Category: Jewish life

Pomegranate — 15

Jen was loafing aimlessly around the city. She has her music blasting on her iPhone. She went to J.Crew to buy a skirt and some other items. She was thinking about reaching out to Marc again. But was confused. She knew she liked him. And she knew she didn’t. It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. She knew he probably wasn’t her match.

He was acting weird lately. She knew it was because of Alana. She thought to herself they think I am so dumb and daffy. Daffy, I am. But not dumb. I know they have something going. They always will. But so do I.

She got some ice cream and looked at shots of her and Marc on her iPhone. They were from many years ago. She saw the shots of them at concerts and their Delaware rafting trip.

She wanted to be happy and break away from her current situation.

Just as she wanted to break away so did Marc and Alana. But the three of them have been entangled in their web for years. What will it take to spin out?

Meanwhile, Marc was heading up to watch his beloved Yankees take on the Red Sox. As always the two teams were fighting for the division. Marc was walking along the sacred grounds where the old stadium resided. Tears were in his eyes. They always were at this holy spot.

His mind was set on the game. But as always he was thinking about Jen and Alana. He thought his couple of days in the camp would break him away. His break lasted for about two weeks. He went into the Stadium and purchased his hot dog, Pepsi, and knish. He washed his hands, went to his seat, and dug in. He hoped the game would change the course of his life. Baseball can do that.

 

 

Pomegranate — 14

The two got themselves to Clarke’s. Alana’s black jeans were torn. Her hair was a mess. Marc was not better.

They stared at each other. Neither was in the mood for another fight.

Alana ordered a Sierra Nevada and a burger. She was not being good to her faith. In fact, she was becoming faithless. Marc ordered fish and chips with a Stella. He knew it wasn’t kosher. But he knew it was a kosher fish and potatoes are potatoes. At least, the bottled beer was fine.

“Well, good boy what’s up with us? Oh and Jen???”

Marc smiled, as he sipped his brew.   He planted his fork into the codfish.

She was about to smash her bottle of beer on Marc’s head, when a fight broke out at the bar. The two looked at each other. They had no desire to stop the fight.

In their minds, they both knew they were either going to fight each other and have makeup sex. Or just fight.

They ate, sipped their beers, split the tab, and left.

They embraced before heading to the train station.

 

Pomegranate — 13

Marc and Alana got off their trains. Each hoped their “meeting” would not be as horrendous as their prior two. Before heading over to Clarke’s they went to their respective banks.

They both smelled smoke and saw a haze in the air. It was emanating from the direction of the U.N. Their eyes wandered that way. The smoke thickened. Normal people would have walk in another direction. But they headed toward the source of the fire.

There were a few madmen and women lighting trash cans on fire while ranting about the world. Sirens were heard in the background.

Marc and Alana raced toward the criminals. Alana knew she couldn’t shoot her most powerful weapon, wine. It would make the fire burn brighter. But she knew she had to do something. Marc saw them. He didn’t want to get dirty. He was in his favorite Lacoste shirt and Gap jeans. He wanted to look nice for Alana.  He knew he had to stop this madness.

One of the crazies bumped into him. He pushed her away. She charged into him. He ducked. He had no desire to expose his powers at the UN. Alana was trying to put out one of the fires when someone picked up a flaming trash can and tossed it at her.

She went nuts. She kicked the can down. But got minor burns on her legs. The person who threw the can was laughing. She ran up to him and punched him so hard. His mouth fell wide open. She unleashed pounds of figs down his throat. He fell down and choked. He passed out. She walked away from him.

Meanwhile, Marc was engaged in a fight with the woman who shoved him. She was throwing garbage at him. His arms bulged. He opened his hands as pomegranates flew out his palms. Several hit the woman right in her head. He shot barley and honey. Finally, he entangled her in his weapons. She started crying. He checked to see if she was ok. As he turned around to run an EMT was racing toward them.

He knew he had to be swift. Alana was racing ahead and shooting wine at a woman who was wielding a machete. She usually fought with grape wine. But started drinking an amazing Israeli pomegranate wine and added it to her repertoire. She knew she would probably hit Marc with it. But wanted to practice to make sure it was effective.

The two kept at it. The NYPD eventually arrived. One of them tripped over one of the trashcans.

Marc and Alana started running toward Clarke’s. They were texting each other that they’d be late for their get together. But both understood why.

 

 

 

 

 

Back home from camp, Marc was ready to take on the world. He always felt that way when he was in a spiritual place. As soon as baseball season started, he’d go to Yankee Stadium.

He pulled out his iPhone and texted Alana, “Wanna try Clarke’s again?”

He was hoping they’d settle their issues via conversation, a Stella and either fish and chips or a burger. Food choice was based on how they felt about religion at the moment.

Meanwhile, Alana was running. She was in a bad mood. She saw some little kids fighting. But decided to let them be. They were only kids. No need to get involved. Her phone played, “Love will tear us apart”. She whipped it out of her pocket. That was Marc’s ringtone. She read his message. She quickly typed, “Tonight, 7:30 p.m. Alone. Or else.”

She continued her run. She went home showered and jumped on the train to meet Marc.

Pomegranate — 12

Back home from camp, Marc was ready to take on the world. He always felt that way when he was in a spiritual place. As soon as baseball season started, he’d go to Yankee Stadium.

He pulled out his iPhone and texted Alana, “Wanna try Clarke’s again?”

He was hoping they’d settle their issues via conversation, a Stella and either fish and chips or a burger. Food choice was based on how they felt about religion at the moment.

Meanwhile, Alana was running. She was in a bad mood. She saw some little kids fighting. But decided to let them be. They were only kids. No need to get involved. Her phone played, “Love will tear us apart”. She whipped it out of her pocket. That was Marc’s ringtone. She read his message. She quickly typed, “Tonight, 7:30 p.m. Alone. Or else.”

She continued her run. She went home showered and jumped on the train to meet Marc.

 

 

 

Pomegranate — 10

Alana stood in front of Clarke’s. Marc never wrote back. That was unlike him. Although they only had a brief romance many moons ago, she knew him too well. They were always good friends. And enemies. Alana decided to wear pink sneakers. She wanted to play with his head.

She stood there for about 30 minutes waiting. He was never late. Tears fell from her eyes as she gave up and walked toward the E-train. As she was walking she heard a faint yell calling her name. She turned around. Marc was standing there. She was happy. Yet annoyed. She was about to start a fight. She really wanted to. But decided to momentarily hold off.

They looked at each other. Jen was not far behind Marc. Alana couldn’t tell if they were together or if she came on her own. Of course, they all knew of each other. She wanted to be the mature one. She knows Jen is a bit goofy. She saw the two of them walking closer to her. And she held her ground.

Marc got closer. Jen still trailed him by about 10 feet. Alana was ready to fire away. But she held back. It was so hard for her. Jen was smiling. Marc went right up to her and said, “hi”.

“What is she doing here?” retorted Alana. Marc started to shake. Alana was getting ready to take both of them out.

“She followed me from my office.” Alana shook her head.

“You know we have this crazy relationship.”

“Marc you nut cake. Isn’t that your problem with all the girls you date? Have you ever dated someone normal? I’m probably the most normal you’ve been with. And that doesn’t say much for either one of us.”

“Please, Alana. She’s has problems. You know she’s listening to us right now. I know you could take her out. I don’t want to have to fight again. But please don’t attack her.”

“Jen, what’s your deal? We both love Marc. Neither of us is probably right for him. He’s probably not right for us. But I set this up. Get away.”

Jen started to cry. Alana wound her arm up. Her hand opened. She unleashed a bushel of apples right at Jen. She followed it with figs. But she threw everything in a way that’d they’d just graze her. She wanted to scare Jen. Scare her she did. Jen jumped away as the last apple flew by her head. She fell down and scraped her knees and hands.

Marc started shooting honey at Alana. But he was no match for her. She was on fire. He tried to hit her with pomegranates. He missed.

Pomegranate — Book 9

 

Alana hasn’t slept well in days. But she was up early and off to work. She was heading to her Soho office. She got off the R-train and bought a bagel from a street vendor.

As always, her mind was occupied with Marc. Boy did she have obsessive-compulsive disorder. Tack on her general anxiety disorder and she could really be a mess. A hot mess. Despite her goth looks and beliefs, she did get along with most people. She just needed to be in control.

She entered her building and went to the elevator. Her iPhone started playing “Cut You Up.” She started to shake. That was Marc’s text tone. Was this real? She was spooked. Her hand shook as she opened the text. What her dream was writing? She had no clue why after so many years she was still head over heels for him. They briefly dated. But had so much in common. Especially their love of Joy Division, Bauhaus and the Cure.

“Hey, Alana.”

Why didn’t he write more? But he wrote. She was pleased. Yet distressed. Her knees started to shake. She bit into her bagel.

Her boss was his usual cheery self. He wasn’t a bad guy. They got along. But like all, she got on his nerves. And now she had that text to think about. And think about it she did. That’s all she thought of. What does he want? She wasn’t ready to text him back and fall into a trap. They’ve been in each other’s trap since the third grade.

The lunchtime hour struck. She went outside to the corner deli. She was still thinking about what she’d say in her reply to Marc. Someone ran into her as the crossed the street. She moved away and figured it was just a tourist who didn’t know how to walk in NYC. She kept walking to the store. But the woman who smacked her went after her again. She tried to stay calm. But was so tense. She looked at the woman right in the eye.

The woman went into her coat pocket and looked like she was pulling out a gun. Alana didn’t want to get shot. She was feeling a connection to Marc. Alana’s arm bulged. As her hand opened the crazy lady whipped out a razor blade and tried to slash Alana’s throat. Alana ducked and when she got up she lunged a bushel of apples at the woman. They hit her square in the jaw and her head. She hit the concrete hard. Alana didn’t stop. She was enraged. She usually just beat her foe and left. The woman was screaming so loud. Naturally, people were shooting shots with their mobiles. Finally, Alana walked off.

People tried to follow her. But as a typical New Yorker, she was in all black and blended in well with the foot traffic. She whipped out her phone and texted, “Marc, it’s me. Meet for a beer at PJ Clarke’s on 55th and Third?” She thought for a moment or two and hit send.

Pomegranate — Book 8

Alana woke up with a slight stomachache. She didn’t sleep well. She wasn’t sure why. Things have been going fairly well at work. She still had her obsession with Marc. But that was slowly subsidizing. She wanted to help people. But she didn’t want people to get in her way.

She might be stubborn and tough. But underneath it all, she has a good heart. She showered and decided to take a walk outside. The cold winter air was getting her blood circulating. She was feeling better.

She heard noises that sounded like gunshots. Her ears told her shots were fired about a block away to her left. She thought for a minute and decided to head over.

More shots were fired. She heard no sirens. She wondered why. She picked up her pace. She saw an enraged woman firing off shots into the sky. People were hiding on the ground and in garbage cans.

She assessed the situation. She yelled out to the madwoman. The woman looked at her and fired two more shots into a wall. Then she pointed the gun at Alana.

For a moment everyone was frozen. A little boy started to cry. Alana and the woman stood perfectly still. It was as one was waiting for the other to attack first. Thoughts quickly raced through Alana’s mind. She knew if she tried to run she’d be gunned down. That wouldn’t work. She couldn’t get killed until she had Marc under her control.

Alana’s arm started to bulge. Her hand opened. The woman was paying strict attention to Alana. Her finger was on the trigger of the automatic weapon. She was about to pull it when figs and apples started flying through the air. She started chanting religious prose. The fruits kept flying. One smacked her right on her gun hand. The weapon fell to the ground. Alana ran forward and picked it up. She opened the chamber and unloaded it. She tossed it down a sewer.

The woman collapsed. Finally, the sounds of sirens were blaring. Alana just stood there. People surrounded the crazy lady. But no one said a word.

Jewish Unity and Inclusivity: Do we want it?

Right now, I am not high on Hashem and question his, her or its existence. Let’s face it there’s no proof.

But let’s put that aside. That debate will go on until the end of the world. Yesterday, I was gallery hopping on the Lower East Side and decided to walk over to Williamsburg. As I walked over the bridge, I saw the hipsters — the furthest thing from real New Yorkers. And of course, the Satmar. I am not sure who is more clueless. But decided the Satmar is.

Despite my intro, I would like to believe. As I walked around I saw the microcosm of the city. The Satmar mom with the stroller and numerous kids following, the kosher meat store and raggedy looking kids on their skateboards. Of course, their rags were pricey as hell. The men with their long coats and flying pais were nearby.

I had enough and knew I had to meet a friend at Penn Station in the early evening. So I went back to the City. I knew Mincha/Arvit at Midtown would be in about 45 minutes. For some reason, I decided I was going. I usually do. Not sure why. I think I’m praying to someone who is deafer than deaf.

I could have easily found a place in Williamsburg and not rushed back. But the question rises would I be comfortable praying with the people and would they let me? Not sure. But doubt it on both accounts.

A few years ago, I was at the Kotel. I love it there. And do feel a connection. But I feel a spiritual connection in summer camp and Yankee Stadium.

I had my talit, siddur and teffilin. I wanted to join a minyan. I saw one of the Chasidic minyanim assembling. I walked over and got ready. I opened my siddur and began to read. I wasn’t expecting an aliyah. I’ve never had one in Israel. One or two of the “gentleman” in their fur hats in weather that was over 100 degrees, long black coats and leggings asked me to leave their minyan. They pointed me away. I didn’t care that much. I walked away and found an amazing Sephardim minyan that was welcoming. I‘m Sephardic. I just didn’t see them when I got to the Kotel. Or maybe they weren’t there when I arrived. I prayed and went up to the wall.

Bottom line, all of the people davening there are dreaming of the Moshiach coming. Let me ask if you turn away a fellow Jew do you really expect him to arrive?

 

Pomegranate — Book 7

Marc finished his treadmill run. He threw on his coat and raced out of the gym. There was no need to for him to race. He had nowhere to be. He just moved fast. He was feeling nervous. Not sure why. Nothing was wrong.

He slowed down and walked toward Jewel Avenue. For some reason, all he kept thinking about was the letter, “T”.

He walked back toward the subway. But as he approached the steps leading down to the turnstiles he turned around. He started walking aimlessly. He was not happy.

What was about the letter, “T”? His mind rambled on. But he was coming up empty. He strolled along his block. He tripped over a Pepsi bottle. He got up quickly and carried on.

He heard some yelling near Yellowstone Park. He was still hashing out the letter “T” in his head. He really had no desire to play the superhero. He was obsessed with this letter. He decided maybe he’d find the answer in the park. So he hurried over.

All he saw were parents screaming at each at their children about how well or poorly they were playing basketball in the park. It was quite unruly. But didn’t see too alarming. Until one parent ran onto the court with a knife and tried to attack a young child who just missed a layup. From a distance Marc shot honey out of his eyes, followed by a pomegranate aimed at the parent’s head. She went down.

Marc wanted to leave. But a parent or two saw him. And sensed he was the one who took out the knife wielder. He walked quickly toward the park’s exit gate. Parents were following him. He never turned his head. One screamed out his name. He kept going.