The Nimrod Flipout: Stories (8 page)

Nachum happened on the ad completely by chance, somewhere between the daily horoscope and the sex toys. “Ever wonder about the meaning of life?” the ad inquired. “Ever ask yourself why we exist in the first place?” And it went on to provide the solution: “The answer to this difficult question is right at your fingertips. You’ll find it in a small but incredible booklet. In simple and readable language you will find out why you have been placed on this earth. The booklet, printed on the finest rag stock, complete with enlightening, breathtaking color photographs, will be mailed to your home, beautifully gift-wrapped, for only 9.99!” There was a photograph of a man with glasses reading a small booklet, and smiling happily to himself. And right over his head, in the spot where his thought-bubble should have been, was the inscription, in thick lettering: “The booklet that will change your life!” Nachum was deeply impressed by the picture in the ad. The man looked very happy, and Nachum was also taken in by his broad shoulders, almost like the smiling strong-man in the ad for “The Physique of Hercules in only thirty seconds a day, with our new and improved formula. Only 9.99! (inc. tax and postage).” To think that they were offering him the meaning of life. And at half the regular price!

Nachum’s hands shook as he stuck the stamp on the envelope. He knew that the next few days would be his longest. The meaning of life was something that had worried him for as long as he could remember, and even though his life was reasonably pleasant and happy, he’d always felt there was something missing. But now, in just a few days, his world would be complete. When he tried to explain to his father the intense curiosity that was welling up within him, he encountered some resistance. “You’re such a moron. Every time some two-timing swindler decides to cash in, all he needs is to place an ad, and my nincompoop of a son sends him the money.” “But Dad, they’re not two-timing swindlers,” Nachum tried to explain. “The ad even says that if I’m not completely satisfied, I have fourteen days to send the booklet back, and they’ll reimburse me. Minus the postage, of course.” Nachum’s dad gave a creepy snigger, and his nervous expression became downright menacing. Placing his hand on Nachum’s shoulder, he whispered in a conspiratorial voice: “Know what? Let’s put one over on ’em. Let’s read the booklet together, and then, once we’ve figured out the meaning of life, we’ll send it back. That’ll screw them good. What do you say?” Nachum didn’t say anything, though he couldn’t help thinking it was very dishonest. He didn’t want to upset his dad. But the vise on his shoulder was tightening. Apparently, his dad had managed to get upset all on his own. “You imbecile,” he shouted. “I’ll show you the meaning of life, you piece of defective goods,” he ranted on, struggling to pull off his slipper. “Leave the boy alone,” Nachum’s mother said, rushing to his rescue, trying to separate him from his dad. “Boy?” Nachum’s dad wheezed madly, waving the slipper at them as if he was about to use it. “He’ll be twenty-eight in August.” “So he’s a little on the naïve side,” his mother whimpered. “So what?”

Nachum’s friends thought it was a scam too. Even Ronit. So, having nobody to share his impatient wait with, he impatiently waited all by himself. The notice from the post office arrived three days later, and Nachum barely managed to grab it from his dad, who was about to swallow it in one of his fits of rage. As soon as he had the package in his hands, even before he’d left the post office, Nachum tore open the brown-paper wrapping and dove into the booklet on his way home. The secret of the human condition was revealed to him, becoming clearer and clearer with every page he read. The incredible booklet was written in such plain and simple language that Nachum could understand everything without having to reread it (except one part where he had to refer to the breathtaking color photographs, which really were enlightening, just as advertised). And by the time he got back to the building where he lived, he knew, for the first time in his life, why he had been placed in this wonderful world of ours, why all of us are here. And a feeling of sublime joy swept over him, a joy mingled with just a tinge of sorrow for all those years that he’d been forced to live in ignorance. Determined to ensure that others would not have to suffer the same tormenting moments of confusion, Nachum raced upstairs, and the very thought that in just a few short seconds he was about to share the secret of the human condition with his parents brought tears to his eyes—tears that were soon to turn into tears of frustration. His father screamed that he would have no part of this ridiculous farce. And while his mother did listen to his explanations, and looked at his pictures and nodded, her eyes were glazed over, and her nod lacked conviction. Clearly, she wasn’t thinking about the booklet at all. She just wanted to make Nachum feel better.

The next few hours left Nachum feeling frustrated and sad. A quick glance at the newspaper was enough to remind him just how foreign the essence of the human condition was to most of humanity. All those wars, and murders, and ecological disasters—even the drops in the stock market—all those things grew out of ignorance, mistakes caused by a basic failure to understand what life was really about. Mistakes that could be corrected so easily, if only they would listen. But that was something nobody was ready to do. Not his relatives, not his friends, not even Ronit. With every fiber of his being Nachum felt the sting of disillusionment. But suddenly, just above the array of easy-loan ads, he caught sight of a familiar face—the man with the broad shoulders and the glasses. Except in this ad he was addressing a stern-looking man who seemed to be listening very closely. “People don’t listen to you?” the ad asked. “Family and close friends pay no attention? We have the solution. For 9.99 we will send you a remarkable booklet, which will teach you how to win over even the most indifferent listener.” Nachum could hardly contain his joy. Just as he had reached the verge of despair, everything was about to change. The time he spent waiting for the booklet was filled with eager anticipation. After four interminable days, he held the package in his hands. With bated breath he read the edifying principles, and when he’d finished, he approached his dad, this time confident of success.

Matters progressed at a dizzying pace. Nachum knew the existential truth, and how to get people’s ear. The meaning of life was passed on by word of mouth, from one friend to another. It’s hard to imagine Nachum’s elation as he looked into his mother’s glistening eyes, or listened to the delighted laughter of all his friends, especially Ronit. But complications presented themselves. A couple of Orthodox kids, including the grandson of the rabbi of Ludvor, came to visit Nachum at his home and asked him to explain the meaning of life. Nachum was glad to oblige. He even served them some lemonade. They thanked him politely and left. Nachum didn’t give it a second thought. Lots of strangers were paying him visits at that point, and those boys were no different from the rest.

But the next day hundreds of Orthodox Jews surrounded his home and filled his yard, singing religious hymns like “Son of Lilith, fear our sword—we shall prevail, so saith the Lord” and “Heathens shall be smitten.” Listening to their chants, Nachum knew he was in trouble. He managed to sneak out through the bathroom window and hide in an abandoned shelter not far from his home. Every morning, Ronit would bring him some sandwiches and a thermos of coffee. She’d wrap the sandwiches in newsprint, which is how Nachum discovered that the rabbi of Ludvor’s grandson had organized a mass departure of students from the yeshivas of Jerusalem, on the grounds that there was no point in seeking the truth in the sacred books, now that it was out in the open. The Orthodox community held Nachum personally responsible for the whole debacle. And as if this wasn’t bad enough, his father, whose understanding of the meaning of life did not seem to have changed him much, managed to make things even worse. By finding unconventional uses for cans of baby carrots, he had sent the cantor of the Ludvor congregation into intensive care.

Nachum was keen on making the chief rabbi of the Ludvor congregation realize it was all just a misunderstanding, and to explain to him that the meaning of life as he had presented it was devoid of any antireligious implications. Quite the contrary. He himself, after all, made a point of fasting on Yom Kippur and eating matzo every Passover. He’d even received a sports bike for his bar mitzvah like any good Jewish boy. But every time he tried calling the rabbi from the phone booth on the corner, the rabbi would just mutter his
Shema Yisrael
, call out for help in Yiddish, and hang up before Nachum could say a word. Nachum was growing despondent. He was beginning to feel the effect of the persistent siege on his home and the public denunciation by the rabbis, not to mention the mildew in the shelter and his powerful craving for his mother’s cooking. But it was then, just at his darkest hour, that everything changed thanks to Tuesday’s tuna-fish sandwich. One of the stories in the sandwich wrapping was an interview with the Ludvor cantor, who’d been discharged after making a complete recovery from the canned-goods attack, and right above it Nachum spotted an ad. It showed the same broad-shouldered guy, except that this time he was in an awkward position. Right opposite him was a bearded giant, holding a sharp ax, in a menacing pose. The guy with the glasses was giving him a piercing look, reinforced with a dotted line. The ad went like this: “Do you have any enemies? Anyone who wants to harm you? Don’t worry! For 9.99 you can own our new booklet, ‘Turn Enemies into Friends in Seven Easy Lessons,’ and learn how to turn negative energies into positive ones with just one look!”

Nachum lost no time sending in his money, and soon the booklet arrived. He read it breathlessly, and began practicing by applying its rules to the misanthropic rats in the shelter. In no time at all, they became his friends. Nachum shaved, using the cold water of the shelter, and did his best to iron his clothes. He bought a yarmulke in the nearby used-clothing shop, and set out on his long journey to the residence of the rabbi of Ludvor. Despite his efforts to maintain a low profile, Nachum, for reasons that were not clear to him, drew a great deal of attention. When he reached the rabbi’s residence, the crowd was ready for a lynching, but his friends the rats, who’d followed him around by the dozen, protected him. The rabbi came out onto the balcony to find out what was causing the commotion, and sure enough, all it took was one look from Nachum to make him realize there had been a misunderstanding. “Stop,” he cried from the balcony high above. “Can’t you see that you are facing the Messiah himself, and that he brings us the word of God?” And the crowd looked, and they saw. That very evening, they held a banquet. Nachum’s father and the cantor of Ludvor danced together, arm in arm, as Nachum’s rat friends drank themselves senseless.

From then on, it was not long before the meaning of life could be explained to the rest of humanity. The secret of human existence spread like a virus, and Nachum took the trouble to explain it personally on both of his
Nightline
appearances. Every country in the world agreed to disarm, some beating their swords into ploughshares, others finding even better applications. Nachum spent most of his time growing tomatoes in the little garden he cultivated in the backyard of his parents’ apartment building, basking in the knowledge that he had played his own small part in the happiness of the entire world. There was just one thought that continued to worry him though: the thought of death. It hadn’t bothered him in the past, but now that everything was so wonderful, it horrified him. Which is why Nachum was so thrilled when his father drew his attention to an ad in one of the dailies, where the broad-shouldered guy with the glasses, who was looking younger than ever, promised “a colorful booklet that will show you the way to immortality. All you need is fifteen seconds a day of exercising your sphincter muscles. For only 29.99.” “Would you take a look at that?” Nachum’s father grumbled. “One lucky break, and already they go and up the price.”

The golden stick is what they call it, and you have to read the little leaflet that comes with it before your girlfriend pees on it. You make coffee, have a cookie like everything’s cool, click on MTV, groove on whatever they’re playing, snuggle, sing the chorus with the band. Then back to the stick. The stick has a little window. When there’s one stripe in it, that means everything’s OK, and when there are two—hell, you always wanted to be a father anyway.

The truth is, he loved her. But really, not that stammered sure-I-love-you kind of love. He loved her forever, like in the fairy tales, I’d-walk-down-the-aisle-tomorrow kind of love, except that the whole business with the baby really stressed him out. It was pretty heavy stuff for her too, but an abortion was even scarier. And if they knew they were heading toward a family anyway, so it was just pushing up the schedule. “You’re freaking out.” She laughed. “Look how you’re sweating.” “Sure I’m freaking out,” he said, trying to laugh too. “It’s easy for you, you have a uterus, but me, you know me, I get uptight even when there’s no reason and now that there is…” “I’m scared too,” she said, wrapping herself around him. “Forget it,” he said, and hugged her. “It’ll all work out in the end, you’ll see. If it’s a boy, I’ll teach him how to play soccer, and if it’s a girl—you know what, it wouldn’t hurt her either.” Then she cried a little and he comforted her, and then she fell asleep and he didn’t. Far back, deep inside him, he could feel his hemorrhoids opening one by one like flowers in springtime.

At first, when there was no belly yet, he tried not to think about it, not that it helped, but at least it gave him something to aim for. Later, when she started to show a little, he began to imagine it sitting there in her stomach, a pocket-size little asshole in a shiny three-piece suit. And really, how could he know that it wouldn’t be born a little shit, because kids, they’re like Russian roulette, you never know in advance what you’ll end up with. Once, when she was in her third month, he went to the mall to buy something for his computer and saw a disgusting kid in overalls forcing his mother to buy him a video game, pretending he’d haul his chubby little body over the second-floor railing if she didn’t. “Jump,” he shouted at the kid from below. “I dare you, you little blackmailing shit,” and took off before the hysterical mother could sic the security guards on him. The next night, he dreamed he was pushing his girlfriend down the steps so she’d have a miscarriage. Or maybe it wasn’t a dream, just a thought that went through his mind when they went out to the movies, and he started thinking this was no joke. He had to do something. Something serious, not on the level of a conversation with his mother, or even with his grandmother. This called for nothing less than a visit to his great-grandmother.

His great-grandmother was so old it was depressing, and if there was something she hated, it was visitors. She spent the whole day at home OD’ing on soap operas, and if she did let someone come to visit, she refused to turn off the TV. “I’m scared, Great-grandmother,” he blubbered on the living room couch. “I’m so scared, you have no idea.” “Of what?” the great-grandmother asked, still watching some mustachioed Victor who’d just told a woman wrapped in a towel that he was actually her father. “I don’t know,” he mumbled. “Maybe something I never wanted will be born.” “Listen to me carefully, Great-grandson,” said the great-grandmother, nodding her head in time to the closing music of the series. “At night, wait till she falls asleep, and then lie with your head right up against her belly, so that all your dreams move straight into it.” He nodded, even though he didn’t really understand, but the great-grandmother explained, “A dream is nothing but a strong wish. So strong that you can’t even put it into words. Now, the fetus, which is in her belly, has no opinions about anything, so he’ll sop it right up. Whatever you dream, that’s exactly what will be.”

After that, he slept every night with his head right next to her belly, which was getting bigger all the time. He didn’t remember the dreams, but he was willing to swear they were good ones. And he couldn’t remember a time in his life when he’d slept that way, so peacefully, he didn’t even get up to pee. His wife didn’t really understand that funny position she found him in every morning, but was happy to see him relaxed again and he stayed relaxed the whole way, right to the delivery room. Not that he didn’t care or anything like that—he was very much into it—it was just that his fears had been replaced by anticipation. And even when he saw the obstetrician and the nurses whispering together before the doctor walked reluctantly over to him, he never lost confidence that everything would be fine.

In the end, they had a little horse. More accurately, a pony. They called him Hemi, after a successful industrialist whose glitzy TV appearances had impressed the great-grandmother, and they raised him with lots of love. On Saturdays, they rode him to the park and played all kinds of games with him, mainly cowboys and Indians. The truth is that after the birth, she was depressed for a long time, and even though they never talked about it, he knew that no matter how much she loved Hemi, deep in her heart, she wanted something different.

Meanwhile, in the soap opera, the woman in the towel shot Victor, twice, making the great-grandmother very unhappy. (He’d been hooked up to a respirator for quite a few episodes now.) At night, after everyone fell asleep, he’d turn off the TV and go to look at Hemi, who slept on the hay he’d spread on the floor of the nursery. Hemi was very funny when he slept, shaking his head from side to side as if he were listening to someone talking to him, and every once in a while, he even whinnied at some especially funny dream. She took Hemi to a lot of specialists, who said he would never really grow. “He’ll stay a midget,” as she’d put it, but Hemi wasn’t a midget, he was a pony. “Too bad,” he’d whisper every night when he put him to sleep, “too bad Mom couldn’t dream a dream that might’ve come true, too.” And then he’d stroke Hemi’s mane and hum him a medley of children’s and horses’ songs, a medley that always opened with “All the Pretty Little Ponies” and ended only when he himself fell asleep.