I had thought Jerry was going to make dinner but it turned out his mother did. When we all sat down at the dinning room table she asked me if I liked pork chops. I told her I was Jewish and the look on her face was exactly how people look when told they only have six months to live. I assume. Jerry’s father mentioned that I don’t look Jewish and his mother hushed him. Literally. This is a common remark amongst Americans, as if all Jewish people have some look about them. I know where it comes from but I try to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume they do not.
Having a Jew in their house really killed the mood and the beginning of dinner was pretty quiet. Timmy or Tommy or whatever his name was asked me if I knew that it was the Jews who killed Jesus and his mother quickly escorted him out of the room for a quick talk. The father reassuringly announced that Jesus was Jewish and I mentioned that Sigmund Freud was as well. I wonder what Freud would say about that.
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I note that this story is well written. And I was even able to read it right to the very end.
The moral though seems clear. If it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck then it probably is a duck.
But then, I have not dated for say a thousand years. I recall a date I had once with a lady from Netanya. I had a great time, a poet, a lawyer, a cutie. She brought me home. She said that it was going to be fine... her husband was off on some military thing. I asked if he was a big guy. She said no, but she did admit that like all israeli soldiers, he was armed. My ardour sort of drifted away. I stayed for tea and managed to think up an allergy. I left.
Horror story or funny story?
Success has many different measures I always say. Honour was late to the party but early enough to save my ass.
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