Read Online Portnoy's Complaint by Philip Roth - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Philip Roth
Ads: Link
the washing machines-still wielding the bottle of Squeeze. But my uncle stalked him into a corner, wrestled him to the floor, and held him there until Heshie had screamed his last obscenity-held him there (so Portnoy legend has it) fifteen minutes, until the tears of surrender at last appeared on his Heshie's long dark Hollywood lashes. We are not a family that takes defection lightly.
That morning Uncle Hymie had telephoned Alice Dembosky (in the basement flat of an apartment building on Goldsmith Avenue, where her father was the janitor) and told her that he wanted to meet her by the lake in Weequahic Park at noon; it was a very urgent matter involving Harold's health-he could not talk at length on the phone, as even Mrs. Portnoy didn't know all the facts. At the park, he drew the skinny blonde wearing the babushka into the front seat of the car, and with the windows rolled up, told her that his son had an incurable blood disease, a disease about which the poor boy himself did not even know. That was his story, bad blood, make of it what you will . . . It was the doctor's orders that he should not marry anyone, ever. How much longer Harold had to live no one really knew, but as far as Mr. Portnoy was concerned, he did not want to inflict the suffering that was to come, upon an innocent young person like herself. To soften the blow he wanted to offer the girl a gift, a little something that she could use however she wished, maybe even to help her find somebody new. He drew from his pocket an envelope containing five twenty-dollar bills. And dumb, frightened Alice Dembosky took it. Thus proving something that everybody but Heshie (and I) had surmised about the Polack from the beginning: that her plan was to take Heshie for all his father's money, and then ruin his life.
When Heshie was killed in the war, the only thing people could think to say to my Aunt Clara and my Uncle Hymie, to somehow mitigate the horror, to somehow console them in their grief, was, At least he didn't leave you with a shikse wife. At least he didn't leave you with goyische children.
End of Heshie and his story.
Even if I consider myself too much of a big shot to set foot inside a synagogue for fifteen minutes-which is all he is asking-at least I should have respect enough to change into decent clothes for the day and not make a mockery of myself, my family, and my religion.
I'm sorry, I mumble, my back (as is usual) all I will offer him to look at while I speak, but just because it's your religion doesn't mean it's mine.
What did you say? Turn around, mister, I want the courtesy of a reply from your mouth.
I don't have a religion, I say, and obligingly turn in his direction, about a fraction of a degree.
You don't, eh?
“I can’t.”
And why not? You're something special? Look at me! You're somebody too special?
I don't believe in God.
Get out of those dungarees, Alex, and put on some decent clothes.
They're not dungarees, they're Levis.
It's Rosh Hashanah, Alex, and to me you're wearing overalls! Get in there and put a tie on and a jacket on and a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, and come out looking like a human being. And shoes, Mister, hard shoes.
My shirt is clean-
Oh, you're riding for a fall, Mr. Big. You're fourteen years old, and believe me, you don't know everything there is to know. Get out of those moccasins! What the hell are you supposed to be, some kind of Indian?
Look, I don't believe in God and I don't believe in the Jewish religion-or in any religion. They're all lies.
Oh, they are, are they?
I'm not going to act like these holidays mean anything when they don't! And that's all I'm saying!
Maybe they don't mean anything because you don't know anything about them, Mr. Big Shot. What do you know about the history of Rosh Hashanah? One fact? Two facts maybe? What do you know about the history the Jewish people, that you have the right to call their religion, that's been good enough for people a lot smarter
That morning Uncle Hymie had telephoned Alice Dembosky (in the basement flat of an apartment building on Goldsmith Avenue, where her father was the janitor) and told her that he wanted to meet her by the lake in Weequahic Park at noon; it was a very urgent matter involving Harold's health-he could not talk at length on the phone, as even Mrs. Portnoy didn't know all the facts. At the park, he drew the skinny blonde wearing the babushka into the front seat of the car, and with the windows rolled up, told her that his son had an incurable blood disease, a disease about which the poor boy himself did not even know. That was his story, bad blood, make of it what you will . . . It was the doctor's orders that he should not marry anyone, ever. How much longer Harold had to live no one really knew, but as far as Mr. Portnoy was concerned, he did not want to inflict the suffering that was to come, upon an innocent young person like herself. To soften the blow he wanted to offer the girl a gift, a little something that she could use however she wished, maybe even to help her find somebody new. He drew from his pocket an envelope containing five twenty-dollar bills. And dumb, frightened Alice Dembosky took it. Thus proving something that everybody but Heshie (and I) had surmised about the Polack from the beginning: that her plan was to take Heshie for all his father's money, and then ruin his life.
When Heshie was killed in the war, the only thing people could think to say to my Aunt Clara and my Uncle Hymie, to somehow mitigate the horror, to somehow console them in their grief, was, At least he didn't leave you with a shikse wife. At least he didn't leave you with goyische children.
End of Heshie and his story.
Even if I consider myself too much of a big shot to set foot inside a synagogue for fifteen minutes-which is all he is asking-at least I should have respect enough to change into decent clothes for the day and not make a mockery of myself, my family, and my religion.
I'm sorry, I mumble, my back (as is usual) all I will offer him to look at while I speak, but just because it's your religion doesn't mean it's mine.
What did you say? Turn around, mister, I want the courtesy of a reply from your mouth.
I don't have a religion, I say, and obligingly turn in his direction, about a fraction of a degree.
You don't, eh?
“I can’t.”
And why not? You're something special? Look at me! You're somebody too special?
I don't believe in God.
Get out of those dungarees, Alex, and put on some decent clothes.
They're not dungarees, they're Levis.
It's Rosh Hashanah, Alex, and to me you're wearing overalls! Get in there and put a tie on and a jacket on and a pair of trousers and a clean shirt, and come out looking like a human being. And shoes, Mister, hard shoes.
My shirt is clean-
Oh, you're riding for a fall, Mr. Big. You're fourteen years old, and believe me, you don't know everything there is to know. Get out of those moccasins! What the hell are you supposed to be, some kind of Indian?
Look, I don't believe in God and I don't believe in the Jewish religion-or in any religion. They're all lies.
Oh, they are, are they?
I'm not going to act like these holidays mean anything when they don't! And that's all I'm saying!
Maybe they don't mean anything because you don't know anything about them, Mr. Big Shot. What do you know about the history of Rosh Hashanah? One fact? Two facts maybe? What do you know about the history the Jewish people, that you have the right to call their religion, that's been good enough for people a lot smarter
Similar Books
