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JEWISH CHRISTMAS.
I'm not sure if people really, truly understand how much fun
it is to be Jewish on Christmas day. It's the one day we all get
to take a break from running the banks and the media, and just
roam around cities like urban C.H.U.D.s. It's completely public
and brash and noisy and wonderful. This tribe may be lost, but
they absolutely know how to find their way to the movies.
I prefer to travel in packs under these circumstances - often
creating a human chain to block out the rabid, missionary Lubavitch
Jews who stalk you with herring on their breath and tfillen
hidden in their beards. For this, my first Jewish Christmas in
New York - my first Christmas in recent memory without a girlfriend
who could part my hair conservatively, throw a red v-neck sweater
over my head and sneak me into her Protestant or Catholic home
- I traveled with my optometrist and his 67 year-old mother, Marilyn.
Together, we were the paragon of our Jewish ethnic culture. The
two of them argued incessantly, while I remained on Tickets and
Junior Mints duty. Our plan: pay for the first feature, sneak
into the second, and then eat corned beef sandwiches. (Did a 67
year-old woman who wasn't even tall enough to ride the Cyclone
at Coney Island have a problem with some of the morally ambiguous
behavior associated with this plan? When we suggested the half-price
double-feature on the car ride over, her response: "Sure,
what do I care?")
The first movie went off without a hitch, except for a brief
altercation involving Marilyn's cell phone. (She wanted to call
her other son - the good one, the one who wasn't a "degenerate
gambler" - and the previews were starting and she had
to call him to say hello.) There were some high decibel comments
from our row (and, more specifically, Marilyn's seat), regarding
logical or sentimental implausibilities in the film and, immediately
following the final fade-out, an announcement loud enough for
the entire half-filled theater to hear: "OK, but not really
for me." But all of my energy was focussed on the excitement
and guilt associated with sneaking into our second feature.
Unlike our first screening, this one was almost at full capacity.
It presented a new dilemma for me: what right do I have being
here? what if I unintentionally leave a legitimate ticket-buyer
without a seat? As I trembled through this addition to my
own personal "Book of Questions", Marilyn scooted by
me and grabbed a lone, free seat toward the back of the theater,
where she began chatting up her neighbor almost immediately. She
created a force majeure, so I surrendered and made it my
first priority to find a free seat and puzzle out my latest moral
crisis from there.
The theater continued to fill, and some families were forced
to separate. As I looked around me I noticed something incredible:
I couldn't find one non-Jewish face in the crowd. Young and old,
anemic-looking Orthodox Jews sharing arm rests with St. Thomas-bronzed
Upper West Siders. It was like the new Coen brothers film had
become a cultural salon for Jewish minds. Jewish minds who were
fighting over seats and snacking on granola and sodas they'd sneaked
in from the bodega across the street. It was pretty wonderful.
And boisterous.
But within seconds of enjoying this powerful moment of solidarity,
my panic swelled even greater than before. People were starting
to really have a hard time finding seats. Had they over-sold this
auditorium? Were there others who shared our idea of sneaking
in? Were we going to cause trouble for the rest? Would security
begin inspecting ticket stubs? Would they discover that my papers
were not in order?
I started conjuring up non-Jewish variations of my last name
-- Levigne, Leon, Lentini, O'Malley, Goebels -- in case I was
taken in for questioning. I didn't want to be marched out of the
theater, a charlatan and sycophant. Imagine how embarrassing it
would be for a grown man to be caught sneaking into the movies
on Christmas day. (I know what you're thinking: imagine how embarrassing
it would be for a 67 year-old woman. But I've given this consideration
and decided she had a viable out. She could always blame senile
dementia. I find that, in larger cities, people generally detest
the elderly, but they still respect them through clenched teeth.)
We we never caught. We weren't taken off to see movies about
prison camps. In fact, it was a great Christmas day. We even followed
up the movie with a trip to a kosher delicatessan in Queens, where
Marilyn was on a first-name basis with the waiter. Pickles on
every table. The smell of brine and fried membrane thick in the
air. If the teachings of my religion provided us with a Christian
notion of heaven I was there, drinking cherry colas and getting
hen-pecked by my optometrist's mother. (Who, realizing at some
point in the evening that she was not going to get her way, screamed
out to no one in particular: "I'm the mother, and what I
say goes!")
So stop feeling sorry for your Jewish friends on Christmas: for
us, it's like getting the keys to Disney World after-hours. Well,
maybe it's not that exciting - but it sure beats money-lending.
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