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The guy, with a last wistful look at the monstrosity, started after the
other. "Come on, I need you!" he cried. "And you need me! You know
that!"
"Yo' momma times two! I can write that shit without you!"
This went on and on, echoing for a while, finally fading.
In my head I started tallying the sales figures for Brain Ingestors of
Musi and Blood Roaches of Ibasklar.
Can you go to Hell for scaring the bejesus out of a mere thirty thousand
people?
Actually, only fifteen thousand, since the same ones probably read both
books.
And to tell the truth, most of them were probably warped before they
read those two literary gems. So how could I be held responsible?
"Ready to go, Jack?" Nananana asked, this time scaring me so shitless
that I nearly knocked myself unconscious on yet another barrier that I
couldn't see.
"Yeah, and this time how about outta here?" I said, trying to ignore the
fact that there was three of him.
"Of course. But some other Overpasses may be unavoidable."
"No problem; lead on."
Concussion or not, I managed to focus on his back as the milky-white
walls of this weird place again took us. Now I was sure the time had come
to bid a fond adieu to beautiful downtown Hell. I could negotiate the
remaining Overpasses with blinders on, if need be.
But when the next one appeared, there was no way I could turn away.
It was a small living room in an apartment or house, and it looked like
a composite of all the living rooms of my uncles, aunts, grandparents, and
such back in New York, circa the fifties and sixties. Mismatched old
furniture, coffee tables and sideboards cluttered with ugly figurines, a
hardwood floor partly covered with an oval, threadbare rug, a dull
painting of bewigged Europeans hanging on a wall. Even one of those old
televisions with a screen the size of a Watchman and a chassis the size of
Elizabeth, New Jersey. Despite the invisible barrier I could smell the
oldness of the room.
A guy was walking around the room in carpet slippers. He looked
forty-something, although I had a hunch he was younger. Balding,
unshaven, potbellied, he wore a dingy white undershirt and a pair of
baggy brown pants. His head jerked to the right occasionally in what was
a nervous tic. A green, six-ounce bottle of Coca-Cola, half-consumed, was
in one hand; his other reached for a bag of Wise potato chips on a marred
coffee table.
Nananana saw I was interested and started playing with his index.
"Sheldon Kronstein," he said, "place of birth and death Brooklyn, New
York. Worked many jobs, including shoe salesman, seltzer bottle delivery
person, stock clerk at John's Bargain Store; never held any longer than a
year. Married twice, divorced twice, beat both his wives. Exposed himself
to women and children on subways, buses, the street. Used to promise
candy to little boys, then "
"I got the picture," I interrupted. "Sweetheart of a guy."
"Nu, Sheldon, are you fressing those potato chips again?" an accented
voice called from an adjoining room. "Such a nice dinner I'm making, and
you eat that chozzerail"
"Ma, I " Sheldon started to say.
"And that sweet Coca-Cola you're drinking? Oy, pimples you'll get from
it, nebech! And did you see the schmootz on my kitchen floor that you
tracked in from your rubbers? Next time, shmendrick, you'll take off your
rubbers in the hallway!"
"Ma, I "
She appeared in the doorway. I stood up stiffly; almost cracked my
head again. Couldn't help it. She was small, older than middle age but
younger than old age. Her bunned-up hair was white; she wore glasses,
and a housedress that was probably thirty years old, and an apron, and
rolled-up stockings above her carpet slippers. She was wagging a finger at
the guy.
Oh, no, this was more than any human being, alive or dead, should
have to endure!
This was the Hell of the Jewish Mother!
"Look at you: a bum, an oysvorf! Such a nice shirt your Uncle Jake
gives you and you walk around in underwear, like an oysvorf!"
"Ma, the shirt had holes and went out of style ten "
"What about your brother, the accountant! You couldn't be like him,
Sheldon? From your brother nachis, and nothing from you but tsooris!"
"Ma, I "
"You couldn't work for the post office, puti? Putting shoes on women's
smelly feet is a job? Feh! Or you schlepp heavy cases of seltzer and God
forbid get a hernia?"
"Ma, I'm not "
"You're not working, nu! Not even those miserable jobs you keep, so
now you don't bring a shekel in! Oy vey! Your father may he rest in
peace is right now rolling over in the plot that your Uncle Sol had to pay
for!"
Sheldon, starting to get pissed, reached for one of the ugly figurines.
"Ma, listen, if you don't !"
"Meesis Blattner says she saw you with a woman. So tell me, Sheldon, is
she Jewish? You're not, God forbid, seeing another shiksa! What it did last
time to my heart! Gevalt, I should plotz! Soon I'll be lying next to your
father may he rest in peace and we'll both roll over from our miserable
son with a shiksa!"
Sheldon lost it. He swung the figurine at her head. Mrs. Kronstein or
the cyborg or whatever beneath the wrinkled skin ducked under it with a
move that would have made Sugar Ray Leonard applaud, then jumped
high in the air and threw a nasty heel in the guy's face. Blood gushing
from his nose, Sheldon fell backward atop an old armchair, which was
covered with plastic. The figurine flew from his hand and was about to
smash on the floor. But the Jewish mother-thing, with a flying leap,
caught it and returned it lovingly to where it had been.
"You'll use a Kleenex, schmuck, and not bleed on the furniture," she
said, resuming her millennial noodge. "So come, bubeleh, I made boiled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]