Skip to primary content

News | Sep 10 2002

Saturday afternoon, after the mover guy left, I stood in the chaos of my new apartment, boxes everywhere, my desk in pieces in the corner, and said to no one, “I want to go home now.” Home being the place I left behind.

I’m in a bad way. On Sunday Rachel came over to see my new apartment, and we ended up taking a nap together. I love Rachel. Nine days ago I broke up with Rachel. After our nap I walked her to the subway.

Along the way we were approached every hundred feet or so by young Jewish men, often in groups of five or more, dressed in traditional black and white garb. First they would ask if I was Jewish (they pretty much ignored Rachel), and then the leader of the group would offer to have me blow the shofar (a bugle-like thing made from the horn of a lamb… I think). After the first time, Rachel explained what was happening. These men were members of the Lubavitch movement, a proselytizing Hasidic sect. They consider it a mitzpah (a good deed) to help Jews blow the shofar on Rosh Hashanah. Thing is, I don’t even know what Rosh Hashanah is. My mother is Jewish, which by Jewish law makes me a Jew, but it might as well make me a squid for all I have ever cared.

Also—and you will need to know this to understand what is to follow—I despise proselytizers. When a Jesus fanatic starts up on the subway, I feel the kind of rage one normally reserves for the rapists of one’s loved ones.

Rachel and I were standing outside the subway exit, saying goodbye. We had just hugged, holding each other as tightly as possible. Two Lubavitcher’s approached from behind Rachel. “Are you Jew?” asked the older. “Fuck off,” I said.

“That’s pretty blunt,” he said.

“I meant it to be blunt. Now fuck off.”

“What are you going to do if I don’t, hit me?”

He seemed surprisingly calm as he said this.

“Yes, stand here another ten seconds and I’ll beat the fuck out of you.”

I was dead serious. The whole thing was insane. I started counting in my head.

“Move on,” I said.

“Now,” I said.

They left on the count of eight.

Earlier, pre-nap, Rachel demonstrated the advantages of the new, extra-long phone cord she had convinced me to buy. Taking the phone from my desk, she sat in my green chair six feet away and pretended to be talking into it. “Hi, Michael, nice to hear from you. Oh, so you’ve decided you do want to have a baby with me. That’s fabulous news!”

Laughing, I grabbed the phone from her and sat where she had sat. I put on a happy voice, held the phone to my ear, and said, “Wow, Rache, I can’t believe you’re getting married. And after just three days of looking! See, I told you it would work out.”