I Just Want My Pants Back (12 page)

(
She lights a cigarette
.)

10

Somewhere back around New Year’s I had promised myself I would try to write a sentence or two every day in a journal, which was really just a Word document on my dusty computer cleverly named journal.doc. I was big on it when I was traveling, and it was something I was trying to bring back, but so far it hadn’t been brung. After having typed in my French connection yesterday, it seemed like now was the perfect opportunity to get the party started again.

It was after work on Wednesday. I was killing a little time at home before I had to head to the rabbi class, and I had been staring, frozen, at the journal document. The cursor blinked and blinked, but I couldn’t think how to start. I was stumped. I knew it. It knew it. I punted and flicked the computer off.

There were few times lately when I felt I had to get something that happened written down, lest I forget it. My days had become routine, somewhat indistinguishable from one another. Lots of small funny things happened, sure, but nothing major. In school you had semesters and finals and spring breaks to delineate time; out here in “the real world,” every day was sort of like the one before. I guess that’s why people freaked out about birthdays: Those at least put a stake in the ground, somehow ended one chapter and opened a next. The last big chapters for me were quitting bartending and taking the JB’s job, mostly because I went from working nights to working days; before that was graduating from college and coming to New York. These events were worthy of lines on paper, of contemplation over an afternoon beer alone or of reinterpreting song lyrics as specific advice written just for me, just for my life-altering moments.

I wrote constantly while I was traveling; I was one of those super-clichéd scruffy twenty-two-year-olds scribbling furiously on the train, one eye guarding my “rucksack.” I was always seeing new things or waking up in new cities. Sometimes I’d get lost and caught in the rain and end up in an absolutely shady hostel listening to mice scamper and sleeping with my passport in my underwear. Other days would reveal secret parts of the Spanish countryside. One time an Italian schoolteacher in Prague kissed me in the back of a beer hall while her colleagues were sitting outside at a table, all because a guy I was traveling with had lied and told her my father had written
Twin Peaks
. Apparently, back in the day it was a huge hit in Rome. A graph line of my life then would have shown a lot of modulation. If I wrote every day now, all entries would be something like, “Woke up, went to work, drank soda, e-mailed, went out for drinks with X, and did/didn’t have my bathing-suit area touched.” The graph line had become far flatter. There were fewer highs and lows, and less need for written commentary. Just a lot of dittos.

Even during what were supposed to be the most fun times, in a bar, drink in hand, life was starting to feel repetitive. If every day was a rerun of the day before, then the nights were one long uninterrupted blur. And The Fear the following mornings seemed to be getting worse.

That lack of modulation weighed on my mind when I blew off work to go to brunch with Isabelle, the morning after our Franco-American summit. We ate some eggs at the Galaxy and then strolled around Chelsea, popping into the occasional gallery, before she went to meet up with her sister somewhere in Midtown. It was refreshing to move through the familiar streets with someone from out of town, someone seeing the city for the first time, wide-eyed, like I was during my own travels. She was amazed at the little things. A woman picking up her dog’s poop in a bright pink bag, the man who sang opera as he sold small illustrations on the corner of Twenty-sixth Street. We kissed good-bye outside the entrance to the E train. First on the mouth, then both cheeks. She was flying out later that night. She gave me her e-mail and invited me to visit her in France sometime. As I walked away, I considered if that might ever happen, or more likely, if this was the last time I’d ever see this particular human being. Real good-byes eluded me; it was hard to grasp the finality, hard to escape whatever else I felt at the moment, the heat of the sun on my neck, my lips dry and chapped. I looked back and caught a glimpse of her head as she disappeared down the stairs. I thought about calling after her, I didn’t know if she knew the right train. Instead, I took a breath and mentally wished her good luck and a good life. Then I slumped off toward work, thinking “dentist’s appointment” would be the appropriate excuse for my tardiness.

Now it was time to away to the rabbi class. Temple Beth El, where it was being held, was on the Upper East Side, a bit of a trip from the West Village. I grabbed my iPod, took a swig from the two-liter Diet Coke in the fridge, and headed out of the apartment.

I hit
PLAY
, shut out the city, and walked toward the L train. After only three blocks, though, the damn battery died and I was back in cacophonous reality. I sighed, took off the headphones, and pocketed the player. I grabbed a free
Village Voice
from a red plastic dispenser and made my way to the train.

Twenty-five minutes later I resurfaced on the Upper East Side. I walked past a steady stream of chain stores—Baby Gap, Old Navy, Victoria’s Secret, Baby Gap, Toys “?” Us, Baby Gap. I looked down Lexington: This was fro-gurt country, there were frozen-yogurt outlets as far as the eye could see. Expensive knobby-tired baby carriages boxed me in as I moved along. It felt like a PG-13 version of the city. I checked my phone out of habit; I had a text message. Stacey, reminding me about tonight. Was she neurotic or was I that untrustworthy? I was pretty sure it was her personality flaw and not mine, so I texted her back. “Totally forgot! Drunk downtown. Shit!”

I arrived at the temple on Seventy-ninth Street, on time. I was a little nervous as I opened the door and walked down a long narrow hall in search of the rabbi’s study, where the e-mail said we’d be meeting. The hall was decorated on both sides with framed paintings of various biblical scenes, along with black-and-white shots of Masada and the Wailing Wall. I sort of wished it was more like a Jewish Hall of Fame, or like an athletic stadium tunnel leading to the field of battle, and that there were framed 8
x
10’s of Sandy Koufax, Sammy Davis, Jr., David Ben-Gurion, all our biggest stars, lining the walls. I could see a rabbi and a cantor walking down a hall like that, getting pumped to go out on the dais and give it their all. Someday, if they pushed themselves, their photos would be wedged onto that wall, perhaps in the coveted spot between David Copper-field and Leonard Nimoy. (Indeed, Mr. Spock was a Jew.)

The rabbi’s study door was ajar, so I poked my head in. Two women and a guy about my age sat in folding chairs around a wooden table. Suddenly I wondered if I should have been dressed nicer than my jeans, faded Yoo-Hoo T-shirt, and hoodie. Or if I should have maybe brought a pen and a pad.

“Hi, is this the, uh, class for, um…” I wasn’t sure what it was even called. “Learning how to preside over a wedding ceremony?”

“Yep,” responded the guy. He had silver metal glasses and wavy blond hair, and he was wearing a light-blue shirt with a loosened maroon tie. “That’s why we’re all here. The rabbi hasn’t arrived yet, though.” He extended his hand. “I’m Mark.”

“Hi, I’m Jason.” We shook. “Jason,” I said extending my hand toward the first woman, who looked to be around forty, with short gray hair and a belly that tested the buttons of her beige blazer.

“Nora,” she replied. “Hi.”

I leaned toward the other woman, who looked to be about my age. “Hi, I’m Jennifer,” she said, smiling. She had blue eyes and thick curly dark hair, rabbi’s-daughter’s hair. And, I was embarrassed to notice in shul of all places, simply fantastic tits under her tight black V-neck sweater. Light, fluffy, perky, kissable. Mazel tov, my dear.

I took a seat and unzipped my sweatshirt. A man entered the room wearing a green sweater-vest over a white shirt and sporting a beard and a yarmulke. “Hi, everybody, I’m Rabbi Stan. Glad you all could make it.”

We went around the table and introduced ourselves to Rabbi Stan. Every rabbi I had ever met, which wasn’t a whole hell of a lot, went by his last name. Rabbi Pearlman. Rabbi Feldstein. Rabbi Bassen. Rabbi Stan, who looked to be in his late thirties, must have been some kind of New Age rabbi, the kind that let you call them by their first names and knew how to juggle.

“So, Jason, tell me what brings you to this class,” Rabbi Stan said.

“Um, well, two good friends of mine are getting married, Stacey and Eric, and they asked me to preside at their wedding.” Why else did he think I was here?

“To marry your friends, that will be wonderful. Do you know what type of ceremony you’ll perform?”

“No, I’m pretty much a novice,” I said, grinning. “I was hoping that I’d learn all about that here.”

Rabbi Stan scratched his chin. It seemed like he might still be getting used to the beard; it was a bit patchy. “You will hopefully learn a lot here, but the ceremony design will be yours. Rabbinical teaching that is not.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what he was getting at, but that might’ve been because I was fixated on how he sometimes spoke backward, like a Jewish Yoda. Maybe he was trying to sound than his years older. “I’m sorry, what do you mean?” I asked.

“You’ll decide how the ceremony will flow, you’ll provide the words of love and guidance. You are not here to become a rabbi, you are only here to learn some of the Jewish tradition. After all, you will be a Universal Life Minister. You know the Internet site to go to, right?” We all nodded. “Our work here is only to offer guidance and advice for how you can structure your personalized ceremony. For you, not a rabbi like myself, were chosen by your friends to bring them together. But if you are here in my class, they want a bit of tradition, yes? Yes. You know, a great rabbi was once asked by a man to teach him the entire meaning of the Torah while he stood on one foot. The rabbi told him, “Do not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you. The rest is commentary.” He smiled at us. “Piece of cake, don’t worry!”

He asked the others why they were there. Mark was going to perform a small second marriage for his friend. Nora was going to be the rabbi for her sister’s wedding. Jennifer of the teacup tits was, like me, going to be a rabbi for her friends from college.

Now that he knew our stories, Rabbi Stan rolled up his sleeves. “Today we are going to talk about Jewish law a tiny bit. But we will talk more about love. Love is a word we use a lot in society today. We use it too much, I think, it’s lost the meat of its meaning. You love your dog. You love the Yankees, and ice cream, and vacations to the Poconos. I heard a girl in shul today say she loved her new sandals. Just loved them! But these aren’t really loves, these are very strong likes. Things adored. Things perhaps treasured. But loved? Not in the old sense of the word.”

As Rabbi Stan gesticulated I could see half moons of sweat forming under his arms. My eyelids were getting heavy, so I bit my tongue to help stay awake. It was the same trick I had used throughout high school and college. A little pain kept the eyes open.

Rabbi Stan continued. “‘Would you dive in front of a bullet to protect those sandals?’ I asked the girl in shul. ‘No, of course not,’ the girl told me. ‘Then you are not in love with them,’ I said. Now, I’m joking of course, but to marry two people you must have a grasp of the meaning of love. It seems at the very least that would be something you ought to know if you are to say, ‘By the power invested in me I pronounce you man and wife.’ Can I teach you love? No, it can’t be taught. But I can tell you a few things about it.

“True love is more than anything a responsibility. It is the greatest responsibility, for lovers are the caretakers of each other’s hearts, and lives. And to fulfill this responsibility requires great compromise and sacrifice. That is why the mother cleans the child’s behind, even though it is quite unpleasant. You laugh, Jennifer, but have you changed a newborn?” Jennifer shook her head. “I’m kidding, but truly, you can’t underestimate the importance of sacrifice. Willingness to do the things you don’t want to do for the sake of someone else. It may not sound as exciting as lust and sex and God forbid getting a tattoo with a heart, but sacrifice and compromise are the Krazy Glue of love. It is what keeps a marriage together.”

I began playing with a loose thread at the bottom hem of my shirt. Was a rabbi really the right person to be defining love? I mean, spiritual matters or morals maybe, but love? I would have liked to see his résumé. Not that I doubted him, or could think of a better person off the top of my head; I just wasn’t sure this guy in the outfit from Sy Sym’s had the “Love Ph.D.” He was wearing a wedding ring, but was it his first marriage? How did he know she was the one, did he have an epiphany, was it a lightning bolt at first sight? Did that shit even exist? It felt like maybe Hollywood and Hallmark conspired to invent it. These were things I wanted to understand; sacrifice I had heard about. I kept pulling at the thread. I wondered whether, if I kept unraveling it, I’d eventually be sitting there topless. Or maybe just the torso part would disappear, and I’d still be wearing sleeves. It would be an interesting experiment. The rabbi cleared his throat and I was back in the classroom.

“Now, the other side of sacrifice and compromise is passion. Because in a marriage, you are willing to sacrifice and compromise on things that, in the end, aren’t as important, so as to improve the ones you are most passionate about. For example, a man might take a lesser job so as to have more time with his family, et cetera.” He held up his hands. “Or a woman, I do not mean to be sexist. Responsibility, sacrifice, compromise, and passion. The four horsemen of love, all perfect topics for a wedding ceremony. Okay, now, have any of you thought about your ceremonies?”

Nora had. “My sister and her fiancé are both English professors, so I was going to start with a reading of a poem, either a Shelley or a Donne, their favorites. Then I was going to tell the story of how they met, and then get into the vows, which I’m going to help them write.” She crinkled her forehead. “How does that sound?”