Authors: Wayne Hoffman

Tags: #Fiction, #Literary, #General, #Jewish Men, #Male Friendship, #Rabbis, #Jewish, #Religion, #Jewish Gay Men, #Judaism

Sweet Like Sugar (2 page)

BOOK: Sweet Like Sugar

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But someone like me, more familiar with D.C.'s gay bar scene, could see the room's diversityâa pierced eyebrow here, a leather armband there. A group of deaf boys signed to one another in the corner, near a bank of televisions showing music videos. One young man's wrinkle-free black T-shirt said “Support Our TroopsâImpeach Bush” in white letters, while another man's white T-shirt bore a caricature of Hillary Clintonâthe odds-on favorite in the 2008 presidential election, which was still more than a year awayâand said “
Another
Clinton? Just Say No.” People's shoes were sure indicators of who lived downtown (funky black shoes) and who lived in the suburbs (tan workboots), who worked by day as a personal trainer (scuffed sneakers) and who was a congressional aide (same sneakers, no scuffs). It was a veritable melting pot, albeit in a very limited, D.C. kind of way.

I stood against a black brick wall in my cuffed jeans and tan workboots, sipping a rum and Diet Coke, taking mental notes about the space and the crowd, while I waited for Phil.

We'd been friends for years. Bar buddies, actually, meaning that we only ever saw each other at barsâI'd been to his studio exactly twice, briefly, and he'd never ventured across the District line to visit me, or for any other reason as far as I knew. But we were good companions: We kept an eye out for each other, each making sure the other wasn't too drunk, too lonely, or being hassled by some loser. We were well suited for this kind of relationship, because we liked each other but weren't attracted to each other, had similar taste in bars but different taste in men.

“This is an unexpected surprise,” he said, clinking his beer bottle against my glass. “Out? On a school night? You?”

“I've got homework,” I said,

“If this is your homework, I can't wait to help you cram for your finals.”

I could always count on Phil to meet me for a drink, no matter what night it was; he lived in the middle of Dupont Circle, so for him, going to a bar usually involved a three-minute walk down the block. When I'd called him at the last minute to say I was headed to Paradise, he didn't hesitate. “Sounds heavenly,” he said. “See you in an hour.”

We stood side by side, both surveying the crowd while we chatted without making eye contact. Phil told me about the new guy he'd been dating.

“I just saw you a week and a half ago,” I said. “When did you meet him?”

“Three nights ago,” he said. “But it's serious.”

I'd heard this before. But I listened again, knowing I shouldn't bother committing the guy's name to memory for at least another week.

“And how about you?” Phil asked. “Any new guys?”

“Nope,” I said.

He gestured at a man standing at the bar. Blond, cute, wearing an Izod shirt and sipping something pink from a martini glass.

“Get a load of that one,” said Phil.

“I thought you and this new guy were serious.”

“Not for me, dummy, he's not my type,” he said. “But he's right up your alley. Blond, just the way you like them. And he's checking you out.”

Phil was right. And, like a good bar pal, he quickly made himself scarce so the blond at the bar could come over and talk to me.

“Do you go to Washington Sports Club?”

That was his opening line.

“I'm sorry, what?” I asked.

“The gym up the street,” he said. “Have I seen you there?”

I didn't belong to that gym, and he probably didn't, either, but it was an easy enough way for him to start a conversation. It worked. Within twenty seconds, we were facing each other, talking about things other than the gym. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Phil give me the thumbs-up from across the bar and then he slipped out the door.

I had to work in the morning, and I lived a half hour away in Maryland, so this was just idle flirtation, not a pickup situation. But we spent the next hour talking about Mister Izod's job (paralegal), his recent move (from North Carolina), his last boyfriend (a pothead with bad credit). We didn't get around to me, somehow; I'm better at listening and he didn't ask many questions.

He did walk me back to my car, though. Before I got in, he gave me his phone number and e-mail address. And a kiss. And a promise to chat later in the week.

The traffic lights on Sixteenth Street are perfectly timed: If you go above or below the speed limit, you'll hit red lights at least a dozen times, but if the street is clear and you travel precisely at the limit, green lights will greet you at every intersection. I set my Corolla's cruise control to coast at thirty miles per hour and let my mind wander as I rode the hills of Northwest Washington, past the churches and Rock Creek Park and the stone-fronted homes.

When I started the drive, I was thinking about Mister Izod, what we might plan for the upcoming weekend, and what I'd wear.

But for reasons I can't explain, by the time I reached the suburbs and turned onto Georgia Avenue, there was another man on my mind: Rabbi Zuckerman. No words, no feeling, only his image stuck in my memoryâeyes closed, glasses in hand. He stayed with me as I pulled into the garage under my apartment building and rode up the elevator, then tiptoed past Michelle's room. And when I finally lay in bed after midnight, drifting toward dreams, I saw him still. He, too, was sleeping, breathing slowly but deeply, his chest rising and falling.

I dreamed I was a kid again, and Grandpa Jack was leading the Passover seder. Grandma Gertie, of course, was yelling.

“If you children have any questions about what we're doing, just ask,” Grandpa said.

I looked at my big sister, Rachel, then back at my grandfather, nodding. I had lots of questions: Who gets to drink Elijah's wine if he doesn't show up? Why are we talking about the Soviet Union on a holiday that takes place in Egypt? Why is everyone so excited about the afikoman when it's just another crummy piece of matzoh?

“Don't ask anything!” my grandmother loudly insisted, wagging her finger at me before I could get a word out of my open mouth. “We'll be here all night.”

I closed my mouth.

My grandfather pretended not to hear her: “Do you have a question, Benjamin?”

Grandma Gertie looked directly at him, her wagging finger still out. “Jack! The only question anyone has is, When will this thing end? Just get on with it.”

He didn't turn to face her, didn't lose his composure for one second. But he winked at me. Not at me and my sisterâjust at me. Man to man.

We got back to the seder, plodding through the Haggadah without skipping a page. Rachel, who was ten, had already learned most of the songs and prayers in Hebrew school, but they were still foreign to me. Grandpa Jack stopped periodically to explain in English, answering several questions I hadn't even asked yet, although I didn't quite understand some of his explanations.

When it was time to recite the Ten Plagues, I couldn't keep quiet any longer. I burst out: “I know a song about the plagues!”

Grandpa Jack looked up from his Haggadah. “A song about plagues?”

“Well, not all of them,” I said. “Just about the frogs. We learned it in Hebrew school.”

My sister piped in. “It's a song for babies,” she told him.

“Rachel!” my mother scolded from across the table.

But I didn't respond to Rachel's remark. Taking a cue from my grandfather, I pretended not to hear what she said.

Grandpa Jack asked me to sing my song.

I had to stand up to perform it properly, since it had hand motions and I wanted to give the full effect.

“One morning when Pharaoh woke in his bed, there were frogs in his bed and frogs on his head . . .”

My mother was clapping along, my father humming; they'd heard this before. Rachel rolled her eyes. But I was only paying attention to my grandfather, who put down his book and watched me closely through his wire-framed glasses as I used my hands to act out a sleeping Pharaoh, a hopping frog, something on my head.

“Frogs on his nose and frogs on his toes. Frogs here, frogs there. Frogs were jumping everywhere.”

My parents applauded. My grandfather beamed: “That was a beautiful song, Benjamin. Pretty soon you'll be sitting in my chair, leading the whole thing.”

“Stop it, Jack, he hasn't even finished first grade yet,” my grandmother interjected. “Can we get back to the seder now? The children will starve if we don't get to the meal soon.”

Grandpa got back to the Haggadah, distributing horseradish and matzoh and reciting more prayers. But when nobody else was looking, in the middle of a blessing, our eyes met and he gave me another wink.

The morning after the seder, while my mother and grandmother made marble cake, Grandpa showed me how to make matzoh brei, which is like French toast for Passover. After breakfast, we went for a walk through the park near my parents' house. He was too old for the teeter-totter, but he pushed me on the swing for a few minutes. When we got back home, he was ready for a nap. But he had nowhere to rest. Whenever they visited from Florida, Grandma and Grandpa slept on the foldout couch in the living room, despite my mom's insistence that they'd be more comfortable in my parents' bedroom. (“What, we're going to put you out of your own bed in your own home?” Grandpa would ask.)

“If you want to nap, you can use Benjamin's bed,” my mother said, noting that the sofa bed had already been folded up for the day.

He went upstairs, leaving me alone in the living room. I was excited by the chance to watch daytime television, to see what I'd been missing while at school on a normal day. But after watching a few minutes of
Phil Donahue
and
Ryan's Hope
, I was already bored. I wondered: Aren't there any cartoons on? I headed up to my room to play with my Transformers.

I grabbed the plastic action figures off my desk, careful not to make a sound and wake Grandpa. He was asleep on his side on top of my Bugs Bunny bedspread, his glasses inside one of his shoes next to the bed. He was facing me, but his eyes were closed. I watched him napping, breathing deeply and snoring softly, his shirt still buttoned, his belt still buckled, like sleep overcame him before he could even put on his pajamas.

He seemed all wrong in this setting, a grown man in a child's room, his gray stubble scratching against my Daffy Duck pillowcase. But there he was in my bed, my grandfather.

I put the toys back on the desk and climbed into bed with him, squeezing into the sliver of space between Grandpa Jack and the edge. I tried not to wake him, but I accidentally elbowed him, and he opened his eyes.

“Here, Benjamin,” he said, shifting over toward the wall to make more room. I nestled into him, my back to his stomach. He put a hand on my shoulder and then went back to sleep as if nothing had changed. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine frogs jumping on both of our heads.

When my mother opened the bedroom door a few minutes later, I kept my eyes closed and pretended to be asleep. “Isn't that sweet?” she said to nobody in particular, backing out and closing the door behind her. When she was gone, my grandfather kissed me on the back of my neck, his stubble tickling my skin, and I knew that he was only faking sleep, too. We were sweet deceivers together, Grandpa Jack and me, daydreaming silently side-by-side in my safe and narrow bed.

CHAPTER 2

“D
rink plenty of water.”

My mother. On the phone. At seven in the morning.

“You woke me up to tell me to drink water?” I asked, groggy.

“I just saw it on the news,” she said without apology. “It's going to be dangerously hot all week. You've got to remember to drink lots of water.”

“Fine.”

“And wear sunscreen.”

“Mom, I'm not a farmer. I work inside.”

“They said on the news to wear sunscreen,” she said. “The sun is very strong.”

There was no use arguing.

“Okay, I'll wear it.”

“And don't forget to put it on your face.”

“I'm going back to bed now, Mom. I don't have to be up for another hour.”

Instead of saying good-bye, she paused for a moment and said, “You're welcome.”

Her weatherman was right: The heat wave showed no signs of letting up. Temperatures soared into the nineties before noon on Tuesday, with the sun streaming down directly on the shopping center's unshaded storefronts, bleaching posters taped in the windows and making every metal door handle too hot to touch. The humid air hung with an overripe heaviness, its slippery particles coating the skin of anyone who dared to linger outside for more than a few seconds.

This wasn't unusual; Washington was built on a swamp, after all. Even so, it was hard to endure. The sidewalks around the shopping center were empty. There was nobody browsing idly or wandering door to door. People pulled up in their air-conditioned cars, strode as quickly as possible across the sticky asphalt parking lot, and headed directly toward whichever air-conditioned store they needed to visit, shielding their eyes with one hand.

The teenage boys who worked loading groceries into customers' cars at the supermarket rolled up the sleeves of their official Giant Food T-shirts, showing off their nonexistent biceps, and wore shorts and flip-flops. Employees at the dry cleaners, the sandwich shop, and the greeting card store dressed like they were going to the beach. Even those whose jobs required more formal attire found some way to beat the heat: The women who worked at the private professional offices alongside mine in the rear of the complexâaccountants, lawyers, dental hygienistsâchose lightweight skirts and loose blouses and sandals, while their male counterparts donned baggy khakis and short-sleeved oxfords.

For an old man like Rabbi Zuckerman, who was probably over eighty and looked every day of it, the weather was particularly tough. He didn't seem to have a summer wardrobe. True, he wore a blazer only in cooler weather, but otherwise his outfit stayed the same regardless of the temperature: a long-sleeved, white, button-down shirt, a pair of black or gray or navy blue slacks, and hard-soled black shoes. No matter how much he sweated, he didn't roll up his sleeves, or unbutton more than one button. It simply wasn't his style, even if the heat was beating him.

So it was no surprise to me when Mrs. Goldfarb knocked on my office door again on Tuesday afternoon, and opened the door before I could answer. The rabbi was behind her this time, holding himself up against the wall, sweat dripping down his face.

“Benjamin,” she said, “would you mind? You know, again?” She motioned toward the rabbi, then toward the couch.

“Sure, sure,” I said, waving her in. What else could I say? She was already leading him inside.

Rabbi Zuckerman lay down on the couch, same position as the day before. Mrs. Goldfarb handed him a wet washcloth she'd been holding. “Put this on your forehead,” she instructed. He did.

“It's this heat,” she said to me. “Unbelievable, right? It's only June but it feels like the middle of August.”

I nodded.

“Your office is so much cooler than the store,” she said.

“We don't get direct sunlight back here,” I told her.

“And your air-conditioning works better than ours,” she added, looking up at the vents in my ceiling. “I should talk to our landlord.”

I nodded again.

“I'll be back to check on you in a little while,” she said to Rabbi Zuckerman. Then, just like the day before, she walked outside to light a cigaretteâsmokers apparently have no problem inhaling hot air on a hot dayâand I followed her.

“Are you positive he's okay?” I asked again.

“It's just the heat, I'm sure,” she answered. “I'll go call about the air conditioner right now. And then I'll come back in an hour or so for Rabbi Zuckerman.”

I looked at her blankly.

“Okay, forty-five minutes,” she said. “I don't mean to impose, but lying down really did help him yesterday. All he needs is some time to cool off.”

“I'll see you in a little while,” I said, tacitly accepting this arrangement.

“Thanks, Benjamin, you're doing a mitzvah,” she said. And then she was gone.

I made the same accommodations as last time in the office, shutting off the overhead light, closing the blinds, silencing the ringer on the phone. But I didn't switch my design projects. I was working on the mock-up ads for Paradise, complete with nearly naked men I'd found online. It wasn't anything more shocking than someone might see on Show-time or Cinemax any night of the week, but it might have been enough to scandalize a rabbi. I didn't know, and I didn't much care. Doing a mitzvah was one thing, I decided, but I wasn't going to stop doing my job just because some old man needed a place to get out of the sun.

Rabbi Zuckerman was making more noise this time. His breathing was more labored and he'd moan occasionally. Each time he made a sound, I'd look up to see if something was the matter, but he seemed the same: Hot. Tired. Old. Water from the washcloth dripped down his temples into his hair, already matted with sweat. He didn't move.

After a couple of quick glances, though, I found myself simply staring at him, ignoring my computer screen and its carefully cropped porn.

Who is he? I thought. Does he have a familyâchildren, grandchildren? Is he sick? Why does he keep coming to work? Why doesn't he ever talk? Does he speak English? Yes, of course, he must understand itâMrs. Goldfarb speaks to him in English. But does he
speak
English? Or Yiddish? Or Hebrew? Or Russian? Or German? Or Polish? Does he speak anything at all? Has this bookstore owner devoted himself so totally to the printed word that he has forgotten how to talk? Or does he simply have nothing to say to me, a little
pisher
of a lapsed Jew who's only worth this rabbi's consideration because of my comfortable furniture?

Then I noticed one thing that was different from the previous day. Rabbi Zuckerman had kicked off his shoes next to the couch.

I wondered: Was he trying to be considerate? Or was he making himself at home?

“Great to meet you last night at Paradise,” Mister Izod's e-mail began. “I must have been a total bore, going on and on about myself. The cosmopolitans made me do it! I only had one or two . . . or five! I don't remember. Now I'm sitting in my office, downing Tylenol and black coffee with the lights off. And looking at your business card. Benji Steiner: Graphic Design. Such a cool cardâdid you design it? I mean, you probably did, duh! Anyway, you hardly told me anything about you. Didn't even know you were a graphic designer until I looked at your card. You live somewhere in Maryland. Wheaton? Silver Spring? Somewhere out the red line on the Metro, right? I don't know where all those places are, really. I'll look for a map online. Anyway, I'd love to get together if you're into it. Friday night?”

The e-mail had an attachment, a photo titled “Pete and Punky” that showed Pete (once again wearing an Izodâwas this his signature look?) holding his beloved Chihuahua, whom he'd named after Punky Brewster. He didn't know I was a graphic designer, while I already knew his stupid dog was named after some stupid television show? Talk about a lopsided conversation. Well, it was my fault as much as his, I figured.

I wrote back:

“Hey, Pete, good to hear from you (and Punky). Yes, I designed that card, and yes, I live in Wheaton, out the red line. It's a beautiful place. Blockbuster Video, drive-thru McDonald's, Jiffy Lube, a Dunkin' Donuts. We've even got a shopping mall, complete with a food court, a multiplex movie theater, and a JCPenney. If you play your cards right, I'll show you the wonders of suburbia sometime, sort of a not-so-wildlife safari. You'll wonder why anyone wants to live in the city. Friday night sounds like a good idea. A return to Paradise?”

On Wednesday, the rabbi arrived alone. He tapped at the door and turned the knob without waiting for a reply. He pointed to the couch and looked at me with a shrug. But no words.

I motioned to the couch with a nod and he came in. He shut off the light himself and closed the blinds.

And so on Wednesday we began a new, wordless routine, without Mrs. Goldfarb playing intermediary with her chatter and smoke. Rabbi Zuckerman lay down on my couch once more. A passerby peering through my window might have thought I was a shrink. But the rabbi never spoke. And he didn't pay me for my time.

He did, however, inspire me. I had been a bit stymied by the Paradise ad campaign, toying with an idea for a few hours before trashing it and starting over. But Wednesday afternoon, as I watched Rabbi Zuckerman dozing, an idea struck me: the Bible.

I had loved Bible stories as a child; I had an illustrated book that told tales from the Old Testament. When I was very little, my father would read them to me while I studied the pictures, line drawings filled in with bright watercolors. Later, when I was a little older and liked to stay up late, I'd wait until my parents went to sleep and then I'd close my bedroom door and turn on the light and read the book myself, memorizing the words.

There was, of course, a story about Adam and Eve in that book. I could still recall the illustration: Eve (standing behind a tree to cover up her nudity) held out a red apple to Adam (seated on the ground with his legs modestly crossed), while a snake dangled from the tree branch above. I remembered the caption: “The Garden of Eden was Paradise. But Adam and Eve did not obey God's rules.”

Paradise.

Maybe I would have decided on a biblical theme for the ad campaign all on my own. But with the rabbi lying there across from my desk, it seemed that there was no other possibility.

“Hey, how's your new boyfriend?” Dan asked me that evening as he sat in our living room waiting for Michelle to finish getting dressed.

“Very funny,” I said. “I suppose Michelle's told you all about him and how creepy he is?”

“Creepy?”

“Yeah, that he's on my couch every afternoon, but we've never even had a conversation?”

“That doesn't sound so bad, dude,” he said with a sly grin, like a real guy. “Cut right to the chase.”

I stopped for a moment.

“You're talking about the rabbi, right?” I asked.

“Rabbi?” said Dan. “You're dating a rabbi?”

“No, I am not dating a rabbi,” I clarified. “What did Michelle tell you?”

Michelle came out of her bedroom and joined the conversation. “I told Dan that you met a guy the other night at that new bar,” she said. “That guy. You know, what's his name?”

“Pete,” I said.

“Right, Pete,” she said.

“That's who I'm talking about,” said Dan.

“Oh,” I said. “Well, I wouldn't call him my new boyfriend. We just met. But we're getting together on Friday night.”

“So what's he like?” Dan asked. “Is he hot?”

I loved that Dan wanted to know if my date was “hot.” Straight guys get a bad rap a lot of the time, but sometimes they can be the perfect antidotes to everyone else. A straight girl might have asked what Pete did for a living, or what we talked about when we metâMichelle's first two questions. A gay guy might have asked where he lived (to see how much commuting would be involved in a relationship) or what he liked to do in bed. Dan didn't care about Pete's job, or his apartment, or his sexual preferences, or even what he looked like objectively. He wanted to know if Pete turned me on.

“Yeah, he's pretty hot,” I said.

“Good for you, dude,” said Dan. And then he gave me a thumbs-up.

Approval.

“But wait a minute,” Dan said, “who did you
think
I was talking about? Who's this rabbi?”

I looked at Michelle: “You didn't tell him? I figured you'd have told everyone by now.”

“Honestly, Benji,” she said, “I didn't think the old guy would stick around this long.”

“How old?” said Dan.

BOOK: Sweet Like Sugar

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