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Authors: Wayne Hoffman

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #General, #Jewish Men, #Male Friendship, #Rabbis, #Jewish, #Religion, #Jewish Gay Men, #Judaism

Sweet Like Sugar (18 page)

BOOK: Sweet Like Sugar
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No, I thought, I don't want to deal with Frankie at all. Not right now and not again.
But just because I'd miss the party didn't mean I couldn't do something else.
I called Phil, who'd told me about a Halloween party in a friend's apartment downtown, a party I'd already told him I couldn't attend. I hadn't seen him much since I'd been dating Frankie; I hadn't been spending much time at bars lately—and those times when I had been at bars, I'd usually been with Frankie, so Phil had begged off. Phil didn't like him. “I don't trust him, Benji,” he'd told me the night I introduced them. “He's bad news.” I was belatedly coming to the same conclusion. With Frankie out of the picture for the night, Halloween suddenly seemed like a perfect time to reconnect with Phil. Except that he wasn't answering his phone and I didn't know where the party was. I'd missed my chance.
I called Michelle on her cell phone, but she was out with Dan at a costume party. “We're Bill and Hillary Clinton!” she told me. “Who's who?” I asked. She giggled and, without asking what I was doing for Halloween, told me she'd see me in the morning.
I called my parents, but they were watching one of those
CSI
shows that they loved; they were already annoyed at having to answer the door for trick-or-treaters who couldn't wait for commercial breaks, and they sure didn't want to waste more time on the phone.
“I thought you were going to a party with your
friend,
” my mother said.
I hated how she used that word. My father would never have said it that way, so belittling. But I gritted my teeth rather than start an argument.
“That didn't work out,” I said.
I heard their doorbell ring.
“The party or the
friend?
”
That word again.
“Both.”
Their doorbell rang a second time. My mother shouted to my father, “Sid! Get the goddamn door! I'm on the phone!”
I guess he didn't move fast enough.
“Jesus Christ,” she grumbled, then called out in a forced cheerful voice, “I'm coming! Hold on!”
I could hear her put on her phoniest happy-mom act as she handed out goodies to the kids: “Oh, you're a very scary monster! And what a pretty little princess you are! I think you each deserve
two
pieces of candy for having such wonderful costumes!”
Then the kids left and she was back to her old self.
“Benji, are you still there?” she asked as she closed the door. “Go home already!”
Then she hung up.
I decided I'd just as soon stay at the office and get some more work done. Right after I lay down on my couch.
 
“You are so totally pathetic.”
This was Michelle's idea of sympathy. When she and Dan woke up and realized that I wasn't home, she assumed I'd had some fabulous night on the town, probably staying out till dawn with a bunch of queens in unbelievable costumes, really doing Halloween up right, before stumbling into the office hungover. She called me at work to hear stories about my amazing adventures.
She woke me up. I had fallen asleep on the couch—clothes on, shoes on, lights on—and my nap turned into an all-night affair. No trick. No treat. No miniature candy bars.
“I thought you were going to that party with Frankie,” she said.
I explained.
“Well, you did the right thing,” she said. “Your mom would be proud.”
“Yeah, that's what I was aiming for.”
“So what're you gonna do about Frankie?”
“I think that's done,” I said. Our professional dealings were over; his Paradise ad was already running in the local gay paper. And as much as I was attracted to him physically, it didn't seem like we were a good match after all.
“He sounds like a bit of a party animal for you,” Michelle said.
“And what am I, a librarian?”
“You're a nice Jewish boy from the suburbs,” she said.
“Hot,” I said flatly.
“It
is
hot. You're a great catch,” she said. “You just keep getting caught by the wrong guys.”
I clearly needed a change, a break from my dysfunctional routine: long hours working alone in my office, followed by frustrating dates with the wrong men.
The more I thought about Miami, the more it sounded like just what the doctor ordered—if I actually had a doctor who cared about my personal life. I could relax, catch up on my sleep, and even meet some new people. I'd heard stories about Miami's gay scene: fabulous beaches, fabulous bars, fabulous boys. Seemed like a good birthday present to me.
I e-mailed Phil for advice, since he'd been down there before. He e-mailed back within minutes, with the subject line: YES YES YES.
“Exactly what you need, Benji,” he wrote. “But don't wait for your birthday. Thanksgiving is the time to go. Check this out.”
He included a link to a website about the White Party—one of the biggest gay circuit parties in the country—that happened over Thanksgiving weekend. Thousands of men at some gorgeous mansion, with a bunch of celebrity appearances, and it was all a benefit for some local AIDS charities. Plus, a slew worth of
other
events had developed around the White Party, making that the ideal time to be down there.
I wrote back to Phil: “Looks incredible. But do you think it'd be fun to go alone?”
“Just because you go alone,” he replied, “doesn't mean you'll be alone for long.”
 
After work, I went to visit the rabbi.
He was sucking on a hard candy. I handed him a stack of mail, and when he put it on his coffee table, I noticed that he had a whole bowl of candy, surrounded by crumpled wrappers.
“Leftovers,” he said, “from Halloween.”
“I thought Jews didn't celebrate Halloween,” I said—although what I meant was Orthodox Jews.
“We don't,” he said—also meaning Orthodox Jews. “But Benji, not everybody is Jewish. And if my neighbors' children knock on my door on October thirty-first, what should I do? Read to them from the Talmud?”
I shrugged.
“It is not my holiday,” he said. “But giving a child a piece of candy is not the same as joining his church.”
He reached into the bowl and fished out a red sourball. He offered it to me; when I shook my head, he unwrapped it and popped it into his own mouth.
“Remember,” he said, nudging the sourball into his cheek, “we do not all share the same beliefs, but we must all learn to live together.”
I cocked my head at him. He was sounding downright progressive. I considered checking his forehead for fever.
“You sure you're not Reconstructionist?” I teased.
He laughed and rolled his eyes.
“Have you thought about Miami?” he asked.
I told him I'd decided to go over Thanksgiving, without explaining why.
He must have known that I'd accept, because the keys were already in his pocket.
He drew me a crude map on the back of an envelope and wrote down the condo's address. He explained where to park. He told me where he kept the sheets and towels. And he informed me where the nearest kosher market was.
“The condo is kosher, of course,” he said, stopping and giving me a questioning look over the top of his glasses.
“I know.”
“You know what this means?”
I did know. And I also knew that the rabbi would tolerate fewer broken rules than my mother.
“I grew up in a kosher house,” I said.
He seemed relieved.
In reality, I knew that it was a moot issue; I'd be eating out, and avoiding even the possibility of accidentally defiling the rabbi's dishes with
treyf
food.
And just as surely, I knew I'd be sleeping on the couch, to avoid the possibility of defiling the rabbi's bed with my
treyf
self, fresh from the gay bars mere blocks away.
CHAPTER 8
I
had to go shopping.
This was more important than work, at least for a few hours. If I was going to the White Party, I needed the right clothes.
I didn't own anything white, other than a few Hanes undershirts and a bunch of old sweatsocks. So I stepped away from my desk on a Saturday afternoon and hit the mall.
Michelle came with me. She was always happy to have an excuse to shop. And I knew she'd be brutally honest about what looked awful on me. That's what girlfriends are for.
“I can't believe you're staying in that old man's apartment,” she said as we searched for shirts at Old Navy.
“It's a very nice gesture,” I said, trying to convince myself as well as Michelle.
“Whatever,” she countered. “I'm not saying he's not nice. I'm just saying it's weird.”
“Look, it's a big weekend there. I'll probably be out most of the time. I'll just use the apartment to sleep.”
“Or maybe you'll find someone else's apartment to sleep in,” said Michelle, smirking.
“Not if I'm wearing this,” I said, putting a particularly hideous item back on the shelf.
“How about that?” she said, pointing to a simple white dress shirt. “Goes with everything, and you might actually wear it again after this week.”
“Nice, but too formal,” I said. “I'll be dancing, and sweating . . . ”
“Right,” she said.
I plucked a lightweight, short-sleeved button-down off the sale table and held it up in front of me. Michelle reached out and tugged at the shimmery fabric, which stretched.
“Too queeny,” she said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Oh, sorry to offend you,” she said sarcastically. “I mean it's too girly.”
“Too girly for what?”
“Too girly for
me,
and I
am
a girl,” she said. “And certainly too girly for you.”
I raised an eyebrow at her.
“Because you're so butch,” she deadpanned.
“Damn right,” I said, holding back a laugh.
“This is hopeless,” she said.
“Let's go to the Gap,” I said.
As we walked across the mall, Michelle nudged me with her elbow playfully. “You know, you haven't asked me what I'm doing for Thanksgiving,” she said.
“I figured you were going to Philly.”
“Nope.”
“There's no way your mom and dad are letting you skip a family holiday. Mine would have a cow. And yours are twice as bad.”
“Not if I have a good excuse,” she said.
I didn't have to ask what the excuse could possibly be, because Michelle was about to burst.
“I'm going to Long Island,” she said excitedly.
“What's on Long Island?”
“That's where Dan's from,” she said. “I'm going home with him.”
“To meet his parents?”
“Yup.”
“Sounds serious.”
“I know, right?” She sounded like she could hardly believe it herself.
“It's been, what, a year?”
“More than a year,” she said. “I've never been with a guy long enough to think about anniversaries.”
“Me, either,” I said. “Unless you're counting in dog years.”
“With the guys you've dated, dog years might make sense.”
“Real funny.”
“And I've never gotten to meet a guy's parents.”
“Except mine,” I said.
“That doesn't really count,” she said.
Michelle was uncharacteristically nervous about meeting Dan's parents, so she kept chattering about it while we checked out my options at the Gap. We had better luck there: I found a white oxford with gray accents, a white hooded sweatshirt, a white T-shirt with a small “Gap '07” logo on the chest, and a pair of white 501s. Michelle found a pair of boxer shorts with orange and red turkeys, which she bought for Dan. We were both good to go.
I hadn't seen Michelle much lately, so I decided to play hooky—if you can call taking a break on Saturday hooky. I asked if she wanted to get tickets to a movie; the cineplex was just across the parking lot.
“Oh, I'm sorry, Benji,” she said. “I'm already going to the movies tonight. With Dan.”
I was disappointed. Another Saturday night alone.
“That's okay,” I said, probably not concealing my feelings particularly well. “It's no big deal.”
“Wait, I'll call him,” she said, opening her purse and searching for her cell phone. “You can come with us, I'm sure he won't mind.”
“No, you two go,” I said. “I've got work to do anyway.”
“On a Saturday night?”
“Just for a couple more weeks,” I said. “I'm not taking my laptop to the White Party. Although it
is
white. . . .”
Michelle and Dan went to the movies. I spent another night at my desk.
I finished a large chunk of graphics for the website and e-mailed it to the client for feedback.
I wrapped up the cover design for the next issue of the gardening newsletter.
I finished up the next ad for Paradise. The headline was “Heaven on Earth,” and there was a photo of a shirtless hunk wearing white angel wings. I was inspired by Frankie's Halloween costume, the one I never got to see. I hadn't heard from him since that night. I wondered if he'd call me when the ad hit newspapers in December. Probably not.
 
The next couple of weeks were pretty much a blur: Work ate up almost all my time. I didn't see Michelle much, I didn't have a single date, I didn't go out downtown at all. A much-neglected Phil left me a voicemail: “I figure you've gotten married, or moved away, or died—and I'm calling dibs on your ticket to the White Party, no matter which of those three things is true.”
Basically, the only people I saw were Mrs. Goldfarb, when I'd pick up the rabbi's mail, and the rabbi himself, when I'd drop it off. Since our chats had gotten shorter, I started to feel a bit like the mailman: Here's the mail, thanks, see you later. I could hear my mother saying, “I told you so,” in the back of my head.
Of course, all my work did get done, and on time. I turned in the last bit of material for the website the weekend before Thanksgiving and spent a couple subsequent days tweaking a few minor details. The day before Thanksgiving, I was done; the site was ready to launch and I was ready to take a break.
“What's wrong? You are coming over tomorrow, aren't you?” my mother asked when I called from the office. “I know you've been working a lot, but tell me you're not going to work on Thanksgiving.”
“Nope, I'm all done,” I said. “That's all I was calling to tell you.”
“Wonderful,” she said. “Go home and get some sleep.”
“It's not even dinnertime.”
“So you'll save your appetite for tomorrow,” she said. “And wear decent pants.”
I set my e-mail to auto-reply, turned off the computer, shut off the lights, and locked my office door. I ducked into the bookstore, which was already decked out with silver streamers for Hanukkah. I picked up the mail from Mrs. Goldfarb, who—despite giving me a strange look a week earlier when I told her I'd be staying in the rabbi's condo—wished me a happy holiday and a good vacation.
 
The rabbi seemed happy to see me. He invited me in, and for the first time in weeks, I accepted. I sat in his living room and he brought out a glass of water and a dish of honey-roasted cashews—“fancy
shmancy,
” my mother would say.
“So, you do not have to rush back to work?” he said.
“No, I am all done,” I said. “Finished. So tonight I can sit with you.”
“Wonderful,” he said.
Although I was exhausted and really wanted to get home, I asked if I could see the photo album he had tried to show me weeks before, and a smile spread across his face. He dashed up the stairs like—well, not like a child, but like a far younger man, and returned with the album, a three-ring binder covered in faux wood-grain vinyl.
I sat next to him on the couch—for the first time—and he opened the album on the coffee table.
The album started with his wedding; it was as though this event marked the beginning of his remembered life. There were clear reasons why Sophie had no photos from her childhood, but I didn't quite understand why the rabbi's earlier years had been excluded.
There were photos of his parents, his father visibly stern and unsmiling. And pictures of Sophie's adopted American family. Photos of husband and wife in front of the bookstore on opening day, looking young and confident. A snapshot of Sophie standing behind the counter with Mrs. Goldfarb.
“When's this one from?” I asked, pointing to the picture of Mrs. Goldfarb.
“I don't remember exactly,” he said. “It must be more than twenty years ago, I guess.”
I figured he was right: Her clothes and makeup certainly looked like something from the eighties.
“That's about the time I was in her Hebrew school class,” I said. He nodded.
We flipped through the pages slowly. Some photos were faded and brown around the edges. A few times there were blank spots on the pages where photos had fallen out or been removed.
“What happened to those ones?” I asked. But the rabbi dismissed me with his hand—as if he did not want to be sidetracked from sharing his life story—and turned to the next page.
Finally, he was able to tell stories about Sophie and their life together without choking up or losing the battle with his emotions. I supposed that this time at home had allowed him to spend time with Sophie—or the memory of Sophie—and come to focus on their life together as opposed to her death and his new life alone.
He told stories about trips they had taken, holidays they had spent together, the early years when the bookstore was struggling. Most of the time, when I asked about the strangers in photos, the rabbi would respond: “Oh, she passed away many years ago,” or “He died of a heart attack,” or something along those lines. But if his album was filled with ghosts, their stories remained alive in his memory; he could recite all their names, and their spouses' names, and where they lived and what they did for work—and what ultimately killed them.
“You don't have to talk about all this if you don't want to,” I said, thinking all this reminiscing about dead people might make him morose.
“I like talking about them,” he said, a peaceful tone in his voice.
“Okay,” I said. “Just checking.”
He looked at me and paused, realizing that perhaps I was the one who was uncomfortable.
“I'm sorry, Benji, all this talk must get very boring for you,” he said. “Listening to an old man go on and on about people you never met.”
“No, no, keep going,” I said. Inside, I wished I'd had the chance to do this with my own grandparents before they died, to sit down and simply listen to them explain their lives, to feel as close to them as I felt to the rabbi at that moment.
Toward the end, we came to the pictures he'd already shown me of the Miami condo. With the same awful wallpaper.
“Is that still what the condo looks like?” I asked, careful not to insult the décor directly.
“Yes,” he said. “You will see for yourself very soon.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
He closed the photo album. “You are all ready for the big trip?” he asked.
“I think so.”
“Florida will do you good,” he said. “It always did me good.”
“Yes, I'm very excited. I really need to get away.”
“You could use the rest,” he said. “You've been working too hard.”
He sounded like my mother, but somehow more concerned and less scolding.
“Well, I don't know how much rest I'll actually get. . . .”
“What do you mean?”
I wasn't about to tell him about the White Party, so I kept it vague: “I hear Miami can get a little crazy.”
He smiled. “Yes, I suppose it is a different place for a young man,” he said. “For Sophie and me, it was a place to relax. No work, no phone to answer, dinner on the balcony. It was where we went for some peace and quiet. But you are right. You are not even twenty-seven and you are single. Peace and quiet are probably not what you are looking for.”
BOOK: Sweet Like Sugar
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