Curiosity
By Mitya Indursky
Moscovitz owns the only kosher store in the city that is up and coming faster than a morning bottle of beer is gulped by a thirsty college sophomore. People from all over the country are packing bags and coming here, except for the Jews that seem to avoid the place for a pretty mysterious reason.
Maybe they are misinformed about the weather, or smell something others don’t. Such as an intense aroma of fast and fried food that will keep running the place until more newcomers change the taste of the area. Who knows? Since we pride ourselves to be a statistics oriented country, the only way to find out is to set up block posts on major highways and start asking questions.
Personally, I wouldn’t recommend this approach out of a real fear of multiple lawsuits, that may dry out city finances, thus putting an end to its up and coming status. The logical continuation of the latter proceedings would allow the fast and fried food joints to declare an ultimate victory, since nobody knows when the city would be up and coming again.
So, back to Moscowitz, who owns the only, and a very small kosher place at the same time. The one, sizewise on par with a very few Country Stores left (across the land) that managed to survive the dinosaurs that failed to survive extinction.
Moscowitz is a typical Lower East Sider, but there is no mystery here. His family moved from New York in the 1950’s, when this place was as far away from up and coming, as I am from touching the basketball hoop, unless someone provides a step ladder. He shared the family information voluntarily, following me around the store, while briefly explaining the absence of this or that item.
The Jewish community is very small here, Moscowitz complained. Especially, the religious one that is shrinking in front of my own eyes. You are asking for lox, but it goes bad very fast, and people like you will stop by only prior to High Holidays, or once a month at best, when they recall that Shabbat needs challah.
I nodded with empathy and disbelief, since his store was my last chance to find lox in the city. The next stop would be over four hours away. A bit of a hike if you are fishing for cured salmon.
While I went on my second loop, forcing myself to look carefully for the stuff needed, Moscowitz was still schlepping with me and asking questions. It looked like a very short marathon, where two leading runners are leisurely talking two each other until the finish line comes to a view.
Moscowitz had a lot of questions for me. Starting from my date and place of birth, my family, my place of residence, my marital status, the reason I came to the city, and how long I am planning to be there…
This combination of curiosity, marketing research and a passport control officer inquiry made me a little weary, since Moscowitz threw questions at me with the vengeance of a broken tennis ball machine that finally finds a way to square with its owner.
While Moscowitz was going through his endless verbal questionnaire, he had been constantly looking into his cell phone. Either his cheat sheet is there or something is really wrong, I remember telling myself, dying to ask him for the reason.
Finally, the moment came, and I reversed the broken tennis ball machine of his questions to bring him to a limelight.
Why are you looking into the cell phone all the time? What’s going on there?
-Oh, he said, there is an app that updates me on the activities of the Jewish community in the city. I know almost everyone here. It’s very interesting. The most interesting part though, is the obituaries section!
I went speechless for a few seconds, then carefully looked at Moscowitz. His sincere blue eyes were starring at me with an innocence of a little boy who was caught nicking a few coins from his dad’s coat to buy an ice-cream cone.
Moscowitz, I told him: If I had a store in a place with the small Jewish community, I wouldn’t be interested in the dead, I would try to cater to the living!
TORTURE IN PARIS
By Mitya Indursky
The Louvre, the Musee D’Orsay, the Place Vendome, the Bois du Boulogne, the bridges over the River Seine, the infamous Drancy suburb that hosted the transit camp for the Jews later sent to their deaths during the Second World War……the old streets with unchanged names that proudly keep the smell of the three or more musketeers horses; the Palais de Versailles- wonderful but half empty architectural monument, raped by the French Revolution-though still carrying the odor of the willingly unwashed generations of French nobles…
…The neck scarfs on men that would raise more than eyebrows somewhere in rural Oklahoma, Nebraska or Kansas – look more than appropriate here. The heavenly French women, still alive and vivid in our dreams, despite failing numerous reality checks. In short-the most desired, romantic city majority of Americans are salivating over. Thank you Hollywood, for your persistent promotional efforts and forgetfulness to explain the reasons behind it…
…Finally, I was in Paris. First time! My buddy threw himself on the grass in front of the Eiffel Tower with the speed of a little kid wrapping himself up into a newly gifted football shirt, bearing the name of his beloved quarterback.
That clean smell of a long desired shirt, like a smell of a new car later on in life! I will always keep it clean, I will always keep the smell on. Isn’t it how we are conscientiously lying to ourselves making washing machines and car washes laugh in anticipation of our appearance.
…The days in Paris flew faster than the chestnuts falling from the eponymous trees. It was an amazing experience, but good times don’t last forever, and with my Jewish luck the day to pay for it had finally arrived. It came with the fury and the speed of a tornado, skipping attention of the blinded-by-science meteorologist unable to notice a big orange-red cloud on the radar screen.
That day I was walking the streets of Paris without any particular plan. Just schlepping and looking. Stopping for coffee and croissants and walking again. Until the moment came when I needed to go. I looked around but there was nothing remotely similar to the very much desired facility. At least the way I’d pictured it at that time.
Hollywood promoted beauty of Paris went dark in my thoughts during the prolonged and extensive search. The monuments, museums, bridges and the women along with the great coffee and puffy croissants only Parisian water can help make proper. All of it- lost glamor, charm, value and taste in anticipation of my upcoming public embarrassment, and a deep psychological scar arriving with it.
And, oh miracle, I finally saw a shiny metal cylindrical shape object. The design of it was out of this world. Aliens had probably dropped it here to help Paris avoid the fate of Amsterdam and possibly San Francisco as of recent. It should be it, I told myself. I felt it. My sharpened senses of the moment didn’t lie to me. It was it. And I rushed towards the relief “spaceship.”
It was a very welcoming place I thought in the beginning. Spacious, tidy, with the nice smell and a clean sound of Stevie Wonder’s cheesy “I just called to say I love you” coming out of the built-in speakers. The choice of the song, giving the place and the moment-seemed a bit questionable, but I wasn’t planning to spend more time there than necessary. Thus, the related grievances were set aside for the time being.
Everything for the people for a very small entry fee, I compared the “spaceship” to their tiny plastic cousins in New York City. By far, the score was not in favor of the latter. It is rather simple to explain. Will you trade kissing your girlfriend fresh out of a shower for a smooch after she completed a boot camp day in the Central Park? Tastes differ, but I won’t.
While enjoying my simple thoughts, little did I know what the future had planned for me in the next five or so minutes that seemed to last forever.
Mr. Wonder was still preaching love, while I was ready to continue on my wonderful journey. A glass of wine with the cup of coffee won’t hurt, I told myself trying to open the door to embrace warm Parisian sun once again. Easier said than done. The handle turned but the door refused to move. I tried couple more times with the same damn result. Anxiety started to kick in, inviting a bit of claustrophobia, emphasized by relentless Stevie Wonder. Now, he was trying hard to bring the worst out of my inner self to the surface.
I took a few deep breaths and tried the door again. Nothing doing. And then, my mind shared a very intimidating piece of news.
-Do you know how this thing cleans itself?
-No.
-Let me update you. It turns upside down for a period of time, and then comes back, my mind insisted.
-Are you sure, I replied.
-Positive, was the answer. Read about it somewhere.
This mental discovery opened up a whole new can of … carnivorous baby dinosaurs that grew faster than my AC bill in summer. In a few seconds I became utterly paranoid in addition to “enjoying” anxiety and claustrophobia. A great package to have, be it rain or shine.
To add insult to injury, my restless mind dug out yet another “cheerful” message. With a generous stroke of a mental brush, it painted a couple of highly descriptive images from the “The Pit and Pendulum” by Mr. Edgar Poe. If you’ve never read it, I will highly recommend digesting the “uplifting” experience of the French prisoner of the Spanish Inquisition who had been tormented beyond your wildest dreams.
So, I felt almost exactly like him, weighting on my survival chances in the chemically infused Parisian sewage. To overwrite the annoying mind of mine, I made it change the angle of thinking about the nasty plastic solitary confinements of New York City. Suddenly, they became very dear to me. So dear, that I was ready to sign a lease and move in there, given it’s Stevie Wonder free, and my coffee machine fits in.
The simple construction of plastic cells in New York was the the main reason for my badly needed mental excitement. In fact, it’s so simple that even an imbecile can set himself free. And if not-he can yell through the vents, enabling people nearby to pull him out of there! And this damn plastic thing does not clean itself! As a matter of fact, it smells like nothing and nobody has ever cleaned it at all. So what! I don’t care. I’ll clean it! I want to be there now!
But I wasn’t there. I was locked in the “alien”-like metal sphere in Paris with no way out, ready to become an eternal prisoner of the Parisian underworld. I have one more suggestion, my crazy mind said loud enough to silence my new arch nemesis Stevie Wonder.
-You should pray!
Me praying?
-Yes. Now.
I looked around and started “Baruch ata Adonai Elocheinu…” then went to the door and turned the handle. The door did open, and the warmest Sun on the planet was smiling at me as a summer subway passenger in NYC smiles when stepping into the long awaited AC-ed car from the jungle like hot and humid platform.
About a block away I found a decent cafe, and ordered half-a-bottle of red and an espresso to chase it with. Quickly made mental peace with Mr.Wonder, and dived into a brief theological conversation with myself.
Soon after the first glass became history, I’ve almost convinced myself that the power of Judaism has proved itself mighty once again, and I’d been a lucky witness to it. But shortly after emptying the second one, I’ve recalled the story of one mullah who came with his entourage from some shithole to a big city.
To make it short, these guys were approaching a mall with the sliding entry door. The door, of course, opened exactly when they were in an immediate proximity of it. You see how great I am, mullah told his followers. I’ve opened the door with the prayer…
…The very same day my French buddy enlightened me on the inner workings of the relief “spaceship.” It happens to be a greedy, time based capsule. It will open up when time expires, no matter if you made it faster or need to stay in a bit longer. And, indeed, it turns upside down to clean itself.. but only when nobody is there.