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VI
“HEY, JOEL, WHERE ARE YOU?” I ask hesitatingly as I come in. I’m in Joel’s place now. It’s dark all around and no-one’s in the house, but I still hear a sad piano tune. “Joel?” I ask again, walking towards his room. Suddenly I realize he’s singing something. I can’t recognize it at first, but as I get nearer, I can hear some of the lyrics—“Where did my father go, my father just and right? A pawn in black strikes down a pawn in white. In rooms are weeps and in the gardens no-one’s seen…” I open the door and see Joel standing in front of a photograph of Hanoch Levin, singing with the boom-box in the room.
“Joel, what are you doing?” I ask, but he doesn’t respond. I try again, and he only sings louder, so I wait for him to finish while I take a look at the room. It has only candles producing a solemn orange light. For some reason, all the furniture seems somewhat smaller now. On the room in front of the door there’s the big photograph of Hanoch Levin, with red everlastings underneath it and with Joel in front of it. Besides the picture there’s a little boom-box from which some female singer is singing the same song as Joel, but in a different language. Finally, the song is over. Joel turns off the boom box.
“Joel, what on earth are you doing?”
Joel sighs and looks at me with a sad look. “Did you know Hanoch Levin died just a few days ago?”
I look at him somewhat amazed. “Really? How?”
“Cancer.”
We both grow silent for a while. “So this is some sort of funeral you’re having?” I ask.
“Uh-huh. This song I just sung was his poem Checkmate, from You, Me and the Next War.”
“O-h, now I understand why it sounded so familiar!”
“Yup.” We grow silent again. Suddenly, he says, “Say, wanna help me?”
“W-What?” I am a little startled. That’s quite a funny thing to ask for.
“Help me. Come on, just stand in front of the picture and improvise some obituary.”
“I-I don’t know, it sounds kinda weird…”
“Come on, give it a shot.”
Hesitating a little, I decide to try it. I slowly step in front of the picture, trying to stop the urge to laugh at the awkwardness of the situation, and start talking about Levin’s biography roughly. I mention his works, talking about their importance, et cetera. Then I mention he was a great writer and his death is a great loss to us all, and go back to Joel’s side.
“How was it?” I ask.
“You were quite good,” Joel says.
We turn silent for a few seconds, and then I say, “Death comes to one much faster than he thinks.”
“Heh.”
We turn silent again, then Joel starts muttering something in an unclear language. “Joel?” I say.
This time, he says quickly, “Qadish.”
“Oh…” I say. I wait for him to finish, but quickly lose my patience. “I have to go now, I’ll see you later,” I whisper and get out of the house.
Wow, I think this is the most awkward scenes in my life, I think. Joel might’ve just outdone himself, after the incident with the Shepardic bullies a few months ago. Then I start laughing. Heh, Joel has quite a sense of humor, doesn’t he…
VII
WE’RE ALL IN HIGH-SCHOOL now. The sheep left after two years of following Joel and doing his bidding; his family left for Utah (of I remember correctly). Rick and Angie are with Joel and myself in the same homeroom, history and biology classes; Rick, Joel and I all take literature and English together; Angie takes art, I take physics and A-level math, Rick takes chemistry and, for some reason, Joel takes Latin. (I take French and Ricky and Angie take Spanish as a second language.) Can’t recall the rest of our courses at the moment.
Joel still does theological arguments against religious groups in school, getting the name of an anti-Christ and a Dajjal. He doesn’t argue against Buddhists and Satanist, claiming “they’re OK.” I think he said the same about pagans, or maybe certain types of pagans.
His favorites, however, are the Jews. I’ve seen many of his arguments (this did not require having to hide on trees, and they almost never descended to physical fighting), and those against Jews were his hardest. They have a very strong reasoning Joel has trouble finding flaws in. It’s something like this:
– All of generation a1 received the Torah in the Exodus.
– Generation a2 received the Torah from their parents, as part of a commandment of teaching your children the Torah and of the event at Mt. Sinai. They passed it on to the current generation an.
– The Torah says in itself that it was given after the Exodus up to the event at Mt. Sinai wholly and that modifying its text is strictly prohibited, so it couldn’t have been modified, or everyone would have noticed it.
– The Torah couldn't have come to people’s lives anytime between generation a1 or beforehand of the time the Torah was said to have been given and the present generation an, or it would require lying to the entire hypothetic generation ak that they were taught about the event at Mt. Sinai by the previous generation ak-1, which was taught the same thing by the preceding generation ak-2, and so on till generation a1.
– The Torah, as physical writing and not an oral tradition, is mentioned from the Torah itself, through the Book of Jesus Nave and the following books, up to the Book of Kings, which has already been proven as depicting real events, so the Torah even has a recording of being assed in its proven as original form.
Q. E. D.: the Jewish religion is the true laws given by the existing God.
That was, quite roughly, the proof. I'm not going to go into the further points each side made. Joel was quite scared, but they said, “Don’t worry. Only Jews are obligated to do all the 613 commandments. You can get to the next world by doing only 7. You don’t even have to worship God, as long as you don’t worship anyone or anything else.” Luckily, he found in the Second Book of Kings an indication of the proof by induction being incomplete, and their argument about Judaism proceeded.
One day I decide to ask him, “Say, Joel, what do you think about the Jews?”
Joel exhales and sits in silence, looking pensive.
“We have a rather complex relationship,” he says. “You see, Jews don’t force their religion on non-Jews. Not only that, but they use less demagogy than other religions. Despite seeing themselves as inferior in intellect and intelligence to God, they still see much importance in people using reason.”
“Interesting,” I say. “But…?”
“But that’s just the problem. The fact they think they are the only ones obligated to their laws is just a form of snobbism and leads to racism. The fact they are so rational makes their demagogy much more dangerous.”
“Hmm… Interesting.”
“But my biggest problem with them is that other people find them so enlightened and smart, even though they’re basically just really loud. I don’t know if the American mentality and the Roman condemning of ‘bottomers’ are the ones to blame, but if I’m not mistaken, the Jews were the first people who practiced condemning and even execution of gays as a standard norm and the first to practice routine full circumcision. They might just be the ones to blame for me being circumcised and having more trouble dating and having sex with boys.”
“Hmm… Inte—w-waitasec!” I say. “You-you’re gay?!”
“Nope, bi. Why, is there a problem?”
To be honest, despite my detesting of religion and dogma, homosexuality always looked “wrong” to me. Maybe it’s because of education, maybe culture, I don’t know. The point is, I’m quite embarrassed.
“Well?”
I just try to digest the idea in silence for a while, then I say, “I’m OK with that. Really.” And it’s no lie. “Heh, now I can say I have a bi friend to whomever accuses me of homophobia!” I add.
“Haha, yeah.”
His response sounded rather cold. I thought he didn’t believe me (I was OK, but still wasn’t very affectionate towards the concept). I was worried I’d offended him, till Rick and Angie told me he was cold to them, too.
It was only several days later we found out it was because he’d found his father in the kitchen that morning with his neck slashed.
VIII
A YEAR PASSED, AND NOW we’re 11th-graders. Now I’m walking down the street leading to my house, pondering about an argument Joel and I had about a book we’ve read named Battle Royale (recommended if you’ve a strong stomach). The book was about 42 9th graders fighting on an Island to the death for 3 days. Joel and I discussed who’d stay alive last: I said it’s mainly good intentions and just some “practical” thought which makes one win, Joel said the one who survives must be the most ruthless and most fit.
“Nearly everyone was like that on the Island,” he said. “And you know just how it turned out.”
“What about the final stage?” I protested.
“Blind luck. Not only that, he was outnumbered, and one of them was experienced.”
Quite a strong point. Hmm…
“But that’s just the book. What’ll happen in reality?” I asked. Folly.
“Reality would’ve given him a bigger chance,” Joel replies. “In reality, he would’ve won for sure.” Then he added, “You’ve known me since kindergarten and you’re still so naïve.”
All this is now running through my head. I honestly don’t know. This would probably trouble me enough to avoid my sleep.
I walk into a nearby park and sit on a bench, pondering, running various historic and recent events from both sides, but it seems that my side becomes ridiculous upon thinking about the pre-WWII times, the Holocausts and the Holodomor.
Suddenly I look to my right and get startled when I see I didn’t notice the brown & black cat, sitting on the bench, staring blankly at the sky with hollow, glacier eyes. By the position of his hand and the pigeons and ravens eating by his feet, I can figure he was feeding the birds, but went into a depressive daze without noticing the entire piece of bread fell out of his hand.
“Uh… Are you alright?” I try to ask him
He sits unresponsively for a few seconds, then says blankly, “They left me. All of them, from first to last… How… How…”
“What?” I try to understand, and ask again, “Hey, are you alright?”
After two seconds he partially snaps out of it, turns his head to me, says, “Wha…?” surprised, then says, “No, not really.”
“What is it? You seem awful. Maybe I can help.” (Honestly, I have no idea what’s gotten into me—one second I see altruism as a mortal risk, the next one I’m offering a complete stranger my assistance!)
However, after a few more seconds postponement, he replies, “No thanks. I don’t want to talk about it.”
I think a little, then I say, “Well, I don’t know you and I don’t know why you’re so sad, but for some reason you look like you have an amazing will-power, and you can overcome whatever got you down.” I honestly don’t know why I said it. But for some reason, I feel he’s really like that.
We just sit there for a while, motionless, then a smile starts spreading on his lips, and he says, “Thank you so much.”
I start smiling too. This smile and these words are worth everything. Fuck you, Joel.
“What’s your name?” I ask him.
“Matthew Gein. Call me Matt.”
“Nice to meet you, Matthew-Gein-Call-Me-Matt, I’m Artimus-Crowly-Call-Me-Artie.”
“Hehe, nice to meet you too, Nice-To-Meet-You-Matthew-Gein-Call-Me-Matt-I’m-Artimus-Crowley-Call-Me-Artie.”
We both laugh and begin to chat. He’s very nice and very cute (and I don’t mean that in a gay sense), but he’s excessively naïve and it’s somewhat frustrating. Plus, he’s religious—religious Shepardic. But I honestly don’t want to ruin his mood now.
“Listen,” I say. “You know the little theater by the town center?”
“You mean the one that got closed for a few days because of the drugs found there? The one that became a whorehouse after closing time?”
“Yes, that one,” I say before he mentions other unpleasant occasions. “The guys responsible were fired, and the manager’s looking for new employees. Wanna come try getting a job there?”
“I’d be glad to,” he says, “but I’m kinda shy…”
“Oh well. Pity, You look like a nice guy, But come if you change your mind.”
“OK. Waitasec, what’s the time?”
I look at my watch and tell him.
“Oh no! I have to go home! I have tons of homework!!”
“You’re right, I should get going too. See you later, Matthew-Gein-Call-Me-Matt.”
“Hehe, see ya, Nice-To-Meet-You-Matthew-Gein-Call-Me-Matt-I’m-Artimus-Crowley-Call-Me-Artie.”
IX
FINALLY OVER! WE ALL WALK out of the hall where we just had our graduation ceremony and get into the car. Joel’s driving, I’m next to him, and Rick and Angie are making sounds I prefer not knowing of what on the back seats.
We reach Joel’s place. His mother is out; she took his brother Julian to the hospital (Joel said it broke).
Inside his house there are already Joel’s other guests—a skunk wearing pink I recently saw at the theater, the Satanist sheep who used to idolize Joel, a peculiarly familiar-looking female hamster, and several others. There’s a funny-looking rabbit-wolf hybrid who was flirting with a blushing white kitsune and an amused black cat (who was wearing, for some reason, black 18th-century clothes). He eventually takes the kitsune with a naughty smile to one of the rooms, leaving the black cat to read a little black book (I couldn’t recognize it; it appeared to be in some foreign language), and leaving me to wonder why the wolf-rabbit looked so familiar.
The party was nice. Everyone said “congratulations”, the skunk was hitting on every guy present (and groped a few of their asses), and the sheep served drinks. The wolf-rabbit, who came back with the kitsune, laughed for some reason when he saw Joel and developed a long conversation with him, then went aside and began drawing him; the kitsune looked around for someone till the cat said that “Matt’s not here”; and the cat himself looked at everyone with the same amusement the wolf-rabbit and the kitsune looked at him, but shed a tear and hugged me when he saw me. It was awkward, but nice.
Now only we are here: Joel, Nicole (the gay skunk), the sheep, Rick, Angie and myself. Joel gets up, says, “Excuse me,” puts on a Red Hot Chilli Peppers disk (starting with “Snow”), then goes to another room and gets some lighters and joints. “Gongrats to us!” he exclaims and starts handing them out.
Everyone around takes some and starts smoking, excluding me. I’m too appalled.
“Joel, what the fuck’s wrong with you?!” I shout. “That’s just the kind of thing that got Ezekiel fired!”
“Oh, shut up,” he replies. “Don’t be such a pussy. Dave’s not gonna know, and even if he will, so what? He grows bats in the men’s room, for Chrissake!”
“I think he’d fire us all. He won’t take any chances after Ezekiel. I’m going to get fired because of you. Now stop it.”
“Open this ass, Joel, so I could FUCK YOU LIKE YOU’VE NEVER GOT FUCKED BEFORE!!” Nicole suddenly jumps on Joel, groping his ass, and Joel pushes him off and mounts him.
“Oh for Chrissake Joel, do you mind?!” I cry.
“You became an obnoxious pussy, you know that?” he says. “What’s gotten into ya, Artie?”
I punch him in the face.
“You know damn well I won’t tolerate that sentence!!” I yell at him. Everyone turns silent in awe (except laughing Rick). Joel licks the blood off the side of his mouth, then looks at me.
“Leave. And remember this day.”
“Fine.”
I storm out of the house, slam the door, walk to my house, get to my room, shut the door, crash on the bed, and start crying. Damn, I am a pussy.
X
ALRIGHT, IT SEEMS I REALLY can’t avoid it now. There was an important chapter I omitted that took place during my middle school, because I had trouble digesting it.
I was 14 when it happened, a little after that “funeral”. I came home from school and said “Hey, what’s up?” to Max, as I usually did. My parents scarcely spoke to me more than what was necessary ever since “that time,” but Max still did. I honestly loved him, and I still do. That’s why I let him read my books and even some of my writings (my parents didn’t know about it; I always put my books and my writings in my room, so they couldn’t find them at Max’s). We really bonded, even though he wasn’t into the whole “rebellion” thing, seeing how our parents reacted to mine.
Suddenly he slapped me. I was very surprised; we hardly had fights, and even when we did, they weren’t serious and never descended to physical fighting. If he slapped me like that, something absolutely dreadful must’ve happened.
“Max, what’s wrong?” I asked him.
“Don’t act like you don’t know, you Goddam moron!” He yelled at me. I was feeling very, very confused.
“Don’t know what?” I asked.
“Still doing this dumbass act?” He insisted and brought his face next to mine, adding, “You’re despicable.”
“Goddamit, Max, can’t you just tell me?!”
There was a brief pause for several seconds, then he said, “You honestly don’t know. You honestly didn’t notice dad was DYING of CANCER for THREE MONTHS now. You didn’t notice HALF of the fucking income was spent on his medical requirements. You didn’t even notice he STOPPED WORKING because of depression. Dad passed away today of cancer. Artie, are you fucking blind?!”
Needless to say, I’ve never been so shocked in my entire life. Suddenly everything added up—Max’s angry looks, the aspirin appearing and disappearing rapidly, the moaning and weeping from his room at night…
“I… can’t believe it…” I somehow managed to utter. “I’m so sorry…”
“Save it,” Max stopped me and drew a sheet of paper. “Just read this.”
This is what it said:
“Dear Artie,
I honestly couldn’t be sorrier. For the past three years, we haven’t spoken to each other at all, except for what was necessary. Many times throughout these years, I wanted many times to apologize and end it all, to go back to being on good terms, and every time pride stopped me and turned me the other way. How I hated Pride, and yet, time after time, I embraced her. At any rate, it’s too late now to try to overcome it.
I’m very sorry, Artie. If there’s a netherworld, I must be weeping there as you read this.
Nevertheless, I hope I can make it up to you, at least partially. I recently found in my bedroom a box full of books I used to read as a rebellious teen: Molière’s writings, Lenin’s writings, some Weimarer Republik era avant-garde books, some E. E. Cummings, even Magnus Hircshfeld’s researches.
I now realize it was very wrong on my behalf to try to make you follow the Shepardic dogma, and also very hypocritical. I truly apologize for that, and I hope giving you these books would make it up for you, at least to some extent.
I hope you’ll forgive me and never forget me,
Your father.”
My hand was still enough to read the letter when I started reading, but it trembled so much when I was done I dropped the letter.
“The books are in your room,” Max said.
“OK, thanks,” I said absent-mindedly. Feeling afloat, I walked in absolute terror to my room.
After less than a year, I was diagnosed with the same type of cancer that killed my father. Because of this, my mother committed suicide on my birthday that year out of depression. Fuck, this is more grotesque, more gruesome than anything anyone could’ve written.
So when I’m told my cancer metastasized and the doctor utters this stupid Geico joke, it’s only natural I attempt to strangle her.
EPILOGUE
“Artie! Ack! What’re you doing?!” My grandmother shouts. Apparently, as part of my hallucinations, I mistook her for that doctor. I snap out of it and leave her, startled.
“Sorry, grandma,” I stutter, blushing. She sighs.
“Go to sleep, Artie. You’ve a test tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I really should.”
“OK, g’night.”
“G’night,” I say. She gets out, leaving me to ponder. Max and I have been living here ever since our mother hung herself, and I can’t help but wondering if she really knows us. Then I start wondering if I really know Joel. I’ve known him since kindergarten. We were good friends, we had fights, we made up—I’ve known him basically in any way I could, and yet, I’m far from being certain. I don’t know why, but for some reason, I feel like I missed something very major about him in my reminiscing, or perhaps I simply let it manifest far too subtly than I should have. Oh well.
Not all that you’ve heard of here had, indeed, taken place. I have no intent to tell you how much was true, and how much was invented for dramatic reasons, literary reasons, or just hallucinations caused by my tumors. I’ll leave this speculation to you.
Finally, I sit down and start writing this work you’ve just read, but I’m very tired, so I decide to continue in the morning and go to bed. Good night!
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