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B. Glen Rotchin has published poetry, fiction and books reviews nationally in various publications. His debut novel 'The Rent Collector' (Véhicule Press) was a finalist for the Amazon.ca/Books in Canada First Novel Award. He has co-edited two poetry anthologies 'Jerusalem: An Anthology of Jewish Canadian Poetry' and 'A Rich Garland: Poems For A.M. Klein', both were national Jewish book award winners. His first collection of poetry was 'The Antibody' and his latest is a poetry collaboration with Seymour Mayne and Sharon Katz called 'A Dream of Birds: Word Sonnets' (Allied Widget). He lives in Montreal with his wife and four daughters, and works as a property manager in the garment district. The story 'Salesmanship' combines two of his favourite subjects, shmattas and Jewish ritual. It describes a common scene on Friday afternoons in Montreal's garment district as black-hatted orthodox mitvah-bochers fan out into the buildings along Chabanel Street in search of Jewish men who would strap on phylacteries and say a pre-Sabbath blessing. It is fitting that this quintessentially Montreal story, where we are celebrating the 100th anniversary of the Habs, should appear in the 100th of LWOT. I'm delighted to be a part of it. |
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Salemanship
Let me tell you, fifty years in the textile business teaches you something. More than just about selling fabric. I'm talking about life lessons. So on Friday, when one of those Lubavitcher kids, like clockwork, comes calling to drop off a pamplet with the dead Rebbe's message and wants me to wear tefillin, I'm thinking maybe I should teach him a thing or two. At least, this is my initial thought.
Normally I wouldn't care. I've never had time for those guys. The receptionist would handle them. She'd give them the brush off, let them leave their religious propaganda on the counter and send them on their way. The Rebbe's pamphlet always went straight into the trash. If I happened to be present when they showed up I'd politely tell them that they were barking up the wrong tree.
But these days it's different. I'm not running around selling like I used to. I always seem to be in the office when they turn up on Friday afternoon to perform their mitzvah before Shabbat.
I say 'they' because the Lubavitcher boys usually work in pairs, which is not a bad idea as sales approaches go. Working in twos gives you the advantage of using the ole good cop bad cop routine. You can zigzag your way into making the sale. It's a tried and true method.
One more thing about their sales technique: Lubavitchers are relentless. They keep coming even when they know they have no takers. It's not true what they say about never taking 'no' for an answer. When you're selling you should expect to take 'no'. In fact you can count on it a thousand times over. But eventually a 'no' will turn into a 'yes'. Persistence is the first rule of good salesmanship.
This past Friday I happen to be standing behind the receptionist's desk when this Lubavitcher kid slips in to the office. Years ago the black sight of him coming through the door with his hunched shoulders and fedora would have sent me dashing from the room faster than you can say "shalom."
This time, though, I decide to stay. I'm curious. He's alone, working solo, which, as I was saying, is unusual for these guys.
I watch the boy enter like a shadow. His eyes are crawling along the floor as he comes toward the receptionist's desk. He's carrying two bags. One is a dark blue velvet pouch with a lion and crown embroidered in gold on the side. This is where he keeps the two phylactery boxes. The embroidery is worn and faded, the gold threads are fraying. In his other hand he's lugging a thick black bag that looks like one of those doctor bags from the days when they made housecalls. I can guess that in this bag he's got prayerbooks and brochures.
The kid barely looks up as he approaches the receptionist. I've got to admit, I'm enjoying the scene, for two reasons. First, because Laurie is looking particularly busty today. Her large breasts are foaming up out of the top of her stretch-knit blouse. Standing next to her I've got a perfect view into the valley of her cleavage.
Secondly, the religious boy is nervous as hell. He's shvitzing like crazy in his black hat and wool coat. I can see droplets of sweat dampening the peach fuzz on his upper lip when he comes closer. I may be pushing seventy but, thank God, my eyes are still fresh. My libido too, incidentally. You can ask my wife. Or my doctor. Dr. Cooper has mentioned his astonishment. He says the prostate cancer medication I've been taking typically has the side effect of suppressing the sex drive. Not with me. Not yet anyway.
I start feeling sorry for the Lubavitcher boy. He barely parts his lips to speak and won't lift his eyes off the floor.
"Any Jews here?"
His voice sounds like a whisper, as if he's confiding something, telling us a secret.
Laurie asks him to repeat himself. I'm relieved that I'm not the only one who can't hear him. Lately I'm having trouble with my ears. They don't seem to be nearly as vigorous as my eyes, or my penis.
These poor, skinny religious kids, nebuch. Don't eat enough. Don't exercise enough. Skin so pasty, like they're fresh from the womb and have never stepped outdoors into the sunshine. Not even the embarrassment of seeing Laurie's bubbly honkers is enough to bring colour to his face. Then again, he hasn't taken his eyes off of the linoleum.
I'll be sorry to see Laurie go. With the business going downhill and Joel running to China every six weeks to source new and cheaper fabrics, the office has been a lonely place. I'm happy to have somewhere to come every day to keep busy. But the days can be long. Laurie's constant presence has been one of the few bright spots over the past number of years. She's certainly added to the scenery of an otherwise drab office.
But it can't be avoided. My son-in-law and I agree the business isn't able to support a receptionist any longer. The decision's been made. The only question is why Laurie's still here (aside from the obvious two reasons that brighten my office days.) Looks like Joel can't bring himself to confront her. Hell, I'm certainly not going to do it.
"Any Jews here?" the Lubavitcher boy says again, slightly louder this time.
He places his two bags on the counter in front of Laurie like she's a bank teller and he's come to make a cash deposit. His eyes skim past Laurie's face and land squarely on my punim hovering behind her. The boy doesn't smile, though I can see from the relief on his face that he knows he's hit his target.
"Yeah. Sure," I say before Laurie has a chance to answer on my behalf.
"Shalom aleichem," he says.
"Yeah."
"Have you put on tefillin today?" he asks.
Schmuck. What do you think? Do I look like I put on tefillin today? The smart-alecky retorts race through my head and pile into the back of my mind. Purely a knee-jerk reaction.
"No," I say.
"Would you like to?" he asks sheepishly, his cheek muscles slackening, his eyes relaxing.
I don't know if it's because he's soft-spoken and polite, or because he's flying solo and I feel bad for him, but I'm beginning to like this kid.
Or maybe it's the fact that he hasn't taken a single peek at Laurie's chest. There's something to admire in that kind of self-control. Especially at his age. I give him thirteen, fourteen tops. When I was fourteen I was already attending burlesque shows, doing rounds downtown at the Esquire Show Bar, the Gaiety and Rockhead's for drinks and dancing, hoping to feel-up a girl by the end of the night.
One thing is undeniable, the kid's giving me a sense of satisfaction. It comes from knowing that by simply answering "yes" instead of "no" to his question I have the power to put a very uncomfortable boy at ease. I'm looking at his smooth round face, scrutinizing it. I can detect hope and anticipation in his eyes.
I maintain seriousness. I'm not sure why I act this way. It's as if I want everything to be business-like between us. I don't want to let on that I'm beginning to like him.
"Come with me young man," I say, beckoning with my finger and motioning with my head for him to follow me into the inner sanctum of the office. The boy takes his gear off of Laurie's desk and follows behind me through the door.
We walk down the dark hallway to the right. The smell of musty carpet hangs in the air. We rarely open the lights in this corner of the offices. The room we enter has never been used. When Joel came into the company I imagined that we would need it one day for another salesman as we expanded our textile lines and the business grew. A desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet were installed.
I had my doubts about Joel at first. When Danielle married him he was a do-gooder layabout. Didn't seem to have any drive or ambition. He was educated. Studied political science at university. A Master's degree. But what does that give you? Not much. He was working as a fundraiser in the Jewish community which is how he and Danielle met. Okay, it's admirable work. But was he going support a wife and kids raising money for charity? Not in the lifestyle my daughter was used to. Was she going to pursue a career? Not likely. She had completed a social work degree and had held a position at Jewish Family Services for about a year. But I knew she was just biding her time until a husband came along. You didn't have to be Einstein to see that they weren't going to make it to Moishe's Steakhouse twice a week on Joel's fundraising salary.
Actually, I saw Joel as a bit of a schlemiel. Didn't count on him ever being able to support a family properly. I knew that unless I did something drastic after the wedding I'd be shelling out indefinitely to support them. What does the Talmud say about feeding a man lox or teaching him how to fish? Well, I decided that after spending fifty grand on the wedding I was going to teach Joel how to fish. He'd learn on the ship I captain. A few months after the ceremony he was in the business getting educated on the difference between wovens and knits, artificial and synthetic fibres. He did well. Worked hard, long hours. By the time Laurie was hired, business was up and he was working late most nights. Danielle getting pregnant every eleven months for three years running was a great motivator. K'neyne horah. By the third kid Joel was a goddamn expert in fabrics.
I flick on the light switch and round the desk on the other side of the office. I sit in the unused salesman's chair and look up. The Lubavitch boy walks up to the table and slaps his doctor's bag down next to my face like he's about to perform a medical examination. He's standing over me. The dark blue velvet tefillin bag remains cradled in his right arm. Without saying a word he unzips it.
"Wait a minute," I say. "Aren't you going to tell me something about the Torah? Something about what Jews all over the world are reading this Saturday in synagogue? Something about God?"
"If you want," he answers bluntly.
"No. It's fine."
I surprise myself when this comes out of my mouth. Not that I really want the kid to give me a sermon. It's just that there are certain expectations in a situation like this one. And even if you don't particularly care for what's supposed to happen, when expectations aren't met there's inevitably disappointment.
To be honest there's a deep part of me that wants him to make the effort. From that place inside I can hear a small voice pleading, "Don't you think, as a fellow Jew I'm worth the effort of trying to bring closer to God? Even this late in the game? Even a tired, bitter, diseased soul like mine. Or do you think I'm too far gone?"
I say nothing. I watch as he unzips the velvet bag with care and concentration and extracts the two phylactery boxes, gently placing them one next to the other, on the desk. Then he opens the doctor's bag, takes out a skullcap and a folded piece of paper with the dead Rebbe's happy, bearded, creased face on the cover.
He hands me the skullcap. I put it on my head, though, not without first pausing to check inside for an inscription. This is done out of habit. On the inside of a yarmulke I expect to see 'Rivka and Pinchus' or 'Steve and Lisa' with a wedding date. But this one is blank. Again, I'm surprised. I have dozens of yarmulkes in my house, picked up at weddings and bar-mitvahs over the years and after the parties stuffed in a drawer. I don't think there is one that is empty underneath. I wonder where unsponsored yarmulkes come from. I can't recall ever seeing one, except of course at Paperman's. But those black ones, made of the cheapest polyester, are for temporary use; taken out of the box by the door on the way in to the funeral and returned to the box on the way out.
Danielle and Joel's wedding yarmulke was made of excellent fabric. A top quality imported red satin. Same fabric as Mona chose for the bridesmaid dresses. The wife was picky about those things. About everything; the chuppah, the centrepieces, the napkins and seatcovers, the chocolate fountain, the goddamn imitation shrimp hors d'oeuvres. She drove us all crazy. Mona said that her daughter wasn't getting married in just any old yarmulke. It was to be a memento. Something that would remind us of the hallowed event for years to come. She wanted a yarmulke that would bring tears of joy to our eyes every time we looked at the imprinted gold lettering underneath. It would be such a special yarmulke that the guests would cherish it. They'd bring it home and keep it in their china cabinets next to heirlooms, their bubbies' silver Sabbath candlesticks and Chanukah menoras. What a load of crap. I can't think of the last time I saw Joel and Danielle's wedding yarmulke.
The boy starts to hum as he lifts the silver cover off the phylactery for the arm. He unwraps the leather strap, utterly focused on this procedure, as if he doesn't care that I'm watching. His lips are sealed and vibrating slightly. I don't think he realizes that a tune is coming out of his mouth. It's not a tune that I can name. Not that I would expect top forty from him, like Sinatra or the Beatles. But maybe a Jewish tune that I might recognize.
"Roll up your sleeve please," he says, indicating with his head my left arm. I chuckle when he says this because Dr. Cooper says it exactly the same way.
"Can I help you sir."
Laurie is standing in the doorway. She appears nervous. Her interruption feels abrupt.
"I mean...is everything okay?"
"No problem, dear. Don't worry. The young doctor here is just checking my blood pressure." I smile reassurringly.
I realize Laurie means no harm. She's just being protective, never having seen things go this far between me and a Lubavitcher before. I don't suppose she's ever witnessed the strange sight of a man putting on tefillin.
"At least this office is finally getting used for something," I say to her.
Laurie doesn't move. As the seconds tick by, her presence becomes increasingly bothersome.
"Thanks for your concern," I say, trying to indicate with my tone that we wish to be left alone. Laurie catches my drift and hesitates before turning to leave.
"Sorry," I say to the boy, knowing that he must be feeling the same way about the intrusion as I am. I stand up.
The boy loosens the knot of the phylactery box and holds the loop open so that I can slip my arm easily through the hole, which I do. He places the box on the lower inside of my flabby bicep and tightens the soft leather strap like a noose. His delicate fingers are cold against my skin as he pulls on the strap two, three times, tightening it more.
"Please repeat," he says, sounding clinical. He leads and I mumble haltingly after him.
Boruch ata adonai...eloheinu melekh haolam...asher kidshanu...b'mitzvotav....vetzivanu lhaniyakh tefillin.
He wastes no time instructing me on how to bind my arm. I listen without registering a word, only mimicking his gestures. Each turn of the leather strap represents something significant, letters. A Hebrew word is being spelled out over my limb – this much I remember from bar-mitzvah lessons - my flesh and bone is a page on which ancient meaning is being inscribed. The strap is wrapped seven times down my forearm. The box is firmly attached.
Before proceeding to demonstrate how to tie my fingers, the boy picks up the other phylactery, the tefillin for the head. He loosens the loop and I bow. He reaches up and places the box on my upper forehead letting the straps cascade down the back of my neck, the ends falling over the front of my shoulder blades on opposite sides. He untwists and lays them flat. The ritual feels so foreign and medieval. The moment the box touches my head I feel oddly regal, annointed, and inexplicably young - like a child-prince. Before I raise my head the Lubavitcher boy reaches up to re-position the box. It sticks up between my eyes like something mythical, a unicorn's horn.
"Please repeat."
"Boruch ata adonai eloheinu melekh haolam...asher kidshanu b'mitzvotav vetzivanu...al mitzvah tefillin.
I repeat more fluently this time, except for the last three words which are different from the first blessing.
When my fingers are lashed, my arm feels bloodless and stiff. I can't move it. The fingers have lost sensation. I stare at the hand like it's no longer attached to my body, a phantom limb that's floating in midair next to me.
"Sir." Laurie is in the doorway again.
Had the boy and I been caught engaged in an elicit sexual act – with the leather straps and the knots and the box contraptions I'm wearing, sado-masochism immediately pops into my head - I don't think the look on Laurie's face could be worse. 'Horrified' is not too strong a word.
"Maybe you should be doing this...in the front. Or...in another room...where there's more light...and less dust." Her voice is filled with uncertainty.
She doesn't understand. Laurie isn't swift. Never was. She's got nice attributes, as I've said, but intelligence isn't one of them. Her administrative skills have only ever been barely adequate. We've tolerated plenty of her mistakes. On occasion, when her incompetence was grounds for termination, Joel came to her defence. He argued that her loyalty was unimpeachable. He persuaded me that it was preferable to have an incompetent worker on staff who was well-meaning and devoted, then to have an expert with an attitude problem.
"Maybe, you need my help." Laurie takes a step into the room.
"No. We're fine. Thank you."
Laurie stops short and starts backing out of the room. She pauses at the doorway.
"What we need here is privacy. Please."
"You sure?"
"Yes."
When Laurie is finally gone I look at the boy apologetically again. "Actually, I never liked her too much."
"She seems nice," the boy says.
His comment stuns me. I instantly wonder how much the boy's been noticing since entering the office, and what he means by the word 'nice'.
"Now you say the Shema," he says, handing me the creased paper with the Rebbe's smiley face. It does not have the crisp, freshly printed odour of the propaganda brochure - the one that they leave as their calling card. I take the paper and delicately peel it open, as if it might crumble between my fingers. My eyes settle on Hebrew script.
The full Shema, the ultimate Jewish declaration of the one and only God, is several verses long. Except for the very first few words, which every Jew knows by heart, it's daunting to read in its entirety.
I suddenly feel exhausted and faint. My head starts to swim. My heart is pounding. I have to sit down. Catch my breath.
"Are you okay?" the boy asks.
"I think we'll have to skip this part," I say, holding the Shema paper out for him to take back.
"No hurry," he says calmly, not taking it.
Now I'm the one feeling uncomfortably sweaty. We wait for a few seconds but the head-spinning refuses to abate. My phantom arm begins to ache. And all of a sudden amid the dizziness, out of my temporary confusion, as if from a whirlwind, another bible verse pops into my head. 'If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand wither'.
"No. I really think we must stop now. I can not continue."
"Are you sick?" The boy is genuinely concerned.
"I think I'll be all right. I just need a few minutes."
"Okay."
"I think we're done. Thank you for coming."
"Okay." The boy takes back the Shema paper, re-folds and puts it in his doctor's bag. He leans forward across the desk and gently lifts the phylactery off my head. A strap catches the yarmulke and it slides down my face and into my lap.
The boy replaces the silver tefillin cover and rolls the leather straps tightly around the corners of the box. As he does this I am seized by a sense of desperation. I must return the blood circulation to my hand. I start untying and unravelling the straps furiously. I can't get them off fast enough. Meanwhile, the boy is methodically finishing with his box. He kisses it softly and carefully slips it back into the velvet bag.
While he finishes with the arm phylactery, precisely repeating the step-by-step operation he had performed with the first box and returning it with a goodbye kiss to the pouch, a feeling of relief settles on me.
"Are you sure that you are okay?" he asks, zipping one bag and latching the other.
"Yes," I say. "Thank you."
"Please. Don't get up. I can find my way out." He takes the heavier bag off the desk by the handle and tucks the velvet pouch under his arm. He pauses in the door frame.
"Are you sure you'll be all right?"
"Yes. Walk to the left. Down the hall. You'll see the door. I just need to take another minute."
"Okay. Be well. Shabbat Shalom." He smiles.
"Thank you. Shabbat Shalom." I smile back. I want him to know that in spite of everything I am grateful for his visit. He has accomplished his mitzvah. Even if I didn't complete the task.
When he is gone I look down into my lap and see that the boy has left without his yarmulke. I'm not running after him. The dizziness hasn't completely worn off yet, although, the world is slowly settling back into place. I pick up the yarmulke, rub the flimsy fabric between my fingers and turn it over. I stare into the black void of the underside where the names and date that mark a wedding are supposed to be.
Where to shove it? I slide open the desk drawer. It's hard to open, the edges stick. I shimmy it, pulling side to side. There's nothing inside, except, in the right corner I see two silver paper clips linked together at the bottom forming a 'V', or what looks to me like a hollow, anemic heart shape.
Next to the paper clips is a small, shiny, skin-coloured square package with the words "Trust-ex, ultra-thin, flavoured" printed across the face. Through the plastic wrapper I see the embossed shape of the packet's contents, a condom, round as a very small yarmulke. Parts of a puzzle start fitting themselves together in my mind. It's time to call for Laurie. I'll speak with Joel later.
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