Are You Kosher? (3 page)

Chapter 4

Vampires Die in the Sun

If you have been alive as long as I have, you have heard some great tales, but this tale is a doozy. I truly wonder who the hell made this one up. Vampires die in the sun? On what do you base this theory? The writings of Bram Stoker or Anne Rice? Please. Take it from someone who actually knows what he is talking about.

In the very worst of novels about my kind there is one constant: we are a decadent and glamorous breed that appreciates the finer things in life and beauty. Do you think that a pasty-skinned person in the middle of July looks attractive? We love to admire beauty in all forms. I don’t recall Bubbe ever saying to me, “Izzy, it’s going to be a gorgeous moonlit night, let’s go enjoy the hanging gardens of Babylon.”

Beauty comes out in the sun and so do vampires. As I said earlier, “I love the beach, but fear the sun.” The only reason I fear the sun is because in the light of day, I am not as invulnerable. During the evening hours, after the sun goes down, you could pump me full of bullets and the worst thing that could happen to me is a bad case of constipation. During the daylight hours, something as simple as a splinter could bring me to my knees. At night, we are immortal. In the daytime, we’re not so lucky. We’ll cover that in more detail later on.

Back to the sun. I absolutely love relaxing on the beach during a perfect summer’s day, admiring the pretty girls walking around in their bikinis flashing their pierced
pupiks
for everyone to see, and trying to decide if there are any potential feasting victims for the upcoming evening.

I love to rub myself with cocoa butter, to get the perfect tan, to smell the gusts of sea air, to hear the sound of seagulls screaming overhead looking for a tasty morsel. I’ll tell you this, friends: there is no greater smorgasbord on earth than Riis Park on a perfect July afternoon. I love to go to the Brooklyn Botanical Garden on a sunny spring day; I love to take the tourist ride on the Circle Line around Manhattan. The sun is great except for the fact that it does actually hurt our eyes a little bit. That’s why to me, the greatest invention of the twentieth century is the BluBlocker sunglasses. Can you imagine what it was like before? I’ve told you I am sexy, but can you imagine what I looked like wearing cataract shades? Not pretty. I would rather wear a Yasser Arafat T-shirt while eating camel testicles in some Hamas hideout.

This is one of those examples where change is a good thing. I am not big on change, but at least I am not as bad as Mrs. Berkowitz up the block. She has been wearing black ever since Henry Kissinger left Washington and says that she will continue to do it until “those shmucks in the capital declare him king.”

This is a memoir and I told you all before that I don’t spend a lot of time with big words when they are not called for. I promise you that we will come to chapters that are a bit longer; do you know what is going to happen then? You are going to say, “Why did you write such a long chapter? I couldn’t finish it before my train made its stop!” Whining bastards.

We’ll get back to my list of vampire myths a little later. What I would really like to do right now, while I’m thinking about it, is to explain to all of you why someone who has been alive since before the time of Noah loves to talk about what I believe to be the greatest city in the world. The greatest the world has ever known. The one that I am proud to say is where I plan to spend the rest of life, however long that may be. The capital of the earth. My adopted home. The city. My city. New York.

Chapter 5

New York

Eight Million Reasons to Kibitz

About a month ago, I was on the “D” train heading toward Coney Island—yes, during the day, on my way to the Aquarium. Then I was on to look at the pretty little ladies that strut their stuff on the beach. Maybe get a pretzel with some mustard and a beer. I’m getting off track.

Anyway, I was doing a crossword puzzle in one of the many local papers when a frail little voice next to me said, “Twenty across is ‘Monte Carlo.’” I looked over to see an adorable little wrinkle-faced woman wearing a shawl amd clutching her hand bag as if it held the secrets to the universe inside of it. I smiled and said, “Thank you,” and went back to my puzzle. She obviously took my acknowledgment of her hint as a reason to strike up a conversation.

Who am I to deny a sweet little old lady the opportunity to have someone to talk to for awhile? Over the next few stops, though, I learned the story of this yenta’s life. She was a fortunate survivor of the Holocaust. She met her husband in England after she escaped Poland. They moved to Brooklyn in 1948. She was the mother of: an orthodontist, who lives in Scarsdale with his shiksa girlfriend and never calls; a son who is an English teacher in Edison, NJ, who never calls; and a daughter who gave her three of the most beautiful grandchildren you “ever laid your eyes on”—Milton, Jeffrey, and Sadie, who was named after her. The daughter is married to a plastic surgeon, and she calls, but they live in Los Angeles, so “I never get to see them anyway, but those little grandkids of mine get a check from Bubbe every Chanukah for five dollars so they know that I’m thinking of them.”

She went on to tell me that she was not worried about the fact that the nation just elected a
schvartze
president, because, as she so eloquently put it, “You can understand what he’s saying when he speaks, and at least you don’t see his underwear pulled up above his pants.” I liked this old gal. “Just hope he’s better than that Dinkins fellow who was the mayor, because when he was in charge, there was shmutz all over the place. I’m an old woman; who cares about me?”

“Do you call your mother?” she asked longingly.

“Actually, I live with my mother and my bubbe,” I told her.

She smiled and said, “What a nice boy. I wish I had another daughter so I could make an introduction.” If she only knew.

That is one of the things I love about this great city. People kibitz. Kibitzing is an art form. It’s not so simple as just striking up a conversation with total strangers. It is more of pouring out yourself and sharing information that they did not even necessarily ask for. People in this town love to kibitz.

Many people will still tell you, and let me preface this by saying that they are ignorant and devoid of all common sense, that New York is a dangerous town, or you will watch one of these so-called travel experts like Tony Bourdain, who claims to be a New Yorker, and who longs for the ‘glory days’ of crime and thugery. These are big words from a man who grew up with a silver spoon up his tuchas in the comfortable confines of New Jersey, but I can say this. If you act like a shmuck, then you get exactly what you deserve.

If I can give a great piece of advice to anyone who plans on visiting this great town, it’s this. Don’t be a shmuck. Use the head that G-d gave you. Take the subway, but keep the map in your pocket. If you are confused, ask for directions, but not from someone who is talking to his shoe and yelling at pigeons. Ride the subway, but if you see a man sitting by himself and everybody on the train seems to be going out of their way to avoid him, you do the same.

I would also recommend that all of you to try to strike up conversation when possible. I’ve learned more about total strangers on the checkout line at Waldbaum’s than I have about many friends that I have known for centuries.

I’m not saying that New York is some kind of Eden. Like all places, it has its good and its bad. The one thing that brings it all together is its residents’ ability to kibitz. If you are smart enough to ask, you will learn the keys to survival. But to make things easier for you, I’ll give you some tips.

Do not go jogging in Central Park in the middle of the night. You get what’s coming to you if you do. Especially if you are not an immortal like I am. Stay out of Gerritsen Beach unless you are a WASP. If you have to ask what a WASP is, all the more reason to avoid that neighborhood. Under no circumstances whatsoever are you to take your eyes off of an Israeli merchant, especially if he is issuing you change. Please do not go to Nathan’s Famous and ask for a Chicago-style hot dog, leave that
dreck
for the place where it belongs. There is a very valid reason why it is referred to as the second city; just look at what they call pizza. Please keep your culinary dreck to yourselves and shut the fuck up!

Of course, bear in mind that all of these locales I just mentioned can provide, in one way or another, the opportunity to kibitz.

I have lived in this city before it even was a city and I can tell you that it is the best place the world has ever known to find whatever you are looking for. Whether it be museums, restaurants, culture, or diversity, if you can’t find it here, you are not looking hard enough. And in all of these places, the one constant is the people. Everyone is willing to kibitz. This was evident on the horrible morning of September 11, 2001—or more accurately, afterward.

Everyone pulled together. They all had a story of survival, whether it was a friend, a relative, or an eyewitness account. There were no bias attacks by mindless goons looking for revenge. Total strangers were providing the proverbial shoulder to lean on, and yes, the opportunity to kibitz.

In pain and sorrow, New Yorkers found common ground. It seemed as if everyone had a tale of loss or survival—in many cases, both. Kibitzing got them through it. I remember riding the subway on one of the first days that trains were running over the Manhattan Bridge and being amazed at the silence. As we went over the bridge, an unannounced moment of silence fell over them all. But when they arrived at their destination, I witnessed hugs, backrubs, and kibitzing.

New Yorkers did not take any hostile action against those who had the wrong color skin or religious affiliations, but they all spoke about what they would like to do to those that were responsible for this insane act of cowardice.

Me? I wish that I was a real-life Superman who could have come flying out of the sky with my red cape flapping in the wind so I could use my super-breath to extinguish the flames and catch those who were so desperate that they threw themselves from the towers. I wish that I could have flown to save the other planes and to bring those miserable bastards to justice. I wish that I could find that coward Bin Laden and his followers in whatever shit-filled cave they are hiding in and force them to listen to a recording of Harvey Fierstein singing “Hava Nagila” and then turn them over to the victims’ families.

But I’m not. I’m just a vampire with a domineering bubbe and an alcoholic mother. I’m a New Yorker by adoption—it’s the city I’ve adopted. I’ve experienced many losses over the course of my lifetime, the centuries that it has covered, but few losses hurt as much as this one or inspired such pride.

My time on this earth will someday come to an end and I want to be buried in the Beth-David cemetery in Borough Park. This is the greatest place on Earth to live, love, eat, laugh, cry, heal, and yes, kibitz. Those of you who have never experienced it or just go with the stereotypes that you’ve been fed: I feel for you. This is truly the greatest city in the world. I could probably write an encyclopedia on the many things I love about it, but if I have to explain, you won’t understand.

To quote Forrest Gump, “That’s all I have to say about that.”

Chapter 6

Vampires Are Afraid of Crosses

There are a great many things that one can claim to be afraid of, vampire or no.

Being stuck in an elevator is a good one. A plane crash can scare the crap out of anybody. A hideous car crash plagues all commuters in New Jersey. Catching an intestinal bug in some foreign land or having to listen to Roseanne Barr sings the National Anthem. Waking up and finding Rosie O’Donnell snuggling next to you affectionately. These are all legitimate concerns.

Some people feel that vampires are afraid of crosses and this just makes no sense at all; in fact, it always makes me laugh. I’m more afraid of Bubbe’s wooden spoon, which she can still wave around like some crazed Samurai warrior if I even dare screw up by putting one of her
fleishik
plates in her
milchik
sink. Do not mess with kosher tradition when it comes to Bubbe.

The percentage of people who should actually fear the cross is limited to a few small demographic groups: Native Americans, African Americans, and any cherub-faced altar boy. I could also mention Jews, Muslims, and anyone else who does not agree with the witless banter of whichever
feygelah
happens to be Pope at the time, but I know I’ll receive letters and I’m trying to keep the chapters short. The three groups I mentioned have the biggest axes to grind. They are the ones who have suffered the most at the hands, and in some cases the fingers, of those who wielded the cross as the symbol of “peace and love.”

The Church will tell you that the cross is a symbol of purity and sacrifice, but I was there and I don’t recall ever seeing any crosses. It is a made-up emblem. I call it a weapon. I can recount dozens of situations I saw firsthand, when some less civilized people were trampled underfoot by invading marauders while some priest was waving around a cross. If you are going to invent an emblem, at least use some imagination. Come on, what is the deal with the cross? Why would a vampire be afraid of two sticks crossing each other?

I’ve seen some pretty fucked-up things in my centuries on this planet, and I can honestly tell you that things got really bad the second that the cross started rearing its ugly head. If you were a follower, things were great, but G-d help you if you were one of the locals. Genocides, inquisitions, slave trade, molestations—and that was just on the weekends.

I’m not saying that I dislike Catholics. In fact, I have had many Catholic shmendrik friends over the years. I’m not even thumbing my nose at their beliefs, although you have to admit that some of the shit they come up with is pretty funny. This is not a referendum on Catholicism, though. I am dispelling the belief that vampires fear the cross.

I recall a time when we were briefly living in Italy and my mother was walking home. It was around the time of the crusades and the “cross-wielders” were feeling good about themselves. A young man came running up to her yelling, “Die, devil bloodsucker!” Somehow, he’d found out that we were who we were. This rolled off of Mom’s shoulders and she was content to ignore him until he pulled out a cross and screamed, “Die, Jew-devil, vampire whore!” My mother does not like to be called a whore, even in a joking manner.

She grabbed the little
pisher
by his ear, confiscated the cross he was carrying, and smacked his tuchas right in the middle of the piazza. She dragged him home by his ear to his grandmother, who ironically enough, also owned a wooden spoon. His screams were heard throughout the night. Don’t kid yourself, getting whacked in the tuchas by a wooden spoon leaves a pain that lingers for hours. I knew and understood his pain. He learned two valuable lessons. No good comes from the cross, and it does not work on vampires.

The fear of crosses is complete bullshit. It is a myth that once again was constructed by “vampire” authors who know nothing about vampires. All I ask of future authors in the genre is that you take the time to maybe get to know one of us and get your facts straight. If nothing else, do some research.

And to all of the current “vampire” authors out there who are making millions at the expense of spreading falsehoods about my people, I can only say: fat, drunk, and meshugenah is no way to go through life.