(Undated)

(Untitled)

(NOTE: This column was rejected by the editor for publication, the only time that happened. It is ironic – considering what the column says. The editor rejected this for the very reasons I humorously suggested she should, a literal example of life imitating art.)

    A bell rang, and the prisoners proceeded to the dining hall. Each one took a tray, and waited, intently watching Table 6. At Table 6, Arye, imperious, silently gave the nod, and the cook raised his ladle, and the slop was served forthwith.
   Yair was first in line, first to finish lunch, first for seconds. Yair was fat. Yair was also the first of the gang in the slammer. Yair sat at Table 6.
   Rafi tapped his fork in Yair's direction and said: “have you heard from the outside yet?'' Yair, still forcing the gook in, grunted: “Guglum bvpzz mn Sh'mo,'' and jerked a thumb at Shlomo, sitting next to him. Rafi nodded.
   Arye glowered at his three underlings. His gang ran the prison, because the authorities needed them to keep things under control, because the prisoners needed them to keep the goodies coming, because the guards needed them to keep all their relatives in high-paying jobs. Arye glowered because Yitzhak the warden was toying with him. Testing his clout. Trying to run things without him.
   “Strike,'' said Arye.
   “We're going to strike?'' Shlomo asked dumbly. “You're going to bring down the warden's office?''
   “No,'' said Arye, “It's only a threat. We've done it before. The gutless wonder always backs down, and we strengthen our influence.''
   “But what if he finds out about --''
   “-- The money? Hah! You think we're here because we're moral, caring, honest citizens? Ol' Yitzhak makes deals with us because we keep him in power. Power eats principles for lunch, and there's no such thing as a free lunch. Not even here.''
   “But we're only four. You're so sure everyone else'll go along?''
   “We own them. We only have to remind each one that we keep them in clover, and they'll go along.''
   There was no argument. Arye was a master tactician, and he would get his way.
   Arye strode into Yitzhak's office and looked down at the tired-looking old fellow. “Stop,'' the editor said, and glared at the writer. “I can't run this. You can't write about our elected leaders like this.''
   The writer was aghast. “What? Where'd you get the idea this has anything to do with politics? It's a comic prison piece.  I just didn't get to the funny part yet.''
   The editor got out her red pencil and drew four hostile little circles around four names in the text. “These names just happen to also belong to a few politicians I've been reading about in the papers.'' She then drew a thick line under the name Yitzhak. “And don't tell me this is not our esteemed prime minister. In some countries you could get shot for this.''
   “It's a coincidence, honest. I met these guys when I was in the hoosegow myself. Years ago.''
   The editor vaulted forward into the writer's face and worked herself up into a deep purple. “You'' she vented through clenched teeth, “were,'' she continued, pausing for effect, “in ... PRISON?!''
    “Yup, three to five. Incitement to sedition, something I wrote once. That's where I learned to type. And that's where I ran into those goofy hoods who just happened to have the same names as these politicos you're so afraid of offending.''
   “So change the names.''
   “But editor! That would be dishonest! The readers, you know, they expect a newspaper to tell the truth. You want me to lie and say Yair was really someone named Jasper, or Mortimer? By God, this is a journal of record!''
   “Why can't you stick to harmless subjects, like the Moshiach?''
   “There's a lot of funny things going on behind bars, but all you read about is the controversial stuff, like the error of their ways before they got there. A murderer who slips on a banana peel and lands on his butt on the way to the electric chair is great comedy, you'll agree.''
   “But you're writing about politicians who slipped up on the way to the bank, and that's not such a barrel of monkeys especially because -- well, because they're religious politicians. And Sephardim.''
    “They have a funny way of doing the work of God. Not to mention serving the nation.''
   “It would be different if they were, say, a gang of Ashkenazi secular accountants. They're fair game.  But people are, you know, sensitive. If I put this in the paper we'll be called racists, antisemites, self-hating Jews.''
   “Then put it on a news page and call it ‘facts.' ''
   “No, let's put it in the garbage and call it quits.''
   Scrap the story? No way. “There's a principle here, something about making their bed and sleeping in it. Well, I want to tuck them in.''  
    The editor's purple rage ebbed to a fading vermilion. “You're missing the point.''
   “So what's the point?''
   “The point,'' she said with logical finality, “is that I'm your boss.''
   I sized up the situation: my journalistic ethics, my principals, my overdraft, my chances of getting another job. “Alright. I can scrap this and write something else, like ...'' The writer furrowed his brow and squinted at the ceiling (that's how writers show they're thinking).
“... Hey, how about a piece on a daffy gang of lovable crooks who somehow end up running the country?''
   A big meaty editorial fist slammed the desk. “Look, pal, you're writing for the back of the magazine, not the front page of the newspaper.''
    “So what do you want, pearls of wisdom from the makolet? I remember Mama? Recipes from other planets? What it's like to ride the bus to Tiberias?''
   “Bingo.''
   The writer went back to the drawing board.
   Shulamit unlocked the door and turned on the lights, for once not forgetting to post the “Open'' sign. She straightened a row of canned peas, wiped the mold off a slab of cheese on the counter, and dumped the bag of fresh rolls into a big ratty cardboard box. She tore a crooked strip off the box and scrawled in large letters, “Special Today: Pork.''
   A man walked in, an old, old man, head to toe in black. He had a scraggly snow-white beard. “Hello, rabbi,'' she said secularly.
   Before the rabbi could respond, the writer paused. He looked up from his typewriter and frowned. A reader had just walked in, waving a letter-to-the-editor, and boy did he look mad.