The Classics

I wanted to be intellectual and sophisticated in order to impress women, so I bought a 12 volume set of the classics of western civilization. The thick, leather-bound books rested on my living room bookshelf and bore weighty names like Sophocles, Herodotus, and Aristotle. I pulled down volume one, Homer, sank into my couch, and started to read the Iliad. Halfway through the first chapter, I stopped. I hasn't understood a word. It might as well have been in the original Greek. And now I had a splitting headache. I picked up the remote control and flipped on the TV to watch a House rerun. I wouldn't be reading the classics this lifetime.
The books were still in mint condition, so the bookstore would probably let me return them. But then I had an idea. I could keep the books on my shelf and tell women that I had read them. They wouldn't know I was lying.
No. That wouldn't work. The leather spines of the books were still gleaming. There wasn't a single crease in them. They had obviously never been opened.
Another idea popped into my head. I could turn the pages without reading the words. Then the books would look as if they'd been read. After making sure my apartment door was locked, I picked up Homer, and, while continuing to watch House, I turned the pages one at a time. I kept getting paper cuts, though, since I wasn't looking at the book. At the commercial break, I dug out my winter coat from the closet. My wool mittens were in the coat pocket, and I pulled them onto my hands. Now as I turned the pages my hands sweat profusely, but I didn't get any paper cuts.
Over the next few days, sitting in front of the TV and wearing wool mittens, I turned every page of the 12 thick volumes. The spines now had creases in all the right places, but something else didn't look right. The color of the leather was wrong. So was the texture. The leather looked too fresh. When someone spent hours reading a leather-bound book, his natural hand oils soaked into the leather, marinating it and giving it a dark, broken-in look. But I had worn wool mittens. My bare hands didn't touch the book, so the leather looked raw.
A wave of frustration hit me as I thought I would have to spend several days stroking the books bare-handed in order to break them in, but then I remembered some advice my father gave me when I was a child. He bought me a new baseball mitt and told me to cover it with shaving cream and let it soak in for a few days. This would soften the leather, making it flexible and looking like I had used it for years. I did this, and it worked just as he said it would. Maybe it would work for leather-bound books as well.
I laid the books on tables and chairs around my apartment, open pages facing down, covers facing up. With my can of shaving cream, I lathered white foam onto the leather covers, spreading with my finger, like frosting a cake.
After the first couple books, the shaving cream can sputtered and stopped. Empty. It was the middle of the night and everything was closed except for the 24-hour convenience store on the corner, so I went there.
The clerk's name tag said Patel. He had a thick accent and reminded me of Apu from the Simpsons. I brought a new can of shaving cream up to the counter, paid for it, and almost burst out laughing when Patel said, “Thank you, come again.”
In my apartment, I continued to frost the leather-bound classics. When there were only a couple books left, the shaving cream again sputtered and stopped. I returned to the convenience store.
This time, when I set a fresh can of shaving cream on the counter, the clerk, Patel, squinted at me suspiciously with his thick eyebrows.
“You just bought shaving cream,” he said. “It was not more than twenty minutes ago.”
I considered telling him to mind his own business, but he was new to America and probably didn't realize it was rude to comment on a customer's purchase.
“I didn't finish shaving,” I said. “I need more.”
Patel squinted at my chin, which I realized was covered with stubble.
“Didn't finish?” Patel said. “You didn't even start.”
I considered telling him the truth, that I was trying to fake-read the classics, but that was too humiliating to admit. I racked my brain for an explanation of what I had used the shaving cream for.
“I'm shaving my dog,” I said.
Patel frowned.
“In the middle of the night?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said. “When else would I shave him?”
Patel's eyebrows narrowed and he squinted at my shirt.
“If you are shaving your dog, why is there no dog hair on your clothes?”
“It's a hairless breed. He likes it when I cover him with shaving cream and run the razor over him.”
“Why can't you pet your dog like a normal person?”
“This is America. If I want to shave my hairless dog in the middle of the night, I can, and you have a constitutional obligation to sell me that shaving cream.”
Patel sighed and rang up the shaving cream.
“America,” he muttered.
Back upstairs in my apartment, I finished lathering up the books. Then I left them alone to let the shaving cream do its work.
A couple days later, I wiped the shaving cream off with a rag. The leather looked dark and worn, as if well-marinated by hand sweat. I felt a grin spread on my face. Everything was set for me to impress women with my set of the classics.
Cathy was an attractive secretary in the marketing department. She always stank of cigarettes, but I could overlook that. If she didn't have the willpower to resist cigarettes, she'd be helpless against my leather-bound classics. Now that the books were broken-in, I was finally able to ask her out.
We went out to dinner. Afterwards, I asked her if she'd like to come up to my apartment for a drink. She said yes.
As soon as we stepped inside, Cathy's eyes spotted my set of classics. Her mouth opened wide and round, as if blowing smoke rings.
“What are those?” she gasped.
“Oh, those?” I said casually. “Those are the classics of western civilization.”
She approached the bookshelf and pulled down the volume on Euclid.
“You bought them used?” she asked.
“No. I bought them new.”
“They look used.”
“Because I used them,” I said. “By the way, that's real leather.”
“I love the smell of leather,” Cathy said.
She lifted the book to her nose and sniffed, as if Euclid was a fine wine. Then she furrowed her brow and frowned.
“It smells like shaving cream,” she said.
My heart pounded and I thought I was caught. But then I had an idea.
“Before they tan the hide for the leather, they have to shave the hair off the cow,” I said. “Otherwise, the book cover would have a beard. And they need to use shaving cream so the cow doesn't get razor burn. That's why you smell shaving cream.”
Cathy stared blankly at the book in her hand.
“A cow?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said.
Her jaw dropped and her eyes burned with horror.
“Oh my God!” she said. “You mean this is made from a poor, defenseless animal?”
Her sudden concern for animals confused me.
“I just bought you a steak dinner,” I said.
“I see how it is,” she said. “You think you'll buy me a fancy dinner and show me your fancy books, and I'll be so impressed that I'll just throw myself at you?!”
“No,” I said. “I mean steak comes from cows.”
She scoffed. “Steak from cows? How gullible do you think I am?”
She pulled a cigarette lighter from her purse.
“Please don't smoke in here,” I said. “You can use the balcony.”
She lit the book on fire. Euclid's pages were surprisingly flammable and went up in a blaze. It looked like an Olympic torch in her hand. Cathy jammed the burning book into its spot on the shelf, and the flames engulfed the other books.
“My books!”
I grabbed at them, but they were too hot to touch. I wished I owned a fire extinguisher. I never thought that a fire could happen to me, so I didn't even own a smoke detector. I stared into the fire and didn't know what to do. The burning paper hissed. The leather covers smoldered. Thick smoke cascaded from the bookshelf. Cathy sniffed the air.
“It smells like beef,” she said.
“I told you—steak comes from cows!”
Cathy turned and stormed to the door.
“You think you're so smart,” she said. “Well, let me tell you something—no one likes someone who's so full of himself and reads the classics.”
She slammed the door as she left.
I grabbed the side of the bookshelf and pushed the whole thing over. The flaming classics crashed to the carpet. I stomped on the fire, kicking up a cloud of ash. Soon, the last embers were extinguished, and all that remained of my desire to be intellectual and sophisticated was gray ash, blackened leather, and charred paper. Now I had no way to impress women.

The Holocaust Survivor

When I was ten years old, in fifth grade, a Holocaust survivor spoke to our class. Mr. Schwartz was old. His shriveled skin looked dry as a mummy's. His accent sounded like Dracula. He told us he was from Transylvania, and I almost burst out laughing. His face twitched and his fists ground together. In a quivering, angry voice, he told us about his childhood in Romania. They had no television or video games back then, so they had to entertain each other by singing songs or playing practical jokes.
I sat in the back row of the class, just a few feet from the window. I already learned about the Holocaust at temple. So I stared out the window. Our classroom was on the third floor, and I had a good view of the entire playground. Second graders swung from the playground equipment, ran around in the snow, and threw snowballs at each other. I wished I was out there, rather than stuck inside, listening to a boring Holocaust lecture.
The other boys and girls in my class leaned forward with respectful attention. Most of them weren't Jewish, so they never had to learn about the Holocaust before.
Mr. Schwartz rambled on about life in rural Transylvania. Miss Hanson, our teacher, asked him to please get to the part where the Nazis arrived. He did so.
When he was about our age, the Nazis came and passed anti-Semitic laws. Soon, all the Jews, including Mr. Schwartz and his family, were shipped off in cattle cars. When the Jews arrived at Auschwitz, they were all lined up in front of the camp. Mr. Schwartz's parents and siblings were too weak to work, so they were sent to the left. Mr. Schwartz was sent to the right and given a tattoo.
He rolled up his shirt sleeve to show us, and pulled tight the sagging flesh on his forearm. The blue numbers were written in straight lines, like on a calculator.
Suddenly, a horrible stench hit me. Somebody farted. It was a bad one—a silent-but-deadly. I recognized the swampy, moldy smell as belonging to Shawn, the fat kid who sat next to me in the back row. I covered my mouth and squeezed my nostrils shut. The other kids in the back of the classroom covered their noses too. A small grin spread on Shawn's lips.
The window needed to be opened. It was freezing outside and opening the window would let the heat out, but it would let the fart out too. But to open the window, I would have to ask for permission, and now was a bad time to interrupt Mr. Schwartz. The other kids were respectfully silent. Miss Hanson stood at the side of her desk with her arms crossed. Mr. Schwartz spoke in a hushed whisper. He was describing what happened to those sent to the left—to his parents, brother, and sister.
“They died from the gas,” Mr. Schwartz said.
An image popped into my head of every kid in our class sprawled on the classroom floor, limbs strewn haphazardly, dead from Shawn's fart. I started to laugh. I couldn't help myself.
I was horrified at myself for laughing at such a serious moment. I tried to stop, but my body wouldn't cooperate. Spasms of laughter shook my whole body. Mr. Schwartz stopped speaking. The other kids, Miss Hanson, and Mr. Schwartz stared at me, eyes wide and mouths gaping. I had never been sent to the principal's office before, but I probably would be now. They would call my parents. I tried to seal my mouth shut, but laughter sputtered over my hands and spilled through my fingers.
Mr. Schwartz slammed his fist on Miss Hanson's desk, rattling her mug of pencils.
“Laugh at the Holocaust?!” he screamed. “I'll teach you to laugh!”
He snatched up a yardstick from the desk, and, wielding it like a club, hobbled towards me.
“Stop!” Miss Hanson yelled. “We can't hit the pupils!”
“That's the problem with America,” Mr. Schwartz said. “If you don't show you are in charge, they laugh at you!”
Then suddenly he stopped walking. His face contorted and he gagged. He was within range of Shawn's fart. Mr. Schwartz lifted his hand to cover his nose, and the yardstick smacked him on the forehead. This made me laugh even harder. Mr. Schwartz yelped and dropped the yardstick, which clattered to the ground. I was laughing so hard I almost fell out of my chair. Mr. Schwartz glared at me. He pressed his nostrils shut with his fingers to guard against the smell, so when he spoke it was in a nasally quack.
“You think this is funny?” he quacked furiously. “I am speaking of the Holocaust and you are farting?”
“No, no,” I said, choking through laughter. “It wasn't me.”
“Well, who was it?”
I didn't want to be a tattle-tale. Fortunately, I didn't need to be. The other kids recognized Shawn's swampy brand, and their eyes drifted towards him. Mr. Schwartz's glare also shifted to Shawn.
“See a doctor,” Mr. Schwartz quacked. “No healthy person can make such a smell.”
Then he turned back to me. Laughs kept popping out of me like hiccups.
“You are not so innocent of the fart,” he quacked. “Why didn't you open a window?”
“I couldn't interrupt,” I said. “You were talking about the Holocaust. And you're like a teacher, only more so, because you're so old.”
“It doesn't matter. Didn't you learn anything from what I said? Don't you know what is the meaning of the Holocaust?”
I knew the answer to this question. I had heard it often enough at temple. The answer was about not blindly following authority. In this case, the meaning of the Holocaust was that I should open the window even if I didn't have permission.
I forced my giggles to settle. If I answered the question, perhaps it would redeem me for laughing.
“I know the answer,” I said.
“Well, let's have it,” Mr. Schwartz quacked.
Unfortunately, when I tried to answer, an unwanted thought flew into my head. The meaning of the Holocaust was that I shouldn't get a tattoo. Sure, it would look cool now, but when I was an old man like Mr. Schwartz, it would wrinkle up—the mermaid would become a sea witch. This thought started me laughing again. Mr. Schwartz's bushy eyebrows narrowed.
I tried again to stop laughing, but another uninvited thought flew into my head, like fingers tickling my ribcage. The meaning of the Holocaust was that I shouldn't stick my arm out of a moving train. What if another train was coming in the opposite direction on the other tracks? Laughter sputtered out.
Mr. Schwartz lowered his fingers from his nose, although the fart stench was still strong. His nostrils flared like an angry bull's. I tried to speak, but I was choking from laughter. I got the idea into my head that I should show him I understood the meaning of the Holocaust by simply getting up and opening the window without asking for permission. So that was what I did.
I stood up and stepped towards the window. Mr. Schwartz grabbed me by the collar. His grip was strong.
“Where do you think you're going?” he said.
He slapped me hard across the face. My face stung. Several of the girls in class shrieked.
“Mr. Schwartz, stop at once!” Miss Hanson commanded.
Mr. Schwartz shook me and my head bobbled around.
“I'm talking,” Mr. Schwartz said. His breath stank of garlic. “Don't you walk away.”
“I'm just opening the window,” I said, my voice cracking. “Because of the fart. I wanted fresh air.”
“So, it's fresh air you want?!” he shouted. “I'll give you fresh air!”
He dragged me by the collar to the window. I tried to struggle away, but he was too strong. My body felt numb from terror.
He slid the window up. It screeched with rust. Cold air washed over me. I heard the gleeful shouts of the second graders frolicking in the snow. Mr. Schwartz shoved my head outside.
“Smell it!” he screamed. “Nice, clean air—no fart out here!”
He gripped the seat of my pants and lifted. My shoes left the ground. He shoved my whole body out the window. I tumbled out head-first, my legs following. It was a long way down from the third floor to the hard blacktop below. A colorful chalk hopscotch court marked the target where I would splatter.
As I tumbled out, I managed to grab the groove at the bottom of the window frame—the part the window slid into when it was shut. There was nothing else to grab onto on the brick window ledge. My chest slammed against the side of the building. My shoes kicked the brick wall, but there was nowhere to step. My fingers burned in agony from supporting my whole body weight, but I made myself hold on. I dangled there and screamed. The second graders down below started to shout. They had noticed me.
Mr. Schwartz glared down at me and ground his teeth. Then he grabbed the handles of the window and smiled at me.
“You're not laughing now,” he said.
He slammed the window down on my fingers. The window shrieked as it came down. There was a thud, my fingers felt numb for a moment, and then extreme pain filled them. I tried to yank them away, but the closed window pinned them in place. I screamed and pressed my face against the brick wall.
Mr. Schwartz shouted, his heavily-accented voice muffled by the closed window.
“What have I done?! I'm so sorry, boy!”
“Mr. Schwartz, no!” Miss Hanson screamed. “Don't open it. The window is the only thing holding him up!” Then she shouted to me: “Hold on!”
As if I had any choice in the matter.
“I have another idea,” Mr. Schwartz said. “Boy,” he called to me. “I'm going to break the window. Close your eyes so you don't get glass in them.”
“No,” Miss Hanson said. “Don't do that, Mr. Schwartz. I have a better idea. On the count of three, open the window.”
“That was my idea,” Mr. Schwartz said. “You're stealing my idea.”
They started whispering ferociously to each other. In the distance, sirens wailed—probably the fire department coming to rescue me. I was a cat stuck in a tree.
Suddenly Miss Hanson shouted, “One...two...three!”
The window shrieked up. I tried to hold on, but my fingers wouldn't obey my brain. My fingers slid along the brick window ledge, and into the air.
Miss Hanson's arms shot out from the window and grasped my wrists. I bounced against the brick wall and dangled.
“Got him!” she shouted.
The third graders down in the snow cheered. So did the kids in my class. Miss Hanson pulled me up in through the window. I collapsed to the floor next to my desk.
“Can you wiggle your fingers?” Miss Hanson asked.
I wiggled them.
“Can you still feel them?”
I nodded. Unfortunately, I could still feel them. The pain was intense. I forced myself to look at them. The skin was blueish-purple. Several nails were broken, and blood oozed out.
“Does it hurt when I do this?” Miss Hanson asked, and squeezed my fingers.
I screamed. It was profoundly painful.
Mr. Schwartz was making coughing noises, as if he was trying to dislodge something from his throat. Then I realized he was laughing—a dry, forced laugh.
“Ha-ha-ha! Look at your fingers! They're all smashed up! Ha! Ha! How do you like it when someone laughs at your suffering? Not so funny now, is it? Ha!”
The principal came into the classroom. My heart skipped a beat. I thought I would be in trouble. But he gripped Mr. Schwartz's arm and dragged him out of the classroom. As he was dragged away, Mr. Schwartz continued to laugh his fake laugh.
Miss Hanson brought me down to her car to drive me to the emergency room. As we were pulling out of the parking lot, I saw a policeman handcuff Mr. Schwartz's wrists together behind his back, and put him in the back of a police car.