The Shiksa Syndrome: A Novel (4 page)

A S
hiksa by
A
ny
O
ther
N
ame

W
AITING ON THE CORNER
of Eighty-eighth Street and West End Avenue, I watch my friend walk past me. I’d like to tell you I’m unrecognizable because I’m all bundled up. But I’m not. Because it’s not that cold. I’m just unrecognizable.

“Krista, over here.”

She hears her name and stops. Looks. And as if she has seen no one, turns and walks away.

“KRISTA.”

“Huh?” She looks again but doesn’t see.

“It’s me. Aimee.”

“Aimee? Is that
you
?”

“No, it’s someone else with my voice,” I say, and see she finally does. “Come here.”

Krista walks back, circling slowly and taking me in.

“What—in—the—world—happened—to—you?”

“It’s that drastic? I know it’s drastic, but it’s not
that.
I mean, we’re not talking one of those extreme makeovers.” I pause. No answer. “Are we?”

“We’re talking one of those
supreme
makeovers,” she says, causing me to take note of two things. How naturally beautiful Krista is, especially when she smiles. And how gracious she is to spin the spin.

“So. Is it okay?” I ask because at this point I don’t even know. Back on Ninety-sixth Street everyone cheered when I sashayed into the living room like I was on a reality show doing my reveal. The response gladdening, then saddening. After all, I didn’t really need a makeover. Did I? Don’t answer.

Krista studies me before she asks, “How’d you get green eyes?” I can’t believe she’s that observant.

“If I still had my dark curly hair, I could look like Vivien Leigh.”

Jackie shrieked when she finally washed out my hair. I would have too . . . if I was able to see. To be fair, it wasn’t entirely her fault. She kept telling me it was time to wash my hair. Saying I needed to get into that bathroom pronto. Insisting I’d be sorry if we left the henna on too long.

But once I felt it begin to drip down my forehead, I removed my contact lenses. One dropped. And, yes. I should have been rinsing out the henna instead of looking for the lens . . . which, by the way, I never found.

“Well, you sure can pass for a
Scarlett
O’Hara,” says Krista.

My hair turned orange. Or red. Or something very, very bright.

“The henna was just supposed to add some warmth. Depth,” cried Jackie, apologizing. “I can make this work. Trust me.”

So when she offered to cut layers into my shoulder-length hair, I agreed. And when after the blow-dry she suggested a flat iron to make it straight, there was little to no point to keeping it curly.

Without contacts and with my glasses in my apartment on the East Side, I was lucky I still had my same optometrist on the West. Thank God for New York, where everyone’s open on Sundays. Eye Guys had my prescription on file and sold me a box of contacts. There was one left in stock. The contacts came in green.

I was meeting Krista just blocks from my parents’. Late, there was no time to go home to change clothes. Not that anything in my closet even fits. After I picked up the lenses, I stepped into a boutique on Columbus and walked out with the perfect quintessential, overpriced, sexy little black dress.

When I returned, Jackie did my makeup using colors to match the thin, pale, green-eyed redhead who was suddenly me.

“And that’s what happened,” I tell Krista. “How do I look?”

“Like my long lost sister.” She grabs my hand, happy to have found me, and leads me into the synagogue sponsoring the event.

Our twenty-five dollars gives each of us admission and a wine goblet. We enter the big sanctuary that’s now set up for a party, and head straight to the bartender to fill our glasses and taste some kosher wines.

“What would you lovely ladies like?” asks Zev, whose moniker is printed in all caps on his name tag. Tall with glasses, wearing a black suede yarmulke, Zev points to a dozen bottles set out on the table. “Red?” he asks, and points to my head. “Or white?” he says, and points to Krista’s. We laugh, so he laughs. However, knowing we are laughing at different things, we know we get the last one.

“Red,” I say. “Whatcha got?” I smile. I suddenly feel much better.

“Well, these are 2007 vintages of reds and whites from a winery in Australia that made its U.S. debut this past Hanukkah.” He seems pleased to relay the info. “The name of the wine company is L’Chayim.” Zev looks from Krista to me. “That means ‘To life!’ It’s used like a toast,” he tells me in an overexplanatory way.

“I know,” I say.

“Oh, you do?” He sure gets a kick out of something. “And do you?” he asks Krista.

“I do now,” she says. “I’ll try the cabernet.”

“Me too.”

He pours a taste of the wine into our glasses, pouring off a drop into a glass for himself. He lifts his glass and motions for us to do the same.

“L’chayim!”
he says as we click our goblets together. The sound resonates in a quick, light ping. The wine tastes surprisingly good.

“Want to circulate?” Krista asks.

Zev looks at me before we leave. “Come back later,” he says. “I’ll tell you all about the origin of kosher wine.”

“Good deal,” I say, and we’re off.

Unlike the mob scene of DOWN, the lights are on, and you can see everyone in the room. This is not necessarily a good thing. Services are also held in here. On occasion I’ve attended; they are lively and musical. Upstairs are pews, but down here are freestanding chairs, now pushed against the walls. Rich red carpet covers the spacious room, regal with stained-glass windows, the high ceiling exposing thick metal beams.

“Look to your right,” says Krista. We walk the periphery of the room, classical music playing in the background. Two guys, standing and drinking wine, have been looking at Krista and me. One wears a yarmulke. “Come on,” she says, leading me over.

“Krista . . .”

I know she wants to date someone Jewish, but I don’t think she’s actually up for someone JEWISH. For all my conflicts about religion with Peter, I know the extent to which I want to be
religious.
But I feel the beauty of the Jewish religion is that it
is
so vast; so open to interpretation and individuation, there is room for all. Krista approaches and claims her space.

“Hi,” she says. With a white silk camisole under a black cashmere shrug, she looks, as always, like she stepped off a page of
InStyle.
“I’m Krista Dowd, and this is—”

“Wait, let me guess,” says the guy with the yarmulke. “You two are
Friends
, right? So you’re like the blonde one,” he says to Krista. “And you . . .” He studies me. “You’re kind of like Monica. The one that’s supposed to be Jewish on that show. Gimme a break. Okay. So you’re Dowd, and you’re—?”

Wait. He thinks I look like
her
? If only. Her hair’s dark. And I’m hardly that thin. But I’m flattered.

“I’m Aimee. Aimee Albert,” I say, and emphasize Albert. “But I spell
Aimee
the French way,” I explain, as I always do, liking the added cachet the spelling gives my otherwise ordinary name.

“Of course you do,” says the guy who’s yarmulkeless. We sit with the awkward moment until he says, “Dave and Stew,” pointing to himself before his friend. “It’s nice to have you here. We don’t usually see women like you at these events.”

Krista continues to chat, finding out what the men do, and hearing all about the merits of kosher wine. Interested in neither the grapes nor the guys, I observe. My observations propel me to make my excuses to the group. As I walk through the room, I feel eyes all over me. Not just men, but women. Seeing a small group of three, I decide to introduce myself.

“I’ve come to these events to meet men, but I probably miss out on meeting lots of nice women,” I say. “Did you all come together?”

“We always do,” says the one in the middle. Pretty and plump, short dark hair, and what is referred to as a Jewish nose, reminiscent of the one I had.

“Safety in numbers,” I respond.

“Well, I doubt you and your friend will need much protection,” she says, referencing Krista, who joins us. But as soon as she does, two other men come to the outskirts of the circle. I hang back, assuming they are here for Krista, but together they zoom in. One on Krista, and the other on me.

“How’d you both find out about this party?” the better looking of the two asks Krista.

“JDate,” answers my friend, loud enough to be overheard by the three women we’ve left behind. Krista has now posted a profile. Her username is Shiksallure. As she talks, I sneak a peak at the women’s reactions. They are less than overjoyed to be at this party with someone who, no doubt, is “willing to convert.” I can’t say I blame them. My thought is interrupted when the other guy asks, “Are you on it?”

He waits for an answer. He beams. He almost turns red. It’s hard not to make snap judgments in these situations but it seems you have to. Very neat, a little overweight, the guy doesn’t grab me, but he does look like a solid citizen.

“Sort of,” I tell him. “I filled most of it out and put up a picture, but I haven’t really used the site.” Four people have already written me, but I’ve yet to become a paid member so I can’t write back even if I wanted to. I point to Krista, who, regardless of her interest level, is always social and chats up a storm. “I’m with her.”

“I can see you are! So tell me your username. So I can look you up.”

“What do you want to know? You’re talking to me now.” What a world. Would people really prefer to live in cyberspace?

“Come on, just tell me. What’s your username? I bet I can guess. Shiksappeal?” he says, quoting a famous episode from TV’s totally famous
Seinfeld.

“Huh? That would be her.” I point to my friend. Boy, in this Jewish singles climate Krista really sticks out. “
Not
me.”

He looks so disappointed.

“What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I was just going to ask if we could e-mail so I could tell you why you’re right about wanting to date Jewish men.”

“I’m here. If you want to tell me, you can tell me right now,” I say, feeling very right about not dating him, but very wrong about meeting Jewish men at these events. I motion to Krista, moving us on our way. She follows me into the lobby, and we take the stairwell one flight down. After a powwow in the bathroom, we check the time to see if it’s not too late to still catch a movie. This event is pretty much a bust.

Our coats are on two of the chairs in the main sanctuary. We leave the bathroom and climb the first flight of stairs, stopping on the landing when Krista says “wait” to rummage through her purse.

The door to the men’s room opens, then closes. A man bounds up the stairs. He pauses on the landing and gives us a quick smile before he continues up.

“I left it in the ladies’ room,” Krista says of her lipstick, and turns to go back. “And I have to make a quick call.”

“I’ll meet you by the coats,” I say. “Take your time.”

Climbing the stairs, I follow the back of the handsome stranger. Peering from outside the main doors, I watch. He gets a refill of wine, stands by himself, and surveys the room. I wait. When he looks in my direction, I come through the door. He sees me and smiles. This one confirms it.
Bashert
, I think, when I walk over to meet him, because I’m sure this man is Josh.

“Hi, there,” he says. He’s wearing a black jacket over a black button-down shirt, his dark hair is short, and his demeanor is bright. Unlike so many others, he seems comfortable in his own skin.

“Having fun?” I ask.

“Better since I saw you and your friend on the stairs. We met, you know.”

“I think we
almost
met,” I say.

“Oh, not us,” he says. “Your friend and I. We met. For a second. At DOWN.” He gives me a sexy, lopsided grin. “How come you weren’t there?”

“I was. I thought that we . . .”

“Were destined to meet,” he says. “I’m Josh.”

“I’m Aimee,” I say, happy to forget about DOWN.

“Aimee,” he repeats. But I’m sure he’s thinking Amy, so I say, “The French spelling, though.
A-I-M-E-E.”

“Mais oui,”
Josh says, and takes a sip of wine. “Josh Hirsch.”

“Aimee Albert.”

“Albert. That’s a nice solid American name.”

“I guess,” I say. “Believe it or not, my grandfather actually came from Glasgow. In Scotland.”

“I believe it.” Josh grins, again, before he gulps his wine. “Hey—not bad for kosher stuff. Not that I am.” He looks at me. “I’d bet neither are you.”

“Nope,” I say. “Never was.”

“I’d think
not
,” says Josh, as if the thought were most absurd.

“Would miss out on too many great foods,” I say, thinking of my penchant for shellfish, especially lobster.

“And too many great restaurants,” says Josh. “I’m something of a foodie.”

“I like that,” I say. “So what brings you here?”

“Before I saw you, I was wondering the same thing. These Jewish things . . . What can I say? It’s really not my scene.”

“I can see why,” I say, and really do because after just two of these events, it’s not mine either.

“But I do like wine,” says Josh. “And I work nearby. Family business. We manufacture bread. Ever hear of LoveLoaves?”

“Yes,” I say. Excited. “I
love
bread. I always buy your sourdough and the fourteen grain.”

“Seven grain,” says Josh.

“It’s so good, I doubled it.”

“You’re
so
cute.”

“Oh?” So is he. And his confidence makes him cuter.

“Factory’s out in Jersey, office here on the West Side. Plus a ton of our clients. We sell to Zabar’s, Fairway, Artie’s Deli, Barney Greengrass . . . actually do all the challahs for this synagogue whenever they have a
kiddish.
”

Hearing the word
kiddish
from Josh is music to my ears. I feel elated. I like him. My world’s just turned. On a dime. Giddy, I giggle.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“Of course you wouldn’t know. You girls are so polite,” says Josh as we both notice Krista making her return. “A challah’s a Jewish bread, and a
kiddish
is a kind of meal they have sometimes after a service.”