Sons of the 613 (13 page)

“No, that's okay. Thanks. Well . . .”

She stops scribbling on her waitress pad and looks up at me, and suddenly I have her full attention again.

“I'm really glad you came today, Isaac,” she says, grasping my hand as she says it. “C'mere.”

She pulls me into a big full-body hug. It feels great, but I'm not quite sure where to put my hands, and they end up resting uncomfortably around her hips.

She leans back and looks at me. “You know what I want you to do?”

“What?”

“Have confidence in yourself. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Now go. Fly, little bird! Go, be free!”

She spins me around and swats me on the ass and sends me out into the world with a stupid grin on my face. I get my bike unlocked and peer in through the window, hoping for a wave, but she's busy again, and so I get on my bike and ride to school.

Or partway to school. Sort of.

 

M
ERIT
B
ADGE
: S
HINER

“So which one is it, Josh?”

I bat at his huge forearms, trying to move them out of the way, get his hands out of my face.

“Is it commandment 370, to break the neck of a firstling cattle”—swat—“if it's not redeemed?”

“Isaac, are you going to shoot in, or are you just going to friggin' talk?”

Wrestling in the backyard. It's the afternoon of my Lesley Day. Josh shoving me away with his giant paws, pushing against my head, me attempting to swim past his arms and shoot in for a takedown. Meanwhile, I friggin' talk, enjoying it as Josh gets more irritated.

“Is that your favorite commandment, Josh? Or is it number 402”—swat—“that an uncircumcised not eat of the heave offering? No?”

Yes, I did some Googling of the 613 commandments today. Among other things I did. I'm sure those 613 commandments were very important, back when high technology meant a goat. Now they just seem stupid.

“Why the hell are you so chipper, Isaac? You get an A in algebra or something?”

“Something like that. And it's pre-calc. I finished AP algebra two years ago.”

“Good for you, Melvin. You're dropping your hands again. Stop dropping your hands.”

“What is the ‘heave offering,' anyways?” I say.

“I'm gonna heave you on your ass in a second.”

“You don't know what a ‘heave offering' is, Josh? I thought you were the Jew expert.”

“You know what you should be concentrating on, Isaac? Not moving like a homo.”

I dive for a leg and end up face planting into the sod.

“You almost got him, little dude!”

Patrick, watching from the porch, drinking from a forty-ounce bottle of malt liquor.
Buuuurp.

I spit out a mouthful of grass and dirt as I get to my feet. I go after Josh again.

“I thought for sure you'd know, Josh.”

“Hands!”

“I mean, it's your tattoo, after all . . .”

I shoot for a leg again, do another face plant.

“Jesus, Lisa could do that takedown better than you.”

 

When I walked in the door this afternoon I was greeted by a wad of workout clothes rebounding off my forehead.

“Welcome back,” said Josh. “We're gonna work more on your wrestling.”

He didn't refer to this morning's daring escape at all, which was sort of annoying. I changed, and we went out back. Oh, right—first there was a minor detour so I could snake out the clogged upstairs toilet and mop up the overflow from the bathroom floor.

“Josh,” I said, holding up the cause of the clog in a yellow-gloved hand, “there was a sock in the toilet.”

Josh grabbed the offending item—no glove for him—and marched out to where Patrick was sitting on the back porch. Josh hurled the dripping sock at him, like he'd done to me with my workout clothes.

“What are you, retarded?” he said as Patrick blinked at the sock, which had splatted off his forehead and landed in his lap.

“You never seen a flush toilet before? No wonder your landlord booted you.”

“Whoa,” said Patrick. “
That's
where that got to.”

In addition to clogging up the toilet, Patrick has managed to leave the freezer door open so that the interior now looks like it's lined with thick white fur, and to park his ancient Toyota Camry directly on top of the flower bed that sits next to the driveway. I think he's also been playing with my Gundam figures, too, because somehow the Thief Zaku figure is now missing an arm.

 

So now Josh and I are in back, tussling. And I'm needling. And he's getting pissed off. It's great.

“So, Josh, remind me, which is the one about not eating the sinew of the thigh? Have you been observing that one?”

“Isaac, shut up and focus.”

I can see the indicator on the annoyance meter creeping into red. Part of my brain is tapping the other part on the shoulder, saying that provoking Josh is a game with a pretty certain outcome. But I still feel intoxicated and giddy, a halo effect from today's clandestine meeting with Lesley. And from the other things I did today. So I taunt him, my wimp's revenge as he twists and bends my limbs in the wrong directions.

“We're lucky we can still hold on to our Canaanite slaves forever, huh, Josh? I think that's number 199.”

“Stop being a little bitch.”

(Headlock.)

(Me, muffled): “Are you carrying out the laws of the sprinkling of the water?”

“There're five-year-olds who wrestle better than you.”

(Slam. Hip throw. Josh on top, squeezing the air out of me.) “Whuzza one . . . about . . . the clusters of grapes?”

“Shut up. Don't just lie there like a faggot, get out.”

He hoists me back to my feet so we can lock up again. We're in that classic wrestling pose, one hand clamped behind each other's head, the other hand on each other's upper arms, Josh bent over and jerking me around and testing my balance.

“Hey, Josh,” I say, our foreheads pressed against each other's, “I figured it out. I know which one is your favorite commandment: number 72.”

“Isaac, what the hell are you talking about?”

Quick shift of grips, swapping hand positions to the other side.

“You told me to take the Jew stuff seriously. You're the one with the tattoo of the commandments. Don't you know what commandment number 72 is?”

Arm shift again. Battle for position.

“Not to stuff your brother's head up his ass?”

“Not to get a tattoo.”

Arm shift. Loud
BONK.

“Whoa,” says Patrick.

I'm now looking up at the clouds as they float past. I think the
bonk
was the sound Josh's elbow made as it collided with my skull.

“Ow,” I say.

“Oops,” says Josh. “Okay, haphtarah time.”

 

ISAAC—MY PARTY IS TONIGHT. YOU'RE COMING RIGHT? DANNY

 

M
ERIT
B
ADGE
: P
OOL
H
ALL

Josh is talking to a real live Black Person.

Not a black person like Wayne Billings at school, who's adopted and whose parents are both white, or even Ben Riser, whose parents are both black but who acts even whiter than Wayne Billings or even me. No, the man Josh is talking to—talking to in a relaxed, casual manner, both of them leaning against the pool table or on their pool cues between shots, talking quietly like they know each other—is Black. City Black, like you see on TV, or in a rap video. He's about twenty-five or thirty, I'd guess, and about six feet tall and slim and athletic looking. He's wearing a dark T-shirt and jeans and what I think is called a porkpie hat on top of his shaved head. So far his expression has stayed in a narrow range between very serious and light scowling. His skin is very dark. I somehow feel like he's familiar, or that I should know him, but I'm realizing it's the TV thing—he's the Black Guy who would be at the pool hall on a TV show. I'm just realizing now that I've never once spoken with someone like this, and I feel oddly jumpy and awkward, like I'm in the presence of a celebrity.

I'm trying not to stare at him, but I'm not sure where else to put my eyes—the room feels jam-packed with hazards, visual landmines that I could set off just by looking at them: the three scuzzy-looking men drinking beer out of bottles and shooting pool at the table nearest Josh; the man three stools to the right of me with his gaze fixed on nothing, idly rotating his shot glass on the bar with his fingers; the bartender, who looks like Jabba the Hutt's unattractive brother; the booth with the four American Indians in it, their expressions impassive.

We've been at the pool hall for about ten minutes.

During our afternoon study session I actually made it through my haphtarah with only a few errors, and Josh looked at me and said, Not bad. He also repeated, Why the hell are you in such a good mood this afternoon?

No reason, I said. Just happy. And I was. Am. Despite the black eye I'm now sporting from the “accident” at the end of our tussling session. When I complained about it to Josh he shrugged, dismissive, almost confused by my concern. For Josh, having a black eye is sort of the natural order of things—the days you walk around
without
your face marked up are the rarities.

I'm not supposed to be here at this pool hall. Not just because it's a pool hall and I'm thirteen. I'm supposed to be—or supposed to
have
been—at Danny's birthday party. For some reason I kept forgetting to tell Josh that it was coming up, and then sort of forgot about it, or at least didn't think about it. And then after Torah practice Josh said, “A man should know how to play pool, right?”

Sure, I said, not mentioning that Danny has a pool table and we play all the time.

“So after dinner I'll get a sitter for Lisa, and we'll go play some pool,” said Josh.

And being the new me, I said, “Cool.”

I have to call Danny,
I thought,
and tell him I can't go to his party. I just can't.
The new me can't go to a pizza parlor tonight for a birthday party, even if it's ironic. Not after today.
So I should call Danny,
I thought. Then I didn't.
I'll explain everything tomorrow.

Josh and I got into the car and drove to I'm not exactly sure what part of the city—it's not Uptown, and it's not Downtown; it's just weirdtown, a dim, lonely stretch with low buildings that seem to be either Taco Bells, auto supply stores, thrift shops, or just boarded up.

Please don't stop here,
I thought, and so of course that's where we stopped.

Now I'm sitting on the very last barstool, my back to the bar, sipping a Coke. Josh seems to have forgotten about the pool lesson. Instead I'm watching him and Durwin play. That's the Black Person's name, Durwin. When we walked in, Josh scanned the room and grimaced, as if he wasn't finding the person he was hoping to see. Then he and Durwin spotted each other at the same time, Durwin standing at the pool table across the hall, tilting his head back almost imperceptibly in greeting, Josh responding the same way. I followed Josh to Durwin's table, and the two did the manshake with chest bump like Josh had done with the bouncer at the club, Durwin still holding the pool cue as he delivered a few light thumps to Josh's back.

“Durwin, this is my little brother, Isaac.”

“'S'up, baby,” said Durwin in a soft voice, holding a fist out to me. I was determined to avoid another handshake fiasco like I'd had with Patrick the Ear Chewer and had been internally rehearsing all the likely greeting scenarios as we approached, so I managed to pull off a flawless fist bump, trying at the same time to mirror Durwin's neutral, distant expression.

“Yeah, you all right,” he said approvingly as our fists touched, as if he were able to peer into my soul through the contact points of our knuckles. I felt a sudden bloom of pride, along with the realization that I really, really wanted Durwin the Black Person to like me.

I'm staring at him now in fascination as he plays pool, watching as he walks in a fluid, unhurried pace around the table, lines up his shot, sinks it, and floats to the next position. I realize that this is the real lesson of tonight, not pool practice. I catch myself trying to imitate Durwin's expression—the subtle downward curve of the mouth, the slight furrowing of the brow, and then that far-off look to the eyes, like he's here but not here completely, because he's got several deadly important things on his mind, probably involving guns, and by the way, don't fuck with him because he's dangerous. Josh looks dangerous, too, like a walking bar fight, like a car crash, but Durwin makes it look cool, like it's less his main defining characteristic and more an interesting side note.

For some reason I've always wanted a British Friend. Maybe it's because of the Harry Potter movies. I saw them and decided that I wanted a British Friend, someone named Thomas or William, and he'd have pale British skin and British manners and a British accent that makes everything sound sophisticated and intelligent and innocent all at once, and I used to fantasize about what that would be like, acting out both sides of our conversation. '
Ello, Isaac, bloody wonderful to see you.

Now that I'm watching Durwin play pool, though, I've con- cluded that I desperately want a Black Friend, maybe even more than a British Friend.

'S'up, baby.

Nothin', baby, 's'up witchoo.

I take another sip of the flat, watery Coke, the ice melted to little slivers. I'm trying my best to do like my brother told me: Act like it's totally natural to be here, slouching against the bar. When I feel it's safe, I take furtive peeks around the room, avoiding eyes, especially careful not to look over my shoulder at the horrific bartender. The walls are paneled in fake wood, like the Schwartzes' basement. The bar sticks out like a tongue halfway into the center of the room, splitting it into two halves, stools fringing the bar in a U shape. There are tables and booths on the side near the entrance, more booths and seven pool tables on this side. In the back there's a real pinball machine, and someone is playing an arcade game, shooting at targets with a plastic pistol. There's country and western music playing from a jukebox near the pinball machine, and the clicks and knocks and dull thuds of people playing pool, and the low murmur of conversation, but somehow the place feels silent and still, like everyone is waiting for something.