A small, professionally neat mensch in a pinched derby, suit and tie, his face scandalously shaved, accosts impulsively from the opposite direction, the eastern, leans over, takes His arm and tries to help Him up but He’s too heavy and the mensch almost falls himself, withdraws, folds his arms and waits for Him to aright at the foot of the mob quickly massing.
I have to thank you, the mensch says in a calm, polished voice, making a mess of their iddishy idiom to the two boychicks bringingup the head and holding torches, flaming newspaper rolled for the fire, inky smoke billowing, blackening as imageless as Him…what luck, you found Him for me. My shabbosgoy, a runaway — I’m in your debt. Tell me, how much do I owe you?
Your shabbosgoy, one says, I don’t think so…just look at Him, says another, you know who He is. A gonif, says the first again, a thief in the nightly murderer, not quite a goy more like an animal we’re dealing with or worse, Unaffiliated with anything, spit spit grit and soulless — then to Him, explain yourself…they’re asking while being asked by those behind them, you’re presuming It can talk?
Hymn, you’re right, says the mensch, you got me — Baruch Hashem, you boychicks are smart…it’s only a joke, that and a poke in the evil eye, keyne hore, you’re no match for me. But He is — for her, is what I’m saying. A murmur’s mumbled rising. I’m bringing Him home for my daughter; it’s high time He converts — those two have been making eyes at each other long enough, and then he rolls his, from the smoke. Her, she’s aging…disgusted groans, a pick at a mole, a rashy nostril — let’s leave it at that, He’s not so young Himself; she’s a good cook, a pleasant personality, nu, so a hump, too, that and there’s a tumult of refusal, a slight limp while we’re at it, this slow shuffling dispersal losing one-by-one-by-two, but you should taste her latkes such as you’ve never had. A giver. Any takers. Only a scattering of punches and kicks for the loitering homeless, a few shots drunk from flasks of the hip, lchaimlchaim a zay get going…he was saying, how they’re always served up with a little something extra: some sweet sauce, some sourcream, a little love, or lying through her weakened teeth (how the latkes are frozen, storebought’s the blushing truth). A cigarette licked loosely of bad tobacco, found in pockets their pickings passed around…though, this mensch he’s not yet finished, if He’s not ready to make an honest woman out of her, let’s just say I’m prepared to consider any other offers; that of the mob heading south into night. Ot azoy. You wouldn’t happen to both be single — I’ve got a cousin, too…but they’re gone Downtown the paperers, separately if brothers.
As he and B head westward toward the river, there’s a final ploy if only for the pleasure of the wind: I’m a proctologist, it’s a decent living…but of course, I’d have to examine you first, my future son-inlaw, whomever; then, a last call over his shoulder, a gesture parting, a hand tipped to the hat: don’t worry, boys — it’s as simple as bowing, he laughs into his other glove, is what I’m always being told.
