Courtney Sender

“Hello,” he hoped, and I saw immediately that he was a Jewish boy, just like my brother, and I became upset that the only ones who ever hope hello at me are Jewish boys.

“If you insist,” I said.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Jewish boys in this day and age have much to recommend them. I know plenty of girls who were raised to be stoic—that means not complain, maybe not even want to complain—who sigh their tasteful chests up and down in want of a Jewish boy.

“I’m sorry,” I told him, “it’s Saturday. You’ll have to go home to your mother, who will be happy to have you I’m sure.”

“You keep the Sabbath?” he said.

See? I didn’t tell you earlier, but he doesn’t even look Jewish. I can simply spot them from the masses. One tribesman’s heart cries chosenly to another’s.

I didn’t tell you earlier because I know you’re liable to call stereotype. It’s the 21st century! you’ll be thinking. You are a highly educated young Jewess! But please go ahead and describe the picture you conjured when I said “I saw immediately he was a Jewish boy.” Yes, I know all about it. So I am now absolved from blame for as long as I have you, dear or accidental listeners to this weekly midnight radio program.

The whole truth is he was very tall and childishly hairless, with a bit of blond fuzz coating his head and an apparent inability to grow a beard.

“No, I don’t keep the Sabbath,” I said, suppressing my sudden desire to shout Shabbat Shalom! right there on the sidewalk of Hoboken, New Jersey, beside an Irish pub.

“Oh,” he said, “me neither”—a bit proudly, which meant he was still deeply smushed beneath his mother’s thumb and rebelled by poking at it gently with his little finger; or a bit guiltily, even worse, because what is more typical than Jewish guilt? My poor big brother Jakey has it in spades about a whole cabinetful of faults, mostly never playing baseball with our old-now dad who can’t play baseball anymore.

“Just don’t tell my dad about the shabbos thing,” the Jewish boy said, and grinned. “He’s a rabbi, after all.”

A rabbi’s son! And to think—I don’t have to tell my few but steadfast listeners—I’ve been seeking a nice Christian boy for some time, with no luck. It’s about time for children, I say, and I want mine to have insurance. Coverage against man, the universe, and acts of God. I’m no ignoramus; I listened when my Nana spoke. I don’t want blood that’s also liability.

“Hey,” I said, “what happens when a minister’s son, a rabbi’s son, and a Jewess walk into a bar?” I laughed alone, because the joke was its own punchline; I was on my way into the pub to meet my Catholic man. I told him so.

“You have a Catholic man?” he said. His smile vanished.

“No,” I repeated. “I’m going to meet one.”

“Can I come too?” He looked at me, which was a very unfortunate event, because Jewish boys can read me like the alphabet. “I’ll come too,” he corrected himself. I walked in the door without checking whether he was following me. Assuming he was.