Sunday, October 25, 2009
Renovating The Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Scarajevo
16 weeks. 16 weeks. 16 weeks, we will cook in a kitchen the size of a solitary confinement cell. 16 Monday mornings, we will make coffee in a shower stall. 16 Shabbat dinners the chicken soup will be poised on a closed toilet seat.
Welcome to Scarajevo.
****
When the demolition of our kitchen began, we still had not gone from 0- 60. We did not know how much the renovation was going to cost, we did not have a SmartBuild spreadsheet with line items. When we asked how long the renovation was going to take, we were told breezily, 16 weeks.
Like Management Consulting, SmartBuild was a scam.
“No it isn’t.” LeBruce was inspecting the brickwork on our former wall where the fridge used to be.
Rob came home and put his nose against the plastic door that separated the first world of our front foyer from the third world.
“Holy Shit…it looks like.,..like….!”
“London after the Blitz!” I shouted
“How come she knows about the London Blitz.” Bruce thought. “My girlfriend thinks the Blitz is something you get at Dairy Queen.”
“Ah…don’t worry about it, Sprucy, she’s probably better in bed than I am.”
Bruce looked at me for a minute. “Yeah, she is probably is.”
“Glad we got that settled.” I thought.
“Greenwich Village after 9/11!!” Rob yelped.
“Pyongyang after…after…the nuclear reactor overreacted!” I shouted.
“Is it better to have a girlfriend who can used the word “Pyongyang” in a sentence or to have a girlfriend who is good in bed?” Bruce wondered.
“In your case, the latter. Definitely the latter.” I reassured him.
“No…it’s Sarajevo.” Rob said softly.
We all stood in silence in our naked kitchen with the wires scattered in piles in each corner and the windows covered in plastic.
“Sarajevo.” I repeated reverentially.
“Sarajevo.” Intoned Le Bruce.
A moment of silence.
“Nah,” said Rob. It’s not Sarajevo. It’s Scarajevo!!”
And it was. Emes.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Going from Zero to Sixty with Le Bruce
“I’m going to take you from Zero to Sixty.” Le Bruce repeated.
“What do you mean ‘Zero to Sixty'? Rob asked.
“He means that we are feeling relaxed and now he is going to tell us how much this is going to cost so that we can both have simultaneous heart attacks.” I said. “Duhhh.”
“Yes, but just think about the simultaneous orga…”
“We don’t have sex in the kitchen, Bruce. We just cook in it.” I was having a very clear visual of Le Bruce and his 25 year old slice of non-Kosher cutie pie in my kitchen and it was getting in the way of my going from Zero to Sixty.
“Ok Ok. So, take us from Zero to Sixty.” Rob said with a little more confidence then I think he felt.
Le Bruce took out his calculator from his man purse. He started a fresh Excel sheet and began filling in items:
1. Fix existing knob and tube.
“What’s knob and tube.” I asked
“It’s wiring. It carries electricity.” Rob said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“What’s wrong with wiring that carries electricity. That sounds very necessary in a house.”
“Jewish Princess.” I heard Bruce think.
“Oh please. I’m sure 99% of the female population regardless of religious affiliation has no clue what knob and tube is. Quite frankly, it sounds like a euphemism for getting one’s tubes tied.” I telepethied back.
“It’s ‘irregardless’, not’ regardless’.”
“Oh no it ain’t. I might be a Jewish Princess, but at least I’m literate.”
Rob explained. “Because knob and tube is more exposed than other wiring, it is considered a fire hazard.”
“FIRE HAZARD!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. WE BOUGHT A HOUSE WITH KNOB AND TUBE!! ARE YOU INSANE!! WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME!!
Calmly, Le Bruce said. “That’s why we are going to fix it. So that you won’t have live in a fire hazard. This is all part of going from Zero to Sixty. You thought we were just doing a kitchen renovation, but we are going to do all kinds of things.”
2. Air Conditioning“Well thank God. I have an asthmatic condition you know.” I said.
“An asthmatic condition, not just plain old regular asthma?” asked Le Bruce.
“It’s like asthma but not as serious.” I explained. “I just have an inhaler, no Epipens although once when I was a counsellor at a nice Jewish camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, I once stole one of my camper’s Epipens and stuck it through my thigh just to see what would happen. It was a total rush but not nearly as much fun as taking their Ritalin.”
Rob’s Blackberry is bleeping out of control, but Rob is in another world—a world of gleaming 36 inch stoves and French door fridges and granite countertops. He is excited and terrified all at the same time. And while I cannot share his enthusiasm, I promise to make more of an effort. But not right now. It’s enough. Really, it is absolutely enough.
“I can only digest these things in small chunks.” I declare to Le Bruce. “I know you want to take us from Zero to Sixty, but could we call this Zero to 4”?
Le Bruce looks at me. “Fine. I appreciate that it’s a lot of information.”
“When you say ‘fine’ does it mean ‘fuck you’? because that’s what it means when I say it.”
“You got it, dear.”
“Do not call me dear or I will call you a Poutine Lovin’ Panty Waist.”
“Poor Rob.”
“No, poor you. Your stuck with me for…how long?”
“I’m going to take you from Zero to Sixty.” Le Bruce repeated.
“What do you mean ‘Zero to Sixty'? Rob asked.
“He means that we are feeling relaxed and now he is going to tell us how much this is going to cost so that we can both have simultaneous heart attacks.” I said. “Duhhh.”
“Yes, but just think about the simultaneous orga…”
“We don’t have sex in the kitchen, Bruce. We just cook in it.” I was having a very clear visual of Le Bruce and his 25 year old slice of non-Kosher cutie pie in my kitchen and it was getting in the way of my going from Zero to Sixty.
“Ok Ok. So, take us from Zero to Sixty.” Rob said with a little more confidence then I think he felt.
Le Bruce took out his calculator from his man purse. He started a fresh Excel sheet and began filling in items:
1. Fix existing knob and tube.
“What’s knob and tube.” I asked
“It’s wiring. It carries electricity.” Rob said. “Didn’t you know that?”
“What’s wrong with wiring that carries electricity. That sounds very necessary in a house.”
“Jewish Princess.” I heard Bruce think.
“Oh please. I’m sure 99% of the female population regardless of religious affiliation has no clue what knob and tube is. Quite frankly, it sounds like a euphemism for getting one’s tubes tied.” I telepethied back.
“It’s ‘irregardless’, not’ regardless’.”
“Oh no it ain’t. I might be a Jewish Princess, but at least I’m literate.”
Rob explained. “Because knob and tube is more exposed than other wiring, it is considered a fire hazard.”
“FIRE HAZARD!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT. WE BOUGHT A HOUSE WITH KNOB AND TUBE!! ARE YOU INSANE!! WHY DIDN’T SOMEONE TELL ME!!
Calmly, Le Bruce said. “That’s why we are going to fix it. So that you won’t have live in a fire hazard. This is all part of going from Zero to Sixty. You thought we were just doing a kitchen renovation, but we are going to do all kinds of things.”
2. Air Conditioning“Well thank God. I have an asthmatic condition you know.” I said.
“An asthmatic condition, not just plain old regular asthma?” asked Le Bruce.
“It’s like asthma but not as serious.” I explained. “I just have an inhaler, no Epipens although once when I was a counsellor at a nice Jewish camp in Oconomowoc, Wisconsin, I once stole one of my camper’s Epipens and stuck it through my thigh just to see what would happen. It was a total rush but not nearly as much fun as taking their Ritalin.”
Rob’s Blackberry is bleeping out of control, but Rob is in another world—a world of gleaming 36 inch stoves and French door fridges and granite countertops. He is excited and terrified all at the same time. And while I cannot share his enthusiasm, I promise to make more of an effort. But not right now. It’s enough. Really, it is absolutely enough.
“I can only digest these things in small chunks.” I declare to Le Bruce. “I know you want to take us from Zero to Sixty, but could we call this Zero to 4”?
Le Bruce looks at me. “Fine. I appreciate that it’s a lot of information.”
“When you say ‘fine’ does it mean ‘fuck you’? because that’s what it means when I say it.”
“You got it, dear.”
“Do not call me dear or I will call you a Poutine Lovin’ Panty Waist.”
“Poor Rob.”
“No, poor you. Your stuck with me for…how long?”
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Le Bruce and his SmartBuild
Rob and I looked at the Excel spreadsheet. Every detail of a kitchen renovation had been given its own line with a dollar figure next to it.
“Wow,” I said it complete awe. “That seems so logical. I feel like I’ve seen something like it before.” I thought very hard. “Wait, I do this kind of budget every single day to create a new book. We have to do it. We are accountable to it.”
Le Bruce looked at me anew. I heard him thinking: “Maybe she’s not a little Jewish Princess after all. Maybe she actually has a brain.” I mental telepathied back at him: “True dat.”
“Natalie is right.” Le Bruce folded his hands over his washboard stomach—one of several clues that he was divorced and dating someone younger. “This is what keeps me accountable to you. I lay out every line item on this spreadsheet and put a dollar figure and a time limit and we stick to the plan. We have never gone over budget and we are never late. Ever.
“Emes.” I asked.
“Emes.” He responded.
“Well, you can’t argue with him if he says Emes.” I looked at Rob. Ah what the heck, even an Emes needs to be questioned once in awhile.
“OK Bruce,” I said. “If this keeps renovations on time and on budget, why don’t more people do it?”
“Good question, Natalie. I don’t know the answer.”
Rob’s eyes which had lost their characteristic sparkle in recent days became bright again.
“I like this Bruce. I like it very much. Everyone complains about their general contractor’s being full of shit but this seems very honest and clear.”
“It is Rob. Really, I could do a sales job on you, but I don’t have to. SmartBuild speaks for itself.”
“What do you think, Natalie.” Rob asked.
“I’m feeling good about this. I’m feeling relaxed and ready to go.”
“OK. Now that you are relaxed, I am going to take you from Zero to Sixty.”
Rob and I looked at the Excel spreadsheet. Every detail of a kitchen renovation had been given its own line with a dollar figure next to it.
“Wow,” I said it complete awe. “That seems so logical. I feel like I’ve seen something like it before.” I thought very hard. “Wait, I do this kind of budget every single day to create a new book. We have to do it. We are accountable to it.”
Le Bruce looked at me anew. I heard him thinking: “Maybe she’s not a little Jewish Princess after all. Maybe she actually has a brain.” I mental telepathied back at him: “True dat.”
“Natalie is right.” Le Bruce folded his hands over his washboard stomach—one of several clues that he was divorced and dating someone younger. “This is what keeps me accountable to you. I lay out every line item on this spreadsheet and put a dollar figure and a time limit and we stick to the plan. We have never gone over budget and we are never late. Ever.
“Emes.” I asked.
“Emes.” He responded.
“Well, you can’t argue with him if he says Emes.” I looked at Rob. Ah what the heck, even an Emes needs to be questioned once in awhile.
“OK Bruce,” I said. “If this keeps renovations on time and on budget, why don’t more people do it?”
“Good question, Natalie. I don’t know the answer.”
Rob’s eyes which had lost their characteristic sparkle in recent days became bright again.
“I like this Bruce. I like it very much. Everyone complains about their general contractor’s being full of shit but this seems very honest and clear.”
“It is Rob. Really, I could do a sales job on you, but I don’t have to. SmartBuild speaks for itself.”
“What do you think, Natalie.” Rob asked.
“I’m feeling good about this. I’m feeling relaxed and ready to go.”
“OK. Now that you are relaxed, I am going to take you from Zero to Sixty.”
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
The Arrival of Le Bruce
The phone rang. Tina advised that during a renovation, you should only pick up the phone every third time your spouse call. This was only the second time, so I let it go to voice mail. A peaceful hour went by and I happily read about the medieval monestaries. Then the phone rang again.
“Hey...what’s up?”
“Are you busy tomorrow morning?” Rob asked with some excitement in his voice.
“I’m not moving to Winnipeg.”
“No no no...I know. Neither am I. You know what the problem with moving to Winnipeg is?”
I could name about 400,000 problems in the space of a minute.
“Even though you live in a mansion, when you go outside, you are still in Winnipeg.”
“And you will die of cancer.Everyone who lives in Winnipeg dies of cancer. Winnipeg has the highest incidence of cancer anywhere in the world. That’s because you get no Vitamin D and the air is sprayed every summer with toxic chemicals to keep the hordes of mosquitos which plague their 2 week summer.”
Rob sighed. “OK, listen. Tomorrow a guy named Bruce Danner...”
“Didn’t he play the Incredible Hulk?”
“Not Bruce Banner...Bruce Danner. He’s coming over tomorrow to talk to us about his process.”
“Bruce Danner was a working man...He used to load that Econoline van. A sparkle was in his eye. But his life was in his hands.” I started to sing.
“Nat...for godsake, give it a rest.” But I was too far gone to stop. I grabbed my hockey stick and belted:
“TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT....DUM DUM DUM DUM....TONIGHTS THE NIGHT.”
“OK. Are you done yet.”
“Yup, I’m good. Ok, so we are going to talk about process. What process?”
“The process for making us a new kitchen.”
“Process...that sounds kind of serious. Is this going to be a big job?”
“Nat, don’t you want a new kitchen. Don’t you want a beautiful space to cook in. Don’t you think that if you have a clean, big kitchen with lots of cabinets and a big fridge and a stove that even you can understand how to use, don’t you think you would cook more...maybe even better. We could get you a little recipe holder where you could follow directions...”
“Not happening. This I promise you.”
“I bet when you see it, you’ll change your mind.”
“Not happening. Emes.” I said. “You can’t argue when I say Emes.”
“Ok. But can you at least try and participate. Can you try and proffer an opinion.”
“For you, I will do this.” I promised.
****
Bruce Danner arrived exactly on time. He wore pressed blue jeans, a blue button down with no white undershirt underneath. His socks were blue and he had on brown penny loafers.
Bruce Danner was either gay or a Jew from Montreal-it was hard to know which since they are often confused, but I required him to turn to the side and check his profile to know which.
“Wow, Those are beautiful!” He said turning his head to look at the stained glass on our bathroom window.”
Montreal Jew.
“Should we get started?” He asked. We sat down in our dining room.
“Hey, look at this. This lesbian I went to Sarah Lawrence College with is now marrying a guy. A Jewish guy. And a doctor. Wow. She totally scored.” I am going through the Wedding Announcements in the New York Times. Le Bruce is not amused.
“Natalie,” he says. “Aren’t you interested in what your kitchen is going to look like. Doesn’t this mean something to you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Because you cook. And once I create a nice kitchen for you, you will have a nice place to cook.”
“I don’t cook.”
“What do you mean you don’t cook.”
“I don’t cook. I hate it actually. Rob does most of the cooking.“
Le Bruce looked confused. “Rob, I thought you were a lawyer.”
“Yes, he’s a lawyer that cooks. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“ Enough. Nat, remember last night. Remember what you promised.”
“Ohhhhh Kayyyy,” I whined.
Bruce opened up his man-purse and took out an Excel spreadsheet.
“You know how everyone complains about renovations..how they take too long and go over budget, yada yada.”
“We know.” We responded in unison.
“Well, let me introduce you to SmartBuild
The phone rang. Tina advised that during a renovation, you should only pick up the phone every third time your spouse call. This was only the second time, so I let it go to voice mail. A peaceful hour went by and I happily read about the medieval monestaries. Then the phone rang again.
“Hey...what’s up?”
“Are you busy tomorrow morning?” Rob asked with some excitement in his voice.
“I’m not moving to Winnipeg.”
“No no no...I know. Neither am I. You know what the problem with moving to Winnipeg is?”
I could name about 400,000 problems in the space of a minute.
“Even though you live in a mansion, when you go outside, you are still in Winnipeg.”
“And you will die of cancer.Everyone who lives in Winnipeg dies of cancer. Winnipeg has the highest incidence of cancer anywhere in the world. That’s because you get no Vitamin D and the air is sprayed every summer with toxic chemicals to keep the hordes of mosquitos which plague their 2 week summer.”
Rob sighed. “OK, listen. Tomorrow a guy named Bruce Danner...”
“Didn’t he play the Incredible Hulk?”
“Not Bruce Banner...Bruce Danner. He’s coming over tomorrow to talk to us about his process.”
“Bruce Danner was a working man...He used to load that Econoline van. A sparkle was in his eye. But his life was in his hands.” I started to sing.
“Nat...for godsake, give it a rest.” But I was too far gone to stop. I grabbed my hockey stick and belted:
“TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT....DUM DUM DUM DUM....TONIGHTS THE NIGHT.”
“OK. Are you done yet.”
“Yup, I’m good. Ok, so we are going to talk about process. What process?”
“The process for making us a new kitchen.”
“Process...that sounds kind of serious. Is this going to be a big job?”
“Nat, don’t you want a new kitchen. Don’t you want a beautiful space to cook in. Don’t you think that if you have a clean, big kitchen with lots of cabinets and a big fridge and a stove that even you can understand how to use, don’t you think you would cook more...maybe even better. We could get you a little recipe holder where you could follow directions...”
“Not happening. This I promise you.”
“I bet when you see it, you’ll change your mind.”
“Not happening. Emes.” I said. “You can’t argue when I say Emes.”
“Ok. But can you at least try and participate. Can you try and proffer an opinion.”
“For you, I will do this.” I promised.
****
Bruce Danner arrived exactly on time. He wore pressed blue jeans, a blue button down with no white undershirt underneath. His socks were blue and he had on brown penny loafers.
Bruce Danner was either gay or a Jew from Montreal-it was hard to know which since they are often confused, but I required him to turn to the side and check his profile to know which.
“Wow, Those are beautiful!” He said turning his head to look at the stained glass on our bathroom window.”
Montreal Jew.
“Should we get started?” He asked. We sat down in our dining room.
“Hey, look at this. This lesbian I went to Sarah Lawrence College with is now marrying a guy. A Jewish guy. And a doctor. Wow. She totally scored.” I am going through the Wedding Announcements in the New York Times. Le Bruce is not amused.
“Natalie,” he says. “Aren’t you interested in what your kitchen is going to look like. Doesn’t this mean something to you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“Because you cook. And once I create a nice kitchen for you, you will have a nice place to cook.”
“I don’t cook.”
“What do you mean you don’t cook.”
“I don’t cook. I hate it actually. Rob does most of the cooking.“
Le Bruce looked confused. “Rob, I thought you were a lawyer.”
“Yes, he’s a lawyer that cooks. The two are not mutually exclusive.”
“ Enough. Nat, remember last night. Remember what you promised.”
“Ohhhhh Kayyyy,” I whined.
Bruce opened up his man-purse and took out an Excel spreadsheet.
“You know how everyone complains about renovations..how they take too long and go over budget, yada yada.”
“We know.” We responded in unison.
“Well, let me introduce you to SmartBuild
Thursday, October 8, 2009
Renovating the Winter's Hut: A Saga in 16 week parts
Abandon every hope, ye who enter here
“My husband and I don’t renovate.” Stacy said in the changing room of the JCC after spin class.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because our marriage couldn’t take it.” She said matter of factly.
“After we gutted our house, I went into labour 3 weeks early. The doctor said it was because of the stress.” Tina added. “I was trying to breastfeed and talk to the painters at the same time.”
“Rob wants a dream kitchen. Better than a dream girl.
“Have you tried telling him that you will commit to reaching the national average of number of times having sex per week if he forgets the whole thing? asked Stacey.
“Have you told him that you won’t have sex if goes ahead?” giggled Tina.
“It’s that bad, eh?” I asked knowing the answer.
“It’s worse.” They said in unison.
“You see, “ said Monique-our fabulous French designer. “You see…you will put ze new wall here and the table it will go ici and on it you will put ze champagne so that you can be romantic at night.”
Rob just looked at me. I knew that he was ready to scream.
“OK, Monique. That sounds fantastique. We’ll be in touch.” I said showing her la porte.
“I can’t….” Rob started.
“I know, I know. We’ll fire her tomorrow.”
After Monique came Cowboy Nigel.
“Would you like to see some plans before you tell us you can do the work?” Rob asked.
“Don’t need no plans. Nigel been doing this shit for 30 years. Plans are for pussies, you get me. We’ll just move this wall here, put the table here, put up some cupboards here and move the fridge. Sis boom bah… designer kitchen!!
“How much do you think that will cost?” I asked.
“Hard to say, miss, hard to say. Can’t know until you start..old house like yours going to have surprises.”
“OK,” Rob sighed. “We’ll be in touch.”
After Nigel left, Rob sat down sadly.
“I’m 39 years old. I spend most of my day at a job dealing with assholes and sosnovitches. All I ask is to come home to a nice kitchen. I want enough prep space so that I can properly rub my meat and then I want a space designated for my meat to rest. And then I need somewhere to unpack my groceries and then I need a dishwasher that works for left handed people...”
I patted his shoulder. “If they can put a man on the moon, they can make you a kitchen.”
He looked up. “Maybe we should just move to...”
“Nuh Uh Uh. I’m not moving to Winnipeg. Not for anything, not even a big kitchen.”
“But we could have a kitchen the size of this entire main floor. I could bring home an entire pig and roast it in my restaurant-sized oven. I could smoke an entire brisket...a brisket Nat. We could eat it for weeks. And....” he paused for a minute. “I could learn how to bake. I could bake challah to go with the roast pig and we could eat it for Shabbat dinner....”
I have to admit that I did allow the thought to cross my mind, but once it had crossed, I dismissed it forever.
“Not happening.” I kissed his head and left for work. He sat at the two crates which served as our table with his head in his hands. Just as I closed the door, I heard him mutter, Winnipeg...kitchen....Winnipeg...kitchen.
“My husband and I don’t renovate.” Stacy said in the changing room of the JCC after spin class.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because our marriage couldn’t take it.” She said matter of factly.
“After we gutted our house, I went into labour 3 weeks early. The doctor said it was because of the stress.” Tina added. “I was trying to breastfeed and talk to the painters at the same time.”
“Rob wants a dream kitchen. Better than a dream girl.
“Have you tried telling him that you will commit to reaching the national average of number of times having sex per week if he forgets the whole thing? asked Stacey.
“Have you told him that you won’t have sex if goes ahead?” giggled Tina.
“It’s that bad, eh?” I asked knowing the answer.
“It’s worse.” They said in unison.
“You see, “ said Monique-our fabulous French designer. “You see…you will put ze new wall here and the table it will go ici and on it you will put ze champagne so that you can be romantic at night.”
Rob just looked at me. I knew that he was ready to scream.
“OK, Monique. That sounds fantastique. We’ll be in touch.” I said showing her la porte.
“I can’t….” Rob started.
“I know, I know. We’ll fire her tomorrow.”
After Monique came Cowboy Nigel.
“Would you like to see some plans before you tell us you can do the work?” Rob asked.
“Don’t need no plans. Nigel been doing this shit for 30 years. Plans are for pussies, you get me. We’ll just move this wall here, put the table here, put up some cupboards here and move the fridge. Sis boom bah… designer kitchen!!
“How much do you think that will cost?” I asked.
“Hard to say, miss, hard to say. Can’t know until you start..old house like yours going to have surprises.”
“OK,” Rob sighed. “We’ll be in touch.”
After Nigel left, Rob sat down sadly.
“I’m 39 years old. I spend most of my day at a job dealing with assholes and sosnovitches. All I ask is to come home to a nice kitchen. I want enough prep space so that I can properly rub my meat and then I want a space designated for my meat to rest. And then I need somewhere to unpack my groceries and then I need a dishwasher that works for left handed people...”
I patted his shoulder. “If they can put a man on the moon, they can make you a kitchen.”
He looked up. “Maybe we should just move to...”
“Nuh Uh Uh. I’m not moving to Winnipeg. Not for anything, not even a big kitchen.”
“But we could have a kitchen the size of this entire main floor. I could bring home an entire pig and roast it in my restaurant-sized oven. I could smoke an entire brisket...a brisket Nat. We could eat it for weeks. And....” he paused for a minute. “I could learn how to bake. I could bake challah to go with the roast pig and we could eat it for Shabbat dinner....”
I have to admit that I did allow the thought to cross my mind, but once it had crossed, I dismissed it forever.
“Not happening.” I kissed his head and left for work. He sat at the two crates which served as our table with his head in his hands. Just as I closed the door, I heard him mutter, Winnipeg...kitchen....Winnipeg...kitchen.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Scene #5: Jewish Day School - The Musical
When Karen Blatt was 17 years old, she received a very unpleasant letter in the mail. Despite her 4.01 average from a prestigious New York City Jewish Day School, a brief stint in the New York Philharmonic at age 10 as a solo flautist, and a top ten national ranking in trampoline, Karen did not get into Princeton. Her Baba and Zaida had sweat blood on the Lower East Side to get her father into Princeton. Her Bubby and Tata had sweat blood on the Lower West Side to get her mother into Princeton. Her brothers had gone to Princeton but Karen...Karen was going to have to make do with Yale. She vowed that day that any offspring that sprung from her loins would go to Princeton.
This was the song she sung to herself as she dropped off 3-year old Tali to Grade 2 and 6-year old Tal to Grade 7, at that very same Jewish Day School.
(Karen dressed in black pants with an orange Princeton hoodie comes to the centre of the darkened stage. Mournfully, with her guitar, she sings to the tune of Edelweiss):
Princeton
Princeton
Every morning you taunt me
No P-ton orange and black, only Yale blue and white
Why oh why did you reject me?
Please Ha-Shem, let my children go
Go and succeed forever
Princeton, Princeton
Accept my children early decision
This was the song she sung to herself as she dropped off 3-year old Tali to Grade 2 and 6-year old Tal to Grade 7, at that very same Jewish Day School.
(Karen dressed in black pants with an orange Princeton hoodie comes to the centre of the darkened stage. Mournfully, with her guitar, she sings to the tune of Edelweiss):
Princeton
Princeton
Every morning you taunt me
No P-ton orange and black, only Yale blue and white
Why oh why did you reject me?
Please Ha-Shem, let my children go
Go and succeed forever
Princeton, Princeton
Accept my children early decision
Monday, July 13, 2009
Oxford University Blues: A tale of madness, molotov cocktails, and Hugh Laurie
STRIP! Commanded the former captain of the Israeli Defense Force.
NO! said the composed red-headed female whose head came up to the captain’s underarm.
A scene from The Unforgettable Lightness of Being. No. This is the second floor bedroom in the rented 2-floor apartment of my Oxford University tutor.
STRIP!
"What part of “no” don’t you understand!"
I am standing on his bed wearing the robes that we have to wear when we meet with our tutors. It’s hot and I’m not wearing a whole lot underneath. But in my left hand, where in the past baseballs used to nestle before I threw them at the plate in junior high, and where the in future my pink taped hockey stick would rest, poised to be thrown at the head of this former captain of the Israeli Defense Force was a glass Coke bottle with a gasoline-soaked rag stuffed halfway through. In my right hand a match.
STRIP!
FUCKING ISRAELI PIG!!! And I hurled the bottle.
“Nice catch.” I said.
“Nice throw.” He looked impressed.
“Thanks. I’m not sure I got the rag in properly. It kind of slipped out as I let the bottle go.”
“Yes. I noticed. More work. Come, let’s go back to the kitchen and make again. Damn. No more Coke. Ok. Next week, I go to the store and we get more bottles. Go now. It is almost the Sabbath. Good Shabbes. And next week, you wear a t-shirt and short pants under your robe. Today, it opened a bit and I can’t teach you properly when I can see your boobies. You understand, yes?”
“Nachon. I gotcha. See ya, Zevvy”
“Shalom, my little red firecracker.”
__________________________
I had decided to do my third year abroad at Oxford University because my academic advisor at Sarah Lawrence College told me that having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life. Zev Levi was the tutor assigned to teach me Middle East politics at renowned St. Antony’s College where, it was rumoured, Salmon Rushdie stayed in secret. Actually, and I’m sorry if I’m about to relate a top-notch security secret, but we all knew when he was there because the road leading out from St. Antony’s was totally blocked and access to the only decent pizza restaurant in the whole city denied.
After my tutorial, I met my roommates, the Christines, at the King’s Arms pub.
“Your hands stink,” said Christine.
“Yeah, Nat. They are really bad today. How many did he make you prepare,” said the other Christine.
“Not many. But I kept spilling the gasoline all over myself and then the whole rag got soaked and you can’t have it all soaked because then it burns too quickly and the bottle will blow up in your face. Or so he tells me.”
“Aren’t you worried about your grades? I mean, what’s he going to evaluate you on? Throwing ability?”
“He said not to worry about studying. He’s giving me firsts for the year and told his buddy at Princeton to give me a scholarship for graduate school.”
“Wow, said the Christines in unison. “That’s insane. Didn’tcha think you were going to work this year, being at Oxford at all.”
“One would have thought. Anyway, next week, he is taking me behind Magdalen College to practice shooting.”
“That’s Maudlin you fucking Yankee arseholes,” said the greasy PPE students in unison at the next table.
“Listen Commander Fucknuts, first of all, I’m Canadian, eh. And where I come from: M A G D A L E N E is pronounced Magdelen, like Jesus’ fucking mother, you feel me?
I’ve had 8 Pimms and Lemonade and need to go home to sleep it off.
“Time to go play dodge the barf.” sighed Christine.
We walk outside the pub and start the 30 minute walk home in the rain and wind. Puddles of vomit from the evening’s afternoon slosh around the gutters. I can’t even count the times I’ve stepped in it and had to air my shoes out for days after. Zevvy told me that such problems would be alleviated if I stopped going to bars. At these times, I would pretend to go spontaneously deaf.
_____________________________
“You know what collagen is?”
“Nope.”
“You’re a nice rich Jewish girl from New York City and you don’t know what collagen is?”
“I’m a nice middle class Jewish girl from suburban Toronto and I don’t know what collagen is.”
“Collagen is this shit that when the doctor puts it into your boobies they don’t move like you were 16 again. “
“My boobies moved when I was 16. They have never not moved. This is the cross I must bear.”
“OK. Fingerhut. I am going to put collagen in your fingers so that they will stop shaking like a little baby girl.”
“ I just had too much coffee, Zevvy. Just a coffee high.”
“You can’t be high and be in the IDF, Fingerhut.”
“I’m not going into the IDF. I’m just here for a year because my academic advisor thought having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life.”
“I know, I know this. You keep saying. But you have much to learn, much much to learn. And so little time. It’s MIchaelmas already, we only have Trinity term and then you leave my tutelage.”
I start doing rapid finger exercises to try and excise the caffeine. At no point do I question Zevvy’s sanity nor my own.
“OK. Pass me the rifle.” He holds it out in front of him. 20 years later, my very cute hockey coach would do the same thing with a hockey stick.
I grab the long part with my left hand and put my right hand on the trigger.” “Fingerhut! Get your fucking hands off the fucking trigger!”
“Why? Is this thing loaded?” I drop it on the muddy ground.
“Of course it’s loaded. All guns are loaded. What is the purpose of a gun if it is not loaded. You see, Fingerhut, this is why I asked for a male exchange student but your advisor in New York said you were the closest thing they had. Now pick up the rifle and clean it off. Show it the same respect as your boyfriend’s shlong.”
Only now do I realize the absurdity of the moment. But then the moment passes. I gingerly pick up the rifle and wipe it down with my sleeve.
“Good. Now. You hold it like so and aim at something moving. Then you will wait until it stops moving and that is when you push on the trigger.”
“Wait a second. If it’s moving, that means it is living. If I shoot , I’ll kill it.”
Zevvy sat down. He put his greying head in his hands. “Rachmunis, Ha-Shem, give me mercy”
I sat down next to him. “I’m sorry Zevvy. I’m just not cut out for this kind of work.”
“Ok Fingerhut. I guess this is the time when I explain you what I need.” He took a deep breath.
“Before I came to Oxford to be your tutor, I was student Zevvy at Cambridge? You’ve heard of it yes all the way in New York? And I wanted to row for the university team. I was quite good, you know. I have big hands, big something else too, but that is not for you to know. Anyways, I rowed nicely for my college but I had this bigger aspiration and so I tried out for the big team. I did very good that day. My team—it won every race, but it came down to me and this silly English funny boy named Hugh and his last name was like a girl I slept with last week.
“HUGH LAURIE!!! Like A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Hugh Laurie. Like Bertie Wooster, Hugh Laurie. I FUCKING LOVE HUGH LAURIE.”
Zevvy grabbed the gun and pointed it between my eyes. “You never say that again.” Ever. I hear it, I blow your head off.”
You know what was really strange about those few seconds. I didn’t defecate all over myself. I had often read that this was something people did when they had a gun pointed at them.
“OK Zevvy. I’ll keep that to myself.”
“Anyways, the Hugh had a father who was an Olympic rower and so they picked the son over me. Over me. Captain Zev Levi of the Israeli Defense Forces. Unbelievable." Zevvi was reliving the moment. I let it wash over him yet again.
“OK, Fingerhut. So I want you to make the Cambridge boat team lose at the big race at the end of term.”
“You want me to shoot the Cambridge rowing team?”
Zevvi paused for a minute. He was living that possible moment. I let it wash over him.
“No. I don’t think they need to die. But they do need to lose. They need humiliation.”
Well thank God for that. Humiliation I could do.
“So what’s the plan, Zevvi.”
“I want you to throw a Moly into the river while the race is on.”
“You want me to stand on the bank of the river, make a Molotov Cocktail on the spot, and throw it into the Thames in the middle of the Oxford/Cambridge regatta?”
“Nachon. I knew you were a smart girl.” He patted my head.
“Zevvi. Forgive me. This does not sound like the sound plan of a former Captain in the IDF.”
“Never former, always still a Captain. Till death, I will be Captain Zev Levi.”
“Zevvy. I can barely make the cocktail in your kitchen, let alone behind some trees near the river.”
“Not behind the trees. They will see your fiery head. You must be in the trees. That is where you make the Moly.”
I need to meet the Christines in 5 minutes and have no time to argue.
“OK, Zevvy. OK. If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.”
“Good. Now we must practice.”
“No, now I must drink. Good bye, Zevvy. Shalom. Next week, we practice.”
Do you remember the training sequence in Rocky One? When Rocky runs all around Philly and then punches raw meat. This I did for Zev Levi. The children of Oxford followed me and people lined the main roads cheering me on. We told them that I was going to run across Britain like Terry Fox ran across Canada to raise money for cancer. “Whose Terry Fox?”, they would ask. “A hero.” I would respond, and that was good enough for them. After my run and meat punching, we would go back to Zev’s kitchen. There were 18 bottles lined up, with 18 rags, and a medium size jug of gasoline. Zevvy would stand behind me with a stop watch as I prepared Molotov Cocktail after Molotov Cocktail. Within weeks, I had 10 cocktails prepared in under 3 minutes. The Christines were ready to call the Guiness Book of World Records but I didn’t think that would be good PR for my career.
After I had nailed down the prep, I spent an entire week throwing. And when I say an entire week, I mean we didn’t stop. The Christines came by three times a day to feed chips into my mouth and to spoon Knorrs Chicken Noodle soup down my throat. By Thursday, Zevvy needed an IV which he did by himself without missing a catch. The week before I had decided I was Shomer Shabbes, so we did stop on Friday evening at sundown.
Full of pride and accomplishment, I slept soundly the night before the big boatrace, probably more soundly that the nervous rowers who had no idea what was in store for them.
I rose late on that Sunday morning, had my usual breakfast of McVitties chocolate biscuits and waited for Zevvy. We walked toward the Oxford Rowing Team’s clubhouse. As we neared, I saw the pasty white complexions of the rowers who despite all logical to the contrary remained pasty despite spending so many hours outside. The Cambridge men’s team was stretching nearby. They were also pasty and equally unattractive. I harboured no sympathy toward any of them which was a necessary precondition to deliver successfully on the task before me.
“OK. Fingerhut. You see that tree. The one with lots and lots of brown leaves. Yes, you go up there. It will camouflage your ginger top. Maher, Maher. Go quickly. You’ll see the steps that others have carved before you.”
“You’ve tried this before?”
Zevvy sighed. “You are the 13th to try this. 12 others before you have fallen. Some to their deaths, some burned beyond recognition. Perhaps you shall succeed. Perhaps my pain will be sated at long last.”
“Failure is not an option.” I declared.
“You will look nice in a Princeton cap and gown.” Zevvy looked at me for a minute. “I’m going home. If you succeed, I’ll know. Good luck.” And with that, he was gone.
I scampered up the tree in the time it takes to make an Americano and nestled into a previously used nook. There, I assembled the cocktail in the time it takes to make another Americano. Zevvy and I thought having a back-up in case something happened to the first was a good plan and so within minutes and I had two Israeli Army grade Molotov Cocktails.
If my mother could see me now, she’d be damn proud.
The rowers took their positions in their boats.
“Up at the catch," yelped the coxens. “And row.”
As soon as the Cambridge eight passed the bridge about 100 metres away from my tree, I picked up one of the cocktails, lit it, counted to 10 and tossed.
A beautiful flaming Coke bottle flew through the air, hit the rock where the front oarsman had just passed and exploded perfectly.
They kept rowing-a half a boat length ahead of Oxford.
I threw the second one. Again, it arced expertly through the soggy grey of English spring and exploded off the bridge where the middle of the boat was passing.
They kept rowing-a full boat length ahead of Oxford.
The finish line was in sight. I had seconds to defend the honour of Captain Zev Levi. And I did, not by kitchen-made Molotov cocktails, not by AK-47s, but by the one sure thing that will stop any male in his tracks: a white, wet, t-shirt.
This I sustained by nailing a beautiful forward dive in the pike position out of the tree and into the Thames landing just before the finish line. The Cambridge coxen screamed: “let it run” which makes no intuitive sense since it translates to Stop. The stern beckoned me to grab onto his oar and even though I could beat Michael Phelps on any given day in any given week as long as its not the week where I am menstruating, I flailed helplessly in the river. As the Cambridge team debated what to do with me, the Oxford team rowed into the finish line. A huge cheer went up on both sides of the river. I decided I had better make myself scarce. I pulled a Denis Pankratov and swam 25m underwater surfacing past the crowds. I jumped out of the river and into the Christines who had been watching the whole spectacle.
“You better tell him that you would look better in Harvard Crimson.” said Christine patting my hair dry with a towel.
“Yeah, said Christine. That might have even deserved full scholarship to Yale Law School.”
That evening as I sat down to my regular dinner of Knorr Chicken Soup, Zevvy stopped by.
“Very impressive, Fingerhut. Not exactly the way of the IDF, but effective. I give you almost top marks. He patted my head. “I can finally sleep knowing my honour was defended by a pair of New York Knockers. Like the basketball team, nachon.”
“Nachon, Zevvy, Nachon.”
“Layla Tov,Good night, my little wet t-shirt with red hair.” He chuckled.
“Night, Zevvy.”
A few weeks later, I received a full scholarship to Princeton and a welcome note from the head of their international security studies program. I clutched this in my hand as I got on the plane back to Toronto and contemplated my future.
NO! said the composed red-headed female whose head came up to the captain’s underarm.
A scene from The Unforgettable Lightness of Being. No. This is the second floor bedroom in the rented 2-floor apartment of my Oxford University tutor.
STRIP!
"What part of “no” don’t you understand!"
I am standing on his bed wearing the robes that we have to wear when we meet with our tutors. It’s hot and I’m not wearing a whole lot underneath. But in my left hand, where in the past baseballs used to nestle before I threw them at the plate in junior high, and where the in future my pink taped hockey stick would rest, poised to be thrown at the head of this former captain of the Israeli Defense Force was a glass Coke bottle with a gasoline-soaked rag stuffed halfway through. In my right hand a match.
STRIP!
FUCKING ISRAELI PIG!!! And I hurled the bottle.
“Nice catch.” I said.
“Nice throw.” He looked impressed.
“Thanks. I’m not sure I got the rag in properly. It kind of slipped out as I let the bottle go.”
“Yes. I noticed. More work. Come, let’s go back to the kitchen and make again. Damn. No more Coke. Ok. Next week, I go to the store and we get more bottles. Go now. It is almost the Sabbath. Good Shabbes. And next week, you wear a t-shirt and short pants under your robe. Today, it opened a bit and I can’t teach you properly when I can see your boobies. You understand, yes?”
“Nachon. I gotcha. See ya, Zevvy”
“Shalom, my little red firecracker.”
__________________________
I had decided to do my third year abroad at Oxford University because my academic advisor at Sarah Lawrence College told me that having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life. Zev Levi was the tutor assigned to teach me Middle East politics at renowned St. Antony’s College where, it was rumoured, Salmon Rushdie stayed in secret. Actually, and I’m sorry if I’m about to relate a top-notch security secret, but we all knew when he was there because the road leading out from St. Antony’s was totally blocked and access to the only decent pizza restaurant in the whole city denied.
After my tutorial, I met my roommates, the Christines, at the King’s Arms pub.
“Your hands stink,” said Christine.
“Yeah, Nat. They are really bad today. How many did he make you prepare,” said the other Christine.
“Not many. But I kept spilling the gasoline all over myself and then the whole rag got soaked and you can’t have it all soaked because then it burns too quickly and the bottle will blow up in your face. Or so he tells me.”
“Aren’t you worried about your grades? I mean, what’s he going to evaluate you on? Throwing ability?”
“He said not to worry about studying. He’s giving me firsts for the year and told his buddy at Princeton to give me a scholarship for graduate school.”
“Wow, said the Christines in unison. “That’s insane. Didn’tcha think you were going to work this year, being at Oxford at all.”
“One would have thought. Anyway, next week, he is taking me behind Magdalen College to practice shooting.”
“That’s Maudlin you fucking Yankee arseholes,” said the greasy PPE students in unison at the next table.
“Listen Commander Fucknuts, first of all, I’m Canadian, eh. And where I come from: M A G D A L E N E is pronounced Magdelen, like Jesus’ fucking mother, you feel me?
I’ve had 8 Pimms and Lemonade and need to go home to sleep it off.
“Time to go play dodge the barf.” sighed Christine.
We walk outside the pub and start the 30 minute walk home in the rain and wind. Puddles of vomit from the evening’s afternoon slosh around the gutters. I can’t even count the times I’ve stepped in it and had to air my shoes out for days after. Zevvy told me that such problems would be alleviated if I stopped going to bars. At these times, I would pretend to go spontaneously deaf.
_____________________________
“You know what collagen is?”
“Nope.”
“You’re a nice rich Jewish girl from New York City and you don’t know what collagen is?”
“I’m a nice middle class Jewish girl from suburban Toronto and I don’t know what collagen is.”
“Collagen is this shit that when the doctor puts it into your boobies they don’t move like you were 16 again. “
“My boobies moved when I was 16. They have never not moved. This is the cross I must bear.”
“OK. Fingerhut. I am going to put collagen in your fingers so that they will stop shaking like a little baby girl.”
“ I just had too much coffee, Zevvy. Just a coffee high.”
“You can’t be high and be in the IDF, Fingerhut.”
“I’m not going into the IDF. I’m just here for a year because my academic advisor thought having Oxford on my resume would give me an advantage in life.”
“I know, I know this. You keep saying. But you have much to learn, much much to learn. And so little time. It’s MIchaelmas already, we only have Trinity term and then you leave my tutelage.”
I start doing rapid finger exercises to try and excise the caffeine. At no point do I question Zevvy’s sanity nor my own.
“OK. Pass me the rifle.” He holds it out in front of him. 20 years later, my very cute hockey coach would do the same thing with a hockey stick.
I grab the long part with my left hand and put my right hand on the trigger.” “Fingerhut! Get your fucking hands off the fucking trigger!”
“Why? Is this thing loaded?” I drop it on the muddy ground.
“Of course it’s loaded. All guns are loaded. What is the purpose of a gun if it is not loaded. You see, Fingerhut, this is why I asked for a male exchange student but your advisor in New York said you were the closest thing they had. Now pick up the rifle and clean it off. Show it the same respect as your boyfriend’s shlong.”
Only now do I realize the absurdity of the moment. But then the moment passes. I gingerly pick up the rifle and wipe it down with my sleeve.
“Good. Now. You hold it like so and aim at something moving. Then you will wait until it stops moving and that is when you push on the trigger.”
“Wait a second. If it’s moving, that means it is living. If I shoot , I’ll kill it.”
Zevvy sat down. He put his greying head in his hands. “Rachmunis, Ha-Shem, give me mercy”
I sat down next to him. “I’m sorry Zevvy. I’m just not cut out for this kind of work.”
“Ok Fingerhut. I guess this is the time when I explain you what I need.” He took a deep breath.
“Before I came to Oxford to be your tutor, I was student Zevvy at Cambridge? You’ve heard of it yes all the way in New York? And I wanted to row for the university team. I was quite good, you know. I have big hands, big something else too, but that is not for you to know. Anyways, I rowed nicely for my college but I had this bigger aspiration and so I tried out for the big team. I did very good that day. My team—it won every race, but it came down to me and this silly English funny boy named Hugh and his last name was like a girl I slept with last week.
“HUGH LAURIE!!! Like A Bit of Fry and Laurie, Hugh Laurie. Like Bertie Wooster, Hugh Laurie. I FUCKING LOVE HUGH LAURIE.”
Zevvy grabbed the gun and pointed it between my eyes. “You never say that again.” Ever. I hear it, I blow your head off.”
You know what was really strange about those few seconds. I didn’t defecate all over myself. I had often read that this was something people did when they had a gun pointed at them.
“OK Zevvy. I’ll keep that to myself.”
“Anyways, the Hugh had a father who was an Olympic rower and so they picked the son over me. Over me. Captain Zev Levi of the Israeli Defense Forces. Unbelievable." Zevvi was reliving the moment. I let it wash over him yet again.
“OK, Fingerhut. So I want you to make the Cambridge boat team lose at the big race at the end of term.”
“You want me to shoot the Cambridge rowing team?”
Zevvi paused for a minute. He was living that possible moment. I let it wash over him.
“No. I don’t think they need to die. But they do need to lose. They need humiliation.”
Well thank God for that. Humiliation I could do.
“So what’s the plan, Zevvi.”
“I want you to throw a Moly into the river while the race is on.”
“You want me to stand on the bank of the river, make a Molotov Cocktail on the spot, and throw it into the Thames in the middle of the Oxford/Cambridge regatta?”
“Nachon. I knew you were a smart girl.” He patted my head.
“Zevvi. Forgive me. This does not sound like the sound plan of a former Captain in the IDF.”
“Never former, always still a Captain. Till death, I will be Captain Zev Levi.”
“Zevvy. I can barely make the cocktail in your kitchen, let alone behind some trees near the river.”
“Not behind the trees. They will see your fiery head. You must be in the trees. That is where you make the Moly.”
I need to meet the Christines in 5 minutes and have no time to argue.
“OK, Zevvy. OK. If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad.”
“Good. Now we must practice.”
“No, now I must drink. Good bye, Zevvy. Shalom. Next week, we practice.”
Do you remember the training sequence in Rocky One? When Rocky runs all around Philly and then punches raw meat. This I did for Zev Levi. The children of Oxford followed me and people lined the main roads cheering me on. We told them that I was going to run across Britain like Terry Fox ran across Canada to raise money for cancer. “Whose Terry Fox?”, they would ask. “A hero.” I would respond, and that was good enough for them. After my run and meat punching, we would go back to Zev’s kitchen. There were 18 bottles lined up, with 18 rags, and a medium size jug of gasoline. Zevvy would stand behind me with a stop watch as I prepared Molotov Cocktail after Molotov Cocktail. Within weeks, I had 10 cocktails prepared in under 3 minutes. The Christines were ready to call the Guiness Book of World Records but I didn’t think that would be good PR for my career.
After I had nailed down the prep, I spent an entire week throwing. And when I say an entire week, I mean we didn’t stop. The Christines came by three times a day to feed chips into my mouth and to spoon Knorrs Chicken Noodle soup down my throat. By Thursday, Zevvy needed an IV which he did by himself without missing a catch. The week before I had decided I was Shomer Shabbes, so we did stop on Friday evening at sundown.
Full of pride and accomplishment, I slept soundly the night before the big boatrace, probably more soundly that the nervous rowers who had no idea what was in store for them.
I rose late on that Sunday morning, had my usual breakfast of McVitties chocolate biscuits and waited for Zevvy. We walked toward the Oxford Rowing Team’s clubhouse. As we neared, I saw the pasty white complexions of the rowers who despite all logical to the contrary remained pasty despite spending so many hours outside. The Cambridge men’s team was stretching nearby. They were also pasty and equally unattractive. I harboured no sympathy toward any of them which was a necessary precondition to deliver successfully on the task before me.
“OK. Fingerhut. You see that tree. The one with lots and lots of brown leaves. Yes, you go up there. It will camouflage your ginger top. Maher, Maher. Go quickly. You’ll see the steps that others have carved before you.”
“You’ve tried this before?”
Zevvy sighed. “You are the 13th to try this. 12 others before you have fallen. Some to their deaths, some burned beyond recognition. Perhaps you shall succeed. Perhaps my pain will be sated at long last.”
“Failure is not an option.” I declared.
“You will look nice in a Princeton cap and gown.” Zevvy looked at me for a minute. “I’m going home. If you succeed, I’ll know. Good luck.” And with that, he was gone.
I scampered up the tree in the time it takes to make an Americano and nestled into a previously used nook. There, I assembled the cocktail in the time it takes to make another Americano. Zevvy and I thought having a back-up in case something happened to the first was a good plan and so within minutes and I had two Israeli Army grade Molotov Cocktails.
If my mother could see me now, she’d be damn proud.
The rowers took their positions in their boats.
“Up at the catch," yelped the coxens. “And row.”
As soon as the Cambridge eight passed the bridge about 100 metres away from my tree, I picked up one of the cocktails, lit it, counted to 10 and tossed.
A beautiful flaming Coke bottle flew through the air, hit the rock where the front oarsman had just passed and exploded perfectly.
They kept rowing-a half a boat length ahead of Oxford.
I threw the second one. Again, it arced expertly through the soggy grey of English spring and exploded off the bridge where the middle of the boat was passing.
They kept rowing-a full boat length ahead of Oxford.
The finish line was in sight. I had seconds to defend the honour of Captain Zev Levi. And I did, not by kitchen-made Molotov cocktails, not by AK-47s, but by the one sure thing that will stop any male in his tracks: a white, wet, t-shirt.
This I sustained by nailing a beautiful forward dive in the pike position out of the tree and into the Thames landing just before the finish line. The Cambridge coxen screamed: “let it run” which makes no intuitive sense since it translates to Stop. The stern beckoned me to grab onto his oar and even though I could beat Michael Phelps on any given day in any given week as long as its not the week where I am menstruating, I flailed helplessly in the river. As the Cambridge team debated what to do with me, the Oxford team rowed into the finish line. A huge cheer went up on both sides of the river. I decided I had better make myself scarce. I pulled a Denis Pankratov and swam 25m underwater surfacing past the crowds. I jumped out of the river and into the Christines who had been watching the whole spectacle.
“You better tell him that you would look better in Harvard Crimson.” said Christine patting my hair dry with a towel.
“Yeah, said Christine. That might have even deserved full scholarship to Yale Law School.”
That evening as I sat down to my regular dinner of Knorr Chicken Soup, Zevvy stopped by.
“Very impressive, Fingerhut. Not exactly the way of the IDF, but effective. I give you almost top marks. He patted my head. “I can finally sleep knowing my honour was defended by a pair of New York Knockers. Like the basketball team, nachon.”
“Nachon, Zevvy, Nachon.”
“Layla Tov,Good night, my little wet t-shirt with red hair.” He chuckled.
“Night, Zevvy.”
A few weeks later, I received a full scholarship to Princeton and a welcome note from the head of their international security studies program. I clutched this in my hand as I got on the plane back to Toronto and contemplated my future.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)