Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(73)
“Sounds inspiring.”
“Wouldn’t be pretty while it was happening, but twenty years from now, with fifty million Jews filling the Land of Israel, from the Suez Canal all the way to the oil fields, with the largest economy between Germany and China—”
“Israel isn’t between Germany and China.”
“—with the Olympics in Tel Aviv and more tourists in Jerusalem than Paris, you think anyone is going to be going on about how the kosher sausage was made?”
Irv took a deep breath and nodded his head, as if in agreement with something only he had access to.
“The world will always hate Jews. On to the next thought, which is: What to do with that hatred? We can deny it, or try to overcome it. We could even choose to join the club and hate ourselves.”
“The club?”
“You know the membership: Jews who would sooner fix their so-called deviated septums than break a nose for their survival; Jews who refuse to acknowledge that Tina Fey isn’t Jewish, or that the IDF is; ersatz-quote Jews like Ralph Lauren (né Lifshitz), Winona Ryder (née Horowitz), George Soros, Mike Wallace, pretty much all Jews living in the United Kingdom, Billy Joel, Tony Judt, Bob Silvers—”
“Billy Joel isn’t Jewish.”
“Of course he is.”
“?‘Scenes from an Italian Restaurant’?”
“Chinese restaurant, no?”
“No.”
“Point is, a Jewish fist can do more than masturbate and hold a pen. Slide out the writing implement, you’ve got a punching implement. You understand? We don’t need another Einstein. We need a Koufax who pitches at the head.”
“Did it ever occur to you—” Jacob began.
“Yes, it probably did.”
“—that I don’t include myself in your we?”
“Did it ever occur to you that the meshuggener mullah with the nuclear codes does?”
“So our identity is at the mercy of crazy strangers?”
“If you can’t generate it yourself.”
“What do you want from me? To spy for Israel? To blow myself up in a mosque?”
“I want you to write something that matters.”
“First of all, what I write matters to a lot of people.”
“No, it entertains them.”
Jacob remembered the previous night’s conversation with Max, and considered pointing out that his show generated more revenue than every book published in America that entire year combined. That might not have been true, but he would know how to play false authority.
“I take your silence to mean you understand me,” Irv said.
“How about you stick to the bigoted blogging, and I’ll take care of award-winning television?”
“Hey, Maxy, you know who made the award-winning entertainment in the time of the Maccabees?”
“Pray tell,” he said, blowing dust from his screen.
“I can’t, because we only remember the Maccabees.”
What Jacob really thought: his father was an ignorant, narcissistic, self-righteous pig, too anal-retentive and *-whipped to grasp the extreme reaches of his hypocrisy, emotional impotence, and mental infancy.
“So we’re in agreement, then?”
“No.”
“So we’re agreed?”
“No.”
“I’m glad you agree with me.”
But there were arguments for forgiving him, too. There were. Good ones. Beautiful intentions. Wounds.
Jacob’s phone rang. His real phone. It was Julia. The real Julia. He would have leaped through any open or closed window to escape the conversation with his father, but he was afraid of answering.
“Hi?”
“…”
“I bet.”
“…”
“Do they even have room for it?”
“…”
“I figured. Not the bomb part, but—”
“…”
“I’m in the car.”
“…”
“Their flight is arriving early.”
“…”
“Max did.”
“…”
“Max, do you want to say hi to Mom?”
“…”
“Are you in the hotel? I hear nature.”
“…”
“Tell her hi.”
“My dad says hi.”
“…”
“She says hi.”
“And that Benjy had a great time at our house, and didn’t die.”
“He wants you to know that Benjy had a great time at his house.”
“…”
“She says thanks.”
“Tell her I say hi.”
“Max says hi.”
“…”
“She says hi.”
“…”
“Let’s see. Argus is very old. That was reconfirmed. We got some new pills for joint pain, and they upped the dosage on the other one. He’ll live to bark another day.”
“…”
“Nothing to be done. The vet gave the spiel about what an honor it is to care for loved ones, how it only happens once.”