Mamzer

Like a yeti, he was.

Large, hairy and red-nosed, he yawns. At my table he yawns. Oy.

Maybe a yeti doesn’t have a red nose, I don’t know. But I think a yeti’s nose is wet when he’s healthy.

In any case, there he was. Solomon Abramowitz. Sitting there at the other end of my table, mouth full of marble cake and lady fingers. I tried to be careful I shouldn’t let any of my appendages get within proximity to Solomon’s undulating mandible. I’m not entirely certain how much he differentiates lady fingers from Abey fingers.

Since school at RJJ on the lower east side I’ve known him, Solomon Abramowitz. He is now and he has always been, a mamzer. Don’t get me wrong, he’s good-spirited enough and he’s no slouch. In fact, he has his own HVAC business now.

So nu, why does he have to come here to my home to eat all my marble cake? All my marble cake that I bought. For me. With the money that I make as a state auditor. Solomon Abramowitz should know from the kind of money that an auditor for the state makes, halevai!

Mr. Fancy HVAC business with the shiny, pointy shoes is not so fancy that he can’t eat my marble cake.

So what does he want?

Same as always? Just to be what he’s always been, a professional mamzer?

“It’s good to see you, Abramowitz.” I says to him.

He says nothing. His mouth is still full of marble cake.

But he reaches out his arms and I can’t tell for a minute if he’s choking, he’s saying hold on, he’s swallowing? He’s doing something. Somethings happening. I don’t know what.

A muffled response through a marble-filled mouth said, “It’s good to see you too. It’s been too long.”

“It’s arite, don’t talk,” I tell him. “I don’t want you should aspirate on my table. Essen. Sounds like you’re talking into a sponge.” I waved my hand in his direction.

His brown eyes sparkled over round, crimson cheeks and they said, “Thank you.”

After Mr. Santa Clause finishes his giant piece of cake, he says, “You probably don’t know why I’m here.”

“Everyone else’s iceboxes in town was empty?”

He laughed robustly with his hands on his belly. I couldn’t tell if it was his beard moving, or one of his chins.

“Can I have another cup of tea?” He asks me.

“Be my guest.”

“I already am your guest.”

“Not until you qualify that statement by getting you a cup of tea. So nu, Abramowitz, what is it?”

He looked back towards me from the samovar, still facing it.

“I want you to kill me.”

I choked on my tea. I tell you, it gives me agita when people say things like that.

Solomon, with the good natured laugh, of course.

“Solomon, G-d forbid. We shouldn’t know from such things.” I tell him.

He smiled a little less, but still maintained one of a more wry disposition.

“We know from such things.” He says to me, stirring his tea, distantly.

“You mean...?”

“Yes. It’s back and this time they say it’s not going away.”

“I never knew you were so unhappy, Solomon”

“Abey, I’m not unhappy. I’m not depressed. I’m happy. I’m at peace. I have beautiful children, they have beautiful children and all of the sudden it’s beginning to look like I may not get any younger.” He smiled.

“There’s so much to live for though. It could get better. Science gets better every day. They even have a pill now that cures restless legs. Restless legs! Imagine.”

“Abey--”

“The problem with that one, is that it causes gambling addiction.”

“Abe--”

“That’s okay though. They’ve got a pill that cures that too; what are the odds?--”

“ABEY!”

“Sheesh, what? Can’t get a single word in with this guy...”

“It is not curable. There is no chance. There will be no miracle. This is forever.”

We sat in silence. Sol’s not eating. I preferred when Sol was eating marble cake. Such a small piece, I should not have given him.

“Sol...” I begin. “You’d maybe like another marble cake?”

He smiled. Mamzer. Always with the demands and with the complication.

“Abey, of the guys, you have always been my best friend. You are wise. You are more compassionate than you are willing to believe and you’re smarter than you look.”

″Mamzer!” I tells him. “Even when he’s asking me to kill him, he’s still a putz!”

Again with the laughing. Always with the laughing and the chuckling and the snickering. Always with the look of empathy. Like a basset hound, those eyes.

“Please, Abey. In all seriousness. I am suffering and the doctors can’t do anything for me. Since Cheryl died, I don’t have anyone to ask. It’s not going away and I can’t fight it anymore. I have no regrets, no sadness, but I have to go.”

Whatever didn’t happen or happened, I’d rather not discuss. You can use your imagination.

I helped to carry the casket. Each of us picked up a shovel and began to pack the dirt into the grave.

As I tossed dirt in over the presumed body of my friend of 40-some-odd years, I had to try very hard to restrain a chuckled as I imagined the epitath, but I couldn’t. I fell onto the grave, laughing so hard that it brought tears to my eyes, while onlookers turned towards me sympathetically.

I still see that headstone clearly. It read:

Solomon Abramowitz

Loving husband and father

Founder of Abra HVAC

Professional mamzer

Edit: I am not really sure if I understood the rules. Was I supposed to write about the color gray, the way people are doing? Because I can rewrite this.