Excerpts from My Shorts
Excerpt from “It’s time for The Talk, Brian.”
“…it’s time for us to tell you all about what it means to be Jewish.”
Enduring what felt like the time it takes for paint to dry, grass to grow, or my armpit hairs to start sprouting, I listened as my parents recited A Jew’s Life According to Murray and Ida Kagan. Mom kicked it off. “Brian, it’s important to remember that we are God’s chosen people. Jesus was a rabbi and died a Jew, not a Christian. Jesus is not the Messiah, or God for that matter.” She paused and, after a wink, continued. “And, everybody is actually Jewish, descendants of Adam, Moses, Jackie Mason, and Joan Rivers.”
Still too young to know all the Old Testament superstars—and considering Mom had added two Jewish comics I knew they both liked—I asked with wide eyes, curving smile, and fake naivete, “Are those all famous people from the Bible?”…
…“Jews don’t have to read the Bible. We’re God’s chosen people, so we’re already ‘in.’ We eat matzoh during Passover until we end up at Phil’s”—Dallas’s only real Jewish delicatessen—“for a bagel, lox, and cream cheese. We drink Mogen David with all prayers. We’re required to nosh on foods rich in butter, sugar, and fats . . . like black-and-white cookies, halvah, creamed herring, pastrami, and kugels. Then we get fat like cows. That’s when we pray for low blood sugar and cholesterol.”
“Ida, please!” Dad said, evidently hoping she’d stop with the comedy act and be serious.
Never to be denied a chance for center stage, Mom handled the balance of my lesson, and, having finally surrendered to her shtick, Dad laughed along. While I laughed too, she did convey some enduring tips for surviving enjoying Jewish manhood and family life that I still carry to this day.
Mom continued by revealing the reasons why, at eleven years old, I had to begin a two-year sentence in Hebrew school—a.k.a. the Lambshank Redemption. The intent of this mandated punishment was preparation for my Bar Mitzvah when I reached thirteen and would chant my Haftorah—a selected passage from the Old Testament’s book of Prophets—to the applause and mazel tovs from a standing-room-only synagogue. And that was when I’d appreciate having endured my incarceration—a miracle rivaling Charlton “Moses” Heston’s measly little Red Sea trick.
Mom then shifted her tutelage to the most significant and holy ceremony for a post–Bar Mitzvah man—an extravagant catered party thrown for two of my friends and 150 of my parents’ friends and relatives. She told me that the party’s success hinged on displaying a four-foot-long glass boat brimming with shrimp. “They need to be big, the size of a fist,” Mom said, shaking her clenched hand in the air for demonstration purposes. “And we’ll pile them up around a giant six-pointed Star of David ice sculpture in the middle.”
After Mom’s maritime description, I imagined the iceberg melting and drowning innocent prawn families. I pictured the failed attempts at shrimp CPR following their submersion in a sea of cocktail sauce and cringed at the thought of the murdered crustaceans being sucked from the safety of their shells and swallowed by the trolling party whales….
Excerpt from “And Pillsbury Says It Best.”
…“It’s time for you to take your clothes off, big boy.”
Okay, the moment of truth. I’d not been naked in front of a girl since my mom washed me in a plastic tub on the kitchen counter. Kimberly had called me big boy—code for fat boy. And now she was going to see me butt naked. Cued, my sweat glands joined the party. The Brooklyn Bead Boys went to work the moment I rolled off the bed, fumbled with shirt buttons, and struggled to peel off the swampy shirt. Four buttons down, my talcum-colored rolls came into full view.
“Can I shut the blinds? I think a little darkness will make it more romantic,” I said.
“Okay.”
When the wide-paneled Venetian blinds slapped shut, an amber glaze draped the room and tinted my skin so I looked slightly less Pillsbury.
I turned and stripped off my unbuttoned shirt, twirled it in midair, and tossed it with joie de vivre. It landed in a damp clump at the foot of the bed. Kimberly had moved under the blanket, her head sticking out and snuggled between two puffy pillows. Her negligee relaxed atop a Kong-sized teddy bear sitting up at the foot of the bed. I’m convinced he glared at me.
“Hurry up, Brian. I’m cold. Come warm me up.”
I unbuckled and unzipped while simultaneously attempting to jettison my shoes. Breakneck clothing removal continued faultlessly—right up until the moment my attention shifted as I pictured the treasures buried beneath the covers. My right foot tangled with my left jeans leg. I flailed, twisted, and bent like an over-loved Gumby. My head and shoulder struck the end of the mattress, followed by a quick upward bounce and full-body slam into a semi-naked and doughy mound on the floor.
Kimberly giggled and asked, “Need some help?” “No thanks. I’m beyond help….”