Manhood
In every man’s life there are certain events that are said to transform him from a boy into a man. For me, it was two separate but deeply connected events, one nested inside the other.
Perhaps not surprisingly the outer event was my wedding ceremony, and I’d be hard-pressed to find a man whose wedding was not transformative. The inner event however was something that I witnessed long before I’d ever even known my wife, and yet arose in my mind while she circled me underneath the chuppah. She was veiled in white, extraordinarily beautiful, and I could hardly stop staring at her. And yet on her third or fourth lap, this far-off event entered my mind like a movie scene I couldn’t help but watch in its entirety.
By itself, the event wasn’t all together too special. But perhaps at that moment under the chuppah it was so powerful because I was experiencing it for a second time, only backwards now through the prism of my own life.
Suddenly my knees began to buckle inside their oversized tuxedo pants, and the rabbi even had to hold me steady for a second or two so that I wouldn’t fall over. After the fact we all laughed it off merrily, and I said that it was because I hadn’t had anything to eat for breakfast. But here it is—the memory in brief, that inner event—and you can make of it what you will.
It was an evening in early April, dew-covered, warm, and shivering off the last dregs of winter. I was sitting naked at my desk with a mug of black tea and my windows wide open. At the time I lived on a first floor apartment and my window—partially shaded by three squat evergreens—opened almost directly onto the front porch of my apartment building. In the era of smartphones I considered it a very lively porch, which is why I liked it so much. Mostly I liked it because at night the babushkas in my building would come out to smoke cigarettes and yell at each other heartily.
That night though there weren’t any babushkas out on the porch, and instead there was this tall Hispanic guy who I knew also lived on the first floor but never caught his name. We’d maybe exchanged greetings a handful of times.
He was a union guy, and I only know that because one time we were both leaving for work at the crack of dawn and as I held the front door open for him he goes, “you union?”
“Yeah,” I instinctively replied, still groggy with dread and unable to comprehend the question.
“Dope. Six-thirty-five?”
“What?” I dropped the door behind us and we started off together down the block.
“You said you’re union. Union six-thirty-five?”
“I’m what?”
“I said are-you-in-a-union,” he said in a very heavy staccato. “¿Entiendes?”
“Oh. No, no I’m not in a union.”
“Gotcha. I’m just watchin out for us workin’ men, you know? You look like a workin’ man with your gearbox and shit.”
My lunchbox was packed with matzah and cream cheese sandwiches. “Thanks man. Appreciate it.”
“For sho’ dog. I’ll catch you round.” Then he turned around and walked back in the opposite direction, strangely. After that whenever I saw him we just simply nodded to each other.
Also on the porch this evening were two olive-skinned Russian kids who I knew also lived in the building. I recognized them because they frequently shot at each other with paintball guns out on the street in front of the building. Once, one had shot the other in the eye right outside my window.
They couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and were wearing wife-beaters, silver necklaces, and basketball shorts. The two of them sat on the steps of the porch, and the union guy was facing them on the sidewalk. He was wearing a green baseball cap and backpack, had his bulky arms crossed over his chest.
“You know I’ve been out here since five-thirty, my guys. I had work today and I’m still out here now, tryna’ protect the ladies. Y’all always gotta protect women. Make that a life goal, my guys.”
The two kids nodded duly.
“You know what happened this morning? You know what I saw when I left for work at five-thirty?”
“What.”
“What.” They asked simultaneously.
“Y’all don’t even wanna know.” He must have been enjoying his audience, because he delayed his answer, “you know my auntie is getting damn old! She be losing her mind and shit. Don’t ever lose your mind. That’s why I’m brain training every day. I’m learning French.” He whipped his head to the side when he said ‘French.’ “That shit is mad similar to Spanish, too.”
“What happened this morning?” The slightly larger of the two boys asked.
“Damn. Y’all little fellas are persistent. You don’t even wanna know.” He shuffled around in place, uncrossed his arms, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and then took them back out to re-cross them over his chest. He took an even wider stance. “Fine. I saw a Jewish motherfucker try and rape a lady in this building right here. Damn Jewish fuckers are disgusting.”
“No fucking way…”
“Ugly ass…” The two boys again spoke at the same time in their high-pitched voices.
“Yes. Yes.” The union guy nodded. “I was minding my own business out here before work when I saw her going in and him coming out. Through that door right there,” he pointed forcefully to the front door of the building and the two boys craned their necks, “and that’s when I saw him say some shit, and then he tried to tried to grab her ass or something. She was a younger lady too, maybe my age. I mean, I’m not that young anymore, but, you know. Speaking of—” His eyes went wide.
Then he pulled out a cigarette and waved it in front of the two boys. “Never smoke these, boys. I only do it because I’m ready to die. I’d be fine if I died tomorrow, but y’all are too young to die just yet.”
“Nah we smoke all the time.” The smaller of the two boys chimed in. “I got an Elfbar in my backpack inside. My mom doesn’t even know about that shit.”
“Elfbar? Nah, nah, that don’t count. Probably blueberry flavored or some other fruity shit.”
The kid went silent.
“Like I was saying. I’d be fine if I died tomorrow. That’s why I’m allowed to smoke and you two are one-hundred-percent not allowed. And that’s an order.” He lit the cigarette in his mouth and took a brief but forceful inhale. Then he blew the smoke at them.
The two laughed as they waved the smoke out of their faces.
“Anyway, what was I saying. I’m tryna to teach you two how to be men. How to be strong. There are a lot of pussy-ass men out there.” He took another puff of his cigarette. “Like that goddamn Jew. Bitch-ass kike motherfucker.”
“What’d you do?”
The union guy didn’t acknowledge the question. He continued instead, “and I knew that dude was a weird motherfucker too, on top of this all. I should’ve done something with that kikey-ass weirdo a long time ago before he tried something like this. I don’t even think he lives here, man. I think it’s just his mom that lives here or something.”
Immediately I knew who he was talking about: also a tall guy, maybe even slightly taller than the union guy. He used to stand out on the front porch smoking weed talking loudly on the phone. Always he was talking on the phone to different people, sometimes in English, sometimes in Russian, and always he spoke as if he were trying to close a business deal, even if it were about his mother or Judaism, both of which he spoke about often.
He wore a suit vest with no jacket, loose tzitzit, and a gray fedora. Most of the time too he had flowers or little twigs stuffed behind his ears or beneath his cap, and occasionally he wore suspenders.
I met him right when I moved into the building and immediately he offered me to smoke weed with him. At first I denied him and responded to his offers with cautiously friendly smiles instead, but after a month or two or regular offers I caved and we ended up going out on a walk together through Forest Park.
He was nice, but religiously convinced of the imminent end of the world. I spent most of the walk listening to him talk about hidden Torah codes that prophesized world war three, the coming of the messiah, and who was going to win the super bowl this year. Nodding along politely, I occasionally prompted him with questions in order to avoid speaking about myself.
At the end of the walk he told me that he was moving to Jerusalem, and that it would be the last time I’d ever see him. It held true for maybe a year and a half until I saw him around the porch again. He was less frequently there, but now when I saw him he wore flowers and twigs tucked into every pocket, seam, and buttonhole. Still he spoke on the phone almost constantly, but now always in a very angry Russian.
The last time I’d seen him I remember thinking that he looked so chewed up and spit out by his year and half abroad, totally used and unwanted.
So I had reason to believe the union guy’s story, but also some reason to doubt it. I never pegged him as the violent type, and definitely not the rapist type. But what did I know; I’d only talked to the guy once.
The bigger of the two children stood up. “What’d you do to him, man?”
“Now you’re asking the right questions, my guy. I did what a good man should always do—I protected my lady.” Again he walked in a sort of miniature circle before returning to his original spot and patting the kid on the head. “I kicked his Jewish ass outta here. And I told him if he ever shows his Jewish face around here again then I’d kill him.”
“Damn.”
“Fuck yeah.”
“Anyway I skipped work and now I’ve been standing here since five-thirty in the morning—and look, I’m still wearing my work clothes—but I be warning the ladies in this building that there’s a disgusting ass Jewish motherfucker out here tryna’ rape them.”
Then suddenly, noticing something he didn’t approve of, clamped his cigarette between his molars, and placed both his hands on the kid’s shoulders. He pushed them backwards.
“You gotta stand up straight my dude. Hold your chest up high. Otherwise no one’s gonna take you seriously. You want people to treat you like a bitch-ass little kid? Or like a man?”
“A man.”
“Correcto. I like the way you think little fella.” He took his hands off the kid’s shoulders. “Here. I know I just told you not to, but we gotta get you started early.” He slid a second cigarette out of his box and handed it to the kid. “Listen, I grew up in the eighties and nineties. I don’t mess around. Put that shit in your mouth.”
Readily the kid puffed out his chest and put the cigarette between his lips. The smaller of the two boys stood up too. He spoke, “hey what about me?”
“You two are gonna share.” He lit the cigarette in the larger boy’s mouth, and the boy took a shallow inhale and coughed. The union guy patted him on the back with a heavy hand.
Then the two kids sat back down and passed the cigarette between them, looking satisfied with their newfound manhood.
“Anyway, where was I. Right. Y’all better be using protection, too.” The two of them laughed. “You think I’m joking?” The faintest of smiles appeared on the union guy’s face. “Let me know when y’all are getting your dick sucked.” He looked at the larger of the two kids. “You getting your dick sucked? No. No you’re not. I’m tryna help you out here. And don’t come crying to me when you get your lady pregnant.”
By that point the sun was setting and the brick building opposite us was turning a bloodier and bloodier orange color by the second. All the while they continued talking and I stopped listening, returning to my tea and books. I think at the time I was reading a coffee table book about the Impressionists and thinking about running away.
That was until I heard the union man shout. “I thought I told your rapist ass to get the fuck outta here or I’d kill you!” The two kids stood up dizzily, probably from all the nicotine and the blood pooling at their feet. As quickly as they could they gathered themselves and stood squarely behind the union man.
The Jewish man in question roared back, “I didn’t fuckin’ do anything! You’re fuckin’ crazy man!” He puffed out his chest and chin but stood at a safe distance. He was wearing his fedora, vest, tzitzit, and had pine twigs twisted throughout his entire outfit.
“Take one step closer and I’ll fucking kill you.” He spoke to the children behind him. “You two stay behind me and watch how a real man does it.”
“I’m tryna get into my mom’s house, you freak!” The Jewish man returned.
“Mom’s house my ass! I saw what your disgusting Jewish ass was tryna do this morning with that lady. I ain’t letting you get one inch closer to this door.” He put his backpack down on the steps and cracked his knuckles.
The Jewish man’s face crinkled up and he started blinking as if he were going to start crying, but then he straightened it back out into a proper scowl. He spoke in a low, steady voice. “I didn’t fucking do anything. Now. I am going through that door and if you get in my way I will bring god’s wrath down upon you.” He started walking down the block towards the porch.
They each took a few steps towards each other, and then suddenly—I don’t remember who charged whom first—they were entangled in a knot on the ground, taking turns screaming and pummeling each other with their bare fists. Soon it was clear that the union man had the advantage, and even though he was shorter he had thicker arms and more striking power. He sat securely on top of the Jewish man and took heavy swings at his chest and face. “Fucking. Kike. Ass. Jewish. Bitch.” With each swing he let out a breathy expletive and his eyes grew wider and wider, full of rage and crazed manhood. Blood was trickling out of his nose right onto the Jewish man’s, and it wasn’t before long that the union man’s words ceased to be words altogether and instead became mucousy grunts.
The Jewish man had his forearms up in front of his face, but the blows rushed through his blind spots and landed over his temples, ears, and neck. He seemed to become less and less responsive with each punch that landed, and his arms began to fall away from his face. Meanwhile the two children stood and watched, their eyes filled with horror. The smaller one turned to go and the larger grabbed his forearm to hold him in place.
The Jewish man let out a blood-filled scream and rolled facedown onto his belly. The union man regained his words: “you can’t even face me now, huh? ¿Qué pasó? Bitch-ass pussy.” Next he reached out to try and choke the Jewish man from behind. “Now I’m gonna show you all how a real man finishes the—”
Just then in a burst of strength the Jewish man got up onto his knees, and from behind, with the union man still on top of him, he furiously sliced his elbow upwards. Miraculously it connected with the side of the union man’s jaw, and the union man fell backwards onto the pavement immediately unconscious.
Slowly the Jewish man stood up, dusted himself off, and walked into the building. The two boys ran down the block, calling for the police.
I never saw the Jewish man again, and the union man stopped hanging out on the porch. Also from then on the two boys stopped playing in the street, and I could always count on seeing them late at night on the corner smoking cigarettes.
That was the scene that flashed through my mind as my wife circled me underneath the chuppah. And after I drank the cup of blood-red wine, I crushed the glass on the ground beneath my heel, seeing in its shards the myriad reflections of boyhood.