wine. We set down our six-pack and Iris opens one for each of us with the flamingo bottle opener on her key chain (a holdover from college). There are probably twenty people in the room. Most of the men wear some kind of covering on their head. Many have black yarmulkes, and several wear sidecurls and black pants. But more than one wears a knit beanie, or a baseball cap. One has a hat that says C OMME DES F UCKDOWN . I alert Iris and she loves it.
The buffet is mostly canned or bagged—chips, nuts, salsa, Oreos, a plastic barrel of Cheez puffs—but everyone seems to have chipped in. There is white wine in a box, several varieties of juice and punch, and a half-empty jug of Smirnoff. We drink our beers and look around. It’s mostly men inside, and everyone appears engaged in conversations that don’t lend themselves to interruption, so we walk back out to the front steps. We aren’t leaning against the railing a minute when a woman approaches us.
“Are you here to see Dov?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
The woman nods. She is wearing a wig and a navy blue turtleneck. She is probably in her late thirties. “You know him from Facebook?”
“Sort of.”
“I do not agree with everything he says, but I think he is doing a good thing.”
I nod.
“You are frum?”
“No,” I say.
“But you are Jewish?”
I hate this question. Before I moved to Brooklyn, I don’t think anyone had ever asked me if I was Jewish. Now I feel like I get asked every other day, and my answer is more complicated than they assume, or, frankly, want to hear about. Fortunately, Iris jumps in.
“I’m not,” she says. “But she is.”
“Are you from Brooklyn?”
“No,” I say. “We’re from Florida.”
“Florida! Miami? I have cousins in Miami.”
“Orlando.”
“Are you married?”
Iris opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything. She’s shocked, I can tell, that we’ve been asked this personal question by a total stranger ten seconds after meeting.
“No,” I say.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I look at Iris, who speaks, finally, and without any of her usual grace: “Uh-huh.”
“Why not get married?”
“We’ve only been dating a little while.”
“Do you want children?”
Iris shrugs. “Someday.”
“I had my first son when I was nineteen,” she says.
Iris looks at me. She knows I had an abortion when I was nineteen. She smiles and puts her hand on my arm. “Well,” she says to the woman, “I hope that worked out for you. Rebekah, I need to go to the bathroom.” She pulls me back into the rotunda.
“Sorry,” she says once we’re inside. “I just hate that shit. What is she, your mom?”
“Maybe,” I say, which makes her laugh. “I don’t think she was trying to make us feel bad. At least you have a boyfriend.”
“Whatever,” says Iris. “I smelled weed out there. Let’s find that person. I bet they don’t ask why we’re not married.”
The weed, it turns out, is being smoked at the bottom of the stairs by two young men, one in sidecurls and black pants, one beardless, with his button-down shirt open, revealing chest hair. He has a small New York Yankees yarmulke clipped to his hair. Iris approaches first, smiling.
“Got any to share?” she says.
The man in the sidecurls, who is more a boy than a man, freezes. His friend seems momentarily stunned by our presence as well, but recovers quickly, taking the joint from his friend’s hand and passing it to Iris.
“Hello there,” he says, obviously thrilled. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Iris takes a pull from the joint and passes it to me. I decline. I feel like I need to be sober for this. She offers her hand to shake. “I’m Iris. This is Rebekah.” Both men look at her hand. Chest hair shakes, sidecurls does not.
“Are you from Williamsburg?” asks chest hair.
“Gowanus,” says Iris, taking a second puff.
“Are you married?”
“Jesus Christ,” says Iris. She hands the joint back. Chest
The buffet is mostly canned or bagged—chips, nuts, salsa, Oreos, a plastic barrel of Cheez puffs—but everyone seems to have chipped in. There is white wine in a box, several varieties of juice and punch, and a half-empty jug of Smirnoff. We drink our beers and look around. It’s mostly men inside, and everyone appears engaged in conversations that don’t lend themselves to interruption, so we walk back out to the front steps. We aren’t leaning against the railing a minute when a woman approaches us.
“Are you here to see Dov?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Are you?”
The woman nods. She is wearing a wig and a navy blue turtleneck. She is probably in her late thirties. “You know him from Facebook?”
“Sort of.”
“I do not agree with everything he says, but I think he is doing a good thing.”
I nod.
“You are frum?”
“No,” I say.
“But you are Jewish?”
I hate this question. Before I moved to Brooklyn, I don’t think anyone had ever asked me if I was Jewish. Now I feel like I get asked every other day, and my answer is more complicated than they assume, or, frankly, want to hear about. Fortunately, Iris jumps in.
“I’m not,” she says. “But she is.”
“Are you from Brooklyn?”
“No,” I say. “We’re from Florida.”
“Florida! Miami? I have cousins in Miami.”
“Orlando.”
“Are you married?”
Iris opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything. She’s shocked, I can tell, that we’ve been asked this personal question by a total stranger ten seconds after meeting.
“No,” I say.
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
I look at Iris, who speaks, finally, and without any of her usual grace: “Uh-huh.”
“Why not get married?”
“We’ve only been dating a little while.”
“Do you want children?”
Iris shrugs. “Someday.”
“I had my first son when I was nineteen,” she says.
Iris looks at me. She knows I had an abortion when I was nineteen. She smiles and puts her hand on my arm. “Well,” she says to the woman, “I hope that worked out for you. Rebekah, I need to go to the bathroom.” She pulls me back into the rotunda.
“Sorry,” she says once we’re inside. “I just hate that shit. What is she, your mom?”
“Maybe,” I say, which makes her laugh. “I don’t think she was trying to make us feel bad. At least you have a boyfriend.”
“Whatever,” says Iris. “I smelled weed out there. Let’s find that person. I bet they don’t ask why we’re not married.”
The weed, it turns out, is being smoked at the bottom of the stairs by two young men, one in sidecurls and black pants, one beardless, with his button-down shirt open, revealing chest hair. He has a small New York Yankees yarmulke clipped to his hair. Iris approaches first, smiling.
“Got any to share?” she says.
The man in the sidecurls, who is more a boy than a man, freezes. His friend seems momentarily stunned by our presence as well, but recovers quickly, taking the joint from his friend’s hand and passing it to Iris.
“Hello there,” he says, obviously thrilled. “I haven’t seen you before.”
Iris takes a pull from the joint and passes it to me. I decline. I feel like I need to be sober for this. She offers her hand to shake. “I’m Iris. This is Rebekah.” Both men look at her hand. Chest hair shakes, sidecurls does not.
“Are you from Williamsburg?” asks chest hair.
“Gowanus,” says Iris, taking a second puff.
“Are you married?”
“Jesus Christ,” says Iris. She hands the joint back. Chest
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