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After ten years of marriage, his eye had begun to wander. The opthamologist said it was fixable with a minor procedure, but the insurance was putting up resistance.
She didn't want to believe that anything had changed until the day she discovered the unusual lint clinging to one of his shirts. It had the look and feel of a moon rock, the kind she remembered seeing at the Smithsonian once while getting terribly lost looking for Martha Washington's dress (no one had bothered to tell her that the dress wasn't in the Air and Space Museum). Later, a washing machine repairman would confirm for her that the "lint" was, in fact, a moon rock, and doubtless, the cause of the drainage failure during the spin cycle. "Do not, under any circumstances, put this in the dryer," he would say to her.
Her mind was racing. What was she do do now? She had a thousand questions, but really, it was just the same question turning somersaults over and over in her head and making her nauseous. Something (perhaps the rock in her mouth) kept her from uttering what was on her mind: "If I can't use the dryer, then what? Clothesline?"
She gave the repairman a quizzical look. Characteristic of someone whose parents had been remiss in the instruction of manners, he accepted it without bothering to say "Thanks." Yet, it were as though he could read her mind. He pointed to the legend underneath the name tag of his uniform that read: "Fixing washing machines only. Do not ask me about dryers. Or moon rocks."
The stony (some might say "rocky") silence was broken by the piercing shrill cry of the telephone. It was her next-door neighbor's, whose ringer was so loud it could be heard down the block. Her own phone, meanwhile, was resting comfortably in its cradle, sleeping off the tumult of the night before when the ASPCA had called 9 times in rapid succession due to a computer error.
She looked back at the repairman's name tag, and, all in an instant, she realized that his name was Ralf, not "Rolf," as she could have sworn the dispatcher had said earlier.
Ralf handed her a bill for services rendered, but she waved it away dismissively. "You need to take this up with my husband. He lives here, too," she said.
The words had no sooner left her mouth and reached the mailbox at the corner when "He" arrived home and saw the two of them going over the care instructions for the washer's bent blade.
The two men sized each other up. They were both about 5' 11" in their stocking feet, despite the fact that neither of them owned or had ever wore a pair of stockings, and wouldn't even know how to put them on. It was one of life's little ironies. Minuscule, in fact.
"Name's Ralf," said Ralf. "Didn't catch yours."
"It's Mister," came the reply. "Mistahr Mister." A quick glance at his personal checkbook verified that he was telling the truth:
Mr. Mistahr Mister
39 Tounginsheek St.
Anytown, USA 02461
Annoyingly, as so often happens at times like these, the bank had left off the phone number, but Mistahr dutifully complied with Ralf's request to write it in by hand. Ralf then took the check and wrote several numbers and letters at the top. He then folded the check in two, and, after examining it again, handed it back to Mistahr, and asked him to sign it. Mistahr did so, folded the check again, and then handed it back to Ralf. For a moment, it seemed that they might have a parlor game of "Celebrity" in the offing, but that was the end of it, and Ralf quickly tucked the check in his vest and was out the door with a wink, leaving behind a screwdriver in a little plastic case with a sticker on it that said: "Stolen from Walinsky Washing Machine Service and Repair," which was interesting because Ralf worked for Haimishe's Washing Machine Service and Repair.
They watched him go and then strode into the sitting room without speaking, they didn't need to; their legs propelled them forward in a sort of walking motion that they had learned when both were toddlers. All these many years later, they still got around in small, enclosed spaces in this fashion.
No mention was made of the moon rock. Or the screwdriver. Or the bill, which Mistahr had already set ablaze with a match and dumped in the cat's water dish, so that, however momentarily, if one used one's imagination, one could regard the miniature inferno as a reenactment of some ancient Roman naval battle, instead of just a crumpled ball of paper on fire in a bowl of water on the floor, bumming out the cat.
They settled into the couch and fixed their respective gazes on the wall. But, soon realizing that they couldn't see the sunset that way, they adjusted their gazes ever so slightly, fixing them, instead, on the window.
After that, they patted each others' knees gently, content in the knowledge that, even though nothing else in the world was certain, they could always count on everything being Israel's fault.
She didn't want to believe that anything had changed until the day she discovered the unusual lint clinging to one of his shirts. It had the look and feel of a moon rock, the kind she remembered seeing at the Smithsonian once while getting terribly lost looking for Martha Washington's dress (no one had bothered to tell her that the dress wasn't in the Air and Space Museum). Later, a washing machine repairman would confirm for her that the "lint" was, in fact, a moon rock, and doubtless, the cause of the drainage failure during the spin cycle. "Do not, under any circumstances, put this in the dryer," he would say to her.
Her mind was racing. What was she do do now? She had a thousand questions, but really, it was just the same question turning somersaults over and over in her head and making her nauseous. Something (perhaps the rock in her mouth) kept her from uttering what was on her mind: "If I can't use the dryer, then what? Clothesline?"
She gave the repairman a quizzical look. Characteristic of someone whose parents had been remiss in the instruction of manners, he accepted it without bothering to say "Thanks." Yet, it were as though he could read her mind. He pointed to the legend underneath the name tag of his uniform that read: "Fixing washing machines only. Do not ask me about dryers. Or moon rocks."
The stony (some might say "rocky") silence was broken by the piercing shrill cry of the telephone. It was her next-door neighbor's, whose ringer was so loud it could be heard down the block. Her own phone, meanwhile, was resting comfortably in its cradle, sleeping off the tumult of the night before when the ASPCA had called 9 times in rapid succession due to a computer error.
She looked back at the repairman's name tag, and, all in an instant, she realized that his name was Ralf, not "Rolf," as she could have sworn the dispatcher had said earlier.
Ralf handed her a bill for services rendered, but she waved it away dismissively. "You need to take this up with my husband. He lives here, too," she said.
The words had no sooner left her mouth and reached the mailbox at the corner when "He" arrived home and saw the two of them going over the care instructions for the washer's bent blade.
The two men sized each other up. They were both about 5' 11" in their stocking feet, despite the fact that neither of them owned or had ever wore a pair of stockings, and wouldn't even know how to put them on. It was one of life's little ironies. Minuscule, in fact.
"Name's Ralf," said Ralf. "Didn't catch yours."
"It's Mister," came the reply. "Mistahr Mister." A quick glance at his personal checkbook verified that he was telling the truth:
Mr. Mistahr Mister
39 Tounginsheek St.
Anytown, USA 02461
Annoyingly, as so often happens at times like these, the bank had left off the phone number, but Mistahr dutifully complied with Ralf's request to write it in by hand. Ralf then took the check and wrote several numbers and letters at the top. He then folded the check in two, and, after examining it again, handed it back to Mistahr, and asked him to sign it. Mistahr did so, folded the check again, and then handed it back to Ralf. For a moment, it seemed that they might have a parlor game of "Celebrity" in the offing, but that was the end of it, and Ralf quickly tucked the check in his vest and was out the door with a wink, leaving behind a screwdriver in a little plastic case with a sticker on it that said: "Stolen from Walinsky Washing Machine Service and Repair," which was interesting because Ralf worked for Haimishe's Washing Machine Service and Repair.
They watched him go and then strode into the sitting room without speaking, they didn't need to; their legs propelled them forward in a sort of walking motion that they had learned when both were toddlers. All these many years later, they still got around in small, enclosed spaces in this fashion.
No mention was made of the moon rock. Or the screwdriver. Or the bill, which Mistahr had already set ablaze with a match and dumped in the cat's water dish, so that, however momentarily, if one used one's imagination, one could regard the miniature inferno as a reenactment of some ancient Roman naval battle, instead of just a crumpled ball of paper on fire in a bowl of water on the floor, bumming out the cat.
They settled into the couch and fixed their respective gazes on the wall. But, soon realizing that they couldn't see the sunset that way, they adjusted their gazes ever so slightly, fixing them, instead, on the window.
After that, they patted each others' knees gently, content in the knowledge that, even though nothing else in the world was certain, they could always count on everything being Israel's fault.
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