3/12/99

Hanukka Lately

With no time to write a holiday column, only a miracle could save this page...

    Oy. Friday morning, and I still haven't written today's column. Gotta hurry, gotta think, what to write, the time, the time!
    Good thing I'm in the Magazine. They're reading the news now, then they go shopping, it's Friday, it gives me time, they can read the Mag tomorrow, dammit the time, gotta think, what to write, gotta start, NOW.
    Shopping, shopping! Gotta go shopping, it's Friday, it's ... it's Hanukka!
    Have to shop, it's getting late, what to do first, stop and think, but hurry, the time.
    Maybe I'll think
    of what to write
    in the store.
    I need a list!
    Candles,
    presents
    for the kids
    the kids! Gotta
    pick up the kids
    from school,
    what to do first.
    The time, the time.
    Candles and presents
    and food for Shabbat
    and something to write.
    First to the store, then to the school, a pizza for lunch, hurry back home, in half an hour, start to write, no matter what.
    That's when I bumped into what's-her-name.
    "Simon! Simon Orbach, isn't it? Imagine meeting you in the supermarket, I haven't seen you since ulpan, must be what, 18 years; you remember the time we all went to Rehovot for a beer and you forgot your wallet back at the kibbutz and I loaned you some money and I thought you were never going to pay me back? Anyway, so how are you? You're living in Jerusalem now, I see, so how are things? Y'know, I never thought I'd see you again, it's been so long, I'm married now, you know, but back then, Simon, back then I had my eye on you, you didn't know, I suppose, but you were always hurrying, I remember now, you were always late for something or other, and you never had time to talk to me, to get to know --"
    "Yes, but I'm late..."
    "Anyway, so how are you? Finally I get a chance to talk to you but who knew it would be by the frozen chickens! So tell me, what've you been doing the past 18 years?"
    OK, what do I do now? I can't stay and talk, but I can't run from her -- again. It's one of those situations that mankind has never found an answer for. There is no gallant escape; the best I can do is wind it down as fast as possible -- by not giving her anything to talk about.
    "Not much." It would be polite to add "and you?" but I really didn't want to know. I mean, she might have an answer.
    "Good, very nice. You look terrific, how've you been?"
    "Not bad."
    "Good. So."
    That's what I wanted to hear: a conversational dead-end. "Hey, it was nice seeing you again, maybe someday..."
    "... Yeah, we'll meet for coffee or something."
    And we said goodbye. I shot off like a rocket, turned a corner into the next aisle, and, of course...
    "Hi! Long time no see!"
    What's-her-name again.
    That's what I hate about supermarkets. You're bound to meet someone you know, you chit-chat, say goodbye, and then you have to think of something else to say each time you encounter them around the corner. So you say something like "long time no see!" and the next time possibly "you again!" and by now you're really beginning to hate this person. In the next aisle you say nothing but smile dopily, and then you don't even smile but concentrate totally on the product display until she passes, at which point you're so rattled you skip the last few aisles and head straight for the cashier, which is exactly what she has done to avoid  you, and so you end up waiting next to her, and it's the most embarrassing experience of your life.
    This is what goes on in a supermarket, and that's why they put those spy cameras over each aisle, because at the end of the day, the workers all get together and watch the film, and laugh their heads off at you. 
    Much, much worse is when you're in a great hurry.
    The third time I bumped into what's-her-name, I bumped into her and good, right in the ankle. It was my fault all the way. I was pushing my cart at 70 in a 5-kilometer-an-hour zone, and now I couldn't just smile dopily and race off. If for no other reason, she was sprawled on the floor, blocking my way.
    I offered her a ride in my cart but she said no, she was ok. I got her on her feet, apologized, and shot off.
    "Y'know," she said, at the next aisle (canned fruit), "You still owe me for that beer."
    That got us talking again. I explained that I still didn't have any money, but I could write her a check.
    "I don't believe it!" she screeched. I blushed. But she was not screeching at me. "Stella! Stella, c'mon over, I want you to meet someone; Stella, my next-door neighbor, this is my dear old friend, Simon."
    "I've heard a lot about you, Simon," Stella said.
    "Actually, it's 'Sam,' " I said.
    I mumbled something about having to get going, because the frozen children were defrosting, and I had to pick up my chickens from school, and what's-her-name said, "Oh? You have kids? You didn't tell me."
    "It's nothing really, they're small," I said hastily. Very noticeably, I checked my watch. "Omigod, the time, the time!"
     I don't think they were paying attention, because what's-her-name then asked for a lift. "It'll only take you a minute, but I don't know how I'll get this stuff home."
    "That would be wonderful!" Stella agreed.
    Why is it so hard to say no?
    It took more than a minute, partially because I drove so fast that all our grocery bags got strewn about in the trunk and mixed up together, which was particularly serious because what's-her-name had weighed out exactly three kilos of potatoes because that's what her latke recipe called for, and we had all bought potatoes. She burst into tears.
    Stella said wait a minute, she'll go upstairs and get her kitchen scale.
    By now I was wondering if I should pick up my kids from fourth grade, or fifth. I was wondering if maybe instead of getting Hanukka gifts, I should buy Purim costumes. I wondered if the editor gave up and put a bank ad on my page, permanently. I wondered what my life would be like if I had married this what's-her-name. I wondered what her name was.
    We sorted it all out, and fearing a long goodbye, I waved after already joining the flow of traffic. "Wanna come up for coffee?" she called after me.
    "Oh, dear." It was Stella. "I think I got his Hanukka candles."
    By now I had only enough time to either pick up the kids and feed 'em, or write the column (assuming I could think of something to write). Tough choice. If I left the kids at school over the weekend, I wouldn't have to buy so many Hanukka presents.
    The thought of what their mother would say made me think twice. On the other hand, the thought of what my editor was saying at that very minute made me think again.
    On the way to the school, I solved the problem of the gifts. What wonderful gifts I had just bought -- if only my kids were dirt-poor. The candles, the chicken: that took care of the first two days of Hanukka. Salt, insect spray, cat food ... I had bought at least eight items, so that was that. OK, they were three kids; they'd just have to share.
    "HURRY!" I said, and the kids scrambled to get in.
    "God, the time, the time," I moaned.
    I started writing in my head.
    A block or two down the road, I thought I heard a kid speak. "Not now," I snapped, "Daddy's thinking."
    Whatever noise she was making stopped instantly.
    The first five or six paragraphs took form in my head, but unfortunately, I couldn't remember the first two or three.
    We got home. "Quick! Everybody out!"
    That voice again: "Everybody else is left behind at the school, Daddy."
    "WHAT?!"
    “I tried to tell you.”
    The brats. They'd done this on purpose.
    I raced back to get the other two. They were hungry. It was soon Shabbat. It was soon Hanukka. I was soon going to discover that Stella had my candles.
    "The time, the time!" I shrieked. It was so late.
    It was too late.
    Not even a miracle of Hanukkic proportions was going to help me now. Or so I thought.
    Miserably, I turned on my computer and sent a message to the editor.  "You won't believe what happened to me today." I wrote all about this daylong national conspiracy against me. I laid it on thick, didn't leave out a detail.
    The thing about a good excuse is, never make it sound believable.
    Miracles are pretty much the same.
    "Strange," the editor miraculously thought when she read through the message, "This column is very, very strange."