My Jewish Life
June 24, 2009 // 7:55 pm
By Michael Nelson
Published in The National Lampoon
A Bar Mitzvah is the Super Bowl of a young Jewish man’s life. It is when he turns in his diaper and begins a journey that will end with doing your taxes. When I was a kid, I went to so many Bar Mitzvahs I had to hire my mom as my “Mitzvah agent.” Every Friday I would walk in from school, sift through the fridge, and she would chime in with, “Okay, you have a 2pm Weiss Mitzvah followed by a 4pm Sherman Mitzvah after party,” as she thumbed a big calendar. “And Cory is holding on three. What should I tell him?” I would leave the room with a snack, a thumb up and a forced smile.
She took twenty percent.
That was my childhood. Bar Mitzvahs, nagging mothers, hairy backs and the decision of which Yarmulke to wear were the major elements of my Jewish life. Despite this, there was still one problem. I’m not Jewish. I am Christian, born and raised. But when I was seven my family moved to a small neighborhood right next to the JCC, the Jewish Community Center, or, as I called it, Jesus Can’t Come in.
The JCC was only a dreidel’s throw away. That’s how Jewish the neighborhood was. If you were a stranger off the highway, requesting directions to a good restaurant, you wouldn’t get, “Go two miles down this road and…” No, you’d get, “Okay, go twenty (throat noise)-adel throws down this road, hang a rrrrright. And then you go two (throat noise)-adel throws and it’s on your left. Try the veal.”
At first, being thrown in the Jewish mix was hard. My family purchased a membership at the JCC for its athletic facilities and it became my hang out. After shaking off such nicknames as “Jesus in the Flesh” and “Pope Nelson,” I eventually became an honorary Jew and this put me in position to attend the hottest Bar Mitzvahs on the planet.
One Bar Mitzvah that has always echoed in my mind was Josh’s. It was in Jacksonville and my Mitzvah publicist said if I showed up, kissed some babies, and threw out a couple “Shaloms” then my name would be written in stone on the guest list of every who’s who Bar Mitzvah on the east coast.
I arrived late at the Temple and sifted through the large container of Yarmulkes. Damn! All the blue ones were gone and I was stuck with a corduroy nightmare. Just once I wanted to get a Yarmulke that had a little personality to it. Maybe one with a propeller on the top or one lined with sparkling jewels. What if NIKE ever tapped into the Yarmulke market?
NIKE TV COMMERCIAL
EXT. BASKETBALL COURT – DAYA BUNCH OF JEWISH BOYS ARE PLAYING A BASKETBALL GAME. ALL OF THEM HAVE A PLAIN COLORED YARMULKE ON AND NO GAME WHATSOEVER. WHAT YOU HAVE HERE ARE A GROUP OF BOYS THAT WEAR THE FINEST ATTIRE AND USE HIP HOP LINGO WITH THEIR OWN TWIST TO MAKE UP FOR WHAT THEY LACK ON THE COURT. WE JOIN THEM AT…
BEN
(WITH THE BALL)
Bling on!HE PASSES THE BALL TO TEAMMATE CORY.
CORY
(TO DEFENDER)
What son? Check this move.
Check yo Yarmulke!CORY BLOWS PAST HIS DEFENDER. HE ATTEMPTS TO LAY THE BALL IN THE BASKET BUT THE BALL HITS THE BOTTOM OF THE BACKBOARD, THEN COMES BACK AND HITS HIM IN THE FACE. HE THEN RUNS INTO THE POLE VIOLENTLY AND FALLS TO THE GROUND. AFTER SOME LAUGHTER, ALL THE BOYS SURROUND CORY AND HELP HIM OFF THE COURT.
BEN
Damn kid! We out one.BOTH TEAMS SUDDENLY LOOK IN AWE AT A BOY EMERGING FROM THE PARKING LOT.
CUE THE SLOW MOTION.
HE APPROACHES WEARING A BLACK SUEDE YARMULKE WITH A WHITE NIKE SWOOSH ON THE SIDE. HIS BLACK BAG SAYS JEW CREW ON IT.
BOY
Need one?BEN
(STUNNED)
Ayight. It’s you ridin’
(POINTING)
With them. Your rock.THE BALL IS THROWN-IN TO THE NEW BOY. HE FAKES RIGHT, GOES LEFT, AND LEAVES THE GROUND TO AMAZING HEIGHTS. AND JUST WHEN YOU THINK HE IS GOING TO LAY IT UP, HE REVERSES, GOES UNDER THE BASKET, AND DUNKS THE BALL ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIM. EVERYONE IS IN SHOCK. ONE BOY SLOWLY TAKES HIS YAMIKA OFF, STARES AT IT, THEN LOOKS AT THE BOY STILL HANGING FROM THE RIM. THE SHOT TRAILS OFF INTO THE SKY. A VOICE IS HEARD…
NARRATOR
NIKE. Just Jew It.
The service slowly crept forward and ended, routine. Afterward, everyone headed over to an auditorium for an after party that had a Mardi Gras like feel to it. Breasts weren’t being exposed, but you could feel the energy release of a bunch of parents who really needed it.
About thirty minutes in, things started to get crazy and the parental party agenda was very visible. I suddenly found myself cornered in the back of the room. “Drink this juice, it is tradition, and everyone is doing it,” one boy said as the rest of the group laughed. It was always a riot to play a joke on ol’ Jesus lover. I wanted to get them off my back so I drank. It was Tequila!
Twelve years old + tequila = insta-drunk
I was so drunk I began having flash backs of being three feet up in rice patties about 15 clicks out of Qui Non while my new wife kept sending me pictures of our new born and bitching about the yard getting “out of control.” Not having been old enough to have fought in Vietnam, I just assumed this type of stuff happened the first time someone got drunk.
Everyone around me was laughing. Their faces were blurred and their laughter was coming from all directions. To get away, I barged back into the main room, drunk and overwhelmed by the Jewish parents throwing each other up on chairs and chanting.
The rest of the night was a montage of confusion, spills, and the floor possessing the comfort of a Tempur-Pedic mattress. The next morning, I woke up in the back of a Cadillac with a terrible headache, wearing a sleeveless tee shirt that said, “I rocked out at Josh’s Bar Mitzvah.” I was finished. My life on the Bar Mitzvah tour was over, kaput. My reputation was ruined.
I approached my house later that day with my head down, feeling depressed. How was I going to explain to mom that there was no more twenty percent? I entered the house just as she hung up the phone. “What happened?” She said.
“What do you mean?”
“Every Jewish boy from here to Israel wants you to come to their Bar Mitzvah,” she said. “And Josh called earlier and wanted to thank you for a great show. What’s that mean?”
I slowly sat down confused and rubbed my head. “Oy vey.”
© Michael Nelson – All Rights Reserved.
