hamma deedy dada deedy dada dum…” from Fiddler on the Hoof . When he finished with that, he started in on any Barbra Streisand song he knew, and then it was on to the Neil Diamond songbook. No one seemed to care, though, not even the chair. Then, suddenly, Shalom stopped mid-Diamond.
Cliffhanger !!!
28
THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST
( see Stevens, Cat)
“I have to find a mohel!” he announced. “Who?” I asked. We were in high spirits to match his high spirits.
“Not who, what. A mohel is a man skilled in the art of removing the foreskin from a Jewish man’s penis.”
“Like a penis tailor?” offered Tom helpfully.
(My editor loves that joke. I’m on the fence.)
“Oy gevalt. You are foul. If you must be pedestrian, yes, like a ‘penis tailor.’ I am a Jew, but I have a goyische schmeckel, and my petzl would like to convert. It is a seal on the covenant between man and God, and I don’t feel comfortable going to Israel with a fully intacto schlong, if you know what I’m saying.”
(Let me add a note here that my editor says that “the double entendre is the lingua franca of kids’ movies.” Whatever that means.)
I was uncomfortable with everything he was saying, with this whole line of thinking, but it was clear Shalom was passionate about trimming a certain part of his anatomy and donating it to the glory of his god, so Tom googled a mohel in the neighborhood and there were like five in the vicinity. Who says you can never find a mohel when you need one?
We found the mohel’s address. Shalom seemed to lose his nerve momentarily, but then he produced a bottle of Manischewitz (product placement) he must have lifted and swilled three healthy gulps. He invited Tom to accompany him, saying he was sure he could get two snips for the price of one, but Tom said thanks but no thanks. “How long will this take?” I asked. Shalom said, “A good while. See, it takes an hour to mow a small lawn and a couple of hours to mow a big lawn, if you catch my drift.” Then he turned on his hoof with bravado and went inside.
“So we’ll be back in ten minutes,” Tom called out after him.
As we waited for Shalom to finish with the mohel, or rather for the mohel to finish with Shalom, Tom and I strolled the quiet neighborhood. It didn’t feel quite as safe without our pig muscle as I looked at some sausages in butcher’s windows and then—oh, my mind reels at the thought—tongue, sliced thinly on rye. I got a little light-headed, I could have barfed. Tom was nervous too, ’cause he heard a lot of turkey sandwiches get ordered. Luckily, we had put on our raincoats, hats, and glasses so no one seemed to know who, or rather what, we were.
29
JUST A LITTLE OFF THE TOP
After about fifteen minutes, we made our way back to the mohel. The door opened, and there stood Shalom, a makeshift diaper around his waist and a lollipop in his mouth. If it’s possible for a pig to be paler and whiter and pinker than usual, he was paler and whiter and pinker than usual.
“That was quick,” Tom said, trying to make light.
Shalom’s face was ashen. “My poor schvantz. We shall never speak of what happened in there. Is that clear?”
Tom and I both nodded, stifling laughter.
“Ever,” Shalom said, “never ever ever. That man, that man is a butcher! I’ve seen things. I tell you I’ve seen things a pig should not see. Things that cannot be unseen. What just happened never happened.”
We started away. “Let me get this straight,” Tom said, tongue firmly in beak. “Not a word ever about the mohel and the shtupper?”
Shalom, limping slightly, hissed, “Don’t say that word.”
“C’mon, forget it. It’s already such a schlong schlong time ago.” Tom was convulsing.
“Schmuck.”
“What word? Mohel ?” I asked.
“Oh, everybody’s a comedian!” grunted Shalom.
Tom couldn’t help himself. “ Never Say Mohel … wasn’t that a James Bond movie— Never Say Mohel Again ?”
“Enough
Cliffhanger !!!
28
THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST
( see Stevens, Cat)
“I have to find a mohel!” he announced. “Who?” I asked. We were in high spirits to match his high spirits.
“Not who, what. A mohel is a man skilled in the art of removing the foreskin from a Jewish man’s penis.”
“Like a penis tailor?” offered Tom helpfully.
(My editor loves that joke. I’m on the fence.)
“Oy gevalt. You are foul. If you must be pedestrian, yes, like a ‘penis tailor.’ I am a Jew, but I have a goyische schmeckel, and my petzl would like to convert. It is a seal on the covenant between man and God, and I don’t feel comfortable going to Israel with a fully intacto schlong, if you know what I’m saying.”
(Let me add a note here that my editor says that “the double entendre is the lingua franca of kids’ movies.” Whatever that means.)
I was uncomfortable with everything he was saying, with this whole line of thinking, but it was clear Shalom was passionate about trimming a certain part of his anatomy and donating it to the glory of his god, so Tom googled a mohel in the neighborhood and there were like five in the vicinity. Who says you can never find a mohel when you need one?
We found the mohel’s address. Shalom seemed to lose his nerve momentarily, but then he produced a bottle of Manischewitz (product placement) he must have lifted and swilled three healthy gulps. He invited Tom to accompany him, saying he was sure he could get two snips for the price of one, but Tom said thanks but no thanks. “How long will this take?” I asked. Shalom said, “A good while. See, it takes an hour to mow a small lawn and a couple of hours to mow a big lawn, if you catch my drift.” Then he turned on his hoof with bravado and went inside.
“So we’ll be back in ten minutes,” Tom called out after him.
As we waited for Shalom to finish with the mohel, or rather for the mohel to finish with Shalom, Tom and I strolled the quiet neighborhood. It didn’t feel quite as safe without our pig muscle as I looked at some sausages in butcher’s windows and then—oh, my mind reels at the thought—tongue, sliced thinly on rye. I got a little light-headed, I could have barfed. Tom was nervous too, ’cause he heard a lot of turkey sandwiches get ordered. Luckily, we had put on our raincoats, hats, and glasses so no one seemed to know who, or rather what, we were.
29
JUST A LITTLE OFF THE TOP
After about fifteen minutes, we made our way back to the mohel. The door opened, and there stood Shalom, a makeshift diaper around his waist and a lollipop in his mouth. If it’s possible for a pig to be paler and whiter and pinker than usual, he was paler and whiter and pinker than usual.
“That was quick,” Tom said, trying to make light.
Shalom’s face was ashen. “My poor schvantz. We shall never speak of what happened in there. Is that clear?”
Tom and I both nodded, stifling laughter.
“Ever,” Shalom said, “never ever ever. That man, that man is a butcher! I’ve seen things. I tell you I’ve seen things a pig should not see. Things that cannot be unseen. What just happened never happened.”
We started away. “Let me get this straight,” Tom said, tongue firmly in beak. “Not a word ever about the mohel and the shtupper?”
Shalom, limping slightly, hissed, “Don’t say that word.”
“C’mon, forget it. It’s already such a schlong schlong time ago.” Tom was convulsing.
“Schmuck.”
“What word? Mohel ?” I asked.
“Oh, everybody’s a comedian!” grunted Shalom.
Tom couldn’t help himself. “ Never Say Mohel … wasn’t that a James Bond movie— Never Say Mohel Again ?”
“Enough
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