The Nimrod Flipout: Stories (7 page)

This is a story about a little girl who loved glittery things more than anything else in the whole world. She had a glittery dress, and glittery socks, and glittery ballet slippers. And a glittery black doll named Christie after their maid. Even her teeth glittered, though her father insisted that they sparkled, which wasn’t quite the same. “Glittery,” she thought to herself, “is the color of fairy godmothers, and that’s why it’s the prettiest color of all.” On Make-Believe Day in kindergarten, she dressed up as a fairy godmother, and sprinkled glitter over everyone who came near her, and said it was wishing powder. If you mixed it with water, it would make your wish come true, and if they went home right away and mixed it with water, then it would work for them too. It was a very real-looking costume, and it won her first prize in the costume competition. And the teacher, Lily, said that if she hadn’t known her from before, if she just saw her by chance on the street, she would be sure the little girl was a real fairy godmother.

When the little girl got home, she took off her costume, stood there in nothing but her underpants, threw all of her glitter up into the air, and shouted: “I want glittery eyes!” She shouted it so loud that her mother came running to see if everything was all right. “I want glittery eyes,” the little girl said, quietly this time, and kept on saying it the whole time she was in the shower, but even after that, when her mother dried her off and helped her into her pajamas, her eyes remained the ordinary kind. Very very green, and very very pretty, but no glitter. “With glittery eyes, I’d be able to do so many things,” she said, trying to persuade her mother, who seemed to be losing her patience. “I’d be able to walk along the street at night, and the drivers would see me from far away, and when I got older, I’d be able to read in the dark and save a lot on electricity, and whenever you lost me at the movies you’d always be able to find me right away, without calling the usher.” “What’s all this nonsense about glittery eyes?” her mother said, and pulled out a cigarette. “There’s no such thing anyway. Who put that ridiculous idea in your head?” “Yes, there is!” the little girl shouted, and jumped up and down on her bed. “There is, there is, there is, and besides, you’re not supposed to smoke around me. It’s bad for my health.” “OK,” her mother said, “OK. Look, it isn’t even lit.” And she put the cigarette back. “Now get into bed like a good girl, and tell me who’s been talking to you about glittery eyes. Don’t tell me it’s that fat teacher of yours?” “She isn’t fat,” the little girl said, “and it wasn’t her. Nobody talked to me about it. I saw it for myself. There’s this dirty little boy in our kindergarten class and he has them.” “And what’s the dirty little boy’s name?” The little girl shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s kind of dirty and he always keeps quiet and sits far away from everyone. But I’m telling you, his eyes glitter. And I want eyes like that too.” “So go over to him tomorrow and ask him where he got them,” her mother suggested, “and when he tells you, we’ll go there, and get them for you too.” “And until tomorrow?” the little girl asked. “Until tomorrow, go to sleep,” her mother said. “I’m going outside for a smoke.”

The next day, the little girl made her father take her to kinder-garten very very early, because she just couldn’t wait, and she wanted to ask the dirty little boy where to get glittery eyes. But it didn’t do her any good, because the dirty little boy arrived last, long after everyone else. And today he wasn’t even dirty. His clothes were still a little old, and they had stains on them, but he himself looked as if he’d had a bath and someone seemed to have run a comb through his hair. “Tell me,” she said, turning to him without a second’s hesitation, “where do you get such glittery eyes?” “It’s not on purpose,” the almost-combed little boy apologized. “It just happens.” “And what do I have to do for it to just happen to me too?” the little girl cried out. “I think you need to want something an awful lot, and when it still doesn’t happen, your eyes start to glitter, just like that.” “That’s stupid,” the girl said, getting angry. “Look, I want glittery eyes an awful lot, and it doesn’t happen, so why don’t they glitter like yours?” “I don’t know,” the boy said, scared because she was angry. “I only know about myself, not about other people.” “I’m sorry I yelled,” she reassured him, touching him with her tiny hand. “Maybe you only have to want certain kinds of things. Tell me, what did you want so badly, and you didn’t get?” “A girl,” the boy stammered. “To be my girlfriend.” “Is that all?” the little girl exclaimed. “But that’s easy. Tell me who she is, and I’ll make her become your girlfriend. And if she won’t, I’ll make sure nobody talks to her anymore.” “I can’t,” the little boy said. “I’m too shy.” “All right,” the little girl said. “It doesn’t really matter. And it wouldn’t solve my problem anyway, or get me glittery eyes. Besides, that could never happen to me. If I ever wanted someone to be my girlfriend, they’d want to, because they all want to be my girlfriend.” “You,” the little boy blurted out. “I want you to be my girlfriend.”

For a few seconds, the little girl didn’t say anything, because the dirty little boy had taken her by surprise. Then she touched him again with her tiny hand, and explained, in a voice that her father used whenever she tried to run across the street or to touch something electrical, “But I can’t be your girlfriend, because I’m very smart and popular, and you’re just a dirty little boy who always keeps quiet and sits far away from everyone and the only thing that’s special about you is that you have glittery eyes, and even that will disappear now if I agree to be your girlfriend. Though I have to admit that today you’re a lot less dirty than usual.” “I mixed with water,” the less-dirty little boy admitted, “to make my wish come true.” “Sorry,” the little girl said, running out of patience, and went back to her seat.

All that day, the little girl felt sad, because she understood that her eyes would probably never glitter. And none of the stories or the songs or the show-and-tell could make her feel any better. And every now and then, when she almost succeeded in not thinking about it, she’d see the little boy standing at the far end of the kindergarten, looking at her quietly, his eyes glittering more and more fiercely, as if out of spite.

I’m driving south on the old road, toward Ashdod. In the passenger seat next to me is Teddy Trunk, listening to a tape and drumming on the dashboard. He knows this road like the palm of his hand, from the time before the army, when he lived around here and used to drive to Tel Aviv with his friends every Saturday night. They’re the ones who gave him that name, “Teddy Trunk.” Today, no one calls him that anymore, not even just “Teddy.” Today, most people call him “Mr. Schuler” or “Schuler.” His wife calls him “Theodore.” I don’t think he really likes her to call him that.

We’re on our way to a local council near Gedera to close a deal. I should probably say that he’s closing a deal and I’m driving him there. That’s my job. I’m a driver. I once had a route delivering dairy products; the money was better, but I just wasn’t into getting up at four every morning and arguing with all those cheap-ass grocers about small change. Teddy once told me I’m a person without ambition, and that he’s jealous of me because of it. I think that was the only time I felt like he was patronizing me. Most of the time, he’s actually pretty all right.

On my very first day on the job, I opened the car door for him and he told me not to open doors for him, and also that he always sits in the front, even when he’s reading or looking over papers. When we’d stop to eat, he always paid. I wasn’t really crazy about that, and in the end we agreed that for every five times he paid, I’d pay once, because he earns about five times more than I do. That was his idea, and I said fine. It made sense to me.

The first time I treated was at a steak place in some gas station in the south. Shitty food, and the waiter, right before we paid, pegged him. “Well, what do you know. I’ll be damned if it isn’t Teddy Trunk.” Teddy kind of smiled at the waiter and nodded, but I could tell he wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him. We had an arrangement that if one of us paid, the other left the tip, and on the way out, I noticed that he didn’t leave the waiter anything.

“What an asshole,” I said to him later in the car. “Why? He happens to be a pretty nice guy,” he said, without really meaning it, “maybe the best student in our grade. Funny he’s stuck here as a waiter.” I wanted to ask him about the tip, but it seemed a little out of line, so I asked about the name instead. “I don’t like that name,” he said instead of answering. “Don’t ever call me that, OK?”

That evening, before I dropped him off, he softened up a little and told me that when he was a kid, he was once late for school. In the hallway, someone said he should tell the teacher his father drove him there and that on the way something in the car had broken down. And that’s what he did. And when the teacher asked him what exactly broke down in the car, little Teddy told her that the trunk had broken down—and he was thrown out of class.

Ever since that story, even though I keep calling him “Schuler,” I can’t think about him with any other name but “Teddy Trunk.” “I’m going to charge him such a price, that Shimshon, it’ll make his yarmulke spin,” Teddy says, and drums on the dashboard in time to the song on the radio. “Those guys on the local council here pretend to be hard up, but they’re loaded.” After his meeting, we decide to have supper in a Russian restaurant around here that’s supposed to be really good. Teddy Trunk’s treat. I might even have a few drinks, not too many, because I still have to drive to Tel Aviv later.

When he goes into his meeting, I park the car. The steering wheel hasn’t felt right to me the whole way, and now I see that one of the front tires is almost flat. I have a spare, but the jack is gone. I might make it to Tel Aviv that way, but I have time to kill anyway. “Hey kid,” I say to a skinny boy bouncing a ball in the yard, “go ask your father if he has a jack.” The kid runs home and comes back with someone wearing shorts and flip-flops. “Tell me something, asshole,” flip-flops says, waving his car keys at me. “Why the hell should I help you with a jack?” “Because life’s happier and more fun when people are nice to each other,” I say, trying a little milk-of-human-kindness on him, “and they say small-town people are nicer.” “You don’t remember me, do you,” he says, taking his jack out of his car and tossing it to the ground near my feet. “Two pork chops, one Coke, one Diet Coke, one Bavarian cream with two spoons. Never heard of a tip, did you, Mr. Nice Guy?” And then it hits me: the guy who waited on Teddy Trunk and me. He’s actually pretty nice about it, curses a little, but helps me with the tire. I’ve never been good with my hands. “One helluva car,” he tells me when we’re finished, and when I tell him that I’m only the driver, he looks surprised. “So in the restaurant, you were with your boss,” he says, smiling. “Teddy Trunk—your boss? Good for him, poor guy.”

His kid comes back with a family-size bottle of Coke with almost no fizz, and two glasses. “Did he ever tell you why they call him Teddy Trunk?” flip-flops asks, pouring me a glass. I nod. “What assholes we were, huh?” He laughs a pretty ugly laugh. “Do you still sometimes drive with him in the trunk, just for old times’ sake?” Then, when he sees I don’t understand, he tells me about how in high school, they were a gang of six, and every Saturday night they’d go to Tel Aviv together. Five in the car, and Teddy. “He used to curl up in the trunk, like this, in his going-out clothes,” flip-flops says, smiling. “And we’d close the trunk and didn’t open it till we got to Tel Aviv. And later, on the way back, the same thing. Did you ever ride in a trunk, all boozed up?” I shake my head. “Me neither.” He takes the empty glass from me. “Well, at least now he rides in the front.”

I’m driving north on the old road, toward Tel Aviv. In the passenger seat next to me is Teddy Trunk, listening to a tape and drumming on the dashboard. He knows this road like the palm of his hand, from the time before the army when he lived around here and used to drive to Tel Aviv with his friends every Saturday night. They’re the ones who gave him that name, “Teddy Trunk.” Today, no one calls him that anymore.

I think my computer is ffucked up. I don’t think it’s the computer itselff actually, just the keyboard. I bought it not long ago, used, ffrom the classiffieds. The guy who sold it to me was weird. Opened the door wearing a silk robe and a ffedora, like some classy hooker in a black-and-white art ffilm. Made me some tea with mint that he grew in the window box. “The computer’s a steal,” he said. “You won’t regret it.” So I gave him ffive hundred, and now I do. The ad said they were selling everything because they were going on a long trip, but the guy in the ffedora gave me the real reason: he was going to drop dead any minute ffrom some disease, except that that’s not something you write in an ad, especially not iff you want people to come. “The truth is,” he said, “that death is kind off like a trip to somewhere, so it isn’t ffalse advertising.” As he said it, he had a quivery voice, optimistic, as though ffor a second he’d seen death as a ffun class trip to a new place, and not just some good-ffor-nothing darkness that’s breathing down your neck. “Does it come with a warranty?” I asked, and he laughed. I was being serious, but when he laughed, I ffelt kind off weird so I pretended like I meant it as a joke.

Ever since I came back to Israel, everything looks different to me. Smelly, sad, dull. Now even those lunches with Ari that used to light up my day are a drag. He’s going to marry that Nessia of his; today he’s going to surprise me with the news. And I, of course, will be surprised, as if Ofer the blinker hadn’t told me the secret four days ago. He loves Nessia, he’ll say, and look into my eyes. “This time,” he’ll say in his deep and very convincing voice, “this time, it’s real.”

We made a date to meet at a fish place on the beach. The economy’s in a recession now, and the price of the lunch specials is a joke, anything to get people in the door. Ari says the recession is good for us, because we—though we may not have realized it yet—are rich. Recession, Ari explains, is tough on the poor. Tough isn’t the word—it’s a killer. But for the rich? It’s like frequent-flier bonus points. You can upgrade all the things you used to do and it’s free. And just like that, the Johnnie Walker goes from Red Label to Black, and the four-days-plus-half-board turns into a week, anything to get people in the door. To get their asses in the god-damn door. “I hate this country,” I tell him while we’re waiting for menus. “I’d split forever if it weren’t for the business.” “Get serious,” Ari says, putting his sandaled foot on the chair next to him. “Where else in the world can you find a beach like this?”

“In France,” I tell him, “in Thailand, in Brazil, in Australia, in the Caribbean—”

“OK, OK, so go,” he interrupts me smugly. “Finish your food, drink your espresso, and go!”

“I said,” I stress, “that I’d go if it weren’t for the business—”

“The business!” Ari bursts out laughing. “The business,” he says, and waves at the waitress for a menu.

The waitress comes over to tell us what the day’s specials are, and Ari gives her the uninterested look of someone in love with another girl. “And for the main dish,” she says, smiling a natural, irresistible smile, “we have slices of red tuna in butter and pepper, halibut on a bed of tofu with a teriyaki sauce, and talking fish with salt and lemon.” “I’ll take the halibut,” Ari says quickly. “What’s talking fish?” I ask. “It’s talking fish served raw. It’s lightly salted, but not spiced—” “And it talks?” I interrupt her. “I highly recommend the halibut,” the waitress continues after a nod. “I never tried the talking.”

As soon as we started eating, Ari told me about marrying Nessia, or NASDAQ, as he likes to call her. He made up the name when the NASDAQ was still going up and never bothered to update it. “Congratulations,” I said. “I’m glad.” “Me too,” Ari said, slouching a little lower in his seat. “Me too. We have a pretty good life, eh? Me and NASDAQ, you…alone, temporarily. A bottle of good white wine, air-conditioning, the sea.”

The fish arrived fifteen minutes later. The halibut, according to Ari, was terrific. The talking—kept quiet. “So it doesn’t talk,” Ari snapped. “So what? Shit, don’t go making a scene. I mean it, I don’t have the patience.” And when he saw me still waving to the waitress, he suggested, “Take a bite—if it’s not good, send it back. But at least taste it first.” The waitress came over with the same irresistible smile as before. “The fish…” I said to her. “Yes?” she asked, craning her already long neck. “It doesn’t talk.” The waitress gave a funny little giggle and explained quickly. “The dish is called talking fish as an indication of the kind of fish it is, which in this case, is the kind that can talk, but the fact that it can talk doesn’t mean that it will at any given moment.” “I don’t understand…” I began. “What’s to understand,” the waitress said in a condescending tone of voice. “This is a restaurant, not a karaoke club. But if you don’t like it, I’d be happy to get you something else. You know what? I’d be happy to get you something else anyway.” “I don’t want something else,” I insisted pointlessly. “I want it to talk.” “It’s OK,” Ari cut in. “You don’t have to bring anything else. Everything’s great.” The waitress flashed a third identical smile and walked away. And Ari said, “Man, I’m getting married. Do you get it? I’m marrying the love of my life. And this time…” he dropped in a two-second pause, “this time it’s real. This meal, it’s a celebration, so come on and fucking eat with me. Without making a big deal about the fish and without bellyaching about the country. Just be happy with me, be happy with your buddy, OK?” “I’m happy,” I said, “really.” “So eat that ugly fish already,” he begged. “No,” I said, and quickly corrected myself. “Not yet.” “Now, now,” Ari urged, “now, before it gets cold—or send it back. But I can’t sit here and watch. The fish on the table and you not talking…” “It’s not getting cold,” I corrected him. “It’s raw. And I don’t have to be quiet, we can talk…” “OK,” said Ari. “Forget it,” and jumped angrily to his feet, “I’ve lost my appetite anyway.” He reached for his wallet, but I stopped him. “Let it be my treat,” I said without getting up, “in honor of your wedding.” “Go fuck yourself,” Ari hissed, but let go of his wallet. “Why do I even try to explain to you about love? You homo. Did I say homo? You’re not even a homo—you’re asexual…” “Ari…” I tried to interrupt him. “Even now,” Ari said, shaking a finger in the air, “even now I know that later on I’ll be sorry I said that. But being sorry about it won’t make it any less true.” “Mazel tov,” I said, trying to give him one of the waitress’s natural smiles, and he gave me a half who-cares, half goodbye wave, and left.

“Is everything all right?” the waitress pantomimed from a distance. I nodded. “Your check?” she continued her pantomime. I shook my head. I looked through the window at the sea—it was a bit murky but very powerful. I looked down at the fish—lying on its stomach with its eyes closed, its body rising and falling as if it were breathing. I didn’t know whether this was a smoking table, but I lit up anyway, one of those satisfying “after” cigarettes. I wasn’t really hungry. It was pleasant here, looking out on the sea—too bad there was glass and air-conditioning instead of a breeze. I could sit like that looking at the sea for hours. “Take off,” the fish whispered to me without opening its eyes. “Grab a cab to the airport and hop on the first plane out, it doesn’t matter where to.” “But I can’t just take off like that,” I explained in a clear, slow voice. “I have commitments here, business.” The fish shut up again and so did I. Almost a minute later, it added, “Never mind, forget it. I’m depressed.”

They didn’t put the fish on the bill. They offered me dessert instead, and when I said no, they just subtracted forty-five shekels. “I’m sorry…” the waitress said, and quickly explained. “I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy it.” And a second later, she specified, “The fish.” “No, no,” I protested, dialing my cell phone for a taxi. “The fish was good. Really, you have a very nice place here.”