When Life Gives You O.J. (2 page)

Ace reached out and thumped the orange juice jug with his hand.

“RIGHT THERE. YOU’RE HOLDING HIM.”

“I … This?” I held out the jug with both hands to make
sure I understood what he was saying. “You think this is a dog?”

“NO, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. WHAT KIND OF A MESHUGGENER DO YOU THINK I AM?”

Meshuggener
is the Yiddish word for “a crazy person.” Ace says it a lot when he reads the
New York Times
. Also when he watches the news on TV. According to him, most politicians are meshuggeners. He also thinks Captain Kirk acts like a meshuggener. Especially when he gets himself beamed down onto planets without checking them out first.

“No, Grandpa, I just … I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”

“ENOUGH WITH THE ‘SORRY.’ VEY IZ MIR, KID.” Ace shook his head. Clearly, he was disappointed in me. Ace lapses into extra Yiddish when he wants to make a point, which is often. He’ll say
Oy vey!
Or
Vey iz mir!
which is like an
Oy vey!
and then some. He pointed to the jug and spoke slowly.

“THIS,” he said, “IS NOT A DOG. OKAY?”

“Okay,” I said.

“IT’S NOT A DOG, SO WHAT IS IT?” he demanded.

“Um, it’s an orange juice jug?”

“WRONG!” yelled Ace. “THIS IS NOT AN ORANGE JUICE JUG. THIS IS YOUR NEW PRACTICE DOG. THIS IS WHAT YOU USE TO SHOW YOUR PARENTS THAT YOU ARE RESPONSIBLE ENOUGH TO GET A REAL DOG.”

“Practice dog?” I asked.

“RIGHT! EVERYTHING YOU DO FOR A REAL DOG, YOU DO FOR THE PRACTICE DOG.”

“Yeah, but Grandpa, you can’t do dog things with an orange juice jug.”

“IT’S NOT AN ORANGE JUICE JUG. DON’T CALL IT AN ORANGE JUICE JUG! I TOLD YOU, IT’S A PRACTICE DOG.”

“Okay, well, how do you walk a practice dog? It doesn’t have any legs.”

Ace smiled like he had been waiting for this question. He went over to his bedside table and opened the drawer. Out of it he brought a long nylon leash with a metal ring on one end. He threaded it through the handle of the jug and put the nylon hand loop at one end through the ring at the other. He then pulled the leash tight and let go.

“WHAT DO YOU DO WITH A DOG THAT HAS NO LEGS?”

“Sorry?”

“I TOLD YOU, KID, ENOUGH WITH THE ‘SORRY’! WHAT YOU DO WITH A DOG THAT HAS NO LEGS IS, YOU TAKE HIM OUT FOR A DRAG.”

“You what?”

“IT’S A JOKE. BUT WITH YOUR PRACTICE DOG, THAT’S WHAT YOU DO. TWO, MAYBE THREE TIMES A DAY, YOU PUT ON HIS LEASH AND TAKE HIM FOR HIS WALK.”

“Outside?”

“OF COURSE OUTSIDE. UNLESS YOU WANT HIM TO DO HIS BUSINESS IN THE HOUSE.”

“His business? An orange juice jug can’t—”

“LOOK, KID. THIS IS NOT GOING TO WORK IF YOU KEEP SAYING ORANGE JUICE JUG. PRACTICE. DOG.”

“A
practice dog
can’t go to the bathroom.”

Ace smiled again. He went back to his bedside table and opened a drawer. He returned carrying a bag of dog food.

“WANNA BET?” he said.

Ace went on to explain to me how a practice dog worked. Every morning, I would take my practice dog down to breakfast with me. I would pour water into the neck of the ju—
practice dog
and then add a couple of spoonfuls of dry dog food. After breakfast, I would put the leash on and take the practice dog out for a walk. At some point on the walk, I would unscrew the cap and pour out the contents to let the practice dog relieve himself. Then I would take a plastic bag—which I would bring along on the walk—and use it to scoop up the wet pile of
practice
doggy doo and get rid of it. I would do the same thing for the practice dog’s dinner and evening walk.

“You said three walks a day. What’s the third walk for?” I asked, immediately realizing that I probably shouldn’t have brought it up.

“THAT’S THE AFTERNOON WALK. FOR EXERCISE,” said Ace.

“Exercise?” I pictured myself throwing a stick, then dragging the jug to “fetch” it.

“EXERCISE,” repeated Ace firmly. Case closed.

“Okay, so how long do I have to do this?”

“YOU HAVEN’T EVEN STARTED DOING YOUR PART OF OUR PLAN YET AND ALREADY YOU’RE KVETCHING AND HOCKING ME ABOUT WHEN CAN YOU STOP?”

“I’m not kvetching or hocking you,” I protested. I knew
kvetching
was Yiddish for “complaining,” and I was pretty sure
hocking
meant “nagging.” “I just want to know how long this might—Wait a second.
‘Our plan’
?”

I suddenly remembered a conversation I’d had with Ace several days before. It was after dinner and after another argument with my parents about getting a dog. I was in my room rereading
Shiloh
when Ace shuffled in.

“LOOK, KID,” Ace had announced. “YOU’RE GOING ABOUT THIS ALL WRONG.”

“Thanks,” I said, without looking up from my book. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it was fairly common for Ace to get an opinion in his head and need to bombard someone with it.

“I KNOW THIS STUFF,” continued Ace. “IN ALL MY YEARS ON THE BENCH, I’VE SEEN A LOT OF LAWYERS.”
On the bench
meant “being a judge,” which was a major basis for Ace’s authority on many topics. “YOU KNOW WHAT YOUR PROBLEM IS, KID? YOU ARE ONE LOUSY LAWYER.”

“Thanks,” I said again. I hoped that when he noticed I wasn’t arguing with him, he’d get bored and leave.

“YOU DON’T HAVE TO THANK ME, KID.” Ace grinned. “BUT TELL YOU WHAT: I’M GONNA DO YOU A FAVOR.”

“Uh, no thanks,” I said quickly. A “favor” from Ace usually involved him telling you a long story or an unfunny joke. I wasn’t in the mood for either one.

“YOU WANT A DOG?”

“What?” I put down my book.

“DO YOU WANT A DOG?”

“Yes.”

“SO? YOU WANT A DOG, YOU LISTEN TO ME. I HAVE A PLAN TO GET YOU A DOG.”

Ace looked pretty crazy all of a sudden. Crazier than usual. His caterpillar eyebrows were all tufted up, and his eyes were kind of twitching with excitement.

“Grandpa, look. If you just bring home a dog, they’re not going to let me keep it.”

Ace waved his hands at me like I was the one talking crazy.

“WHAT KIND OF A SHMENDRICK DO YOU THINK I AM? I DIDN’T SAY, ‘BRING HOME A DOG.’ I SAID”—and now he talked even louder and pronounced each word extra-clearly, like I was the one with the hearing aid—“A PLAN TO GET YOU A DOG. A PLAN TO MAKE IT SO YOUR PARENTS LET YOU GET A DOG.”

“Okay,” I said, becoming curious. “How?”

Ace smiled with satisfaction, like he had just told one of his famously bad jokes. “ARE YOU IN?”

“I guess.”

“OH NO. YOU CAN’T GUESS. IF YOU’RE IN, YOU’RE IN. YOU GOTTA DO WHAT I SAY TO DO, WHEN I SAY TO DO IT. EVEN IF YOU DON’T WANT TO, YOU GOTTA STICK WITH THE PLAN AS LONG AS IT TAKES. NO MATTER WHAT. SO DON’T SAY YOU’RE IN IF YOU’RE NOT IN. IT’S ALL OR NOTHING, KID.”

“Okay, okay.”

“OKAY, WHAT?”

“Okay, I’m in.”

Ace clapped his hands together once, loudly. Then he held out his right hand to me like a businessman. I shook it and was surprised at how strong his grip was underneath his loose, spotted old-person skin.

“So … what do I do?” I asked eagerly.

“BUPKIS,” said Ace.

I frowned. “Nothing?” I asked. Was this some sort of joke?

“ZORG ZIKH NISHT.”

“Zug … what?”

“DON’T WORRY,” he explained.

“I’m not worried,” I said. “It’s just—”

“SO, ALL RIGHT, ALREADY. ALL IN GOOD TIME, KID. TO THOSE WHO WAIT SHALL COME ALL THE RICHES OF THE WORLD.”

And with that he walked out, leaving me more confused
than when he came in. To be fair, it felt like something momentous had just taken place. But the next morning, nothing. And the next, and the next. So I sort of forgot about it.

Until now. Until the jug appeared.

“SHE WANTS TO KNOW HOW LONG THIS MIGHT TAKE?” said Ace. “AS LONG AS IT NEEDS TO, KID. AND NOT ONE MINUTE LONGER.”

I looked at Ace. I looked at the jug.

I had a feeling this was going to take a long time.

“Please pass the O.J.,” sang Sam for the fourth time.

“Ha-ha,” I said.

Sam giggled. “Oops! I mean, please pass the dog! I mean O.J.! I mean dog! I mean O.J.!”

“Sam,” said my mother lightly, though she was smiling too. When Ace had demonstrated how to feed my practice dog and announced to my parents that I was going to start caring for “it,” it was clear that they found the whole idea very amusing.

“Having a plastic dog will definitely cut down on vet bills,” said my dad. “And no barking, either. This sounds like the kind of dog that I could really get behind.” He patted the orange juice jug on the cap, like you’d pat a dog’s head. “What breed did you say it was, again?”

“Dad!” I said. This wasn’t supposed to be a joke. I wondered if it had occurred to Ace that my parents might like the “practice dog” so much, they wouldn’t want to replace it with a real, live dog. A real, live, barking, running-up-vet-bills dog.

“Who wants French toast?” asked my mom, changing the subject. “I think we’ve got some leftover challah around here somewhere.”

“I want green,” yelled Sam, who only eats French toast and pancakes if my parents add food coloring.

“Zell, you in?” asked my mom.

“Only if it’s not green.”

My mom sighed loudly. “Just once, it would be nice not to have to dirty
two
pans.” But she got out two pie plates and began breaking eggs into each.

“Where should I put it?” I asked Ace, once I had fed the “dog.”

“WHAT ‘IT’?”

“The, you know, this.” I picked up the jug. I still couldn’t bring myself to call it a dog.

“SO, NU?” said Ace, using one of his favorite Yiddish expressions, which basically meant “So, what’s up?” “YOU HAVEN’T NAMED IT YET?”

“Named it?” I asked, hoping he was kidding.

“WHO EVER HEARD OF A DOG WITH NO NAME? I HEARD OF A DOG WITH NO NOSE ONCE. YOU KNOW HOW HE SMELLED?”

“No,” I said.

“TERRIBLE!” roared Ace. My dad smirked like he had
heard the joke before. Sam looked confused for a second. Then, all of a sudden, he started to laugh.

“I get it. He smelled! Like P.U.!” said Sam, pinching his nose. “Right, Ace?”

“RIGHT YOU ARE, SAMMY, MY BOY.” Ace beamed with pleasure, hiking his pants up even higher over his belly. Then, with no warning, he started to cough. And cough. And cough. Sammy’s eyes got huge, the way they always do when Ace starts sounding like he’s going to hack up a lung. Ace held up one finger, still coughing, in a “Remain calm” gesture.

“You okay, Dad?” said my mom, patting Ace on the back.

Ace nodded vigorously, still coughing but also scowling like she was crazy. “I’M FINE,” he insisted when he finally stopped. Then he pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose into it—
PFFFFFFFTTT!!!
—and calmly stuck it back into his pocket. Yuck! He ran his brown-speckled hands across the top of his head, almost as if he was trying to find his hair, before locating what’s left of it in small frizzy tufts around his ears. He made useless attempts to smooth them before adjusting the big, round glasses that make his caterpillar eyebrows look even more gigantic.

“I’M AS FIT AS A FIDDLER CRAB,” he added, snapping his hand like a crab claw and winking at Sam. Sam, who is convinced he’s the world’s greatest winker, blinked back.

“SPEAKING OF WHICH,” continued Ace, making a mischievous face that could mean only one thing: fish-joke alert. Ace is a big fan of fish jokes. Bad fish jokes in particular. Before I could even start my eyes rolling, Ace demanded,
“WHAT’S GREEN, HANGS ON THE WALL, AND WHISTLES?”

“I don’t know,” said Sammy, even though he does know because, like me, he’s heard the joke about a thousand times before. But this is what you’re supposed to say, and Sammy loves to play his part.

“A HERRING!” Ace answered proudly. Then Sam, grinning just as goofily as Ace, said his next line, which is “But a herring isn’t green!” Which is dumb because who knows what color a herring is? I know it is a fish because my dad told me, but that’s about it.

So Sam said, “But a herring isn’t green,” and Ace answered, “YOU PAINT IT GREEN.” And he shrugged like Sam was being ridiculous. Sam’s next line was “But a herring doesn’t hang on the wall!” (When Ace tries to rope me into the herring joke, I sometimes try to skip this bit. “IT’S PART OF THE JOKE. GO ON!” demands Ace.) It would never cross Sam’s mind to skip any part, of course, and as soon as he said it, Ace answered, “YOU NAIL IT THERE!” Then Sam did his last line, which is “But a herring doesn’t whistle.”

Ace grinned like crazy, and his caterpillar eyebrows hopped up and down in place. “I JUST THREW THAT IN TO MAKE IT HARDER,” he said triumphantly.

Sam beamed, thrilled to be part of Ace’s act. I shook my head, knowing that Sam’s enthusiasm would only make Ace more likely to tell the joke than ever. “AND SPEAKING OF HERRING,” continued Ace, “DID I EVER TELL YOU THE ONE ABOUT THE SHMENDRICK …,” and
he launched into another of his stories. Thankfully, not a fish one, but still.

“Hey, that’s it!” yelled Sam. “Zelly, you should call him ‘Shmendrick’!”

“Or maybe I should call him ‘Shut Up’?” I replied. Sam’s comment made me think of Nicky Benoit, the boy in my class who started picking on me the minute I moved to Vermont. He was going to have a field day if he ever found out about my “practice dog.”