He looks up, startled out of his otherworldly focus on the sefer in front of him, pulled back to the small shteeble room by the staccato beat of the teenaged chazzan’s repetition of Shemonah Esrei. Reverently closing the dusty tome, he caresses it with a gentle, feather-like touch, and places it carefully back into the seforim shrank, sandwiched between a standard Sefard siddur and a small sefer on the intricacies of the Birchas HaChamah.

Now swaying back and forth slowly to the niggun of the nusach, he is raptly attentive to the Chazaras HaShat”z. Kedusha comes, and with it I watch this Saraf say the “…sarfei kodesh…Kadosh, Kadosh”. He’s burning all the while.

Forehead beaded in sweat, hands clasped together in front of him, and eyes closed but not squeezed shut, he’s totally…somewhere else. I wish I knew where, exactly. What that place looked like.

After davening, I hang around. I want to observe him in a regular atmosphere. How he “firs zich” when he’s me’urev bein habriyos. Everyone seems to know him. He offers his hand to all, regardless of age. An average, not particularly illuminating or otherwise noteworthy smile crosses his face when he does so. Of middle age, his jet black beard, smooth skin, and standard reckel don’t offer me any clues as to who he might be, or why he seemed so… holy during davening. Gathering my thoughts and disregarding them at the same time, I walk up to him.

I ask him in the softest, most non-confrontational voice I possess:

“Mi atah”?

He stares at me for a moment, confused.

“Ani hashamash”.

Asked and answered.

I neglected to mention the most geshmake thing I saw over my entire Shabbos in RBS.

Walking back from the Shabbos morning seudah, I was literally drenched in sweat. I’m still unclear as to who’s brilliant idea it was to carve out a city on top of a mountain in the face of an ever present sun, but he better hope he never meets me in a dark alley. Although assuming he stays in RBS, there is little danger of that- any alleys there, assuming they exist b’chlall, are no doubt bright as day, 24/7.

Anyway, mentally complaining and mopping sweat off my brow, face, and hands, I spied a colorful sign on a wall running alongside one of the properties. Angling myself to pass closer to it, I could make out the hand written  colorful letters on the sign about 20 feet away.

Underneath the poster was an old rickety stand/table, on which was a cooler. Hmm. Getting closer, I could make out…

“Good Shabbos. Filtered Water”.

Uh huh. Now that’s what I’m talking about.

Good Shabbos!

I went to Ramat Beit Shemesh for Shabbos.

Place was nice, without question. The neighborhoods are setup nicely, and the streets are hilly, but pretty. Unfortunately, the place is “k’shmo kein hu“; i.e, very, very hot. I think it felt hotter than Yerushalayim mostly because there aren’t any tall buildings around to provide shade. So walking in the street is a killer, and definitely not recommended.

But since we’re about the good, not the bad, find below, in no specific order, are some of the more notably enjoyable things about my Shabbos in RBS:

• The minyan I davened at (Aish Kodesh). Neat, varm, BT/Ballabatish/Yeshivish/Heimish cholent mix of a place. Quite enjoyable. The JB/YU books in the back also provided ample reading material for Bein Gavra l’Gavra .
• Friday morning basketball (9AM-11AM). That was some serious olam that played there. Older crowd (I was likely the only >25 yr old there), but quite competitive. I won’t be announcing my stat sheet for the morning, so forget it. Some of the local Twitter chevra also play in the game.
• I chapped a velt of hana’ah from the mix. MO/Yeshivish live close by each other. That isn’t to say that there aren’t politics, but, nu, politics are the spice of life, right?
• The hostess made the most awesome pecan pie. Seriously, I would take the bus there and back just for the pie. Forget about the cookies. I have serious tz’dadim they serve that stuff in Gan Eiden. Hmmm. Would that be pie-in-the-sky?
• I walked away with a free sefer (from my host). #EmeseMaaseh
• They have a real life Yiddle League (that’s Yiddishe Little League, for those of you not from Brooklyn) there. Baseball! Can you imagine?
• Some of the streets there have real houses. Not apartments. And, of course, the corollary; central A/C!
• I met the most amazing 6 year old yingeleh Friday morning. He didn’t stop speaking, and the entire time, I couldn’t stop laughing. I’m shtark choshed I’m gonna have to switch to MO if they consistently produce such kinderlach, although the Abba claims he’s one in a million.
• I heard a great vort from a YU R”Y…my host was a YU talmid, and I pressured him for some YU Torah. He delivered. Sweet.
• Seudah Shlishis at the Goldmeier’s. They have a great English Jewish library, and the chocolate mousse was impressive. Had fun.
• Did I mention that pecan pie?

Greetings. It’s Sheretz here, coming at you live from the grimy grounds of glorious Geulah. I’ve been randomly tasked by the JHI (Juk’im Hasbarah Initiative) to tell the Olam HaTorah (that’s you) a little bit about living life as a Blattella asahinai (that us).

The fact is, we are the most misunderstood species on the planet. Being as our Creator did not bless us with particularly appealing looks, it has been our lot to be maligned, abused- both mentally and physically, and yes, even crushed for no other crime than our mere existence.
Why, just the other day I attended the levayah of my dear Uncle Sheketz, who was crushed by our worst enemy, a particularly violent fellow named Hashkeim L’Hargo. That was in the dira across the street. Sheketz was such a nice guy…sniffle. But back to the Hasbarah. We live peaceful, mostly sedentary lives. The laser-like movements with which you see us speed around are our default mode- we aren’t running, per se. Oh! Look at that! Hang on one sec there…

I quickly skitter across the kitchen floor. Safe! Made it underneath the kitchen sink. Boy, those bochurim sure do leave a ton of food on the ground. Why can’t they ever clean up after themselves? Better for me and my kind, I guess.

I peek out between the sink pipe and Sano bottle they store here. Sano is an industrial strength floor cleaner (sponga liquid); it’s a pretty good guess that it won’t be used at least until Friday afternoon, an hour before Shabbos, if ever. I still have another couple days until then, so d’vaylah it makes for fine cover. Surveying the room, I’m entranced by the forgotten mush of crushed hamburger/french fries that some guy dropped on the floor and didn’t clean up. Abandoned in the corner, the grilled onions are calling my name.

I make a mad dash for it. Currently 3:28AM, the dira should be quiet. Unfortunately for us Juk’im, it is Sof Zman. In ordinary dira/families, this doesn’t mean anything. For me, it means that there are homo sapiens, or worse (bochurim), ready to crush me at any given moment. It’s a tough life.

Rush, run, fast, faster. Here we are. Camouflaged by the brown burger, I can munch contentedly away while I hold forth. Back to you…

Being a Juk is tough. Take my life, for instance. I live in a bochurim’s dira. While there are several moredige maalos meyuched to bochurim diras in living here, for the most part I deal with same great Nisayon every other Juk contends with: Not getting crushed. Think that’s funny? Let’s see you run around all day, scavenging for food, terrified of the Florsheim encased foot that may rain down death upon you from Shomayim at any moment.

You do get used to it. Like Air Force enlistees that can distinguish bombers by their engine sounds, I’ve learned to differentiate the  bochurim’s strides until I know who is coming before they’ve even entered the dira. Like now, l’moshel. I can hear Greasy Guy unlocking the door and coming in. He’s muttering under his breath about the lack of proper air conditioning, coupled with the scarcity of minyanim tonight in ZeMo. He isn’t in a good mood. I can discern that, too, from the pace and velocity his beaten up Rockports are hitting the ground. His footfalls give him. I’ll have to make sure to stay away from him. Usually, he doesn’t mind an occasional glimpse of me; in fact, I sometimes wonder if he doesn’t harbor some sort of secret affinity for me. No doubt his mother didn’t let him take home stray dogs or something. But no one likes us when they’re in a bad mood.

Other guys, like The Total Tomim, different. He’s actually my favorite resident of this abode we share. You see, he never notices me. Should he ever end up squashing one of my brethren, it will have been totally by accident. The downside of Total Tomim is that he never leaves over any scraps; all he eats is bread and water (although he does occasionally dip it into chummous or something).

Ahhh. That burger was scrumptious. I think I’ll wrap up with a bit of melted ice cream (pareve, of course) that has found its way beneath the fridge. Which brings us back to utter squalor of my home. It’s one of the perks of being in a bochurim’s dira.

In fact, amongst us Juk’im, bochurim diras are the most highly sought after real estate on the market, second only to Malchei Yisroel falafel shops. When the tivuch agent, Kol HaRomeis Al Ha’Aretz, informed me of the opening, I grabbed it, sight unseen.

There we are. Wow. I’d forgotten how good chocolate pareve ice cream was. Last time I had it was under the old olam in the dira, some two Zmanim ago. That’s another thing about us. While our appetite are immense, and our specific propensity for junk food is enormous, we don’t typically have the y’cholus to satisfy our food cravings on demand.

Uh oh.

I hear Showerless Shloime coming. Shloime hates showering- he holds it’s Bittul Torah, and does so only l’kavod Shabbos. As it happens, he’s also a mad masmid. But Showerless Shloime has also become somewhat of a nemesis of mine. Either because of some form of prisoner’s compassion gone wrong (we’re both m’shubad to the same meshugas- chazershtalling), or perhaps out of basic kinah, the man hates me. I confess I don’t understand the hatred, but that’s galus, right?

Anyway, here he comes. I better sign off for now, before he busts me. Or crushes me…ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Regards,

-Sheretz

(This post partly inspired by this tweet from fellow YG Halapedia).

The latest out of Super Drink’s brilliant marketing team.

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He moves disjointedly. His right arm juts out from his elbow at the oddest angle. Where the veiny wrist meets his hand, it seems to be in a permanent 90 degree angle of sorts, pointing directly at you.

He wears shorts. Always. Thin brown, hairy legs stick out, and exaggerate the stiffness of his stride. The beaten gray Reeboks he wears are covered with soot and grime and white and orange and all sorts of fearsome materials and unappetizing colors.

His face is fixed in the cruelest of leers. There is nothing untoward about this leer, though, or for that matter about this person. No criminal aspect. Then too, he doesn’t play favorites.

Everyone who walks into the bakery is graced with this passive examination; an exam that takes place entirely through the optics of autism.

It was awkward, that first time.

I remember walking in and spotting him and his leer; he was clad in his standard navy shorts and sky blue tee, and was staring at me from the spacious rear section of the store. On the tee, numerous flour stains were in evidence, betraying an intimacy with the baking process that made me queasy. Strolling around the patron’s part of bakery, I perused the assorted wicker platters filled to the brim with various baked goods, politely pretending not to notice him. A relative of the owner, no doubt. Here today and gone tomorrow.

Today, months later, he still stares. It’s still awkward.

Now, I move in and out of the establishment with purposeful movements; I’m a busy bochur. Sometimes I avoid him, and his gruesome glare. Sometimes not. When he is there, anywhere in sight, I’m somehow especially careful wielding the sticky tongs and selecting my sugared pastry confections. It’s in and out, these days.

But sometimes, when I have time, I wonder what it is like for him. The faceless multitudes who invade his space, day in, day out. The thousands who stare back at him; the hundreds who have no time for him and snap at his clumsy attempts to hand them change. What does he think of them? Like his look, is the leer betraying his leeriness- of them?

Is it, after all, awkward… For him?

Gave me the chills, it did.

A question that has bothered me tremendously. Until now.

Check out Shtetl Vision for the answer.

Legend attributes the following maaseh to Yankel Miller, the notorious letzt/badchen from Monsey. I do not sanction doing this yourself, for more than one reason. Anyway…

Yankel went over to a particular fellow on the first night of sefira, just before the counting of the Omer.

Affecting a tone of dismay, he begged the yid to be motzi him with the bracha. The fellow answered Yankel as most would.

“Yankel, meshugenne, it’s the first night. There’s no way in the world that you could need someone to be motzi you”!

“OK,” he replied.

“In that case, it’s my pleasure to be motzi you.”

K.O.

“For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.”

-Robert Louis Stevenson

It’s a weekday evening, but I’m bound for Tel Aviv on a sherut- a shared taxi. Sheruts are larger van style affairs with a boxy exterior and roomy interior. Kind of like an airplane, only everyone is seated in much closer quarters to each other. The reason I’m headed to sin city on stam a night is simple; the zman hasn’t begun yet. I’m maximizing my Bein Hazmanim time, albeit in Eretz Yisroel. No, nothing nefarious is taking place. My activity is totally innocuous, although totally unproductive. Then again, that’s what Bein Hazmanim is for, right?

Squished into the back left corner, I can feel the ache begin. I’m up close against the window. The passing scenery, although pretty at times, has nothing to do with it. Part of the sherut experience is a first come first serve policy when it comes to the seating arrangements. There is no travel agent to call, no help desk to ring. You sit where there is an available seat. As it happens, this was the last seat left. And it is next to a female. Gritting my teeth and plugging myself into mindless muzak, I settle in for the hour plus ride to TA’s tachanah hamerkazit- the central bus station.

Fifteen minutes go by, and an interesting dynamic penetrates the strains of Gershovsky and my strained mind. I realize that the entire back row- a family of African Americans- is paying avid attention to the swarthy fellow with the beak nose sitting directly in front of me. Hmm. This could be interesting. I discreetly (I could be a Mossad agent, seriously) hit the pause button on my iPod, and listen in.

Turns out that the guy in front of me is a tour guide. Apparently, he prides himself on knowing every nook and cranny of the old city. He’s also in the midst of pitching them the services of the second best tour guide in Israel for the forthcoming day- a close friend of his, as luck has it. He, sadly, won’t be available; his nephew is getting married, and all the shekalim in the world couldn’t persuade him to miss it. I suspect otherwise, but keep my mouth shut.

At this point, it is salient to interject the following point. I’m wearing my hat and jacket, and I have not yet communicated with anyone, including the nahag, in anything except Ivrit. Not knowing how this might play out, I stick to Ivrit when the guide twists around and asks me to pass up the payment for the ride.

As our journey continues, the guide begins to wax scholarly about the distinguishing characteristics of the various branch Semitic languages. He also explains that Arabic and Hebrew, for the above reason, are close cousins, and words are often very similar. To demonstrate, he invokes the tired example of Shalom Aleichem and Saaalam al Aqum. The family is sitting and nodding like a bunch of amazed university students. He has them in palm of his hand. I imagine he’s looking forward to something else a little extra making his way into his hand at the end of the day, but again, I keep quiet.

But as he continues droning on about boring language distinctions, I decide it’s about time to stir things up a little.

Addressing the guide in Ivrit, I politely note that I couldn’t help but overhearing his little monologue, and while I couldn’t catch all of it (may HKB”H forgive me for that one), it sounded like he had been discussing the term Shalom Aleichem. Yes, he wags his head eagerly, he had been speaking about it. Well, I ask him, was he familiar with the reason Orthodox Jews use the term Shalom Aleichem? No, he answers, shaking his head in dismay. Seriously, the guy should have been on Broadway. In that case, says I, would he like to hear it? Definitely.

Taking my time, I slowly explain to him the shtickel. That one of G-d’s names is “Shalom”, and that we are actually saying “G-d be with you”. Or in the common vernacular, “Go with G-d”. The hemshich of the vort (why the other fellow answers the reverse) I decide I’ll leave for another time. As it is, I’m worried I’ve given myself away for the Tapuach I am already. But at vort’s end, he appears content, and thanking me in Ivrit, he rotates himsef back to face the family.

Switching to English now, he repeats what I just said, word for word. I’m impressed with his near perfect recall. After finishing, he casts a sidelong glance in my direction, and he tacks on that this vort was, in fact one he knew, of course, but that this gentleman sitting here (me) kindly reminded him of it.

What?! Ah chutzpah.

Keeping quiet, I bide my time.

Just as we are all exiting the vehicle, I cheerily wish the guide and his charges an enjoyable trip, in the best Southern-Midwestern accent I can muster.

Our poor guide snaps his head around in my direction and yes, yes, his face turns ashen.

The family erupts in hearty chuckles; they chap the matzav.

Don’t mess with Yeshiva Guys.