Monday, March 21, 2005

Third Installment

The following is the third installment of a fiction piece I have been working on, tentatively entitled, "The Yellow Gate." Click here to read the second installment, or just scroll down...

Part One (cont'd)

It hadn’t always been cool to pray. In fact, in his youth, Yermiahu distinctly remembered it being quite uncool, among his peers and role-models, to A) believe in God, B) to speak to others about whether or not you believed in God (that is, if your belief was whether instead of not), and C) to demonstrate any sort of such uncool beliefs through ritual and/or lifestyle. Such demonstrations were for the under-Enlightened, small-minded mama’s boys who didn’t own televisions, who didn’t like Nirvana, and who preached to you without even listening to your responses, like it was all they ever wanted to talk about – God this, God that, like God was the only thing in this world that made any fucking difference! There always seemed to be so many more entertaining things to talk about as a young, American male, things that were so much so much less tedious than God. Anyway, who gave a good pickled shit what the Bible said, anyway?

Here in this settlement, at this yeshiva, among all the good-looking, well-groomed, fashionably-scruffy, nerd-chic, post-graduate American expatriates, it seemed that praying, davenning, and speaking about all of the wondrous handiwork of the One True Lord of Israel had mysteriously gone from profoundly uncool to way, way cool, my man. It was as if all the rules of social propriety had been turned on their ears and made to beckon to Yermiahu -- “C’mon, dude, don’t be a loser – this is the good shit…”

Here, the coolest kids, the ones who knew the most about the Bible, the most about Jewish history, who spoke the best and most fluent Hebrew – they were ones everyone looked up to, they were the quarterbacks who got to snatch the garter belt from the milky white thigh of the (Jewish) Prom Queen with their teeth after the big game… but the garter belt, in this new High School, was the everlasting wisdom of the Sages, and the Prom Queen was the indwelling presence of the High Living Lord of All Hosts, and their teeth were the razor-sharp arguments, tossed like hot potatoes around the study hall, about whose ox had gored whose cow, and how much it would cost, and whether or not there were two believable witnesses present to bring testimony… this was the new standard of sexiness for the Jewish American Princes of the new millennium...


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