1977-1978

SHABBAT'S END
Here it is. Another Saturday night in Jerusalem. Three stars sparkling above the Plaza
signify the finish of the Holy Day and the beginning of the Unholy Night. Our story begins in
the Resnick dormitories on Har Hatzofim. In building seventeen, room three-hundred fifty-seven
I, my roommate Barry, and occasional Mechina student Tod, gather to discuss the evening's
coming activities.
"Why don't we go to the Tavern and shoteh some beers?" Tod says, opening the summit.
"Sounds like a fine idea to me," responds Barry, inna fit of intellectualism.
"Great idea, but I hope you guys don't mind paying for me. I'm broke." My comment is met
with some derogatory comments about Jews from Colorado, but the resolution passes anyway.
With the agenda decided, I change into my robe, grab soap, shampoo and towel and send myself
to the showers. On the floor in the shower room is a liquid grime left over from those who have
preceded me into this bastion of personal hygiene. The room itself, is approximately one and
a half meters by four meters and decorated in the colors of the Great Regurgitation. Inside
each of the curtainless stalls can be found three knobs (hot, cold, on-off volume), a soap tray
and a hole in the wall where in civilized countries there is usually a shower head.
Turning the hot and on-off volume knobs to "max," I stand out of splattering range while the
pipes purge themselves of cold water. Tonight, however, I am in for a surprise. It seems that
the Controller of the Hot Water has decided the goose pimples of the Resnick inhabitants have
not been getting enough exercise lately. Nobody told him that Palmach shock training tactics
went out with the advent of the Jewish State.
"Ya.know," Barry gesticulates as he throws a rock at the lamp post on the median, "that the
half of my life that I don't waste eating or sleeping, I waste waiting for Egged buses." The
rock misses the post completely, but succeeds in inflicting enough fear in a Hasid to make him
duck and loose his streimel. Snickering disrespectfully, we all shove our hands into our
pockets and try to look innocent.
"I know what you mean. You know why the buses take so long up here, don't you?"
"No, why?" a bored chorus responds.
"Well, you see, 'Egged' being the fine, outstanding institution of Jewish ideals that it is,
only hires drivers that are imbued with a deep love and respect of Jerusalem and their Jewish
culture. Because of this, everytime they get to Har Hatzofim they feel compelled to stop,check
out a view of the Old City, and stand at attention for a rendition of 'Hatikva'."
We finally reach our destination, the King George stop, after thirty minutes of listening to
hydraulic doors open and close. The streets are crowded with the usual assortment of Israelis,
tourists and half-breeds like ourselves. There are the New Yorkers, gold-laden and selfrighteous,
munching pizza in front of Richie's; soldiers with their shirts unbuttoned to their
navels; teenage girls shod in ten-inch platforms, skin-tight pants, T-shirts professing their
admiration for the U.S. Marines and two and one half pounds of cosmetics. By "Houmous World,"
tien-year old delinquents sit on the railings, firing garanim shells at anyone foolish enough
to walk anywhere within three meters.
Pushing our way through the throngs, the Three Musketeers (alias Blind Mice) assault the
Tavern Bar and Grill. With the door of the iniquitous den open, a stream of stale cigarette
smoke pours forth as if from the nasals of a fire-breathing dragon with emphysema. Coughing
our way to the back room, where strangely enough the air is cleaner, we grab the last available
t ab 1 e .
The conversation throughout the night has vacillitated between women and Zionism. Now, so
drunk we couldn't tell Mordechai from his grandmother, we stumble up to the cash register.
Tod and Barry pay for their respective rounds and go outside into the cool night air. I look
up at the bartender, a huge, burly Englishman with biceps the size of my waist. Extending his
hand, he mutters something resembling "One hundred and twelve pounds please."
I try and hand him my bus card, but he is not very amused.
"Now don't get all upset," I slur, "my friends here are going to take care of me." Turning
towards the door I notice that there are no friends in sight. My knees start to shake a little.
"Listen, if you will just allow me to step outside and get my friends, they will take care of
everything."
"Sorry mate. Can't let you leave until I get the money. Otherwise I'll have to call the
police."
"Let's discuss this intelligently. The funds to cover this debt are presently not in my
possession. If you would be so kind as to let me leave you with a token of my sincerity to
pay, I will go find my financiers and get this little mess straightened out."
"No way bub. This ain't no bank y'know. Looks like I'm going to have to call the cops and
then you can tell them your sad little story."
Just as I am about to resort to tears, Barry and Tod shove their big, Semitic noses through
the door. I shoot an angry glare in their direction which they answer with the kind of laughter
sideaches are made of. As Tod walks in to clear up my debt the door jamb reaches up and grabs
his foot, causing him to fall and knock over a chair, its female occupant, and a glass of beer.
Barry and I join him and the young lady on the floor, gripping our sides in hysterics.-
"Say, 'das a funny one, bubba," Barry chortles, jerking his head like a chicken.
The three of us squeeze ourselves onto the bus as the doors swoosh shut. An old lady that
didn't make it shakes her fist and curses at the lethargic bus driver in Hebrew, Yiddish and
Hungarian. Our night in the city has come to an end.
Robert S. Barron