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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 — 11

Marc woke up. He was off for a few days. He packed his bag and made sure he had his siddur, talit and tefilin. He was having issues with his religion. But wants to believe. He knew he had to strengthen himself. And break away from Alana and Jen. It’d probably never happen. But he had to try.

He jumped into his car and rode up to camp. It was the winter. The place was desolate. He was unsure if he’d break into a cabin that had heat. Or sleep in his old leanto. Wisely he chose his leanto. He built a huge fire.

It always depressed him that the camp was closed. The precious buildings he grew up in were ashes. He and Alana slept with each other here numerous times over a long weekend. That was around the time idiots burned down those buildings. Technically it wasn’t arson. But in his mind it was. He and Alana went swimming in Rock Lake, the Delaware and Ten Mile Rivers. They sipped a lot of Genny Cream Ale and munched on Freihoffers. They blasted R.E.M., Depeche Mode, U2 and the Clash. They were the only ones in the water. They held each other so tight. Marc remembered when they stripped down and jumped in.

That was long ago. But now he’s here to mediate. He went to where the latrine used to be and found the tip pan. That’s all that was left. There were a few deer roaming through. But what shocked him most was grazing right near the tip was a buffalo.

He thought this was weird. But then he remembered a scout from years ago. He used to spend most of his time on his latrine seat. And for some reason, he only talked about buffaloes.

Marc pet the animal. He felt a connection. Lights from above shined down on him. This was the spiritual escape he needed. He wanted to swim. But the lake was frozen. He jumped onto of the buffalo and went for a ride. He felt his muscles get stronger. He knew he could top Alana next time they faced each other. But he still had no clue what to do with Jen. He didn’t want to hurt her. But maybe he had to rid himself of her.

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.

Pomegranate — Book 6

Alana woke up. She had a miserable night’s sleep. She spent the night twisting and turning. She was upset about the fight she had with Marc. Of course, she knew they’d spar again.

She went to the kitchen and poured some orange juice. Her mind drifted back the year she lived in Israel and the time she spent in Tiberias. She was so happy. As she was canoeing down the Jordan, her canoe capsized. The water was calm and she is a good swimmer. But she wasn’t ready for the dead branches floating in the river. They got stuck in her personal floatation device. And she was being pulled under.

She gasped for air. She managed to pull herself up. She swam to shore. Her canoe floated down the river. She saw a family enjoying a Fig2

picnic. They asked if she needed help. She nodded she was ok. Their little ones offered her some apples and figs. She thanked them and started walking.

The apple was decent. However, it was a little too hard. She spits most of it out and hit the figs, which were not much better. Her arms began to shake. She was feeling slightly ill. But she did go through a crazy experience in the river. She figured her nerves were making her nutty. Not the fruit. She loved all fruit and is a nature girl. Not long ago, she had a spiritual connection with these fruits. She started breathing heavily. Her body shook a little. Then she started firing apples out of her hands and figs were coming out of her eyes

She remembered when she was in the seminary. She and a teacher were privately discussing the forbidden fruit. And the symbolism the figs have for the Holy Land.

She knew she loved Israel and wanted it to remain strong. She felt sick that night. She figured apples and figs would cure her. Over the next few days, she ate them like an addict.   She got better. But noticed she was getting stronger. She credited the fruits.

A day or so later she fell down the steps leading toward the Jaffa Gate. She hit the ground hard. But didn’t get hurt. She decided it was because of her recent intake of apples and figs. They were medicinal. She did not know that they helped her grow both physically and spiritually. And would empower her. How she’d use the power was up to her.

As she walked on, she was scared, yet excited. She started to practice her aim. And hoped she’d be able to release these fruits at will. She figured she could use them to do good or bad. Wherever her mood took her.

She thought about getting Marc. But how would she get him?

Pomegranate — Book 5

Book 5

Early, Tuesday morning, Marc boarded his Amtrak Acela headed for D.C. He was going on a business trip. He loved going to D.C. His dad, may his soul rest used to have biz apartment in Alexandria, Va., Marc crashed there on and off for months. When not working he would have a beer with an old college friend. And he’s also having dinner with one of his besties and her beautiful family.

He found a seat in the quiet car, opened his Nook, and began to read. He was still thinking about Jen. But was thinking much more about Alana. He was unnerved after their battle. But he’d be ok. Man did he like her.

Marc developed his powers years ago while praying in Amuka. He was hoping his prayers would find him a wife. Instead, he became very powerful. During his meditation, he heard whispers telling him he was going to gain powers and must use them for good. He wasn’t sure what to believe. And chalked it up to the wonderful glasses of wine from he sipped in the art district in Safed. He sipped them with fresh laffa bread, olive oil, and hummus. He thinks about that day all the time. He was wondering how Alana developed her strengths and if it was only apples. Of course, he thought she had more powers. Somehow he knew she would unleash them on him. He hopes only on him. He could fight back. Others would go down.

He was worried she might use them to go after people. She was always a little vindictive. The train pulled into DC’s Union Station and he jumped on the Metro’s Red Line toward the Marriott.

He checked in and went to his office. Things were going as planned. He’d work for several hours and then trek out to Rockville on the train. Not on a bus. Boy does he have a song for everything and loves R.E.M.

Things were quiet in his company’s D.C. office. The illiterates were out. The NYC office was not much different. Marc had a friend or two in both. But for the most part, hated them. He grabbed his laptop and headed to the Metro station. He was going to see his friend, Rebecca, and her wonderful youngsters.

He was walking down Pennsylvania Avenue. The usual crazies were protesting. It happens daily. His mind was drifting in thoughts about tonight’s Yankees-Red Sox game. He’d catch it on the TV at the hotel’s bar when he got back from Rebecca’s.

As he approached the Metro, he saw an elderly man being beaten by young thugs. The man was gasping for air. Marc really didn’t need this. He knew he couldn’t let an old man get hurt. Not only was this happening, but an out of control woman was also trying to fight with some of the protestors, who were loud. Yet they very peaceful. He was perplexed as to how to handle multiple fights. But he knew he had to.

“Hey, tough guys. Does beating up an old man make you feel strong? Are you that weak?”

The three 20 somethings looked at Marc. One pulled out a knife and ran toward him. As he approached Marc backed up and landed a kick in the guy’s chest. He went down. The other two pulled out their silencer-equipped Glocks and aimed. Marc didn’t even quiver. He stood there waiting to take the shots. The men pulled the trigger. Marc’s perfect vision tracked the bullets. He stood firm and his hands began to twitch. He opened his closed hands and shot cannon strength pomegranates, which deflected the bullets. The guys tried to fire again. But Marc shot several blasts of honey into the barrel of both guns. The guns backfired and the assailants fell down hard onto the concrete.

Meanwhile, the woman was still attacking the protestors. He did not have any time to waste. He approached her. They quickly looked at each other and she picked up a fire extinguisher and fired at the protestors. He jumped in the middle of it and barley flew out of his hands, while honey ejected from his eyes. She aimed the extinguisher at him and fired. He ducked. She missed. He returned fire with six pomegranates. They hit her all over. She screamed. She keeled over. Marc ran to the Metro station. He hopped on the Red Line and was safe in Rockville.