bother God?”

His gorgle was starting to throb and I still wasn't sure how to ask.

“Well, it's . . . um . . .” I realized it was kind of hard to explain. “Well, you see, there's . . . my father is having this . . . uh . . . he's going to be getting some gold . . .”

“Gold? You want me to pray for
gold
? No. You don't pray for gold or money or diamonds. Those are wasted prayers. It's selfish, taking up God's time from all the important work he should be doing. No. You pray for God to accept you for the wretched being you are. Not for gold. Do you understand?”

“Well, um . . . it's not really . . . you see . . .”

“This is just your way of stalling, isn't it?” he said. “Because you haven't studied, have you?”

“No, really, I have.”

“Let's hear.”

I opened my booklet and began to chant. It was the best I'd ever done, but two lines into it, he stopped me.

“I'll tell you what your problem is,” he said. “You're tone deaf.”

This evening, my dad was in a bad mood. No matter how excited he says he is about the operation, I think he's worried, and it came out during dinner.

My dad slurps when he eats. Loudly. Tonight we had turkey soup and his slurping was even louder than usual. It drives my brothers and me crazy—I don't think my mom
hears it—but we all react differently. Tonight was classic.

Kenny, who has really good hearing, was clearly getting irritated, and finally said, “Dad, could you please try not to slurp so loudly?”

“What?” said my dad. “You want me to slurp quieter?”

“Actually, I don't want you to slurp at all,” said Kenny.

There was silence for a minute—except for the slurping, which was no better—so Kenny said, “Can't you at least try?”

“You shouldn't tell Dad how to eat,” said Howard. “It's disrespectful.”

That's what set my dad off. Because even though he doesn't like Kenny telling him how to eat, there's something about the way Howard talks—like he's the boss of everyone—that drives my dad crazy.

“Don't tell Kenny how to talk to me!” said my dad, slurping more soup. “It's none of your business.” Then to Kenny he said, “And I can slurp if I want to. It's how I show I enjoy my food.” He slurped another spoonful.

“I'm trying to help you,” said Howard.

“Stop slurping!” shouted Kenny.

“I don't need your help!” shouted my dad.

I've seen variations of this same fight every night for years, and I hate it, even more than I hate the slurping. Once it starts, my mom can't do anything to stop it. She just sits
there trying to smile, looking more deflated by the second. So the next thing I know, I find myself saying something funny, telling a joke or a story.

“Hey!” I said. “Knock, knock!”

They all stopped. So did the slurping.

“Who's there?” said Kenny.

“Doris,” I said.

“Doris who?” asked Kenny.

“Dor-is locked, that's why I'm knocking!” It wasn't a great joke, but they laughed. “Hey,” I said, “let's light the candles! And after,” I added, turning to my dad, “how about playing One, Two—Bango?”

This is a tradition for my dad and me. It started one day when I was eight years old and he told me to set up the card table because he had something special to show me. The table has a red vinyl top, wooden legs, and matching chairs, and was a wedding gift. Evidently that's what everyone got as wedding gifts in the 1950s, along with waffle irons and toasters. My parents got a toaster too, but it's broken, so about half the time it forgets to pop up. It's really more of a toast incinerator. You have to stay there and watch it, because if you get distracted, ten minutes later you start smelling smoke, then run over and find that your toast is, well, toast.

The card table is broken too, but we still use it. One
leg doesn't stay locked into place, so whoever is by that corner needs to make sure not to bump it, or the whole thing will fall over. I always sit there so my dad doesn't kick it by mistake, when he swings his legs around to get up or sit down.

After I set up the table that first time, my dad brought out one of those big, round empty cardboard ice cream containers you can get for free from Baskin-Robbins. Inside was a checkered plastic cloth with big black and white squares, and all these giant, hollow plastic black and white chess pieces. I had seen chess pieces before, but these were really neat, because the castles looked like real castles, and the knights like horses, and the bishops looked like the cantor and rabbi, with their pointy hats. There were pawns too, who looked like real soldiers, afraid of being captured.

My dad showed me how each piece moves.

“Always keep an eye out for the knight,” he said. “It's the most interesting piece, because if you're not paying attention, it sneaks up on you. Watch this!” He moved a knight two steps forward and one to the right, saying, “One, two—bango!” Hence our nickname for the game. Then he showed me something he learned to do when he was young called “the knight's tour,” where the knight moves sixty-four times around the board, landing on every
single square exactly once. I could see why my dad liked the knight.

I had played checkers before, which was okay, but chess was something else entirely. Every chance we got, I would spread out the plastic and set up the pieces. At the start of each game, my dad grabbed one black and one white pawn, hid them behind his back, and said, “Right or left?” I would choose one and that would be my color.

When you play chess, there are a bazillion possible moves, and every one you make leads to even more possibilities. Even the biggest computer can't think of all of them. They actually tried it with this giant computer, and smoke started coming out of it, like our toaster.

My dad is good. That's because he sees things other people miss. While I'm trying to think through all the possibilities for this, that, and the other, he'll just kind of squint and tilt his head, then make a back-and-forth sound through his teeth, not quite whistling, just pondering. Then he comes up with some brilliant move, which is part of some complicated plan, and the next thing I know, I'm about to lose my queen. Sometimes he'll give me a warning or let me take back a move—but he always wins in the end. Hard as I've tried, I've never won a game.

“All right,” said my dad, who had slurped enough for the evening. “Joel's right—let's light the candles.” It was like
changing a channel on TV. They stopped fighting, and I set up the candles—a white one as shammes, with a bent off-white one and an ugly olive-green one behind it. We lit the candles and sang the blessings and as much of “Maoz Tzur” as we could remember. When we finished, Howard announced, “I have to study,” and went to his room.

“I'm going to work on my new model airplane,” said Kenny, looking hopefully at my dad. “Maybe after the game you can help me work on it?” He's always asking my dad to help him, but Dad never does. I guess it's really hard for him to pick up all those little parts.

I set up the table and the pieces and I got white, which meant I got to move first. Things were going really well. There's a whole point system in chess, and I was three points ahead. More than that, I had a surefire plan to capture one of his castles. A castle is a valuable piece—five points—and it would have left him in real trouble.

Just as I was about to make my move, the phone rang. My mom answered it, and I could hear her trying to figure out who was calling. Then she came rushing into the den for my dad, looking excited.

“I think it's Mr. Forentos,” she said.

“Forentos!” said my dad. He got up fast—well, fast for my dad. This was big, because Forentos knows everybody with money in Los Angeles, and had been lining up the investors
for Omni-Glow. Whenever he called, it was with news about this one or that one, and how much money they were going to invest. No one had put up any money yet, but we were getting close. My dad hobbled to the kitchen as fast as he could, and I heard him pick up the phone and say, “Hello dere!”

While he was in the kitchen I noticed something on the chess board that was amazing. I could take the castle, like I said. But if I forgot about the castle—even though it's worth five points—I could make another move, with my knight, who had been sitting around doing nothing. That move would put my dad into check, and when you're in check, you have to do something—you don't have a choice. Then there would be only one possible square where my dad could move his king and be safe. But once he made that move, there was another move I could make, with my queen, that would put him into check
again
. Once I did that, the only
possible
move he could make was to block me with his bishop. But I could take his bishop with my queen, and he would be in check
yet again,
from my rook, who had been hiding behind her. Then the only thing he could do was to take my bishop with his king. That's when I would swoop in with my queen for the final blow. He would be trapped—checkmate!

I couldn't believe it. I went over each step in my mind again. It was perfect. There was nothing he could do—and no way I could lose.

As I went over my plan a fifth time, I could hear him talking to Forentos.

“Well, sure, but that's what he said last time . . . I see . . . And now . . . But what about what's-his-name, Jenkins? You said he was . . . Oh. I see. All of it? But what . . .” Then there was a long pause, while my dad didn't say anything. I could tell it was bad. Finally he said, “So that's it? It's over? But what about . . .”

There was an even longer pause, and then my dad hung up the phone.

“What did Forentos have to say?” asked my mom, a moment later. She was excited, and clearly hadn't heard a word.

“Well, I don't think we should count on Forentos,” he said. “Everything takes time—and there are plenty of fish in the sea.”

“Oh,” said my mom. “I see.” I could hear the disappointment in her voice, followed by my father's footsteps walking slowly back to the den, then a very long sigh.

That was it. I had no choice. My dad may pick on Howard. And he may slurp loudly. But he is
not
a loser.

I took one last look at the board. Then, with my right foot, I kicked the bad leg of the table. For a few seconds it hovered there, on three legs. Then, almost in slow motion, it tilted, and fell. The board and pieces tumbled to the floor.

“What happened?” said Kenny, looking up just as my dad walked in.

“I—I must have bumped the leg of the table.”

My dad looked at the pieces all over the floor.

“Too bad,” he said, shaking his head. “It was a good game.”

Beyond him, in the living room, I could see the menorah. The candle next to the shammes had melted into it and both had burned down into a puddle of wax. Only the ugly green one remained.

This Kchanauakh was supposed to be about miracles. No miracles so far—just chopped liver. Make that Chopped Liver Royale.

It's strange how you can worry about something you
think
is going to happen, but then, what
actually
happens turns out to be much worse. This morning I woke up believing I was in trouble for snort-honking at Mrs. Gabbler. Now I'm wishing that's
all
it was. That I'd gone into Mr. Newton's office and he had given me a lecture: “I am afraid, Joel, that honking at Mrs. Gabbler is a very serious offense—and it calls for serious punishment.”

Then he would have pointed to the paddle, hanging by a leather strap from a nail in his office. “We're not allowed to use this anymore—except in extreme cases. Like this one.”
He would have taken it down and—whack! It would have hurt, but it would have been over.

Now, instead, I get to spend the week dreading something far worse.

Thanks a lot, God.

Walking to school this morning, I wanted nothing more than to be invisible. And sometimes I can
pretend
I'm invisible. But not today, on account of the frost. Or, rather, the
lack
of frost.

One of the great things about frost that I didn't mention yesterday is how it gets everywhere, even on the windows of cars. Today, although it was really cold—and still between 29 and 30 on the barometer—there wasn't any frost, so I couldn't avoid seeing my reflection in the car windows I passed. And I did not like what I saw.

At this point, I'd better tell you what I look like, especially if we're going to spend all of Chanyukah together. Mr. Culpepper says that along with “setting the scene,” it's the writer's duty to “vividly describe the main character early on.” That's me, and I should have done it sooner, but I wasn't sure you'd stay. It's not that people start to cry when they see me, like that kid did in Thrifty's when he saw my dad. But I am seriously funny-looking. To define something by its antonym—like
miracle
and
chopped liver
—I can tell you
about Chris Carter, who came to our class at the start of this year. Tall, straight brown hair, big smile, perfect mouth and nose—an All-American boy. That very first day you could see girls whispering, and though you couldn't hear, you knew they were saying, “He's cute!”

If you can picture Chris Carter, then imagine the opposite. That's me. I am not “cute,” and never will be.

First, I'm short. That, in itself, isn't so bad. But I also have braces, and everything about braces is crummy. When you smile, the first thing people see is a mouth full of metal. Sometimes bits of food get stuck in them, unless you're really careful and brush after every single thing you eat. That's what Howard does. And he tells us about it. We'll be driving in the car somewhere, or even talking to other people, and he'll suddenly announce that it's time for him to brush his teeth.

Dr. Snitkopff wants me to do that too. He's my orthodontist, and he's evil. But we go to him because he lets us pay on credit. That's because he doesn't care about the money—he's in it for the pain. In addition to all the metal he glues in my mouth, with sharp edges and wires sticking out, he gives me little rubber bands I'm supposed to put on every single day, just so. If I forget to do it, even once between visits, he knows. The moment I sit in the chair he opens my mouth, and says, “So, have you been wearing your rubber bands?”

Have you ever noticed that dentists always wait until your mouth is wide open to ask you questions? That's what Dr. Snitkopff does.

I try to nod and say, “Uh-huh.”

“We'll see,” he says, and out come the needle-nosed pliers, twisting and tightening until I confess (which is also hard when you can't talk). I manage to utter, “Weh, ho uh ha hi,” which is supposed to mean “Well, most of the time.” He doesn't care. The pliers twist.

So I'm short, with braces, and I also wear these really ugly glasses. Both Kenny and Howard had to get glasses when they got to fifth grade, so I could see the writing on the wall. Actually, I
couldn't
see the writing on the wall, and that's why I had to get glasses. I held out as long as I could, pretending I could see the board, but finally, last summer, the doctor did an eye test, said my vision was terrible, and gave me a prescription.

I wanted contact lenses. Those are round pieces of glass that are shaped exactly like your eyeball, so you put them in and they just stay. I know it sounds impossible, but they make you see perfectly. No one even knows you're wearing them—unless you lose one.

That's what happened to Larry Arbuckle. We were all in the schoolyard playing football, when suddenly he called out “Stop! Nobody move!” Everyone froze, and he explained
that his left contact lens had popped out. We all got down on our hands and knees to look for it, very slowly so that no one would accidentally crush it. Contact lenses are really, really expensive—one hundred dollars each! That's two hundred dollars if you have two eyes, which is a lot of money to pay to look like you don't wear glasses. We crawled around for a long time, not finding it, until I heard Eddy Mazurki say, “Uh-oh.” He said it in a bad way—not that there's a good way to say “Uh-oh.” And we all knew what happened to
that
hundred-dollar contact lens.

I knew my parents wouldn't go for contact lenses, so I had a Plan B. Wire frames. Silver. That's what hippies wear, like John Lennon, who's a Beatle. It's possible to wear wire-framed glasses and look cool, so when I was at Kaiser with my dad, looking at all the frames, I pointed to a pair on the top shelf that would have been totally boss. They were mostly flat on the top and rounded on the bottom, called aviator, like a pilot might wear. They were groovy enough to look like you were wearing them just because you wanted to. But the tag said eighty-nine dollars. My dad shook his head.

“No, wire won't be sturdy enough.”

Then he looked over the rack and picked out a pair on the very bottom. Not solid black, not horn-rimmed, not even tortoiseshell. They were brown at the top and gray at the bottom with a wire running through them, ugly as could be.

“Try these,” he said. I did. They looked like something
he
would wear. In fact, they were. Exactly the same as his. And Kenny's. And Howard's. I was cursed.

He nodded. “They look good. You look distinguished.”

Let me tell you something. There is not a seventh grader in the world who wants to look “distinguished.” I was already “distinguished” enough being short, and Jewish, with braces. But these were only $19.95, so that's what I got.

That's who you're dealing with. Short, with braces and ugly glasses—totally “distinguished.”
But wait
—
there's more!
as they say on those TV commercials. Let me tell you about my hair, or rather, my ears.

Every boy in my class wants to have long hair, as close to three inches as possible. At the very least you want it over your ears, because ears are funny-looking. Have you noticed that? Even the most beautiful person in the whole world has funny-looking ears. Sure, women can put on earrings, but all that does is announce to the world, “Look, I have something pretty hanging from my funny-looking ears!”

I don't like to think about my ears, and can usually avoid it. But as I walked down Kimdale Drive to whatever awaited me in Mr. Newton's office, I saw my ugly ears reflected in every car window. It's not that my ears are uglier than everyone else's, but they do stick out, especially now. That's because of this one barber at Dave's Barbershop. We go there
for haircuts because it's only $2.25. There are three barber chairs and you get whichever opens next. One time when I was in second grade, I got Ralph, who asked me what kind of haircut I wanted. I was about to say the same thing as always: “A regular boy's haircut.” It's not too short, and it grows out pretty quick.

But I had been thinking that I wanted longer hair. In fact, I didn't want a haircut at all. My mom had just taken me because Kenny and Howard were going at the same time. So I told him I'd like it “a little longer than a regular boy's haircut.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Ralph tilted his head and said, “What, you want it longer in front?”

“Yeah, longer in front.”

“Then you want it shorter in back.”

“I guess so.”

“Then you want a crew cut.”

“What's that?”

“Well, it's longer in front and shorter on the sides. Like in the Navy.”

My dad had been in the Navy, making radios during The War. I'd seen a picture of him, wearing a sailor's cap, but his hair was really short. So I said, “Just give me a regular boy's haircut. As long as possible.”

“I'll tell you what,” Ralph said. “Why don't you try a crew
cut?” Then he added, “And if you don't like it, we can bring out the hair stretcher we keep in the back room.”

Hair stretcher? That sounded really cool, like one of my dad's inventions. I told him to go ahead.

I was such an idiot. A crew cut, it turns out, is really, really,
really
short. It's almost like a butch, which only leaves about a quarter of an inch all over your head, but in the front it's about a half-inch, and sticks straight up. He used an electric razor; it took him two minutes. As soon as he finished and showed me in the mirror, I shook my head and asked him to bring out the hair stretcher.

“What?”

“You know. From the back room.”

There was a pause, then he started laughing. “Hey, Bill,” he said to the other barber, “you seen the hair stretcher?” Soon everyone in the shop was laughing, and I went around for the next month looking like a complete dork.

But that wasn't the end of it. Since then, whenever we go to that barber shop, Ralph makes jokes like, “Let's get that hair stretcher ready!” I try to avoid him, but when I end up in his chair, he always cuts my hair as short as he can get away with. That's what happened last week. Not a crew cut, but close. I look ridiculous.

And that's how I felt when I walked into Mr. Newton's office. It was really early, forty-five minutes before the start
of school. Mrs. McGillicuddy, the secretary, was typing something. “I'm here to see Mr. Newton?” I said.

“What did you do?” she asked, without looking up.

“I . . . um . . . I'm not sure.”

“Well, he's not here yet,” she said. “You'll have to wait.”

Sitting in the principal's office, waiting, is not something I'm used to doing. I'd never been called into the principal's office, except for one time, in fourth grade, when I was in Miss Baker's class. It was December of 1968 and she was teaching us how to write letters. Richard Nixon had just been elected president.

“He is now the president-elect,” she explained, “and our class is going to write letters to congratulate him on his victory and say how glad we are that he will be running the country.”