Andrew J. Lederer

Finally got the money I was waitin' on for almost two weeks but only after two-plus days of unremitting effort. Every normal methodology for transferring funds was somehow problematic for the sender, who kept assuring me he wasn't meaning to delay; he didn't want to have all these problems -- but nothing would work.

Fine, except I had a bar mitzvah to go to on Saturday and I couldn't go in jeans and a t-shirt. But I couldn't afford to get my nice jacket out of the cleaners and the rest of my better stuff was not only deep in storage, I couldn't get into the storage space anyway, 'cause I owe the storage people money. So, if I didn't get the cash, I'd have to call my father (his sister's grandkid was the bar mitzvah boy) and pretend I was sick and couldn't go.

Alright then -- a little coughing and problem solved.

Unless, of course, I wanted to go to the affair -- which I did.

It was one of the reasons -- along with the Onion show -- that I came back from England last week. I like seeing my extended family and, too often, the only opportunities are at weddings, bar mitzvahs, and funerals. And since no one's about to get married and the next bar mitzvah is many months away, who knows -- maybe the next time all the kinfolk gather will be at a funeral and, in that case, there's at least one person who, in a conversational sense, won't be there.

I mean, there are older relatives who have had health problems and whatnot. We hope they'll all be fine but who knows what anyone's fate will be? This morbid thinking helped keep me going as I barraged my financier with e-mails and phone calls Thursday, Friday, and early Saturday.

Finally, Saturday morning, "Money Bags" (I can't use his name and you'll notice it's been removed from the "Welcome to New York" post) was to leave his trailer in the Hollywood Hills to personally visit a Western Union office and make this transfer happen. Armed with this knowledge, I borrowed the money from someone else, who could be confident, I assured him, of quick repayment, as the money was -- or would soon be -- on its way.

I got my jacket out of hock, bought trousers at Old Navy, a nice shirt at H&M, dress socks at National Wholesale Liquidators and -- while I was on a a roll -- some new underwear and a warm winter stocking cap. Unfortunately, I didn't have time to buy shoes, but my sneakers were black and, hopefully, would not visually offend. (Unfortunately, in addition to being black, they were stinky, providing an alternate avenue of possible offense.)

It was so late by this time that I couldn't even brush my teeth before heading for the train to Long Island. So, I rinsed my mouth with store-brand Listerine and took my travel toothbrush and dental floss with me, hoping I'd find an opportune time to repair to the bathroom and render myself hygienic during the event. I got to Penn Station within seconds of my train's departure and had to buy my ticket on the train -- at a steep premium -- in order to get to the affair on time. Thank god for that money.

Of course, the Bar Mitzvah didn't start on time, so I could have bought a normal-priced "advance" ticket and caught the next train. The hosts apparently told everyone to come a half-hour early to make certain they would be there at the start.

I thought this might give me an opportunity to brush and floss but there were too many people using the bathroom, so 'til I could brush, I decided to keep my mouth clamped shut. Seeing my grim expression, my sister -- concerned -- asked me if I was unhappy.

She may have simply been seeing my attempt to prevent the release of bad breath into a religious environment but she had, nevertheless, stumbled onto something. Dental hygiene aside, I was unhappy.

In fact, I was sad.

Y'see, the last time I had taken the train to that synagogue was about 4 1/2 years ago, when my cousin's youngest son was having excess skin at the end of his penis professionally trimmed for the entertainment of his loved ones. With me at the time was Vicki, with whom I may have been in love.

A couple of weeks earlier she'd let me know that she didn't have the same intentions I did but there were indications this was not the case and that particular day was perhaps the best we ever spent together, starting early(ish) in the morning with the train trip to Long Island, continuing through the bris (ritual circumcision, which Vicki -- a shikse -- found fascinating), then the party (where, as you know, the foreskin is fried and served to all the guests), followed by a visit to a run-down bar near the Babylon train station, an evening out with our friend Becky to celebrate my natal day in both a midtown dive bar and a posh candy store (yes, it was also my birthday), then a party in Park Slope and, finally, a long walk from the party to Vicki's apartment, her arm around mine the whole way.

And she even made me a hamburger at like three or four in the morning when we got there!

No Vicki today, though. I was alone.

And sad.

But the affair snapped me out of it. The rabbi sang in a classically throaty, high-pitched, somewhat nasal, Yiddishe style that I rather liked, though it might have had some similarity to the cry of a wounded moose (which most probably was part of its appeal). My cousin Andrea and I drank wine and danced wildly, which my father unexpectedly appreciated. (The dancing, not the drinking. Usually, he doesn't like it when I'm goofy and showy. Maybe we didn't look so goofy. Maybe the alcohol made us actually good).

My father also seemed to get a kick out of seeing all the relatives and quasi-relatives and semi-relatives he doesn't see much anymore. He introduced me to some relatives of his late father's second wife (my step-grandmother, also deceased) and I think I even made a good impression on most (some?) as I'd been able to find the time to brush and floss between the religious ceremony and the reception.

So, things worked out, I guess. I mean with the money and everything.

I got back to Manhattan at about 2:30 AM and headed to the Subway Soul Club -- a monthly "mod" dance party at the East Village bar, Rififi. The music was spectacular and they were showing some mid-'60s Anthony Perkins comedy set in London on the big screen at the end of the room. It was so great to see London. I guess, after three days, I was already feeling "home"sick.

Left the bar a little before 4 and the next day, I picked up the money from Western Union that had, finally, been sent.

Most of it, anyway.

My "financier" had been complaining in recent days that a Western Union transfer would be too expensive. I pointed out that if he had sent the money on time he wouldn't have incurred that expense. But to get him moving, I said I'd be willing to eat that expense if that made it easier for him, somehow.

Of course, he took me up on the offer. So, I received less money than expected. Fortunately, I still had some of the money I'd borrowed on the basis of this money's quick arrival. I didn't have to pay it back that fast. Did I?