Thursday, July 25, 2002

TIME TO TALK TO GOD

I was on a late night errand that required a visit to the bank machine. As I drove up toward my bank on quiet side streets, I saw a man ahead of me who strode toward the boulevard on foot.  He was tall and thin, wore dark clothes and a broad brimmed hat.  His gait was quick, his body forward-leaning, and his black goatee pointed his way ahead.  He walked as if he were traversing moors.

I parked in front to use the ATM.  As I set about my business there, I heard a conversation start behind me on the sidewalk.  The talk was heated on one side, beseeching on the other.  They were discussing Judaism.  I turned to see them: one was that tall bearded guy, whose hands were out before him in a patient sagelike gesture.  His counterpart was a stocky man in shirtsleeves, though the night was chilly.  His head was bare and balding, his expression was belligerent.  Clenched fists trembled at his side.  He bellowed, “I am Russian Jew!” The other fellow spoke in soothing tones, asking him if he would like to pray with him.  “Shall we say Sh’ma?,” he asked.  The other charged ahead two steps, his shoulders bunched with anger.  “What are you?  I am Russian Jew!” “Of course,” the quick tall one replied, backing up along the sidewalk. “I am a Jew as well.  Let’s pray together!  Can you say it with me?”

He began to speak the central prayer of my heritage, two short lines that even I have totally internalized.  I started slinking out toward my car, so as not to draw attention to myself.  The taller man was circling in full retreat, trying to evade the drunkard.  “I am Russian Jew!,” the latter shouted, coming at the other fast with clumsy stumbling steps.  The Sh’ma was now forgotten; the tall man looked like cornered prey. 

I was opening my car when I at last was spotted.  The angry Russian was distracted, muttering a garbled blend of languages.  The tall one called to me with hushed anxiety, “Sir, a moment – please help me get away from here!” Now, as a rule, I don’t give rides to strangers, but this time I thought it might be safe, a mitzvah even.  But I had a laundry bag on the front passenger seat and the back seats were folded down, leaving a bed of flat, wide open cargo space.  “I’ve got no seat for you,” I answered.  “That’s okay – please let me in!” I unlocked the back and he leapt forward, launched himself into the car full length face down.  I pulled away from the curb as the inebriate came to his senses just enough to perceive his loss of quarry.  “I AM RUSSIAN JEW!,” he screamed at my taillights as traffic took us from him. 

On the fly my passenger slammed shut his door, curled on his side in the empty flatbed and heaved a sigh.  “Where to?,” I asked him.  “How about downtown?,” he asked.  “Wrong way,” I said.  “I’ll take you up the street a bit, where you’ll be safe.” “That’s fine,” he sighed again. 

A moment passed in silence.  “I asked him if he’d like to pray,” he said, his voice a whisper.  “He said he was a Jew.  I thought that he would hit me if I’d stayed there any longer.”

“I guess you never know,” I answered.  “Some people just don’t want to talk to God.”