Eating My Feelings (4 page)

“Young man, this is Rabbi Silverman,” the woman said to me.

“I think this place is great,” I said as I stood to shake the rabbi’s hand. “Really like what you’ve done with it.”

The rabbi smiled as the older woman left us. He sat down next to me.

“What can I help you with?” the rabbi asked.

“Well,” I said as I cleared my throat. I had quickly learned as a child of the Catholic Church not to fuck with a figurehead, so I put my big-boy hat on for this conversation. “I’m thinking about converting.”

“Do your parents know where you are right now?” he asked.

“Ummm … yeah,” I said.

The rabbi knew I was lying.

“No, they don’t,” I replied. “I lied to you. I’m going to hell now, aren’t I?”

“Our people don’t believe in hell,” the rabbi said.

“HOLY CRAP! JEWS REALLY DO ROCK!” I yelled. “No hell! This is awesome!” Having been told several times that week alone that I was going to hell, this was a huge relief. I already understood why Kevin had chosen Judaism over Catholicism. Not only was the decor a lot more welcoming, there was no hell, and a cabinet full of treats were ready for me to devour after the pizza party I had decided was included after temple concluded on Friday nights.

“That doesn’t mean you can run around doing whatever you’d like,” the rabbi said, smiling. “What is it exactly that I can do for you?”

“Well,” I said, “my younger brother, Kevin, has decided to convert to Judaism and I was wondering if I should as well.”

“I’m sorry,” the rabbi began, “your younger brother? How old are you? Twelve? Why are so many people in your family converting to different religions?”

After giving the rabbi what would have been an epic PowerPoint presentation on my family, its lineage, and religious background, the rabbi scratched his head and responded: “You have a very interesting family,” he said. “What do you believe in?”

I had to think about this. I had been persuaded by so many people to believe in so many different things at this point, I wasn’t quite sure what I actually believed in.

“I believe I love my mom and dad and brothers and sisters,” I said. “I believe in God, but I’m not sure where he is and I’m not one hundred percent sure that whole ‘back-from-the-dead’ nonsense would hold up in a court of law. I believe that I sometimes say mean things, but I am a good person and I believe that the people will forgive me for the mean things I say.”

“Then that’s all you need to believe in for now,” the rabbi said. “You’re still a child, and I think you may be a bit confused because of what is going on with your family. You follow your path, and if it leads you back here, we will welcome you with open arms.”

“Thanks, man,” I replied, “but let’s say I wanted to convert. What would I have to do?”

“Well, first you’d have to learn Hebrew—” he began to say.

I stopped him. “You’ve already lost me. I would need to learn a new language?” I asked. I barely had a handle on English at this point, and there was no way in hell I would be able to throw a second form of communication into the mix. “No dice!”

The rabbi smiled as we both got up and began walking toward the door.

“You’re welcome back whenever you like,” Rabbi Silverman said.

“Yeah, I know, my last name is Rosenberg. I kind of figured I could come and go as I pleased.”

I got back on the bus and once home, made a beeline straight for my brother’s room.

“KEVIN!” I yelled as I flung open the door to his room.

“What do you want?” he asked. He must have been pretty exhausted by my constant badgering him about his shift in religion.

“I just got back from temple,” I said.

“I thought you went to the store to get brownie mix,” Kevin said.

“I lied.” It was so effortless for me at age twelve; I didn’t even bother apologizing for it anymore.

“Why were you at temple?” Kevin asked.

“Because I wanted to see what all the fuss was about,” I said. “Seems pretty cool to me. I am dying to know what is in the cabinets at the front of the room. Do you think it’s cookies?”

“No, you moron! That’s where they keep the Torah.”

“Oh.” My sudden interest in Judaism was waning. “Anyway, I want to know why you want to become a Jew so badly.” I had to case the joint myself, but wanted to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth. “Is it because you want a party? Or are you just trying to get in good with Stacey? I don’t trust her, she’s got shifty eyes.”

“This has nothing to do with Stacey,” Kevin said. “I’ve thought a lot about this. I really want to become a Jew because it’s what I believe in.”

“But what about all of the church we went to and the religion shoved down our throats for all of these years?”

“But it’s not what I believe in. When you’re Jewish you can question your religion. When you’re Catholic, you must do what you’re told and that’s that. That’s not what I want out of my religion.”

Suddenly I realized that Kevin becoming a Jew was not the debacle I was making it out to be.

“Being a Jew sounds great,” I said.

“Then why don’t you become one too?” Kevin asked.

“I thought about it, but apparently you have to learn a whole new language and shit and quite frankly, I don’t have the time for that.” It was true. My afternoons were best spent watching daytime television, which is really the closest thing to a ritual I’ve ever had in my life. “But good luck,” I told Kevin, “and Godspeed.”

I left Kevin’s room and felt good about his decision to continue on his journey to become a good Jew. My journey, on the other hand, led me to the couch with a bucket of chicken and reruns of
Petticoat Junction
, which was not nearly as rewarding but certainly a hell of a lot more entertaining.

Three years passed and it was finally time for Kevin’s big day. Having experienced firsthand what a shit show Bar Mitzvahs could be thanks to my sisters’ double Bat Mitzvah a few years back, I eagerly awaited what Kevin’s would hold. After temple, where no cookies were served, we were all escorted to “Kevin’s Diner.” They had turned our local country club into a diner with Kevin’s name as the theme. Everything was Kevin and
nothing was Mark. Typical. I immediately let my brother know that I thought a diner theme was ridiculous and that he should have gone with a Mardi Gras theme, but he didn’t care. He had a good time and he deserved it, despite my complaining. Even my mother was on board with the merriment. She had the time of her life, and why wouldn’t she have? More than 75 percent of the guests that evening were her Irish Catholic family members, in what I was told was a first for such an occasion.

Now pushing sixteen, I, on the other hand, experienced a series of firsts that night. I drank my first White Russian, had my first one-hundred-dollar steak, and smoked my first cigarette. I still blame my brother for my addiction to cigarettes. That summer, Kevin got his big trip: a journey to the Holy Land. My father decided to take Kevin and Stacey to Israel and Africa as a present for becoming a Jew. Shortly after, I found out that Paco and his girlfriend were joining them as well.

“So wait, everyone is going on vacation, except me. Again?” I asked my father.

“You didn’t want to have a Bar Mitzvah,” my father replied.

“Paco is like twenty-two. And his girlfriend isn’t even a part of this family. Why are they going and I’m not?”

“Stacey invited them.”

“You do realize that you are missing my triumphant return to the stage this summer, in the dinner theater’s epic production of
Bye Bye Birdie
?”

“See, you couldn’t have gone on this trip anyway,” my father said.

“I wouldn’t do the show if I got to go to Israel and Africa, you moron.”

“Don’t call your father a moron,” Stacey chimed in.

“I’m sorry, I meant to say idiot.”

Stacey then proceeded to roll her eyes at me, which quickly turned into our only form of communication.

Everyone went on vacation but me, again. I stayed behind and sang
“A Lot of Livin’ to Do”
four times a week at a dinner theater for old people eating sixteen-dollar steaks.

When my father moved in with my new stepmother, they decided their first decision as a parental team would be to buy my little brother and me Rollerblades.

“But it’s January,” I said. “What the hell am I supposed to do with Rollerblades in January?”

“Why can’t you just appreciate the fact that you’re getting a present?” my father asked.

“Because, this present is ridiculous, number one. Number two: this is probably another lame attempt at getting me off the couch and out of doors. Not going to work.”

“YOU WILL ROLLERBLADE!” my father yelled.

“Whatever.
Mary Poppins
is on Turner Classic Movies. That’s what I will be doing this afternoon.” Not that it made one bit of difference whether it was on TV or not, I owned two copies of the film. I just needed an excuse to stay inside.

It was around this point when my evil stepmother walked into the room. She was probably drinking whiskey on the rocks and saying nasty things about my mother under her breath.

“Those skates cost a fortune,” the evil whore said. “Get your ass up and get outside NOW!”

“It’s like thirty degrees out,” I replied.

My stepmother grabbed the Rollerblades, threw them at me, and watched as I attempted to put them on.

“I CURSE THE DAY YOU WERE BOTH BORN!” I yelled.

“Speaking of which,” my stepmother said, “tomorrow is your father’s birthday. You boys should bake him a cake. I bought cake mix, so when you come in from Rollerblading, that can be your next activity for the day.”

My father put his arm around my stepmother and they both smiled. I really hoped that they were not thinking, “Wow, we are really great parents,” because they weren’t. I would have been better off being raised by Mexican vultures.

Kevin and I put our Rollerblades on and went outside. It was freezing and our street was basically one huge hill that led to a busy intersection at the bottom. I began to think that my
stepmother was trying to kill me. It had recently snowed so the street was very icy. Here I was, never having Rollerbladed in my life, standing outside on an icy hill and grossly overweight. Yes, I thought, my stepmother is trying to kill me.

Kevin, of course, had no problem learning how to Rollerblade. He was eight years old, raised as a Jew, played soccer, and was everything my father and moronic stepmother would want in a child—except for the fact that he really liked to set fires on occasion. Meanwhile, here I was, eleven years old, as gay as the day is May, and about fifty pounds overweight. There was no way I was going to be able to Rollerblade.

I took a step onto the street and immediately fell flat on my ass. What the hell was my father thinking leaving me out here to fend for myself? It was freezing and I was dressed like I was auditioning for the sequel to
A Christmas Story
. I got myself up, turned around, and tried to open the door to our house, but it was locked.

“You’re not coming back in the house until you at least try to Rollerblade,” my stepmother yelled from inside as she looked at the now-empty glass in her hand, thus prompting her to turn to the kitchen for a refill.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said under my breath. “What a whore.”

I decided I would do what I did best: give it a half-assed attempt and begin complaining so much that my father would have no choice but to let me back into the house.

I got back up and began my second attempt at Rollerblading. I gathered my bearings and began to glide on the icy street. Suddenly I was headed straight down the hill toward the busy intersection at the end of our street.

“HOLY SHIT!” I yelled. I had no idea how to stop. I was
surely going to get hit by a car and meet an untimely death. All that was running through my head was that I hoped the newspaper article that reported on my horrific death read: “Child Dies Because Stepmother Is a Stupid Bitch.”

My arms were up as if I were flying down the hill. I quickly realized that was probably making me go faster, so I abruptly dropped my hands to my sides. Cars were racing through the intersection at the bottom of the hill and I saw my life flash before my eyes. I remembered being a baby and how happy I was as a child. Then I laughed as I remembered my brother shitting his pants on the way to school one fall morning and my father being so frantic over it that he nearly totaled his car after hitting a tree. I then remembered my beloved mother and how she would always allow me to watch any Julie Andrews movie I wanted. Even that flop of an Alfred Hitchcock film she was in. I suddenly flashed back to reality. I wasn’t going to let my stepmother win this round. She wasn’t getting rid of me that easily. I knew what I had to do and knew it was going to result in a world of pain.

I sat down as if I was about to take a dump and landed flat on my ass.

“MOTHERFUCKER THAT HURT!” I yelled.

I got out of the middle of the street and crawled up the adjacent sidewalk that was covered in snow. God only knows where the hell my brother went at this point. Apparently, saving my life was not on his radar that day. He was probably inside drinking hot cocoa and laughing at what a fat-ass I was. I continued crawling up the hill until I reached our house.

I walked up the stairs. I had taken my skates off and was now standing on the ice in my socks. I tried to open the door but
it was still locked. I looked inside to see my father, stepmother, and brother sitting on the couch watching
Mary Poppins
.

“Assholes,” I said under my breath. I began ringing the doorbell.

My father ran to the door and opened it.

“What happened to you?” he asked.