Vill’amsburg Diaries: Morning Sins

The phone is ringing again. I glance at the cordless resting on the night table. The caller is indicated on the lit screen, but I am reluctant to get up and look at it. I want to sleep. Another Monday morning. Another phone call from the boss asking why I’m not at work yet.

The house is quiet. The kids must be in cheider by now. Breindy is out shopping with the baby. I overslept again. Shit.

No negel vaser for me. It’s too cold. I’ll wash my hands 6 times in the shower. God won’t care. I won’t touch food, my eyes, ears, and nose, or any sacred books before I purify my hands. I’ll run into the shower. I’ll take long strides, make believe that Briendy didn’t prepare the quart of water last night. Her bed has been made already. From my vantage point I can see the white linen. It’s that time of the month again, I sigh. I shouldn’t sigh, she’s still attractive and, you know, still has it in her but… Okay, I’m not so sure what ‘but’.

It must be Cha-Layeh. People won’t believe me but she was once geretd to me. Twenty years ago my father thought that her father wasn’t a good match for himself so he told the shadchan that she wasn’t a good match for me. My father is a lamden, everyone knows, and Cha-Layeh’s father was rich back then. That was before the real estate boom. Now they own half of the Bronx and some skyscrapers in Chicago.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I used to be good looking. So they told me. The beard grew, I gave up plucking the white hair ages ago. The stomach grew too. It always does. Everyone’s does. It’s balabatish. I dry myself with a semi-wet towel used by half the family before I woke up. Without thinking I dress the right hand before the left, the right leg before the left leg. I’m used to it. Born into the requirement of right before left. I only remember it when I put the shoes on. I put the right shoe on and tie it before putting on the left shoe. I just transgressed the second time today and I haven’t been up for thirty minutes yet. Lord of the World have mercy. I probably didn’t say Modeh Ani, that’s three sins. And it doesn’t look like I’ll have time to daven either. I better stop counting now. The cell phone is vibrating again. Eight new messages. Probably all work related.

I should warm up the car first but I don’t have the luxury of time. I also need to lease a mini-van. Maybe a new Honda Odyssey. A 2010 model, leather, fully loaded, with a shiny, built-in, retractable GPS, which I will never use. I have a knack for roads. Everyone knows. My ’99 Chevy Montana is shitty and embarrassing. The empty coffee cups and unfinished lunches strewn around the front passenger seat doesn’t bother me. The smell permeating from last week’s lunch, or dinner, or snack does bother me. Pini, Cha-Layeh’s husband, has an Infiniti. I won’t look good in a 4×4, I think. “It’s so not you,” Breindy will laugh. She doesn’t realize how hurtful she can be.

The BQE is moving slowly. Better than expected. It always moves better than expected. It’s my little trick – I always expect the worst. “Think bad, will be good,” Niko, my Turkish friend says. So different from our own saying, “Think good, will be good”. Niko is not a real friend. He can’t be. He doesn’t have a Jewish soul. He laughs at every rule I try to explain. He never gets it. He’s probably at work already. My father-in-law, the company owner insists that I call him Mr. V. “like everyone else”, only everyone else calls him “Boss”, and he seems pretty content with that. Boss this. Boss that. He is the worst kind of boss. He doesn’t tolerate late coming. Last night Mr. V. called Breindy to verify that it was his turn to take his frail mother to the hospital for a scheduled checkup. The rare occasion that I have the fore-knowledge of his late comings may be my only perk.

A white Infiniti is attempting to cut me in. What is it with them and the monster trucks? Why do they act like this? I can see Pini doing the same thing with his black Infiniti. Cha-Layeh sits shotgun and reads a book. She reads a lot. She must read romance novels. What else do women read? She must be good in bed too. These romance books mess with your head.

The engine sputters. It’s slowing down. The engine turns off. There’s no gas. I’m such a dickhead. Now I won’t have time to put on tefillin. Another day. Another day angering the Almighty. Fuck. It’s all the Goyish music I listen to on the radio. It’s my fault. It’s people like me, sinners, who cause all the bad things to happen in this world. I contribute to moshiach’s not coming. Fuck.